The Forced Bride

Prologue

1947

A week after the partition.

Time: 6:00 p.m.

* * *

Devaki couldn't think as she was dragged towards the bullock cart idling in the field next to her house. Her father just sold her off to Pakistani Muslim extremists. He had wanted to save his family from their cruelty. And the only way to do that was to let them take his only daughter away.

It has only been a week since India and Pakistan split. A week since the nation attained the long awaited independence. But before people could rejoice, the news of the official partition of the state threatened to destroy the peace. The partition caused a major uproar across the nation. The areas around the borders were very vulnerable. She had heard that thousands of women were being kidnapped and taken to Pakistan, where they were forced to marry and follow Islam. And many were brought to this side of the border too, from Pakistan.

The streets were a battleground, with rebels and soldiers fighting. Thousands were killed, of which more than half were from minority classes.

Devaki belonged to a middle-class Hindu household. Her father, mother, and brothers were her only family. She lost her elder brother to the army a few years ago. Her younger brother was only 9. They had just moved here a week ago from her home, that was closer to the border after the partition was declared. Her mother and father had no choice but to watch her being taken away in exchange for their lives.

Devaki cried, but her voice was drowned in the commotion outside, and her cries for help went unanswered.

She was pushed inside the bullock cart, where two more women were sitting, and from their tear-stained cheeks and red eyes, she understood that they shared the same fate as her.

She wiped her tears away, trying to remain calm. "Think," she told herself. Think about a way to get out of this and wait for the perfect time to run away. She knew what awaited her across the border.

Just like all the women she heard about, she too would be forced to marry and follow Islam. Despite being born into an orthodox Hindu family, Devaki has never believed in religion. She only believed in a supreme power. She didn't want to give that power a name or assign it to any religion.

This thought system could be the result of reading books about other cultures and customs at her aunt's place. She realised all the cultures shared some connection with each other. Whether or not the religious society accepted it, their myths and stories coincided a lot with those of other religions and cultures. She didn't think this was a coincidence.

But it was moments like these that she questioned that power. What was the point in letting all those innocent lives die when they've done nothing but try to survive? Neither did they desire war nor did they encourage violence, yet they fell prey to the cruel blade and an even crueller judgement.

Devaki shouted at the so-called gods to answer her prayers. But no one did. Of course, no God would answer her when she never bothered to pray for anything before in her life.

She could hear the women next to her sobbing and sniffing. There was no more sound; they might've lost all their voices, for all she knew. She tried to be strong, but silent tears made their way down her cheeks.

Devaki looked at her house one last time, and the sight broke her heart and soul. Her little brother, Raj, was crying, screaming her name and stretching his little arms forward for her to take, like she has done a million times. Her mother, Devayani held him back, her own face lined with tears, cheeks red and her father, Satyaram supporting his body on the threshold of their house, his face portrayed heartbreak and helplessness and guilt.

Devaki understood their reasoning; sacrificing her life for the security of the three of them sounded better than all four of them dying. If they hadn't let her go, the men would've just dragged her with them, and these extremists might've also set fire to their new house with her family inside. She had heard that many houses were set on fire with people inside when they tried to disobey.

The thought that her sacrifice would keep them safe didn't bring the peace she thought it would. She was glad that at least the three of them were safe. But a part of her felt betrayed that they didn't even argue with the extremists when they came to abduct her. Her mother silently cried as she was dragged away. Her father was stoic, his face distraught, but he didn't utter a word of disagreement. Her little brother Raj was the only one who called for her, shouted her name, and ran to her, only to be held back by her mother.

She tried to memorise the way as they passed through fields and dirt roads, moving farther from her new home. But as the terrain started becoming unfamiliar, no matter how much she tried, she couldn't keep track of the way much less determine the direction in which they were moving. Yet she didn't give up; she looked out for unusual and permanent signs that might help her find  her way back home if she were to escape.

But all her plans were soiled when the cart stopped and one of the men came towards them and started pressing a white cloth against the women's face. And a moment later, the women fell limp.

When she realised what was going on, it was too late. She tried fighting him off, kicking and clawing at him with her fingernails. But that only earned her a harsh slap and for a few moments she could hear a ringing in her ears and moments later everything faded around her as the man pressed the white cloth against her nose and mouth. She fell unconscious.