The Last Tale of the Flower Bride

by Roshani Chokshi

marriage is nothing more than a spell strengthened by daily ritual. The spell requires libations: mundane musings hoarded and pored over, the repetition of small dismays, the knowledge of how your spouse takes their coffee. Marriage asks for that crust of time you were selfishly saving for yourself. Marriage demands blood, for it says: Here is what is inside me, and I tithe it to you.

Pain is inexplicably vital to us. It pins us to the very fabric of our lives, that which joy and comfort and warmth have made alien and foreign. Pain speaks to us in a voice that carries the hallowed certainty of hymns: I know exactly what you deserve, and I shall give it to you.

Indigo had never looked more beautiful to me than she did in that moment. It wasn’t her features—though they had always been lovely—it was the way she molded the atmosphere of the room. She looked like the nostalgia that settles in your ribs at the end of a story you have never read, yet nevertheless know.

When I was little, she had been a walking flame, but fire requires feeding and either my mother didn’t know how to sustain herself or had stopped working at it. Over the years she starved and shrank until she was a matchstick, a short burst that quickly chewed down the wood and inspired no warmth.

I have never before considered what it means to have a good marriage. I thought it was finding intriguing and attractive company. But maybe it is about finding someone whose heart is like a mirror, whose love can make you stand the sight of yourself.