She stood, looking out... the red hues that brightened the dawn matched the scarlet tones scattered on her cream finery. Disheveled, the hair had come undone, traces of sandalwood paste still lingered on her forehead...but it was the eyes - dark and lost, with shards of red that told its tale...not so long ago
Yesterday...
A cream colored pure silk sari, with dark maroon heavily embroidered borders. The entire sari was delicately embroidered with maroon threads, and the border with cream threads. The small silver bells on the edge, and the dark maroon anchol laden with small mirrors…the face behind the paan leaves was decorated with Chandan and maroon color. The alta laden hands, and the feet which peeped out from the folds of the sari were radiant. This was it…the moment when she officially laid eyes on her husband to be, bound to him by the holy rituals that made them man and wife.
The slight palpitations of the heart, the hand that trembled as she held on to her paan leaves, the preparations and all her desires were woven in every fold, every minute detailing of this evening….Yes! she was getting married to a man whom she loved, and who loved her.
She who had rebelled and scorned at the idea of marriage, she who had always believed if it would happen, it would be a simple registration followed by a reception, to celebrate with family members. “No way am I going to let myself be dolled up to be a spectacle in front of everybody” she could still hear herself. But fate who had smiled at her ignorance, now wore a smirk. “See, this is exactly what you did not want, the pompous affair, the social wedding…and this is exactly what you have” this was the voice of fate that teased her. But was this truly what she had not wanted, at this very moment with the sound of the conch resounding, she knew this was the perfect wedding, it felt so right.
Niya had always scorned at love, she said it was a fantasy, hormones playing tricks on you. Sure she loved her friends and her Enu (her aunt) but this was the love that she had often seen her friends and co-workers fantasizing about. Where you “fell” in love and walked into the sunset…but wasn’t there darkness after the sunset?
She herself had been shocked and had delved deeper into some hole of misery when she encountered what can be best described as a continuous momentary loss of sensibilities. The strange aching kind of feeling, a feeling of being unwanted and undeserving she had discovered were dangerous not only for her confidence, but threatened to bury her so deep that she found it hard to come out.
The admonitions and countless hours of trying to understand had restored her to her former self. But even then she could feel the deep crevasses, which were invisible that left her scarred. She had learnt to put herself beyond a façade of rudeness, a fortress that was impenetrable, but with windows and ventilators that would whisper the onset of any unknown element. Her earlier fortress had been so impenetrable that it had even shielded her from the obvious warnings…the experiences taught her the power of ventilation that breathed in the immunities required to face the viruses. After all exposure to malignancies, were the best builders of immunity, that’s what medicine said!
As Niya slowly alighted from the pide, which had been cleverly designed like a palanquin, she felt the rush of confidence, and the small bite of apprehension that you felt as you take the step towards a new volume of your life. The palanquin was yet one of her many detailing that made this special day her own. This was the traditional way Bengali brides would leave for their new home. Leaving behind the life that she had known since birth, to embrace a new world, her sansar her husband’s world. So when she was leaving behind her girlhood, and stepping into the shoes of a womanhood, what better than a palanquin. The fact that it was also easier for the men to carry her, as her weight was distributed was one of the many advantages! The Pide had four long bamboo jutting out, for the bearers to lift. The bamboo sticks had been secured to the pide with rope, The main structure of the palanquin had been constructed with the help of similar bamboo sticks and all this has been covered with cloth…Wreathed in white lotus, her exquisite palanquin bore her towards her new life.
Amidst conch blowing she finally looked at the face of her husband to be…but she did not see the brows, that arched over two pairs of eyes, or the bridge of the nose that ended just above the lips, or the mole, just above the lips... she saw the faith and the trust that had convinced her to don on the Sari, have her face painted with Chandan and her hands and feet with the alta, adorn her with jewellery right down to the tinkling bells of her anklets. This was the face on her future, molded in faith that she had not known existed.
The smell of the dhuno, the crackling of the fire as she poured the rice crispies, the drone of the sacred vows, all were the little steps…then it was the moment of the vermillion to be smeared on her parting. The ultimate jewellery that every hindu women adorned herself with…She could see the red color of the sindoor…the hand of love approaching, but the red powder had turned darker, and brighter, it was a thick liquid that dripped on her parting and flowed down her forehead…was it raining??? Niya wondered…then like a sudden piercing, she realized it was blood...and it painted her world of love, red…but this was the color of blood and not love.
From amidst the smoke, rose the hazy face of the demon, a face she had forgotten, lost in trauma...
The wedding sounds, the laughter, the light teasing... the smells, sound were similar, but only the time was different... she still remembered the day five years ago...Niya was hurrying, dodging guests, as she made her way to the room, where all the totto the trousseau of the bride was kept. It would be time soon, when the vermillion would be smeared on the bride, and as per the customs, it the lojja bostro the saree which the grooms family sent, had to placed over the brides head. Someone had forgotten, now the responsibility lay with Niya, to fetch the saree, in time!
As she reached the room, her eyes took in the mess, the messed up sheets, wrappers lying about, pieces of string...these were the marks of wedding hustle. She turned towards the almirah, beside which lay the trays, and looked for the one in which the saree she had seen this morning, identified excitedly by her cousin (the bride). Just as she caught sight of the dark red, saree a sudden noise made her turn around...darkness, the lights!! somebody had just switched off the lights... a sudden panic washed over her...as she slowly advanced, the tray and saree still clutched in her hand, she felt a sudden weight, a hand clamped over her mouth, her white saree ripped away, and a searing pain...blinding flashes.
It was maybe a 5 mins, but it felt like a long time... as she slowly looked through the haze, the light from the adjoining washroom, outlined a male figure... she saw bushy brows, that arched over two pairs of eyes, the bridge of the nose that ended just above the lips, and the mole just above the lips, that was prominent even in that light...she saw the face of demon...
Now, the sounds, the smell, and the smoke induced haziness, brought back the memories with clarity...some which she had forgotten...post traumatic effects as the doctor had said. She had never been able to recollect the face...even when law enforcers had shown her numerous pictures, or videos... it had been a haze until now.
Their meeting, the courtship...the long walks, his support, strength...she lovingly caressing the mole...deciding to spent life together...it was like turning the pages of the a kaleidoscope, the emotions, from liking, to trusting, believing, happiness...and love... Oh! red...the color of intense rage, the color of trust placed in the parting of a new bride...or that of blood...
She remembered picking up the heavy metal plate hurling it at him, the blood tricking from his forehead, then pushing the pointed end of the kajal lata she had been clutching, painting her world red...running hard... till she saw nothing but red...
Red she had discovered was also the color of distrust...loss and hatred.
Now...
she stood at the window of her room, numb. Soon she knew there would be police, sirens...the smell which had eluded her memory. But, she was prepared to fight, she will not flee, she will not let anything elude.
Picking up the box of white tissue, she slowly wiped off the last traces of chandan, the red alta on her hands... and finally after hurling the ball of now red tissue, she opened the door to a morning of soft light...the red dawn melting into a clear sunshine.
Yesterday...
A cream colored pure silk sari, with dark maroon heavily embroidered borders. The entire sari was delicately embroidered with maroon threads, and the border with cream threads. The small silver bells on the edge, and the dark maroon anchol laden with small mirrors…the face behind the paan leaves was decorated with Chandan and maroon color. The alta laden hands, and the feet which peeped out from the folds of the sari were radiant. This was it…the moment when she officially laid eyes on her husband to be, bound to him by the holy rituals that made them man and wife.
The slight palpitations of the heart, the hand that trembled as she held on to her paan leaves, the preparations and all her desires were woven in every fold, every minute detailing of this evening….Yes! she was getting married to a man whom she loved, and who loved her.
She who had rebelled and scorned at the idea of marriage, she who had always believed if it would happen, it would be a simple registration followed by a reception, to celebrate with family members. “No way am I going to let myself be dolled up to be a spectacle in front of everybody” she could still hear herself. But fate who had smiled at her ignorance, now wore a smirk. “See, this is exactly what you did not want, the pompous affair, the social wedding…and this is exactly what you have” this was the voice of fate that teased her. But was this truly what she had not wanted, at this very moment with the sound of the conch resounding, she knew this was the perfect wedding, it felt so right.
Niya had always scorned at love, she said it was a fantasy, hormones playing tricks on you. Sure she loved her friends and her Enu (her aunt) but this was the love that she had often seen her friends and co-workers fantasizing about. Where you “fell” in love and walked into the sunset…but wasn’t there darkness after the sunset?
She herself had been shocked and had delved deeper into some hole of misery when she encountered what can be best described as a continuous momentary loss of sensibilities. The strange aching kind of feeling, a feeling of being unwanted and undeserving she had discovered were dangerous not only for her confidence, but threatened to bury her so deep that she found it hard to come out.
The admonitions and countless hours of trying to understand had restored her to her former self. But even then she could feel the deep crevasses, which were invisible that left her scarred. She had learnt to put herself beyond a façade of rudeness, a fortress that was impenetrable, but with windows and ventilators that would whisper the onset of any unknown element. Her earlier fortress had been so impenetrable that it had even shielded her from the obvious warnings…the experiences taught her the power of ventilation that breathed in the immunities required to face the viruses. After all exposure to malignancies, were the best builders of immunity, that’s what medicine said!
As Niya slowly alighted from the pide, which had been cleverly designed like a palanquin, she felt the rush of confidence, and the small bite of apprehension that you felt as you take the step towards a new volume of your life. The palanquin was yet one of her many detailing that made this special day her own. This was the traditional way Bengali brides would leave for their new home. Leaving behind the life that she had known since birth, to embrace a new world, her sansar her husband’s world. So when she was leaving behind her girlhood, and stepping into the shoes of a womanhood, what better than a palanquin. The fact that it was also easier for the men to carry her, as her weight was distributed was one of the many advantages! The Pide had four long bamboo jutting out, for the bearers to lift. The bamboo sticks had been secured to the pide with rope, The main structure of the palanquin had been constructed with the help of similar bamboo sticks and all this has been covered with cloth…Wreathed in white lotus, her exquisite palanquin bore her towards her new life.
Amidst conch blowing she finally looked at the face of her husband to be…but she did not see the brows, that arched over two pairs of eyes, or the bridge of the nose that ended just above the lips, or the mole, just above the lips... she saw the faith and the trust that had convinced her to don on the Sari, have her face painted with Chandan and her hands and feet with the alta, adorn her with jewellery right down to the tinkling bells of her anklets. This was the face on her future, molded in faith that she had not known existed.
The smell of the dhuno, the crackling of the fire as she poured the rice crispies, the drone of the sacred vows, all were the little steps…then it was the moment of the vermillion to be smeared on her parting. The ultimate jewellery that every hindu women adorned herself with…She could see the red color of the sindoor…the hand of love approaching, but the red powder had turned darker, and brighter, it was a thick liquid that dripped on her parting and flowed down her forehead…was it raining??? Niya wondered…then like a sudden piercing, she realized it was blood...and it painted her world of love, red…but this was the color of blood and not love.
From amidst the smoke, rose the hazy face of the demon, a face she had forgotten, lost in trauma...
The wedding sounds, the laughter, the light teasing... the smells, sound were similar, but only the time was different... she still remembered the day five years ago...Niya was hurrying, dodging guests, as she made her way to the room, where all the totto the trousseau of the bride was kept. It would be time soon, when the vermillion would be smeared on the bride, and as per the customs, it the lojja bostro the saree which the grooms family sent, had to placed over the brides head. Someone had forgotten, now the responsibility lay with Niya, to fetch the saree, in time!
As she reached the room, her eyes took in the mess, the messed up sheets, wrappers lying about, pieces of string...these were the marks of wedding hustle. She turned towards the almirah, beside which lay the trays, and looked for the one in which the saree she had seen this morning, identified excitedly by her cousin (the bride). Just as she caught sight of the dark red, saree a sudden noise made her turn around...darkness, the lights!! somebody had just switched off the lights... a sudden panic washed over her...as she slowly advanced, the tray and saree still clutched in her hand, she felt a sudden weight, a hand clamped over her mouth, her white saree ripped away, and a searing pain...blinding flashes.
It was maybe a 5 mins, but it felt like a long time... as she slowly looked through the haze, the light from the adjoining washroom, outlined a male figure... she saw bushy brows, that arched over two pairs of eyes, the bridge of the nose that ended just above the lips, and the mole just above the lips, that was prominent even in that light...she saw the face of demon...
Now, the sounds, the smell, and the smoke induced haziness, brought back the memories with clarity...some which she had forgotten...post traumatic effects as the doctor had said. She had never been able to recollect the face...even when law enforcers had shown her numerous pictures, or videos... it had been a haze until now.
Their meeting, the courtship...the long walks, his support, strength...she lovingly caressing the mole...deciding to spent life together...it was like turning the pages of the a kaleidoscope, the emotions, from liking, to trusting, believing, happiness...and love... Oh! red...the color of intense rage, the color of trust placed in the parting of a new bride...or that of blood...
She remembered picking up the heavy metal plate hurling it at him, the blood tricking from his forehead, then pushing the pointed end of the kajal lata she had been clutching, painting her world red...running hard... till she saw nothing but red...
Red she had discovered was also the color of distrust...loss and hatred.
Now...
she stood at the window of her room, numb. Soon she knew there would be police, sirens...the smell which had eluded her memory. But, she was prepared to fight, she will not flee, she will not let anything elude.
Picking up the box of white tissue, she slowly wiped off the last traces of chandan, the red alta on her hands... and finally after hurling the ball of now red tissue, she opened the door to a morning of soft light...the red dawn melting into a clear sunshine.
riveting!
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