In the hills here, the first meeting is less about talk and more about observing — they will note if my father accepts the tea without wincing as he sits, a sign of his bad knees, and if my mother’s hands are rough from tending the guava trees. The real decision is in the silence, in the shared *pahadi* understanding of a hard life. What gets spoken of is fees and tutoring, not dowry. My own *buaji* decided my sister’s match not by the boy’s job, but when he helped my father fix a slipped load off the mule without being asked.
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