The Red Hibiscus Bride

By Julisa Basak

He is coughing again.

My sari sweeps behind me as I climb the steps, medicine bottle in hand. Two teaspoons if I remember correctly.

The door to my husband’s room is open. He is sprawled in bed, pillow over his face, as if smothering himself would be relief enough. I shake my head. He is such a drama queen. I scurry up to him without a sound. Of course, that isn’t a problem for me.

“Here.” I turn on the oil lamp next to his bed and pour the bottle’s alkaline mixture onto a spoon. I wait for him to acknowledge my presence. Sure enough, he turns my way, face pink and drooping as his eyes fall wearily to the utensil in my hand. Then wearily to me.

“I knew—” A cough. “I knew you wouldn’t come empty-handed.” His body shakes as he sits up and leans against the bed frame.

“Are you surprised?” I maneuver the spoon toward his mouth. “You’re ignoring the doctor’s instructions again.”

He grabs the spoon from my hand. Grumbling, he swallows the liquid. “And you’re ignoring the fact that you’re dead.”

The harsh reminder is nothing new. He then points at the cemented floor, at the fresh footprints marking my path from the door to his bed. Ah, yes. They’re bright red from the alta – the crimson dye from my wedding day forever staining my feet. My ornate red sari decked in gold patterns is tattered and charred in several places. The mirror on the wardrobe, however, shows nothing but a levitating medicine bottle.

“You do this every night, bustling around the house. Your marks are everywhere.”  His voice is a scratchy whisper. “The house workers want to quit. They spread stories about you around town. They call you Joba Bou Opodebota.”

The Red Hibiscus Bride. A compliment, considering the flowers are used in prayer to our goddesses. “And whose fault is that? I am only here because of you.”

He responds by snatching the medicine bottle from my hand, pouring another dose into his spoon, and swallowing it down. I smile and turn to leave.

“Will you be here tomorrow night?” His voice is hopeful.

My answer is always the same. “If you wish.”

The new housemaid screams when she sees red footprints marring the freshly cleaned foyer.

My husband rushes out of the bathroom, both hands trying to fasten his dhoti. He rolls his eyes at the evidence. The maid’s persistent cries force him to send her away for the day, and when he confronts me later, I chuckle.

“Serves her right! She has been stealing money out of the safe,” I retort. “You need to keep an eye on your things, or I’ll do it for you.”

He rubs the bridge of his nose. How many of these maids have left since I started haunting these halls?

“Jamini… you have to move on.” He searches my eyes. “You don’t have to feel trapped here.”

His tone is hesitant. My gaze leaves him and settles on my footprints.

It’s been over a year since that horrible incident. Since that fire tore apart all my hopes to begin a new life with this man. I still remember my Bodhu Boron, the ceremony after my wedding to welcome me as the newlywed bride into this home. I had stepped on the plate full of striking red alta and milk and made my first footprints into the house. A ritual of new beginnings. To him, a final memory of his wife.

“I told you many times”—I shrug—“I can only be free if you let me.”

He opens and closes his mouth. I know what he’s thinking even when he walks past me without another word.

“I’m worried about you,” his mother tells him one morning in the living room. “You’re still attached to this house because of her.”

“What do you mean?” he asks.

She sweeps a hand around her. “All this. You had it all rebuilt after that fire. To match every frame and brick from the original design. Because it was her favorite.”

She stops when she catches sight of a trail of my crimson footprints, a result of my pacing across the room. Her eyes widen, and her shoulders buckle, but for a moment she contemplates a proper response.

“Jamini?” Her lips quiver as she calls out my name. “Dearest, will you speak to me?”

I want to say many things, how she was always a second mother to me even before my marriage. I approach her slowly. My husband watches keenly as I sit next to her and debate on revealing my translucent form.

“I always thought it was because you couldn’t let go.” She addresses me, searching for my presence. “But it’s my son. He is the one who is struggling to move on.”

I smile to myself. She was always sharp, always able to see the truth behind my husband’s stoic display. Why else would he ignore his medicine? Pretend to be oblivious to what goes on in his own home? Because he wants me to intervene.

“I know.” I slowly make myself visible, translucent like organza fabric. “And he deserves better. A new life. A new future. To not waste away alone here.”

My mother-in-law’s gasp catches in her throat between choked tears.

“I want him to be free.” My eyes turn to him, my gaze as earnest as the one I had planted on him in front of the wedding pyre, before we made our vows of forever. “When he is, I can be too.”

He returns a reluctant nod to both of us. He will listen eventually. The red footsteps in the room look more faded than usual. I smile.

One day, they will disappear for good.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Julisa Basak is a speculative fiction writer who also dabbles in various genres to explore the human condition. Her recent lgbtq+ short story made it to the #1 New Release category on Amazon ebooks. She is currently drafting a full-length science fiction while chugging out articles for a geek girl blog. When not crafting words, Julisa likes to paint digital illustrations, dance with her Bollywood group, and go on adventures with her Baby Yoda plushie.

---

More Stories | Twitter