A dusky woman in the cloudy Belgium silver mirror smiles back at me. The white and red bangles jingle as I flick away a tiny tendril of hair framing my forehead. Once upon a time, the shakha pola hurt a lot. I used to wince when their chipped edges grazed my sensitive skin.
Not anymore!
The generous streak of vermilion has settled over the parting of my freshly shampooed hair. Powdered, poisonous particles of patriarchy—that’s what I used to call them.
Not today!
The crimson Benarasi with the ornate silver zardozi work caresses my still-slim body. That fateful night a decade ago, those six yards had weighed upon me like a secret I needed to guard with my life. Today, they seem as light as the chiffon ones draped by heroines in Yash Chopra films. A trip to Switzerland is all I want to prance around in the snow. But then, there’s a limit to a middle-class woman’s dream. So, I shrug aside the wishful thinking.
An army of maroon bindis in various sizes dot the rectangular frame of the mirror. Ignoring them, I pluck out one the size of a five rupee coin from a new sticker book and plaster it over my forehead. I feel complete now.
My eyes dart towards the garden. The red oleanders (I call them my daughters) are in full bloom.
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Don’t you know they are poisonous?
How can you plant them?
Look at her audacity!
I chose silence as the response to their queries and barbs. It was one occasion where I didn’t compromise at all, where I stood my ground and refused to uproot the shrubs.
I bury my face in my palms. Am I doing the right thing? There will be whispers. But then, when have I been able to stop them? In a small town like mine, malicious news travels faster than light. Maybe people will soon throng the house to see the spectacle for themselves and cluck their tongues collectively to witness the helpless Dutta family being shamed.
Shame! Sniggering, I get up and begin to pace the room like a caged tigress. I have waited for this day for years and will not let it go. I raise my hand to swat a fly, and the bangles slide slightly, revealing a scar I can never forget. On an impulse, I allow my finger to run over the mark. It doesn’t hurt anymore. But still, an ouch involuntarily escapes from my lips.
The voice inside me finally gets her chance. “I didn’t see anyone stopping by to ask you about the bruises when he…”
I cover my ears with my hands in a futile attempt to silence her. The last thing I need is for self-doubt to creep into my mind.
She continues, “… do what your heart says.”
I feel immense relief warming my soul. She makes sense (finally!) after years of telling me to seal my lips. Maybe she has also had enough.
A gust of wind blows outside suddenly and flirts with my daughters. They sway seductively. Despite their notoriety, they continue to bloom. Free-spirited. Unhindered. Oblivious to the disapproving looks.
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That’s how I should be. After all, I share my name…
There is a knock on the door, interrupting my train of thought. At first, softly. Then, with urgency.
“Karabi! Amar sona! How much longer will you take?”
That’s my maa. My ever-eager-to-please mother! The Duttas might have sent her to know what was taking me so long. Do I discern a quiver in her voice? A choke? I sigh. Farewells can be sad for a few.
“One minute, maa.” My impassive tone betrays the new-found enthusiasm threatening to spill over to my face.
I look at myself in the mirror one last time. Today, I have exercised my choice to dress up like a bride again. Only this time, I am not coy.
On an impulse, I rush to the window and blow a kiss to the oleanders. Rakta Karabi. That’s what they are called in Bengali. Taking a deep breath, I brace myself to face my situation. I deserve this second shot at life. My feet move without an iota of hesitation, and I open the door. As expected, gasps of oh maa go fill the air, but I don’t stop.
In a sea of pristine white, I am a tiny drop of red as I stride past the mourners and the corpse of my husband, choosing liberation for my battered body and soul.
Author’s Notes:
This story won the following prize conducted by Asian Literary Society
Wonderful! Gave me goosebumps.