My sister-in-law stepped back with a tired sigh to indicate
that she was through with me. Her job done and nothing will keep her away from
her filter kaapi anymore. I stood up gingerly and
stared into the mirror in front of me. The result was quite satisfactory even
to my critical eyes. In fact I am lying. I looked beautiful, almost angelic.
Hair combed in a tight plait yet easy enough to breath. The long length of my
hair of course deserved the best kunjalam which I
adorned now. The parting of the same deftly camouflaged by the netthi
chutti and a hint of kunkumam visible just
near the forehead. Jasmine and kanakambaram blended nicely along the length of
the locks. The vermillion dot on my forehead competing for attention with the kaajal.
Earrings with the most elegant pieces of jimikki and the diamond
mukkuththi
shining on my nose rounded off the angel lookalike. The saree, copper sulphate
blue with magenta border in colour embellished with the embroidery skills of
the most consummate artisans of Benaras who had possibly spent millions of
painstaking hours on this six yards of poetry on silk. Yes, the same one which
I had worn on the day of my nischayadhartham, my sagaai.
The one for which my husband had supposedly carpet bombed the whole of Benaras
to ensure I wore it on the day of our engagement. My long bony fingers and
wrists sported the most exquisite platinum bangles that money can buy and the
deep maroon shade of mehendi which no money
can buy. The shakha pola bangles and feet coloured with
alta,
the symbols of a Bengali suhaagan, a sumangali
being the handiwork of yet another sis-in-law who was based in Kolkata. And
standing out among all this bridal finery was the most precious nugget of gold
that I wore, my taali. The mangalsutra
tied lovingly around my neck by my adoring husband on my wedding muhoortham
as I sat on my teary eyed father’s lap. I had one last look at the mirror! Aah!
I looked so beautiful that a tear almost escaped its dams. And I was led away
to my room where my husband awaited me.
The divine fragrance
of the incense sticks welcomed me into the room possibly reinforcing the belief
of the holiness of an Indian wedlock. An artistically decorated UruLi
with every possible flower that nature had bestowed on us grabbing the
attention on the stand near the bed. Jasmine and rose petals lay spread all
over the bed blending into a riot of colours, in a perfect jugalbandi.
And gently crushing the petals, my husband lay on the bed, seemingly asleep. A hint of a smile on his lips. This was the
old tease act of his which he had first unleashed upon me on our suhaag
raat, our nuptial night. The night when two bodies became one soul. And almost every other night since then,
enjoying it thoroughly as I blushed shyly. Maybe it was his style of reminding
me of the night when I became his. Not that I needed any reminding! I remember
every moment of that night, as vividly as humanely possible. The night of
discovery, of a man, a human, my mate, my husband.
For all his bravado during our infrequent meetings and
equally infrequent telecons before our wedding, he turned out to be far more
nervous that night than I imagined he could ever be! As the night progressed, I
was to find out to my good fortune that I had married the gentlest of men, of
very modern thinking despite being part of a very conservative and orthodox
family, one bestowed with gender sensitivity and one who believed in
empowerment of the women. I have heard of myths about the Indian arranged
marriage. How can you love a stranger they often asked? By the time the night
wore off, I was in love. Truly, madly, passionately in love with this stranger. Every day, every minute since then of our fifteen
years of wedded life, he has practiced his beliefs to the fullest and I have
loved him like no one before or after me can. Even after fifteen years of
togetherness and two children later, of good times and difficult ones, of happy
togetherness and occasional domestic tiffs, that night never ended for me, not
for a moment. Those wonderful, stolen moments of togetherness in a joint family
choc-a-bloc with people. A smile escaped
me as I remembered his playful prank all over again.
A gentle knock at my doors woke me up from my ride down the memory
lane. God! It was dawn already. It was the time then! My sister-in-law walked
in, glanced at my husband lying peacefully on the bed and embraced me tightly
as tears welled in both our eyes. She wiped my tears and wiped away my sindoor.
She held my hands tightly and crushed my shakha pola bangles.
The hands that tied the moondram mudichu (third
knot) of my mangalsutra as is the
practice, untied all the knots now. As
we parted, her hands reached for the white saree.
“The barber is here!” somebody
called out.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Kunjalam:
Nethichutti:
Mukkuththi:
Shakha Pola:
Jimikki:
Mehendi:
UruLi:
Alta:
kungumam/Sindoor:
Mangalusutra/Taali:
Kanakambaram:
Muhoortham: Auspicious Hour.
Sumangali/Suhaagan: Women whose husband is alive.
Nishchayadhartam/Sagaai : Engagement ceremony.
Suhaag Raat: Nuptial night.
Jugalbandhi: generally associated with music, competition/fusion of two musical instruments/vocalists.
Moondram Mudichu: Third knot of the mangalsutra.
Alta:
Mangalusutra/Taali:
Kanakambaram:
Muhoortham: Auspicious Hour.
Sumangali/Suhaagan: Women whose husband is alive.
Nishchayadhartam/Sagaai : Engagement ceremony.
Suhaag Raat: Nuptial night.
Jugalbandhi: generally associated with music, competition/fusion of two musical instruments/vocalists.
Moondram Mudichu: Third knot of the mangalsutra.
