Swapping the pearl pendant for the teardrop onyx one, she paused, the image in the mirror reflecting the uncertainty in her mind. Ten years. Ten years since she left behind stereotypes, conventions and the weight of expectations. Over the years she had traded in her salwars for dresses, her metti* for bare feet and her kumkumam* for an impassive blank face. Morph as she did into a nameless faceless entity in the great melting pot that was her adopted country; there were moments like today where she paused.
In an hour, she would be at the airport receiving her aunt on her first trip through the Northeast. The last she had seen her was at her wedding. Over the past week she had meticulously planned the menu, stocked the fridge, cleaned the home, laundered the linen and even remembered to dust off and get the decoction filter from the box that stored her long unused utensils. She had lovingly traced her finger over the kadappa dosa kal* her father in law had stowed on his first visit to their home. The vengala uruli* she hauled on her second trip home. Shaking herself from the reverie, she picked the filter, the steel tumbler davara* and made her way up. As she picked her keys up and took one last look before she left for the airport, the memories came rushing back.
The argument about the mookuthi. The adamant insistence on an archaic practice, which she detested. Young, hot blooded she resisted. It was not the mookuthi* itself she was fighting against. It was all it stood for. Forcing an identity on her she did not care for. Marriage was an institution she believed in. Not the suppression of ego it had come to mean to her. The mute faces streaked with kitchen grime and sweat. She had stood her ground, much to the surprise and displeasure of her extended family. Years passed, the memories seemed inconsequential now.
She was torn between the urge to wear her thaali* and the chain with the pearl pendant. As a token of deference for the aunt she had seen a long time back. Something in her resisted. It was about making a statement. All her life she had done the politically correct thing. Had opted for the demure salwar in place of the skirt, opted to have a lavish wedding when she would have been happier with a simpler ceremony, opted to give notice at work when she could have waited to find a new job before transplanting herself thousands of miles away. Every step of the way was dotted with compromise. Of giving in. Of deference to wishes. Not hers.
Today the image in the mirror looking back marked a dichotomy. A person torn between toeing the line and following her heart. A resolution to break free from the imaginary bonds of tradition that bound her. The battle was in her mind. Like always. She remembered the first time she had fingered the delicate lacy gold chain with the diamond pendant her husband had gifted her. It lay nestled at her throat catching the light from the bulb looking lost in the vicinity of the heavy thali. If only…
The thought came unbidding. She tucked the chain back under the collar of her polo tee shirt. Away, invisible. She smiled at the reflection. She could not do it. She would not do it. She looked half fearfully at the husband getting ready for work unaware of the turmoil in her head.
As she replayed the conversation in her head to her husband on their nightly walk around their community she stopped, looked at his face in the moonlight and asked. “Does it really matter to you?” He smiled, shaking his head “No.” Yet, something stopped her. It was not him. It was the voice in her head. Unable to figure out if she believed that the chain around her neck wielded so much power, she acquiesced. Her resolve grew weaker by the week.
Taking the exit to the airport, she realized she did not remember when her thali got relegated to the corner of her jewelry box. It just lay there its dull shine reminding her of the guilt she carried in her. She pulled it out occasionally. For the random visitor who might feel offended.
Today was different she told herself. Smiling she walked towards her aunt resplendent in a bright red kurta and jeans.
Legend:
Metti – Toe ring worn by married women
Kumkumamam – Crimson powder applied to parting of hair by married women
Kadappa Dosa Kal – Cast iron flat griddle to make savory crepes called dosa
Vengala Uruli – Heavy brass pot with wide mouth
Tumbler Davara – Steel glass with flat cup used as a saucer
Mookuthi – Nose ring
Thaali – Wedding chain
Pic Source: Deviant Art – majzsola
The Author Lakshmi Giridharan - Blogger, a reluctant chef and programmer. When Laksh is not staring at the monitor developing software, she is hunched over her laptop sharing her life on Musings or typing away recipes for posterity. She believes the glass is always half full and more often than not can be found sporting a big grin.
This is the battle that every women goes through, however I feel that sometimes we are our own worst enemy. Why should we not wear these symbols of our heritage and marriage with pride, times have moved on and more and more people wear the jewellery without knowing what it means. With pride I explain when people ask me, or if I get the odd stare or look from a stranger I feel at least I was noticed. I feel proud and more confident not to mention comfortable in my own attire, hence wear it with pride as it makes me more comfortable. The only thing is we should do all this in our own terms and to make ourselves happy not others, as we will never satisfy the family or society. Just keep yourself and the person who you do this for happy & you are sorted
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Nice one..Am a recent visitor to your blog, amazing writing!
Cheers
A
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I just recently let go of my thali. For no reason but that I really don’t like heaviny jangling chains around my neck. This was close to home….almost:) Nice one!
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A good story to read. Good work Laksh as usual.
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I too agree with Kiran. You have seen me Laksh, I wear kumkum in the vagidu, even while wearing jeans. So many Americans have asked me about it and I explain what it is.
I don’t know if everybody knows what it means. In early days women wore kumkum in the vagidu and men wore metti as a symbol of marriage. Women always had their heads bend down, so the men knew if she was married or not seeing her head and the women while bending down can notice only the men’s feet and can tell if he was married or not from the presence/absence of metti.
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I forgot to mention about the mookuthi. Even I didn’t like it, but my grandmother wouldn’t let me go and I too was not that kind of a girl who would fight back. She did it when I was in the 8th standard, even without informing my mother. And it was the big one, bigger than the one which I’m wearing now. It was so embarrassing to go to school, but I didn’t have a choice. My mother was also shocked and she too asked why she has done it so early. Now there’s nobody stopping me to remove it, but I sort have got used to it and my BIG NOSE also looks weird without it.
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That was a really nice story! You said it so wonderfully…
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