Her dolls should have a perfect marriage- She thought- as She walked the bride, who kept stumbling from the satin train getting stuck in her heels- the groom leaned against the better half of a peeling wall, strung with ribbons- dutiful and unmoved- the nook of his boots raised at an angle to the floor, pointing at the miniature cardboard cross that She had incised from the back of Her moral studies exercise book- leaving a religious hole- the sunset was unusually pink today- She looked proudly at her lithe guests, flaunting clone cotton suits, sewn from an outgrown pallu, bobby prints, hairdos, face paint, felt pen moustaches, collars- sitting quietly in a single file, legs strewn over each other for support- Christian weddings were so much simpler than any She had ever attended- so white and fairy tale like- the groom’s eyes were fixed somewhere right past the ears of his lady- and there was no way She could turn his head without straining his coat threadbare- so they kissed without looking into each other’s eyes- the guests clapped and cheered - while a glass shattered downstairs- She raised the volume, playing a playlist of unused ringtones- and everyone nodded along, over lemonade, under the open dusk- the jam closet was empty of sweetmeats- so She picked up a couple of fresh cucumbers from the tray- but the knife was missing too- Her feet tiptoed carefully back to the jolly balcony, expertly manoeuvring the broken mirror shards- And Her guests loved raw cucumber- She awoke next morning with a runny nose- and the bloodstain on a chair made Her shiver- “Who got hurt?”- Her guests giggled, someone winked and the bride looked away, almost red- and Mom brought Her breakfast, hiding a band aid on her temple with hair strands- the noodles was salty- and rain washed away the blood late into the afternoon- the paper lanterns were sodden- balloons kept bursting one after the other- sudden intrusions on Her train of thoughts- And She tightens the necklace- almost a neck noose- but stops right before choking Herself- the doll never drowns in the bathtub- her head comes bobbing back up to the surface- there are no bubbles- just a satin strewn carcass and a haunting smile- She twists her head three sixty degrees- after a week- strands of blond hair float on the surface- the face is an empty canvas- the smile, washed off- mouth, just an empty hole that looks within- Her marriage is perfect- She tells Herself and stares at Her own purple lips on the mirror- Marriage- Marriage- Marriage- She keeps digging into the small mouth with an ear bud- Marriage- Rage- Rage…