Painted White

◆ Chapter 1 ◆

*unedited*

Medhabika shut her eyes as she released a deep breath from her parched throat. She laid a hand across her chest where the thundering beats of her heart shook her palm. Perspiration matted the white sari to her skin, and it felt too bare in front of the people who sat around her.

She clasped open her eyes as she took the edge of her sari to form a veil over her body. Medha did not wear her choli. It was not "proper" for a widow to wear it. She did not know the reason behind it; but it made her feel raw and shameful. She did not want to feel that way.

Medha stared at the ceiling to stop the tears that had blinded her from falling. A woman, who could only be described as newly-wed, shook her head with distate as she looked at her. She scurried after her husband, as if to get away from the widow. It pinched the young girl deep inside, but she did not do anything about it. She could not do anything.

Medha looked away. She felt relief wash over her broken spirit as the train gave a slight push, which only meant that it was going to start soon. She did not know where she was going, or why she bought the ticket to the first place- Manikya- that came out of the man's mouth who sat behind the counter. He had asked her what was wrong; and she'd only replied with a plain nothing. He had looked at her with raised eyebrows, but didn't question further.

Why did people look at women in white with suspicion and bubbling questions?

The dishevelled girl wondered why she had been given this life. Why her huband had to die of an unknown disease the night of her marriage. She had asked her father, and he had only looked at her with pity. But did her father feel any remorse for her condition? If he had, why would he leave her in a place, a home for women who's husband died and who were supposed to live in solitude their whole life?

The family of her deceased husband had painted her up and down with accusations of a crime she did not commit. Her mother-in-law had taken her hands and broke the bangles one bye one, till they peirced her hands. She looked down at her wrists, which were scrached and red; barely healing.

"You are too educated and you think of yourself too highly. God punished you by taking my son and your husband away! You are nothing more than a misfortune!" Her mother-in-law had screamed as she flung Medhabika to her father's arms, who had to return mid-journey. She wanted to scream at that woman, tell her that she was wrong. But if the wrong people heard others and not wait for their turn to speak, the world would have been a better place.

Medha looked out at the sprinting scenery. She was finally away from the ashram. Her father, her beloved father, had decided that she should be taken to that place one week after the incident. She accepted his decision, though it broken her heart to tiny peaces. Medhabika was only seventeen, she did not know how to navigate through this new, colourless world which had been bestowed upon her.

With resignation, she had journeyed to this place all the way from Rajasthan. The eldest of the widows, Sita Devi had taken one look at her and decided that she was doing things improper for a widow- she looked too pretty. That was her mistake. By that time, her father had left, with no sign of regret that she wanted to see. Or maybe for other reasons that she would never know.

Medha was asked to have a good night of sleep, because her life would be changed the next day. She didn't decipher the true meaning behind it, but followed what she was asked to do. Today, she was asked to wake up at the early hour of four.

Horror had washed over Medhabika when they took all her clothing and replaced it with new white saris, but no blouse. She tried to argue with them, but they wouldn't hear a word of what she said. She cried through the rough bath some women gave her. Eveything that was personal to her was being left open widely for all the widows there to see. She knew that those women had suffered a great deal in the same way. And it was not because of them that these practices existed. She could not blame them.

But the next thing they had done had shaken her to the core. They told her that they will shave her head, for she had to give up anything that attracted the forbidden attention of men. And at that moment, that exact moment, Medhabika had pushed through the crowds of women and ran away.

The widows did not step out of the ashram to catch her, or maybe they did, because she could hear loud curses which faded away as she ran. She did not slow her pace. People laughed, some cursed at her.

And now, she was here.

Medhabika, could not believe what she had gone through. Some would say that she had given up too fast, but she knew that she hadn't. She had given up because she wouldn't survive the painful life those widows lived.

All this time, she had lived a colourful life, restricted in some ways but more open than others. She had been taught to read, write and do simple mathematics. She had lived a privileged life, which was suddenly painted white with the death of a man, her huband, whom she had never seen before.

She lost everything because of a stranger. But she didn't blame him. She could not.

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A/N-

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