Under The Mango Trees

Chapter One : In Between Scented Flowers

I sat on the gingham, sunken mattress of the fragile cot, swinging my legs and listening to the prattle of my mother. She was a slightly plump woman in her fifties with hair brown from henna to conceal the greying strands and a stain of sindoor in the widening parting of her hair, sort of permanent from years of applying it. A bobby pin was tucked in between her perfect set of white teeth like a bird with a twig in its beak, building the nest of jasmine flowers in her hair. She shoved the bobby pins, her eyes glued to the half-blurry mirror in front of her. Her two elder sisters, both healthier than her were hastily draping their silk sarees and elbowing each other in this cramped room.

"I have to go now and check if your sister's ready," my mother said, removing the bindi stuck on the mirror and pressing it in the middle of her small forehead.

I observed. "You look nice, Aai."

A crimson colour rose to her cheeks and an involuntary smile lifted the corners of her lips, but she said modestly, "It's this new saree that your sister insisted to buy me. Ten thousand rupees. It better do its bloody job."

"You shouldn't see money and all in your daughter's wedding, Savita," came the wise advice from her elder sister who hadn't paid the bills for this exorbitant hall with dilapidated rooms or the decorations or the food or the . . .

My mother muttered incoherently before saying, "Anyway, Tulsi, your aunty will put these flowers on you. I have to go now."

She thrust the jasmine flowers on the more diabolical one of her sisters and I instinctively shrank back like a touch-me-not plant. My aunt towered over me with a smile which seemed sinister and before I could protest, she harassed me with countless bobby pins that pierced my scalp and secured the flowers that lost its beauty under the assault of the pins. By the time she was done with me, tears stung my kohl-lined eyes.

"How pretty she looks," she said, gripping my brown chin which quivered now. "She should have put some turmeric with the bride and groom in the ceremony . . . It would have made her face bright."

"Aye, we don't want her taking the spotlight from her sister no," her sister, the less evil one remarked and she winked at me. Taking the crystal bottle of perfume with the pink liquid, she sprayed under her armpits till there were two circles of dark stain on her blouse. The sickening scent like the smell of strawberry artificial essence mingled with the smell of flowers and face powder that my other aunt was caking her face with, made me feel faint like a lone leaf shaking helplessly in tempestuous winds.

I stood up with feet wobbling and excused myself out. The loud throbbing in my head continued as if someone was hammering the walls of my skull and I struggled to loosen the vicious clutch of the bobby pins while gulping in the fresh air. Some children dressed in glamorous frocks and kurtas ran past me in the corridor, their squeals of delight ringing in my ears as grating as the sound of an alarm clock. I was sulking as I twisted the doorknob of the make-up room in hopes of finding some solace by teasing my sister. But upon entering and my eyes meeting the blood-shot ones of a ghost, my hand flew to my heart and a scream lodged in my throat.

"Even she thinks I look ugly!" cried my elder sister, the bride, Pavitra who was laden with gold jewellery and an enormous, but beautifully embroidered, red lehnga which seemed to wear her, not the other way round. Her face appeared to have been first painted white then dipped in flour. Her honey complexion which was like mine had been changed to porcelain. Her eyebrows were drawn thick and unnaturally arched like mountain-tops according to the latest trend. Tears which she had battled to restrain now hung on her false lashes like dew-drops. The parlour lady crept closer to her, in an attempt to colour her white-marble cheeks and I plucked the make-up kit out of her hands.

My mother mutely stood beside her inconsolable first child and gesticulated rapidly at me to validate her.

"You don't look ugly," I lied, handing her some tissues to prevent the tears from falling and adding to the catastrophe on her face. She tore her sorrowful gaze from the mirror, dabbing the tissues on her eyelids as delicately as a mother cleaning the body of a new-born. First, I silenced the make-up artist's justifications (to which my mother added the threats of cutting her payment and bad reviews) and we salvaged whatever we could from the ruins on her face before there were impatient knocks on the door. She looked way better than before and having noticed this herself, she opened the door with the gossamer veil of her elegant lehnga trailing after her. 

Her face was calm and her shoulders were square as she strode in a dignified manner like a martyr meeting her fate at the scaffold. Only that she ought to be celebrating because she wasn't getting executed (at least, not literally), it was her wedding day. It had been an arranged match, but she had selected her partner based on free-will and had shown no objections. They had even gone on a couple of unsupervised dates in the neighbourhood.

I watched her with intrigue, her stoicism ignored by most who were busy in ensuring the last-minute arrangements. There was no trace of excitement, no ray of light peeking to indicate that a new, vibrant day would commence. She sat at the fire-altar, next to the groom and the ceremony began with the usual chanting of the priest. Her face glowed fiercely in front of the fire and beads of sweat dotted her upper lip. She solemnly performed all the rituals as if they were funeral rites.

My two aunts stood in front of me, blocking my view and senses with their massive bodies and dizzy scent. Then at once, there were elated claps and showering rose petals all around me, momentarily confusing me. I squeezed through the crowd of people and there stood my parents. They were giving their blessings with smiles and tears in their eyes as the bride finally reflected their emotions. My sister, the girl who fought with me over stuffed toys, candies and pretty clothes was married. Suddenly, I found the Mangala sutra, the necklace tied around her slender neck by the groom to resemble a noose, snatching her from my life forever. I was exaggerating since she would keep returning to collect her truck-load of belongings, but still.

Her upturned eyes landed on me and she nodded before she was whisked away by the cheering spectators, a sombre face among a sea of exuberant ones.

* * *

Glossary-

Sindoor- a traditional vermilion red or orange-red coloured cosmetic powder from the Indian subcontinent, usually worn by married women along the part of their hair.

Aai- mother in the Marathi language.

Lehnga- a full ankle-length skirt worn by Indian women, usually on formal or ceremonial occasions.

Kurta- a loose collarless shirt of a type worn by people in South Asia, usually with a salwar, churidars, or pyjama.

Mangala Sutra- a necklace that the groom ties around the bride's neck in the Indian subcontinent which identifies her as a married woman.

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