Where Shadows Learn To Dream

The Weight of His Desire

Aanya

The next morning, I woke up to the sound of footsteps outside my door. My eyes were still swollen from the tears I’d cried the night before. I could barely remember falling asleep. For a moment, I had forgotten where I was, forgotten the horrors of the day before. But the heavy, ornate furniture, the thick velvet curtains, the cold, empty room reminded me. I was in his house now, bound to him by a marriage I never wanted.

The door creaked open, and a group of servants entered, carrying trays of clothes and jewelry. Without a word, they began to pull me out of bed and strip away the simple clothes I’d been wearing. I tried to protest, but they ignored me. They dressed me in a heavy silk saree, draped gold around my neck, and then brought out the small red pot that held the vermilion.

“Please,” I whispered, my voice barely audible. “Not that. Not again.”

One of the servants hesitated, her eyes flicking to the door as if seeking approval. Another servant, older and stern-faced, stepped forward. “It’s tradition,” she said curtly, reaching out to part my hair.

I pulled away, my heart pounding. “No. I don’t want it.”

Suddenly, a deep, harsh voice cut through the air. “What’s going on here?”

He stood at the doorway, his face twisted with anger. The room fell silent. The servants backed away, their eyes cast downward. I could feel my breath quicken, my body trembling.

“She refuses the vermilion” the older servant explained, her voice trembling.

The old man’s face darkened, and in an instant, he was on me. His hand came down hard across my face, the sting spreading like fire across my skin. I stumbled back, tears springing to my eyes.

“You don’t get to refuse anything,” he snarled, grabbing my arm with his thick, meaty hand. “You’re my wife now. You do as I say.”

He forced me down to the ground, and with a rough shove, he pressed my head down. I felt the cold, grainy powder of the vermilion parting my hair, marking me once again as his property. I couldn’t stop the tears that flowed freely down my face, my body shaking with silent sobs. He pushed me away, his face contorted with disgust.

"Know your place," he growled. "Or you'll learn the hard way."

One day, after what felt like an eternity, I was summoned to the drawing room. The servants were particularly careful with my appearance that day, draping me in fine fabrics, and painting my face with delicate care. I didn’t know what to expect, but the air was heavy with tension.

When I arrived, he was there, along with a handful of wealthy guests. Their eyes followed me as I entered, whispers passing between them like wind through the trees. My heart raced.

“Here comes my darling. Now be a good girl and show my guests your skills. Dance for us,” he commanded, his voice filled with that sickening authority.

The music began, and my body moved stiffly at first, awkwardly, trying to remember the steps I’d been hastily taught. I could feel their eyes on me, could hear their quiet chuckles and snide remarks. My cheeks burned, but I kept dancing, twirling and swaying to the rhythm, hoping it would end soon. I had done this before, danced before people for money, but this was different. This wasn’t survival; this was humiliation disguised as hospitality.

The guests seemed pleased, clapping and cheering as I stumbled through the dance. I felt like a show piece.

I moved among them with a tray of drinks, my hands trembling as I offered glass after glass to men who barely glanced at my face. Their eyes were elsewhere, leering over me like I was some new exotic animal on display. As I bent forward to offer a drink, I felt a hand brush against my waist, lingering a moment too long. I stiffened, my breath caught in my throat, but the man only chuckled, his fingers grazing my arm as he murmured something under his breath. Another guest, a middle-aged man with a thick mustache, reached out as I passed, his hand closing around my wrist just for a second—a moment of possession, of silent assertion. Each touch felt like a violation, a reminder of my powerlessness in this room filled with predators.

Days passed in a similar fashion, filled with lessons on how to walk, talk, and act as his wife. I was expected to be perfect, to be graceful, and to be obedient. I was nothing more than a doll in a cage, and every day that passed felt like a step deeper into this nightmare.

Then, one day, I was summoned again. This time, I was led to a smaller, more intimate room. The other wives were already there, sitting silently with blank expressions. He sat in the center, his eyes gleaming with a twisted sense of power.

“Today,” he announced with a cruel smile, “we’re going to make some changes.”

He gestured for the servants to bring in trays filled with makeup, scissors, and clothing. I felt a shiver run down my spine. I looked at the other wives, but their faces were unreadable.

He whispered something in one servant's ear. His voice was filled with a sickening pleasure as he told her what he wanted.

The process began with the first wife, Sunanda, who was ushered into the room by a couple of servants. She looked resigned, her face a mask of indifference, but her eyes betrayed the dread she felt. Sunanda’s transformation began with her hair, which fell in long, thick waves past her waist. The servants worked quickly, applying harsh chemicals that filled the air with a pungent smell. Her once-black hair was bleached to a bright, unnatural platinum blonde, and then dyed a shocking shade of electric blue. The color clashed with her olive skin, and I could see the discomfort in her eyes as she was made to look into a mirror. Next came her outfit—a tight, shimmering dress that clung to her body in all the wrong ways. The dress, with its sequins and plunging neckline, looked like something pulled from a garish Hollywood show. She stood there, teetering on impossibly high heels, her lips painted a bright red that seemed to scream for attention, a grotesque parody of elegance.

Then it was the second wife, Vimla, who was next. The servants brought out layers upon layers of heavy, traditional fabric. They draped her in a deep red saree embroidered with gold, the cloth weighing heavily on her slight frame. She was adorned with thick, ostentatious jewelry—heavy necklaces that seemed to choke her, bangles that jingled with every reluctant move of her arms, and an elaborate headpiece that hung down over her forehead, almost masking her expression. The weight of it all seemed to bear down on her spirit, her steps slow and labored under the oppressive richness of her attire. She looked like a walking relic, pulled from some ancient painting, each ornament a shackle.

The third wife, Rekha, was dressed like a schoolgirl, a twisted mockery of innocence. She wore a crisp white blouse and a plaid skirt that reached just above her knees. Her long hair was hacked off into shoulder length cut and braided, giving her the look of a naïve, youthful girl. A childish headband was forced onto her head, pushing back her newly shortened hair, and her cheeks were pinched for a blush. The absurdity of her appearance was almost laughable, but there was nothing funny about the fear in her eyes. She looked like she was about to burst into tears, her hands trembling as she held the hem of her skirt, trying to pull it down as if it could somehow shield her from the humiliation.

I realised their cold attitude the other was just to cope up with this reckless treatment.

Finally, it was my turn. I had been watching in horror, my mind reeling with the grotesque theater unfolding before me. The servants led me forward, their hands rough on my shoulders, and I stood there, numb, waiting for whatever was to come. They dressed me in a long, flowing white robe, reminiscent of the ancient Roman attire I had once seen in history books. The material was soft, almost luxurious, but it felt like a costume, not clothing. My hair, still unruly from the old crewcut, was shaped into a neat bob. It left me with a sense of déjà vu—another step in losing myself, in becoming what they wanted me to be. I should have felt relieved that it wasn’t anything drastic, but all I could feel was a creeping numbness, a detachment from the person I once was.

Standing there, surrounded by the twisted caricatures of womanhood that we had been forced into, I realized the gravity of what was happening. This was just another layer of control, another way to mold us into their idea of entertainment. The reality of my situation was sinking deeper, like a stone dropping into the dark waters of my soul.

And just like that we were finally ready for tonight.