#bengali marriage bureau

[dialurbanwestbengal]

Love in the City of Joy: Bengal Marriage Bureau Guide

In the heart of West Bengal, Kolkata, often called the City of Joy, Bengal Marriage Bureaus play a pivotal role in connecting hearts and weaving love stories. These bureaus, steeped in tradition yet modern in approach, are dedicated to helping individuals find their perfect life partners. With a deep understanding of Bengali culture and values, they offer personalized matchmaking services that cater to the unique preferences and requirements of each individual.

One of the prominent names in the field is DialUrban, a trusted platform that has been instrumental in bringing together numerous couples. DialUrban's Bengal Marriage Bureau services stand out for their comprehensive and meticulous approach. They understand that marriage is a significant milestone, and finding the right partner involves more than just matching profiles. It requires a nuanced understanding of compatibility, values, and long-term goals.

DialUrban's process begins with a detailed consultation to understand the individual's preferences, family background, and lifestyle. This personalized approach ensures that every match suggested is well-suited and has a higher likelihood of success. The bureau employs advanced algorithms combined with human intuition to filter and suggest potential matches. This blend of technology and personal touch makes the matchmaking process efficient and effective.

Furthermore, DialUrban ensures complete confidentiality and security of personal information, providing a safe environment for individuals to explore potential matches. The bureau also offers additional services like pre-marital counseling, wedding planning, and post-marital support, making it a one-stop solution for all matrimonial needs.

In a city known for its vibrant culture and rich traditions, finding love through a reliable marriage bureau like DialUrban can transform the journey of marriage into a beautiful and fulfilling experience. Trusting a professional service ensures that the search for a life partner is handled with care, precision, and a deep respect for the cultural nuances that define Bengali matrimony.

[rohit9136]

Find Your Soulmate With The Marriage Bureau In Kolkata!

Discover your soulmate with Absolute Matrimony's trusted marriage bureau in Kolkata. We understand the importance of tradition and community in Bengali relationships. Our platform connects compatible Bengali singles seeking a lifelong partner. Explore profiles, personalize your search based on shared values and background, and discover your perfect match. Join Absolute Matrimony Kolkata today and start your happily ever after journey.

For more information about Absolute Matrimony, visit,

[dialurbanassam]

Best Matrimony & Marriage Bureau in Assam | Dialurban

Finding the perfect life partner is a dream for many, and in the culturally rich state of Assam, this dream is no different. Assam, with its unique traditions and diverse communities, demands a tailored approach to matchmaking. Enter Dialurban, the best assam matrimony and marriage bureau in Assam, dedicated to bringing together compatible matches with professionalism and care.

Why Choose Dialurban?

1. Local Expertise and Cultural Understanding: Dialurban stands out due to its deep-rooted understanding of Assam’s cultural nuances. Whether you belong to the Assamese, Bengali, Bodo, or any other community, Dialurban's team is well-versed in the traditions and values specific to each group, ensuring that matches are made with cultural compatibility in mind.

2. Verified Profiles and Personal Attention: One of the significant advantages of Dialurban is the meticulous verification of profiles. Each profile undergoes rigorous scrutiny to ensure authenticity, giving you peace of mind. Additionally, the personalized attention offered by Dialurban ensures that your preferences and expectations are fully understood and met.

3. Comprehensive Database: Dialurban boasts an extensive database of eligible bachelors and bachelorettes from various professional backgrounds, age groups, and communities. This wide selection increases your chances of finding a match that aligns perfectly with your criteria.

4. Confidential and Secure: Privacy is paramount at Dialurban. The bureau employs state-of-the-art technology to safeguard your personal information, ensuring a confidential and secure matchmaking process.

5. Success Stories and Positive Feedback: The numerous success stories and positive feedback from clients speak volumes about Dialurban’s effectiveness and reliability. Many happy couples have found their soulmates through Dialurban, making it the most trusted matrimony and marriage bureau in Assam.

Conclusion

When it comes to finding a life partner in Assam, Dialurban is your best bet. Their blend of local expertise, personalized service, and a secure platform makes the journey of finding your perfect match smooth and successful. Trust Dialurban to help you find not just a partner, but a lifetime of happiness.

[krispywizardrunaway]

   Matrimonial Services Bhopal saptavachan.com

Marriage is the Union of the two good forgivers with the blessings of god. Only a suitable life partner can be a good forgiver in your destiny. That’s why you need a trustworthy marriage bureau like Saptavachan which can find you a trustworthy Matrimony. You can find the perfect partner on the basis of suitable religion, language, community, city, country, and state. Our profile also includes languages like Hindi, Bengali, Gujarati, Kannada, Marathi, Odia, Punjabi, Sindhi, Tamil, Telugu, Malayalam, and others. 

Matrimonial Services

Saptavachan is a perfect place to find your perfect soulmate from the community. You can search for brides, and grooms from all over the world, the portal is user friendly and mobile friendly as well. We are the right destination for people who are looking for marriage, Bride, and the groom can register in our matrimonial site with the accurate information. You just need to fill in the profile accurately and also upload your photographs to make the profile look attractive. 

Best Online Site for Profiles

Saptavachan is able to help more than lakhs of inter religion profiles mainly for matrimony search that are registered at our official website. The majority of these profiles belong to Delhi, Mumbai, Bangalore, Rajasthan, etc. It believes in providing the most secure, and convenient matchmaking experience to all its members by ensuring 100% screening exclusive privacy options, photo protection features, and verification of phone numbers, and more information. Our purpose is to build a better life through happy marriages. 

Easiest Way to Find Perfect Brides

With the support of dexterous professionals, we are able to provide Matrimonial Services to our esteemed clients. Simple to use & exclusively online Premium inter religion matrimonial services make us a differentiator amongst the matrimonial sites. We believe in providing a secure, easy to use, and convenient matrimonial matchmaking experience to our members. Register with us for free to find your life partner. The package ensures you are able to communicate with suitable members and initiate marriage proposals.

READ MORE...Best Matrimonial Site in India, Free Matrimony Sites Matrimony Life Partner in India – Saptavachan

[paatropaatrimatrimony]

Looking For Bengali Matrimonial Portal Here is the best one. fill the form for further process.

[blogmatchfindermatrimonyworld]

If you are still waiting for your perfect match, Matchfinder team will ensure you find someone very soon. Register today & get access to hundreds of profiles in your Kannada matrimonial login. Registration is free. Sign-up now online on Kannada Community matrimony and get close to your life partner!

[lillykates-blog1]

NRI Marriage Bureau, the largest and most trusted Site among Bengali Brahmin grooms with millions of Bengali Brahmin matrimony profiles are one of NRI’s best-known brands and the world largest matrimonial service provider.

[yournameyn]

Feeling Deeply Chapter 5

Genre: Arranged Marriage Fic. Fluff turning into angst?

Pairing: Namjoon x OC

Summary: The story of two deeply feeling nerds who find themselves in an arranged marriage. (Details here). Our OC is called Brishti. It’s a Bengali name meaning rain. Namjoon calls her Rim (short for her pet name, RimJhim which means the pitter-patter of rain). She calls him Joon.

Warnings: NOT THE NAMJOON OF OUR DREAMS. Argument. Fight over tiny discrepancies that turn out to be a huge problem. Domestic violence. Not a happy chapter.

A/N: Have you ever felt this, reader? When you watch something and realise exactly what you need to realise in that moment? I’ve had that so many times - seeing my feelings mirrored in a show. That’s something that I’ve tried to have Brishti feel here. Also, this is how I see the natural progression of this Namjoon, the one who obliged to duty rather than his dreams. It took me a long time to write this but I love what’s come out. Let me know what you think!

Current Chapter: London, late 1963. Love fully blooms between Namjoon and Brishti. And yet, something’s not right. A visit to the ballet and a conversation brings forth realisations. The inklings that Brishti was trying to avoid transform into writing on the wall.

Previously in Feeling Deeply: Preface Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4

Chapter 5

The magic about new love isn’t really in romance or even in true intimacy. It’s in how violent new love is… and just how much time it takes us to feel it’s impact.

In the new love between Namjoon and Brishti, everything had been roses and honey, overflowing, swaying in a gentle breeze. They spent every second possible in each other’s arms. They had to tear themselves away from each other when they had to leave home. And even then, it hurt as though they were part of the same cloth.

Brishti had thought about how they had become woven, their souls an ornate tapestry. Namjoon had told her then about a Japanese tradition of weaving that was a sort of meditation and a kind of worship to a god called ‘Musubi’. The disciples say it is like being part of the cosmic tapestry. Being tied to each other.

“Just like we are… I felt a pull toward you and I followed it. I was scared… so full of doubts about who you were and how this was all going to go… I had promised myself that I would fulfil my duty… whatever happened ” Namjoon had said, petting Brishti’s hand gently, “And I… I still can’t believe it… It… you make me feel like I can… trust myself.” Brishti had looked at her genius then and wondered what a strange world it must be that made a man like Namjoon doubt himself, “Always, always trust yourself, Namjoon-ah.” and settled into the crook of his neck.

It was indeed a strange world that caused Namjoon to build an armour around himself. Because ‘London’ and ‘Lonely’ sounded just the same to him. His years alone in this strange place had been unkind, unrelenting. Brishti had been the only softness he had felt in a long long time. Armours built over years can break in an instant, though. For him, it was the moment when he and his wife had crossed the threshold to becoming lovers. High on the magic of new love, he had not realised it.

Sitting across from each other after that fateful evening, Namjoon and Brishti were both wide awake in the early hours of the next morning. Brishti buttoned up the shirt they never fully took off. Namjoon had tickled her with his toes. They propped their feet against the other’s to see just how vast the difference was (he melted seeing how small her feet were and hadn’t stopped playing with them since). Caressing each toe, he remembered something he wanted to ask -

“How did you know what Saranghae is?”

“Mm…” she stretched her arms, “I know what it means…” Brishti said.

“I know you know… from the way you… after I said it… You asked Yoongi about it?” Namjoon cautiously asked about the only other Korean Brishti knew. To his surprise, she nodded no, still denying him any information. Namjoon had to tickle her foot for the answer.

“Okay! Okay! Wait! Pleeeease!” Namjoon stopped and Brishti bent down to the bureau next to her bed and pulled out a textbook - LEARN HANGUL THROUGH ENGLISH. Namjoon looked more shocked than she had expected. “I asked Yoongi about the book-”

“You don’t need to Rim… I’m not learning Bangla, am I?” Namjoon said. He was touched but he didn’t want his love to do anything he couldn’t reciprocate.

“I would have asked you to learn it… if I wrote poetry in my mothertongue...” Brishti said. Namjoon was shocked. She went on, “You really think I didn’t know?”

Namjoon blushed and smiled and flopped over in Brishti’s lap. She brushed his hair as she explained, “You light up at the mention of lyrics and poetry, you keep a notebook by your side at all times, you’re moved by the things that people usually don’t pay attention to… I know you’re a poet, Joonie.”

Namjoon looked up at her and said, “No one has ever called me that…”

Brishti leaned down and kissed her gorgeous husband. “You are... From what I know, I bet all my books that you are a great one... And… I… I would love nothing more than to be part of your world of words, Joonie… It must be strange… to be understood but in a foreign language. If you would let me, I want to understand you in your language… Do you think that’s something maybe--”

He got up and all but jumped on Brishti, pinning her down to the bed with the cutest puppy-yell she had ever heard. “Yes! Of course, yes!”

They both understood that this was a proposal. The truest kind - a gentle request to explore Namjoon’s universe. They would later joke about how she proposed to him after a month of being married. Namjoon was completely delighted by this person with him, his person… one who really saw him.

He pulled her to him saying, “You’re the best part of my world, Rim...” and kissed her.

Each moment of love flowed through the next. When they had to be separated, they couldn’t wait for the next one, their moment again. On weekends they would visit museums and find their favourite paintings and sculpture or their favourite prehistoric relic and animal. Brishti hated the fact that Namjoon had to work overtime to compensate for these weekends and she often voiced how unfair it was.

In response Namjoon would just give her a peck and say, “As long as I have you, I’m happy.” This pricked her but she was too taken by the man before her to pay heed to it.

Namjoon was just about able to keep a straight face at work but everyone around Brishti was acutely aware of how much she loved Namjoon.

At one point, her colleague and best friend, Min Yoongi had yelled at her, “Yhaaaaa! Stop blushing?! It’s just a clock… what could be romantic about a clock?!” Sayuri-san, and she were hanging around Yoongi’s table when Brishti looked at his new flip clock and started blushing.

Brishti laughed along with everyone else but explained, “It’s involuntary… that’s what happens when you’re married to a poet.”

Sayuri-san corrected, “I know too many wives of poets to know that’s not necessarily true… It is true though, when you’re in love with a poet… Go on… tell us how exactly poet Namjoon makes you blush about a clock...”

Brishti blushed even more at that. Yoongi rubbed his arms and demanded, “Tell us because there’s some really weird things coming to my mind… like you guys have an exact time when...”

Brishti stopped his imagination, “No no no… it’s nothing like that… he loves digital clocks... because he loves to watch the time turn to 00:00… zero o’clock he calls it… and on days he feels sad, it’s like zero o’clock is always there to comfort him… like it’s a point when the whole world holds its breath and he can feel happy again… but these days… with me… he said he wants the clock to keep going after 23:59… he wishes time would stretch on… beyond 24:01…”

Yoongi sighed and sat back down, “You’re making me fall in love with Namjoon… ahhh that is beautiful. He should be published...”

“Imagine him saying this directly to you and you might know how I feel… I can’t stop talking about him...”

“Oh, we know. But honestly none of us care… your poet-librarian romance is getting us through our single-ness.” Yoongi reassured her.

The three of them continued to talk about the ways in which Brishti could repay Namjoon’s wordsmithing in graphic ways.

It was that evening, wasn’t it, when Namjoon had enveloped her back in the warmest hug as soon as he’d entered their flat. Brishti was in the kitchen when she heard him enter but hadn’t expected this. He kissed her neck while telling her the good news, “We got our first Korean client today… because of me… Mmmm… Why do you always smell so amazing?”

Brishti turned around and hugged him again, “That’s amazing! Namjoon-ssi! I’m so proud of you!”

“He’s from a wealthy family… so he can actually afford our firm… its not exactly the work I wanted to do--”

“It is a step toward that idea, right? It’s still good work, fighting for justice?” Brishti asked, stopping him from undermining his own work.

Namjoon nodded, “Yeah… He’s a dancer… Park Jimin. All the posh types know him as one of the best dancers in the Royal Ballet. They call him Jim… as if it’s too difficult to say Jimin?” Namjoon shook his head in disapproval. He began helping Brishti with the chopping and continued, “He was born in the UK and trained since he was 5... He got into the Royal Ballet but he’s been passed up to be a principal over and over even though everyone who has seen him dance apparently knows that he’s far far better… So recently he spoke to the director there... and of course the director made a racist slur and asked not to bother him with this again. He can’t even quit and work at another company because of the contract they have him on. There’s a non compete clause… meaning he won’t be able to dance with any other company. That’s all he wants… to be able to get out of that contract… I’m hoping to convince him to press charges on racial discrimination too. We’re not in the 20s anymore.”

When Brishti didn’t respond, Namjoon looked up at her. “That’s horrible… I’m so so glad you’re taking up the case. But please tell me what you ate when you were alone?” He looked down at the carrot he’d been failing to cut.

Namjoon scrunched his nose and admitted, “Canned food mostly.”

Brishti said, “I’m really really glad you’re getting to do work that you are passionate about, Joonie, you deserve it. Now, you should know how to cut a carrot.”

Namjoon pressed up against Brishti’s back. She reached back up to the nape of his neck and made him moan into her. Then… then Namjoon made her forget how to cut carrots.

He had these ways… Namjoon, with his touch, his voice, his languages both spoken and soundless. He was lighting new paths into her self. She loved learning him. Paths she didn’t know existed, that she’d been longing for.

The scars of the loneliness, emptiness that Namjoon had experienced had turned his longings into a kind of starvation. He needed to be nourished and also devoured. Brishti was just the creature to do it. He could feel her warm fingers trace rows of pleasure onto his skin. He felt them bear down and singe when the two of them had to move away from each other. He felt those ropes tug at him as the end of his workday neared. Namjoon closed his eyes each night at her touch, the feeling and fragrance of her body. He felt blooms of intimacy spring up like seedlings out of the soil of his skin. And deeper. In the earth of his soul. So he did the only thing he could. Reciprocate. Namjoon sowed his love, his desire, his need onto her, into her every night.

There were times, though, when she would feel his absence in the middle of the night and see him working in the dim light of a lamp. She knew he had to work hard to do what he wanted but she also saw he had to continually prove himself to people who weren’t even paying attention. The reason they weren’t paying attention was painfully clear to Brishti but she was yet to experience it’s full stab.

Namjoon wanted to shield her from it. He was counting on an armour that didn’t exist anymore to protect himself and his wife… the reason he liked his life again. Whenever she came out and switched on a brighter light, reprimanding him for straining his gorgeous eyes, he saw that it did prick her - this world and the unfairness he had to endure. She would say something small, an almost-complaint that alerted him… against her for some strange reason. She would say something that would be easy to ignore and yet would prick him, like - “I don’t know why they haven’t promoted you yet.” or “Why haven’t they taken up Jimin’s case yet? You’ve worked so hard on it.” Everytime she did that, he would have to pacify himself.

‘I’ve told her so much about the Jimin case… she’s just really invested’ Namjoon thought to himself. Just so he would avoid thinking, ‘I shouldn’t have told her.’

He would have to calm himself, give her a peck and try to convince her to stop worrying. “As long as I have you, I’m happy.” Namjoon would always say.

Then, Brishti smiled as she always did. While trying to understand why that sentence bothered her so much. After almost five months of exploring this wonderful man, some part of him still felt unfamiliar… like it didn’t fit in with the rest. Still, these things take time, she had heard from so many women over the years. Besides, she was blessed with a man far far above the norms. So, how could she prod? These are things Brishti had told herself - until the night she couldn’t stay silent.

The couple was coming up on their fifth month together and Park Jimin had gifted Namjoon a ticket to the final show of the season as a token of gratitude, for having heard his story.

Brishti was nervous about going to this kind of a gathering and had told her husband to meet her there.

She had enlisted the help of Sayuri-san to look appropriate for the event. Her slightly longer hair was clipped and her eyes were kohled. She wore a burgundy knee length fringe-ended dress that she had received from her gracious host, stylist and make-up artist - an inheritance of her brilliant life tucked into the black pearl beading and deco design. It was a big departure from the usual tie-die or band tees and jeans with her baggy coat. She had carried the coat but felt this strange sort of compulsion to stand in the cold air in the noodle strap dress, for him to see her.

She felt butterflies in her stomach and kept fiddling with the coat she had draped over her arm. It was electric when she saw him.

Namjoon looked gorgeous in a tux. All of Brishti’s nerves were soothed just by looking at him. He had brushed his hair back. Tall and dashing - better than any heathcliffe could ever be. And with his reading glasses, he looked like the lead of a romance novella that would make all the women swoon. Indeed she was swooning. Brishti was suddenly warm in the chilly, windy night. And when Namjoon saw her, blood rushed to her cheeks. Everything inside her was running helter skelter in a panic. Brishti felt everything drop in the few moments it took for Namjoon to reach the top of the stairs. Dolled up like this, outside of her element, she felt like an imposter. Some angel needed to be standing in her place. For the first time, feigning beauty, Brishti felt like she wasn’t worthy of her husband.

She was finally able to keep her feelings aside when he reached her.

Namjoon kissed her palm like a gentleman and whispered in her ear, “Let’s go home… I need a private kind of dance…” Brishti blushed. Namjoon put his arm around her and felt the chill that had settled on her skin. “Aren’t you cold? Why didn’t you wear the coat?” Namjoon asked. Brishti just shook her head no and the two of them walked in.

Brishti assumed that the ballet would be a welcome distraction from the storm that brewed within her. She had read up about the show, the piece they were going to perform -

Tchaikovsky’s venerated Swan Lake. The story of a young girl who falls in love with a prince who promises to save her but fails. Ofcourse there were finer nuances to the story but this was the basic plot. As the lights dimmed, Brishti felt pulled in by the music, the eerie beauty of it’s melody played in perfectly with the questions that were swirling around in Brishti’s mind -

Why do I feel wrong?

Is this what Yoongi was talking about? Anxiety…?

Why does Namjoon look so... different?

Why is he so quiet, so… distant…It’s like he’s keeping himself away from me despite being right next to me, arm in arm, like the true Namjoon is somewhere in a glass case? Deep deep beneath whatever this creature is who is next to me?

I’m thinking too much. No. What is this? Why am I feeling this way?

It’s the music… no its not just the music… something is fucking wrong because all I feel like doing is breaking that glass case that’s locked away My Namjoon and presented this fucking imposter. What the hell is going on?!

Brishti barely managed to keep it together. She kept her eyes on stage…

It was like seeing a moving painting being created by invisible hands and the music was the sound of the brushstrokes, amplified. Park Jimin was playing Rothbart, the owl-like magician who curses Odette into a swan until she finds someone who would promise to love her forever. The questions in her mind and the power of the spectacle before her forced her tears to keep flowing.

Namjoon saw Brishti cry and held on to her. But the more he tried to comfort her, the more uneasy she became, the more she coudln’t contain the tears in her eyes.

The curtain fell at the end of Act three when the prince realises he has been tricked. Brishti, somehow, mirrored his grief. The prince was cheated by Rothbart into believing that his daughter, Odile, was Odette. Rothbart relished his plan so despicably it made Brishti’s stomach turn. The prince had already declared to the ballroom full of people his vow to love and marry the maiden by his side - Odile, not Odette. Park Jimin played Rothbart so skillfully, so beautifully that despite being the villain, despite being covered from head to toe, he was the star. Rothbart giggled delightfully as he revealed to the prince that the girl in his arms wasn’t Odette at all. That Odette was waiting for her prince by the lake. The curtain fell as the prince felt the stab of betrayal and rushed to Odette.

Brishti rushed to where she did not know. She wanted to get away from Namjoon, from this feeling that she couldn’t understand, couldn’t explain. She was angry. She wanted to break something. Tears still flowing down her face, she found a corner that was hidden away in darkness. She went in. Brishti sat on the couch there, for what seemed like eternity, breathing heavily. Nothing made sense. It felt like her insides were twisting into each other. Suddenly, though, a door creaked open and out came an angel. A man, glowing, having just freshened up. He saw her, saw her fear and instead of pulling back in shock, approached with a strange kindness. He held her wrist and stayed silent for a moment.

His beauty was also a kindness to her. In that moment, Brishti could breathe a little bit better. He sat down by her knees, on the floor and when he spoke, his voice flowed like a tonic, “First time at the ballet? It’s overwhelming… I know. You’re okay. You are safe. Rothbart is not here. Talk to me… what are you feeling?”

The tears kept flowing. This man was different, she knew he understood what she was feeling like. She felt safe, but not as if she was with a saviour, rather as though she was with another victim.

“What are you feeling…” Park Jimin repeated. The pieces were falling into place in her head. This is Park Jimin, the man who danced as Rothbart. The man who should have danced the Prince. Who should have played Odette and Odile.

“I feel… rage.” Brishti trembled as she spoke. She could breathe again.

“Yes… Rothbart is… evil… I’m sorry-”

Brishti nodded her head no. “At the prince.”

Jimin was surprised. “Let it out. You can scream in here and no one would know.”

Brishti didn’t need another invitation, but her rage wasn’t a scream, it was a whisper - “I want to hit the prince. How could he not now? He couldn’t see that that girl was not Odette? Is he blind? The way she moved, the way she danced… which only means… it means that the prince knew… somewhere he felt doubt but he… He couldn’t fucking trust himself enough?! I don’t know why this is breaking my heart… Why can’t people trust in themselves?! It’s a pathetic fucking excuse and I can’t buy it… I just can’t. Why did the prince...” Her hands covered her face as she wiped her tears. She composed herself.

Jimin pulled out a kerchief. “May I?” Brishti nodded and he dabbed her face with care.

“The prince trusted his sight more than his soul. And now, Odette will die because of it. As always, the woman pays the price.”

“He dies too, you know.”

“What a waste…”

Jimin smiled, “Thank you… for watching the show, for feeling it so much.”

Brishti managed a weak smile, “Thank you.” Jimin stepped away and sat next to her, at a respectable distance. “I’m being lied to.”

Jimin nodded, “I know what that’s like. I feel that rage against the prince too. And still, we must be kind to our liars.”

Brishti clenched her teeth, “Why? Where’s the fairness in that?”

Jimin moves away, in a dejected kind of daze and pours himself a drink, “That’s the biggest lie, fairness. Cruel joke.”

Brishti walked toward the door. “I should go… Thank you.”

Jimin raised his glass to her.

Brishti wore her coat and walked toward the exit. She found Namjoon in a panic and suddenly felt like she could reach him. He looked so relieved to see her. She couldn’t help but feel awash with love as he crashed into her in the warmest hug. It was as if he was the one who was lost.

“Are you okay? Why were you crying?” Namjoon asked her as he stroked her head and held her in the hug for as long as she needed.

“I need to ask you something.” Brishti whispered as she pulled away. They began walking down the stairs of the theatre.

“Änything.” Namjoon replied.

“Your firm… they refused the Jimin case, right?”

Namjoon froze. His jaw locked up. “Let’s go home.”

The rest of the way, neither of them spoke a word. They entered their home in a cold silence. They washed the night off themselves and entered their bedroom, which was completely devoid of the heat and desire that usually filled it right up to the ceiling. What used to feel like an ocean, now felt like a vacuum.

When Namjoon walked in, Brishti reminded him, as kindly as she could,“I said I need to ask you something. You said, ‘anything’.”

“I’m sorry. I don’t want to talk about it.” Namjoon was cold again. Unfeeling. Unreachable.

Brishti tried her best to be calm… “When would you want to talk about it?”

Namjoon breathed in - “Why? Am I answerable to you?”

“Yes.”

“Well, we disagree. I don’t think I am answerable to you. What would you have done if I wouldn’t have told you about it in the first place?”

“I would still be feeling what I’m feeling… I would be even more furious though.”

“Fu- why would you be furious? I have to work there, I lost the account. I’m feeling hurt and disappointed in myself and instead of helping me, you’re angry?! What the hell could you be angry at?!”

“I’m being lied to. I’m being tricked.”

“What?!” the contempt on Namjoon’s face made her head throb. He was angry now.

“There are two Namjoons here. I’m being told there’s only one and--”

“That is some philosophical trash that you learned from one of your books. Real life doesn’t work that way. But how would you know?! You don’t have a real job. You have a hobby. A hobby of stacking books in order. You’re just plain lucky that someone is paying you for your hobby. That’s not a job. You of all people cannot tell me about the things I have to do to keep my job. I have tried my best to be as honest as I can be--”

“As honest as you can --”

“Listen to me!” Namjoon thundered. His loud voice might as well have been a punch. It rang through her body and rattled her bones. She had tears in her eyes but clenched them down as Namjoon continued yelling, “Enough… enough with the fucking tears. What the fuck are you so sad about?! I don’t need you to pity me. I don’t need anyone to feel sad for me. I have tried to be a good man - do you even know how much other men don’t even mention to their wives?! I told you everything. EVERYTHING. And now I’m being punished for it. Time and time again I tried to console you… even though I was the one hurting… I tried to be there for you and tell you… as long as I have --”

Brishti couldn’t take it anymore “Don’t. Say that.” She didn’t yell. Her voice was just above a whisper and yet it sent a chill down Namjoon’s spine. She wiped her tears. “I didn’t ask to be consoled. I was just… curious. If a few questions from me hurt so much maybe you should ask yourself why. I’m not lucky that someone decided to pay me for my hobby. It’s nice to know what you really think of my job. But whatever you think, I created my job. I created my life. I fought to come to london. I fought for the right to earn--”

“Oh please... spare me the feminist lecture...” scoffed Namjoon.

“Sure. Take up Jimin’s case.”

Namjoon felt the burn of white hot rage. He wanted to strangle her. He was so used to touching her… and she was his… in this bedroom, he had made her his. He wasn’t thinking. Namjoon strode toward her and held one massive palm over her mouth and the other on her neck and pinned her to the wall. “YOU WOULDN’T HAVE KNOWN ABOUT THAT IF I DIDN’T TELL YOU.”

It took him a few moments to realise what he was doing. Brishti was shocked and tried to scream but no voice came out. She was trying to get him out of his daze when he finally saw her, saw his Rim, horrified… by him. Namjoon pulled his hands back instantly. He saw a red bruise bloom where his hands were - on her face and on her neck.

“This is how you make your conscience shut up?” Brishti’s voice was hoarse. “You think this has nothing to do with your conscience? With the best part of you? The part that you made me fall in love with? Are you really telling me you don’t know that this is why you can’t write the way you used to… You’re killing my Joon and asking me to stay silent. I can’t.”

The searing anger still hadn’t died and it burst out of him, “Why are we fighting like this… over Jimin… why don’t you take up his case if you fucking love him so much?”

“What do you think I’m doing right now?”

“You… Why are you fighting for him against me?!” It was here that Namjoon realised his armour was gone. The idea of who he is... suddenly vanished. And the one thing that had made him feel safe, like his true self, was slipping away. “You’re saying… just tell me… you’re saying what I think you’re saying.”

Brishti did him the only kindness she had left in her, she explained, “Jimin wants to leave but can’t. He stays because he needs to dance. He stays because he cannot get out of his contract. You say you want to help people like Jimin, you roll your eyes at white people who can’t pronounce our names, you feel guilty for asians who have much less than we do… but then you also don’t raise an issue when your boss holds meetings in clubs where people of other races and dogs and women are not allowed. You work overtime for the privilege of weekends… You say you are trying but… as far as I know… you don’t have a non-compete clause in your contract, Namjoon.”

That hit him like an iceberg. Namjoon’s legs gave way and he just sat on the bed.

He watched as Brishti put on her coat and left, covering her bruises with a scarf.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Chapter 6 - to be posted.

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Satire and Subversion in Ishmael Reed’s “Conjugating Hindi”

Back in the 1800s, South Asian men arrived in the United States as peddlers or seamen. According to historian Vivek Bald in Bengali Harlem and the Lost Histories of South Asian America, they were single, and instead of creating enclaves of their own, they assimilated and married into Black and Puerto Rican communities in areas like Harlem and New Orleans. The fluidity between Black American and South Asian American communities didn’t disappear, but continued into the Jim Crow era, when some Black Americans put on turbans and pretended to be Indian to avoid harassment. Some used exotica to sell the illusion, and at that time of pre-yoga, when people knew even less about South Asians than they know now, the ruse worked. People could not tell the difference between Black people and the people identified as “Hindoos.”

Due to the United States’s immigration laws and policies, over the last several decades, professional Indians have become much more visible to the mainstream than working-class South Asian immigrants had previously been. Their collective economic success in the United States has been used to produce the harmful model minority myth, a myth that aggressively omits the numerous structural factors that have conferred advantages on members of this group: caste, class privilege, Brahmin and other upper-caste networks in America, India’s affirmative action laws, socialism built into India’s constitution, and learning English due to India’s prior status as a British colony. Although many Indian Americans subscribe to the model minority myth, Indian Americans as a bloc have been reliable Democratic voters for decades, and there are notable Democratic politicians with South Asian ancestry such as Kamala Harris and Pramila Jayapal. But more recently, several Indian Americans have risen to prominence under an anti-Black, anti-immigrant, far-right agenda (much to the mortification and embarrassment of their progressive counterparts who have set up a Desi Wall of Shame): Dinesh D’Souza, Nikki Haley, Ajit Pai, Raj Shah, Seema Verma, Dimple Shah, and Shalli Kumar.

The history of affinities and tensions between Black and Indian communities in America, as well as how White conservatives and liberals have exploited Indian immigrants over the last few decades to justify and produce further discrimination against Black communities, sets the foundation for Ishmael Reed’s ingenious, razor-sharp, seriocomic novel Conjugating Hindi, published by Dalkey Archive Press. Like other Reed novels, Conjugating Hindi is not only a novel, but is also a graphic novel, heavily illustrated with provocative hand-drawn cartoons. In the novel, you can see the aforementioned history upended and satirized for the Trump era.

***

“California is still the world’s biggest hideout,” the novel begins. Peter Bowman, or “Boa,” is a Black professional who is fleeing something from his past. He moves to North Oakland, where he teaches at a community college and explores the gentrified city. After taking an early retirement, Boa becomes a public intellectual and is invited to debate with a right-wing Hindu “intellectual” egomaniac Shashi Paramara on the subject of “Was Slavery All That Bad?” The Columbia Speakers Bureau tells him: “There’s an opportunity for you to make some more money. You’ll be able to break out of the Black History Month ghetto.” Boa mentally notes that the event, like Oakland, was being “gentrified” by non-Black people. Facing a tax audit, Boa needs the money offered for the debates, and reluctantly participates. Shashi argues that slavery wasn’t that bad, and is received with open arms and adulation by self-serving White right-wingers. Boa argues the opposite, standing in as a kind of straw man, and is ignored by Shashi, as well as the rest of the audience.

Shashi has a radical sister, Kala, a professor of Post-Colonialist Studies, with ink-black skin and who doesn’t fit in with her Brahmin family. She believes English is an imperialist language and demands that only Hindi be spoken in India. Boa is immediately intrigued, but his young Black chauffeur warns him off: “Indians can be as racist toward Black people as Whites. Some have called them the most racist people in the world. Not only do they hate Blacks but they have problems with the darker members of their own families. You got mobs beating African students…”

Boa worries, “A new bunch of racists coming into the country adding to the ones who are already here?” The chauffeur tells him that to Shashi and his Brahmin entourage, “[Y]ou’re a Dalit. An Untouchable.” Boa assumes this is ridiculous, citing Gandhi, but this gets him thinking, and he goes down the rabbit hole of learning Hindi (hence, the title) and exploring literature about South Asia.

Political tensions escalate. Eventually during one debate, the moderator announces that India just shot down an American passenger plane. The conservatives who had been nodding along with Shashi call him an Indian N-word and try to beat him up. He’s rescued by security. Meanwhile, Boa is rescued by Kala, who pulls up on a Harley and drives him home before heading off to her host’s home in the Berkeley Hills (her host is a Black woman whose best-selling memoir is entitled My Triple Oppression). Before she leaves, Boa asks how the mob missed her, and she responds that White Americans are always mixing her up with a Black person, that being Black doesn’t work in India, but in the United States it comes in handy for her. Boa is baffled.

The plane incident triggers all-too-believable xenophobic and racist mayhem. Indians wearing traditional clothing are dragged off BART. Indians bus from Silicon Valley to the San Jose airport and face racist insults. Mobs start hunting Indians. A Fugitive Indian Law is debated in Congress. Shashi comes to Boa, asking to hide out in his place, dressed like a “hip-hopper” in order to avoid being harassed. Boa agrees to let him stay, a shrewd callback to how South Asian peddlers sought and received refuge with Black and Puerto Rican communities in the 19th century.

The novel goes heavy into informal debate at this juncture, with Boa eventually confronting Shashi on his anti-Blackness (which Boa comes to recognize also as a kind of self-loathing and determined refusal to face facts regarding the British Empire). In his satirical rendition of the informal debates between Shashi and Boa, Reed nails the Dinesh D’Souzian failure to comprehend basic historical facts about both America and India. He sketches Shashi as both a naïve innocent and opportunist. The novel turns at points into a graphic sex comedy, with sex itself as another kind of border crossing — for really, how else could Boa communicate deeply with someone as obtuse as Shashi? The debates and sex comedy give rise to action, and then to tragic climax. The denouement genuinely satisfies.

In a reprisal of Reed’s Blues City: A Walk in Oakland, former mayor Jerry Brown is given a tongue-lashing in Conjugating Hindi for the “ethnic cleansing” and gentrification of Oakland that he believes has transformed it into a “hipster playground.” This serves as a symbol for the gentrification of Black History Month as well. The novel is more descriptive than Mumbo Jumbo, not only of Oakland scenes, but also of Boa’s internal landscape, which is shaped by academic texts and movies. Blended into factual material are fictions — the president at the time of the novel is “Kleiner Fuhrer,” for instance. In the kind of self-referential and darkly hilarious note also found in brilliant novelist Percival Everett’s work, Ishmael Reed himself makes appearances as a character throughout the novel. Also appearing is Chappie Puttbutt — Reed’s fictional Black literary critic who sides with whomever he can to get tenure in Reed’s 1993 novel Japanese by Spring (one of Chappie’s books is entitled What If I Prefer Beethoven Over Coltrane?).

***

Conjugating Hindi is a further exploration of Reed’s alternative Black aesthetic of Neo-HooDoo, informed by bricolage and jazz improvisation. It is not quite as poetic or gnostic as Reed’s 1972 masterpiece Mumbo Jumbo, but it is brilliant — the same sort of experimental brilliance observable in the fiction of Thomas Pynchon or the cut-up technique of William S. Burroughs — and more accessible. It hews to the satiric register of Reed’s Japanese By Spring and Juice.

The novel is what some academics have dubbed a trickster text, a text informed by the mischievous, shape-shifting, slippery figure of the trickster, found in folklore throughout the world. Implicit in Reed’s formal style, as well as his content, is the trickster disregard for caste of any kind. Heedless of boundaries and resistant to being pinned down or hemmed in, the novel is driven almost entirely by Reed’s deep, free-wheeling curiosity about why things are the way they are in regard to the use of the model minority myth against Black communities.

Reed’s incorporation of caste into the fictional debate between Boa and Shashi is fascinating and insightful — he understands the rigidity and cruelty of the caste system far better than many American writers and critics, who assume caste is a relic of the past or synonymous with class, rather than something far more insidious. This remains a set identity that a Hindu possesses from birth, describing his degree of “purity” or “pollution,” and consequently his entitlement to respect, as well as a script for social relations, including arranged marriages. There are moments where Reed brings his exploration of caste and race together in a way that felt a touch too pat, binding together a little too neatly anti-Blackness with the Brahmin identity of Indian immigrants assimilating into the far right. Hinduism can be fairly described as heterogeneous and protean and it does have trickster-like figures such as Krishna or the mohini, but the Brahminical mindset is a strongly anti-trickster perspective, and so those with this mindset could find equally appealing certain strains of center-left thought that push rigid identity, scripted social relations, and endogamy. In any case, by novel’s end, Reed’s novel surprises and delights and for the most part, he takes every opportunity to be artistically more subversive, more slant, more true.

The most famous Dalit intellectual of all time, B. R. Ambedkar wrote in The Untouchables,

It must be recognized that the selfish interest of a person or of the class to which he belongs always acts as an internal limitation which regulates the direction of his intellect. […] A Voltaire among the Brahmins would be a positive danger to the maintenance of a civilisation which is contrived to maintain Brahmanic supremacy. […] If any non-Brahmin were to make such an attempt the Brahmin scholars would engage in a conspiracy of silence, take no notice of him, condemn him outright on some flimsy grounds or dub his work useless.

This is an observation that holds true in the Indian-American diaspora, too. So far, nobody in the United States is publishing any Voltaire-like satires of caste and race by a Dalit American or a non-Brahmin Indian American, but this bold and memorable novel by a brilliant Black author is the next best thing.

Conjugating Hindi is a firebrand’s novel, the crackling, overflowing, pugnacious novel of someone who doesn’t care about genre boundaries any more than he cares about historical boundaries, but who does care deeply about innovating. In an interview with Callaloo that was conducted in 1988 at Reed’s home, Reed commented:

Well, Afro-American artists have always had to struggle against the middle-class. […] I mean when you write the truth, sometimes the black middle class complains or the white right wing will complain or the left wing will complain. […] I think most Afro-American artists catch it from all sides. I think most ethnic artists catch it from all sides.

As the United States’s ideals come under increasing attack, we need more flame-throwers like septuagenarian Ishmael Reed — more fighters, more tricksters, more eagle-eyed observers with an incendiary spirit, more dazzlingly original artist-writers — willing to defy what is permissible to say, willing to catch it on all sides, and willing to run over boundaries of all kinds into genuinely new or neglected territory.

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