Auspicious Beginnings
2001
The bride sits on the steps leading to the reception hall. Months of planning, years of dreaming, and her wedding is finally upon her. But today, there are no more lists to check off, no decisions to be made, and certainly, no last crises to avert. She simply sits still and basks in the beauty around her.
Garlands wrap the pillars rimming the reception hall. The scent of jasmine already hangs heavy in the air. The bride wanted this moment, all alone in the hall. She is already dressed in a saree the color of bougainvillea, the fabric rippling in all the sunset shades between pink and gold. The vermilion on her forehead draws the eye, a slash of color that brightens her already glowing face. The jewelry hangs heavy from her neck, ears, and wrists, but she does not feel its weight. In truth, she feels impossibly light, unable to quite comprehend that the moment has arrived.
The bride's father enters through the door at her back and sits down next to her.
“Are you ready?” he asks.
It’s a pointless question, for even if she isn’t, it’s hardly the time to come to such a realization. But the bride is content that when she does answer, her words ring with total conviction.
“Yes,” she says simply.
Her father squeezes her marudhani-painted hand and helps her up. She is careful not to disturb the pleats of her saree, or her pinned updo, strung with flowers. The events of the next few days will be tiring, to be sure, but the bride cannot bring herself to feel anything short of giddy.
She already knows what the day’s activities will bring, but her father begins running through the list of all the wedding events anyway. She suspects it’s because he never tires of teaching her their traditions, and she listens carefully, for she never tires of hearing them. From the couple getting their feet washed while they swing on the oonjal, to tossing colorful balls of rice in the four cardinal directions to ward off the evil eye, the number of events is staggering. When he mentions that the bride and groom each get hoisted onto the shoulders of their uncle during the garlanding ceremony, she bursts out laughing.
“I don’t think any of our uncles can manage that!” she quips. “You know, some of our traditions make no sense. How can anyone be expected to carry a full-sized adult over their shoulder?”
Her father shrugs. “It wasn’t always adults.”
The bride is momentarily chastened, but her father has already moved on to the next event. By the time he gets to the farewell ceremony, where the bride must shed tears as she leaves her family behind, all she can think is that she is far too happy to cry.
Her father catches her look and smiles.
“He’s a lucky man,” he says to her.
She only laughs, leading him to the stairs. “That’s what I’ve been telling him.”
As they approach the landing, she spies a few guests trickling into the reception hall through the far entrance. She doesn’t recognize any of the faces, for the guest list—one thousand extended family members, friends, and acquaintances—was curated by her parents. Her eyes lock on those of an old woman, small and weathered. Her face is carved with lines, a testament to her years, even while her eyes remain sharp. Her head is shaved, and she is draped in a simple, brown saree, at odds with the colorful silks and brocades of the other guests entering the room. She wears no jewelry, but something about her pulls the bride’s attention.
She stops and leans in close to her father, even though they’re too far away for anyone to hear. “Appa, who is that?” she whispers.
He follows her gaze. “That’s Lakshmi Periamma, your grandmother's older sister.”
The bride nods and reaches for the door handle. “Introduce me to her later.”
As she walks through the door, she still feels the gaze of the old woman, heavy and unwavering.
1930
I only met my husband once before I became a widow. It all happened very quickly.
The boy was from the house across the street. My father worked out the arrangement with the family, and I was overjoyed when I heard the news. I was shy, reserved, and unable to fully vocalize my excitement, but I’m sure my parents could see it in my face. Their eldest daughter was getting married.
On the morning of the wedding, my mother, four sisters, and all the other relatives who made up the bridal party gathered together and helped me dress. My hair was coiled and pinned with strung jasmine, the scent of it clouding around me like a dream I didn’t want to wake up from. Vermillion was dotted on my forehead. The saree was grander than anything I’d ever worn before: nine yards of pure Kanjivaram silk, pleated by my mother’s gentle hands. I was unused to the weight. The cascade of fabric was scarlet, bordered by saffron zari that looked like strands of molten gold in the light. There was real gold, too, of course. Gilded jimikis hung from my ears, a thick chain rested against my chest, anklets tinkled cheerily around my feet, and my arms were cuffed from wrist to elbow in bangles. Most of it was new, though I did see my father extract a ring from the heavily protected safe in the nadai, his office for the banking he conducted. I always knew we were rich: we were upper-caste, and land-owning, and my father leased out parcels of our expansive property to farmers who rose before sunrise to plow the fields. Still, I could never have imagined a function so large as my wedding.
Our house soon filled with people. Invitations had been sent out to all the agraharas of Kallaidaikurchi, and each of the four days of the wedding brought new programs. The highlight was Thiruaduthurai Rajaratnam Pillai, the number one nadaswaram player in the world, who arrived with his black pipe and jovially drew circles in the air with his instrument. His entourage of musicians drummed on the thavil and mridangam in the background, while the melody and rhythm converged into a wave: a sound of both comfort and anticipation.
As the musicians played, I watched the groom carefully. He tugged at the hanging cloth of his pristine white veshti, clearly uncomfortable with the cling of the fabric. His face was smooth, his eyebrows not arched with any particular expression, though he did fidget with his hands as though unused to sitting still for such a long period of time. His fingers thrummed along to the rhythm of the thavil. He looked healthy, if a bit skinny, with bright eyes and full cheeks. He sat beside me, neither smiling nor frowning. He wasn’t much older than I was, but at ten years, he seemed infinitely more knowledgeable of the world and its workings. We were to be joined in everything that tethered us to the Earth. Following the musicians, the two of us sat down on the oonjal, a wooden swing suspended from the ceiling. This seemed to capture his attention in the way the musicians had not. He kicked his feet as the momentum propelled us into a gentle sway. Then a line of women bearing fruit washed our feet with milk and gently wiped them dry with ends of their silk sarees. Each woman sank to her knees, wishing us an auspicious marriage as she gently cleansed our feet.
Our respective uncles lifted the two of us onto their shoulders, and as we tried to garland each other, laughter escaped the groom’s mouth. I noticed he had one tooth missing on the side, and he pressed his tongue to the gap in delight as his uncle swung him around. I, too, reveled in the sensation of towering over the rest of the world, so I was saddened when my feet touched the ground once more. Then, I listened intently as the priest chanted the required slokas.
During the farewell ceremony, I had to say goodbye to my parents and shed tears at the parting. We arrived at the groom’s home, and sat down for a lunch prepared by the leading male chefs in South India. When served, the boy began shoveling food into his mouth enthusiastically till a sharp comment from his mother made him slow down. He looked chastened, and I smiled.
The four days of wedding festivities finished faster than I could realize. Both the groom and I returned to our separate houses. We were married, but I would continue to live in my father’s home till I came of age.
1931
For months, my life continued as if nothing had changed. I rose before the sun graced the sky, slowly making my way downstairs and out the door with my younger sisters. Standing on the threshold, I gazed out across the narrow street, admiring the house facing me that would soon be my home. The white-painted agraharams stood in blocks, sharing walls, the parallel rows running east to west almost endlessly. The roofs were tiled in red terracotta, and appalams were sun-drying across them. The view of adjoining homes blurred before I could see to the end. I watched the line of women exiting my husband’s home, brass pots balanced against their hips, and I imagined myself among their ranks. My lips turned up, and I ventured onto the street, the dirt not yet hot enough to burn my bare feet. The walk was not long, and with my sisters beside me, it was not so tedious. Many of the women of the village were already ahead of us, chatting as they made their way to the river. We tread the mud roads, passing men driving bullock carts, following the patchwork of emerald green paddy fields. It was only fifteen minutes of walking in the warm, morning air before we reached the frothing slash of the river which divided the land. Approaching the bank, I mentally prepared myself for the task to come. Then, quickly, I stepped into the frigid water. The shudder that wracked through my body was more instinct than actual discomfort: I was used to the cold. These morning dips were actually a refuge from the heavy, searing heat that usually hung over the village. I held my breath and submerged myself twelve times in the holy water of the Thamirabarani River, clutching my thali against my chest all the while. My feet navigated the slippery stones blanketing the river floor. I did not worry about the current, though occasionally playful with caressing ripples, the Thamirabarani was not a vengeful river. The tide would no more pull me into the deep than it would an elephant. I finished washing myself quickly, the rivulets of water carving through my hair and beading off my chin. By this point in my bath, I could no longer feel the cold, only an exhilarating rush at having my senses pulled forcibly to the present. I blinked crystal droplets from my eyes, and they dripped from my lashes like tears. As quickly as I’d thrown myself into the river, I climbed out of its cooling embrace and onto the bank. I began wringing out the water from the long saree I was still unaccustomed to, then readjusted the excess cloth. I retrieved the brass pot I’d brought with me, and the clear river water lapped into it. Brimming and heavy, I fit the pot against my waist and began the trek home. The return journey always felt a lot longer.
By the time the women returned to their houses, the sun was beginning its ascent. I changed out of my wet saree, pleating a fresh cerulean one around my waist and wrapping it as my mother had taught me. Now I, along with the other women, began the morning prayers. The lamp ignited easily, for the wick protruding from the lip was fresh. I placed jasmine petals in front of the puja, the scent weaving with the incense that already hung in the air. I performed fifty namaskarams—this particular day required no more. Together, the women recited and prostrated before the idols of our deities: Shiva, Parvati, Ganesha, and Muruga. Our voices echoed together, thrumming with the strength of numbers. Before the men joined us, this was our ritual, sacred in its intimacy. Every woman in the household spent the first hour and a half of daylight with God and with each other. Prayer had always been my passion from the time I was young. I used to stand behind my mother’s skirts, hands folded, eyes closed, drawing ever closer to the divine. Other children would struggle through prayers, mumbling words they’d memorized and fidgeting with their hands in their laps. Not me. I saw beyond metaphors of names and forms, which were meant to connect children to what they couldn’t understand. God in his glory is no person, no animal, no story. God simply is. In my hours of prayer, I tried to draw closer to that plane of existence. What does it mean to be? To me, it was to kneel before idols without seeing them, turning my face heavenward, and stilling my mind.
These are the moments I remember most from my childhood.
When I was married, my childhood was over. But I also had not yet reached adulthood. The state in between was a personal trial of sorts, allowing me to gain my footing as a woman and adopt the practices required of my station before moving into my husband’s home and family.
After prayers, I helped my mother with the cooking. My brother’s wife came too, as did my grandmother and aunts. We cooked the rice, measured spices on instinct, chopped vegetables, and chatted. Our voices were loud, laughing, layered with the shriek of the pressure cooker and the thud of the mortar and pestle.
When the milkman came, I rushed outside and watched as he milked the cow directly into my jug and handed it to me. I gave him a few coins, and he and the cow made their lumbering way down the street to the next house. I return inside with the heavy jug, careful not to let any milk spill over the lip. Now my father would have his tea while he read the paper.
The midday meal was served on banana leaves. Ours was one of the few Brahmin houses with ceramic and teacups, but we saved these for the Navaratri golu. The entire family gathered together, assembled on the floor in a rectangle.
The meal was at its end, and I’d just sprung up to begin clearing the banana leaves from the floor when the sound of shouting penetrated the house. The men got to their feet and went to the door. The rest of us women and children remained very still in the center of the house, protected by the long expansion of rooms that extended on both sides. I looked to my mother, but her expression betrayed nothing. The voices grew to such a pitch that I couldn’t distinguish them. I don’t know how long we waited, but when my father returned, his face was grim. He told us there had been an accident: a boy had jumped into the canal and hit his head on a rock. It wasn’t the river that had killed him. It was the brain injury.
The boy had been ten years old. The boy had been my husband.
At first, I was so shocked I could do nothing but blink up at my father. He was the most powerful man I knew. But the way he looked then, brow drawn and eyes tired, it seemed he had irrevocably accepted what had happened and what was going to happen.
My heart rate accelerated, beating against the confines of my chest. My father said nothing else, but dawning struck me. Now my tears began to flow as I realized the truth of my situation. Women weren’t allowed at the funeral, but I would have to go into mourning, and I would never leave it.
1932
That was the end of color in my life. Immediately, my appearance desaturated. I could no longer wear vermilion on my forehead, nor flowers in my hair. The sarees I wrapped around my small body were now brown in color and lacked the metallic zari woven intricately into the beautiful cloth of the young and fortunate. Despite being the daughter of a banker, the one time in my life I ever got to wear lovely clothing was on my wedding day. My head was shaved, marking my status as a widow to all who might see me. My father locked my thali away in the banking safe, and now, the only jewelry that could touch my skin was rudraksham. These were the beads of sanyasis, those who had renounced the world.
Worse than any of the material losses was the isolation. It is inauspicious to cast your eyes on a widow, let alone to have one at a wedding. I could no longer mix with people outside of my household or attend joyous functions. No one outside of my family would ever allow my skin to brush against their own. It would have been unthinkable for me to remarry.
Widows themselves were figures to be pitied from afar. But when my husband’s family found something wrong with my horoscope, I shrank under the scorn leveled at me from the village. It turns out Mars was not in a favorable position at the time of my birth, an oversight on the part of the astrologer who arranged the match. Our families blamed each other for the calamity.
My mother decided to relocate to Tirunelveli Town with her five daughters. With me, the eldest, being nine years old and the youngest only three, the change was a welcome one. The town was larger than Kallaidaikurchi, with more cars, buildings, and people. It was easier to blend in there, but it was also easier to be forgotten. I suppose that was the point.
Our new house was near the temple. It could take an hour or two to traverse the whole complex, and now, every morning, I rose before dawn to enter my cool heaven. They say the North Indian maharajas poured their riches into palaces, testaments to their greatness. The South Indian kings commissioned temples more magnificent than life itself, an offering to the divine. My daily excursions to the temple provided all the color I was permitted, but most of the time, it was enough. I wandered through the chambers of the gilded idols, hymns reverberating in my head and buzzing off my lips. The peace I felt there was eternal. I would never have a husband to love, or children to cling to my saree, or grandchildren to dote on in my old age. But I would always have this. I touched my forehead to the floor in reverence, closed my eyes, and exalted the praises of my loving God.
Usually, I was able to keep this thankfulness and grace intact. Whatever life I’d been given was a gift. But some days I was childish and petulant, and wanted only to parade through the town like my younger sisters, dressed in bright, bold colors, unencumbered by age or propriety. It was unfathomable that only two short years ago, I was like them.
So on the eve of my younger sister Kalyani’s wedding, I did not buy sweets in the market, or haggle with the vendor over the price of bangles, or sit to have marudhani applied to my hands. Instead, I waited at home, languishing in the empty rooms until I spotted the beautifully stack of embroidered sarees sitting on the edge of my sister’s bed, packaged neatly by the weathered hands of a shopkeeper. I couldn’t help but run my fingers over the intricate border. I counted seven sarees: saffron, emerald, peacock blue, scarlet, the colors so rich they seemed almost painted. The silk was as cool as the river water on mornings when the sun had already begun to blaze. I traced the zari work; the metallic thread so undeniably fine beneath my skin. I took my time, laboring over each whorl of thread, my touch feather light. As I did so, I met my own eyes in the old bureau mirror.
Then, my hands acted, almost without my consent. They unfurled a length of fabric, deep crimson shot through with gold. My breathing sped up, and I closed my eyes. Not even I was a witness to my crime. My hands began to wrap the saree around my body in the way my mother had taught me, the muscle memory kicking in seamlessly. I pleated the end and tucked it in at the waist. Finally, I unfastened the rudraksham from my neck. I allowed my eyes to focus on the clouded mirror in front of me, and a sob lodged in my throat.
This saree was heavy, weighed down by the finery of silk and embroidery. The saturation made my skin glow, and my eyes seemed to sparkle. I clutched the rudraksham tightly in my fist, tears slipping down my face in earnest.
I heard the sound of little feet and turned just in time to see Kalyani entering the room. I went still, the roar in my head fading to a faint din.
“Lakshmi Akka?” Her deferential address of ‘older sister’ seems to hold a question.
I wiped my tears, then quickly took the saree off. I folded it neatly, as if it had never been touched, then refastened the rudraksham at my neck. I pinched her cheek affectionately as I passed her and kissed her head, but I felt her gaze follow me out the door. In my mind, I can still see her small face, her eyes round and sad.
I inhaled deeply and promised myself I would never do this again.
2001
When the bride looks at me, I see so much of my sister in her face. She is young; not as young as we were, but one’s own age colors such perceptions.
She is radiant, wrapped in silk, dripping with gold, all smiles and thankful words. She looks like a flower in full bloom. She makes her way through the crowd, and I can see that her sight is set on me.
I wait patiently till she manages to disentangle herself from her hoard of well-wishers. Her father shepherds her towards me, and the bride is quick to take my hand. The introductions are brief, and since the oonjal ceremony is about to start, I expect her to offer her farewell. Instead, the bride insists I perform the ritual with all the other women.
For a moment, I hesitate. The new millennium is upon us. I, a widow, am permitted to attend weddings and auspicious functions. But to be so involved in the ceremony is still deeply unusual.
Sensing my uncertainty, the bride takes me by the arm and leads me to the swing. Then she sits down next to the groom, and the couple begin rocking gently back and forth.
Each woman in both their families bends to wash the feet of the couple with pure milk, then wipes it away. When it’s my turn, I slowly lower myself to the ground and sing the line that has been repeated by each of the women before me: “Gauri kalyana vaibhogame.” The phrase is rich with blessings for an auspicious marriage. But before turning away, I add my own line, gently wiping the bride’s marudhani-painted feet with the end of my cotton saree. I sing softly. With all my heart, I wish her an auspicious life.
Glossary
agraharas: Traditional Tamil row houses that share common walls
akka: Tamil address for “older sister”
appa: Tamil word for dad
appalam: South Indian wafer-like snack made from lentils and rice
gauri kalyana vaibhogame: Tamil song sung at Hindu weddings during the oonjal ceremony to invoke blessings and prosperity in marriage
golu: Decorative steps displaying dolls during the nine holy days of Navaratri, a festival in honor of the goddess Durga
jimikis: Indian bell-shaped earrings
kanjivaram: Kanchipuram is a region in Tamil Nadu renown for its silk sarees
marudhani: Tamil word for henna
mridangam: South Indian drum
nadai: Home office for banking
nadaswaram: South Indian wind instrument
namaskarams: Prostration, often accompanied by specific prayers or chants
periamma: Tamil word for “aunt”; mother’s older sister
rudraksham: Hindu beads worn by those who had renounced the world
sanyasi: A Hindu who has renounced the material world and society
saree: Indian garment for women
Shiva, Parvati, Ganesha, and Muruga: Hindu deities; avatars (forms) of God
thali: Gold necklace worn by married women
thavil: South Indian drum
oonjal: A suspended swing the bride and groom sit on for a Tamil wedding tradition; women of the family wash their feet with milk then wipe them clean with silk
pooja: Display area for idols or religious symbols; used for prayer
veshti: Traditional South Indian garment for men
zari: Metallic thread, usually in intricate embroidery
