Rite of passage

Meenakshi was already awake and waiting for the alarm to ring. For as long as she could remember, she had woken up at 5 am every day irrespective of season, health or place. To keep her mind occupied, she tried to recollect when this routine had begun but couldn’t. Must have definitely started before her wedding, she decided. She did a quick calculation in her mind – 62 years was a really long time. One half of her wanted to go back to sleep. The past few days were tiring and she could now afford the luxury of a few more minutes of sleep. But she knew she couldn’t. Habits are stubborn like that – wretched things that cannot be broken with just a thought. Once you’ve invested your time, you figure it is just so much easier to maintain them – keep the delicate balance intact.

She sat up in her bed and had just started praying when the alarm rang. She liked to savour the silence that followed the alarm. It always helped her focus and plan for the day. There was always so much to be done and so much planning to do. Today the silence seemed a little disquieting. Her relatives had finally left after almost three weeks with solemn promises of keeping in touch. Some even committed to daily status calls. She hoped it was all just hollow words. She didn’t need the intrusion. Mr. Sankara Narayanan, her husband, usually slept in a separate cot near the window. The cot belonged to his father and was his most prized possession. It was made out of the finest Burma teak, dark brown in colour and easily a 150 years old. Two peacocks were intricately carved on the headboard, immensely fascinating the children in their younger days. The cot was a vivid reminder of his father’s association with the royal palace of Travancore. She always had a 45 minute head start before he woke up for his tea.

She sauntered into the kitchen to do her first task of the day – boil milk. As she waited, she thought of the first tea she had made for her husband. She had not stirred the milk properly, so there was a mild burnt smell and taste. What a great first impression, she thought! For years later, he would narrate the tale of the special ‘Tandoori Chai’ to most of his visitors and the two would start giggling. Narayan had an infectious laughter, one that invariably made her blush.

Once the milk was ready, it was time for her shower, which she always did in top speed. She was not one to laze around in the shower and always looked down with disgust at all those girls in the advertisements who acted like the sole purpose of a shower was to be ready in case you met the man of your life. Besides, the time not wasted at the shower was better used for praying and meditating. This was crucial to her day, her time spent talking with God - thanking Him for all her blessings, counting on Him to help her overcome her sorrows, coaxing Him into granting wishes for each and every one she knew, calling out the unfairness of tragedies endured by her near and dear ones, the list was endless. It was a long process and her way of harnessing her Qi. Narayan always joked that her chatty sessions made God tired.

As always, she finished with a bow and reached out for her box of Sindoor. And that’s when it struck her – Meenakshi did not need the Sindoor anymore. Exactly 16 days earlier Narayan had left her to make his last journey to the very Gods she now stood before. How easy it was to blur the last two weeks that passed, the chaos of being surrounded by her family and friends. Now that they had all left, it was easier to just assume that life had reverted to what it was two weeks ago. Except, not all was restored. The man who was beside her for the longest time, her companion, her closest friend had ceased to be.  

She held the tiny silver box in her hands, almost unwilling to let go. She had worn her Sindoor with pomp every single day for the last 62 years. And now she didn’t have to. Actually, she was not allowed to. She ran her fingers through the faded silver etchings. “It is going to be okay”, she whispered as she tried to console the grieving box. Each speck was a memory, a stitch in the brilliant fabric weaved by the two of them over the decades - starting from the first time Narayan saw a 19 year old girl helping her relatives at a wedding. He was impressed by how she deftly grated the bajillion coconuts for the payasam, how she pranced between large cauldrons of boiling sambar and rasam, tasting and critiquing, looking for ways to perfect each item on the menu, how she nudged her brothers and uncles for some cashews that she could smuggle for the hungry bride. She was a whirlwind then, and she was a whirlwind now – one of the things the laidback, grounded Narayan loved about her.

She opened the lid and took one last pinch of the bright red vermillion. The distinct, familiar smell of saffron tingled her senses. She knew she had to do it, it was her rite of passage and it was time. She reached out for her mirror, the one she used every day to ensure she placed her sindoor in the right spot. As she looked into the mirror, she placed a red dot on the glistening surface. She gazed at her reflection and saw in the image – Meenakshi with her quintessential Sindoor, exactly how Narayan loved her. She took a minute for it all to sink in and once she was ready, placed the box and the mirror back on the shelf. The two items were now transformed into relics, souvenirs of a rich and fulfilling past. She didn’t need them anymore. She now accepted it and was at peace with the world. Her world.

Humans are a strange species. We find comfort in unexpected places. We find comfort in routines, even when there is nothing really comfortable about them. And over time, most of it happens in Autopilot mode. Until there’s a turbulence, or in some cases, a crash. But know that you survived for a reason. You pick yourself up and dust yourself. Don’t let all the debris overwhelm you. Wade through the mayhem, collect a keepsake or two and then continue the journey. Rest if you have to, and when you’re ready, run with the wolves.

Of doting daddys and darling daughters

Art by the lovely Anamika KS

It had become my most awaited part of each day and I looked forward to it with a ritual-like reverence. Homework was done, my bag was packed for the next day of school, dinner was finished with each of our accounts of our day and I waited patiently for my mom to bring that steaming cup of tea. What usually followed was something she secretly wanted in, but this was our routine and no one, not even Ma was invited. Once that tray of hot, piping chai was transferred to our hands, Pa and I would slowly make our way to the terrace, careful not to spill anything because that cuppa played a very important role. Once there, we would settle down and taking small sips of that lovely tea, Pa would start his discourses while I engulfed myself with its fragrance, and his words. You see, while mom and I were busy covering the entire spectrum of school and adolescence that helped me get through each day, Pa focused on the long-term. We discussed a great deal about the king of Oman, his experiences back home, books, music and all the other what-nots! Also, the poet inside him would miraculously appear as he romanticized even mundane things like driving me to various tuitions after long hours of work. Eventually, I had far more tuitions to attend, and a lot less free time because of which the frequency of our 'ritual' gradually decreased until it finally stopped. More than 13 years later, there I was, in my husband's house and getting to know his parents, who had also become mine. And, guess who I had a new ritual with. Chai, however, had now become whiskey and Dad, who now became my Pa, would tell me about days when he was a young man or when my husband was a little boy. As for me, I now engulfed myself in this fragrance, and these words. Also, much to the annoyance of my husband, I always received a hearty Goodnight from Dad every night, one that was not once directed at his three sons. Once again, the ritual had to stop as my husband and I shifted to Bangalore and meeting Dad was reduced to a yearly affair. Over the course of time, I realized that both my fathers had a lot more in common. Both of them thought they always wanted sons. A daughter then, entered their lives and she would always remain in their hearts, be their baby girl. During the early days of their marriages, they were both opposed to the idea of women working. Years later, they let go of this mindset and believed in their daughter's decisions and prayed real hard to ensure I achieved what I wanted. They even went to the extent of stressing upon me, the importance of not only being independent but also loving what I do. They don't know it yet, but in the process of all this, they have mellowed a great extent, much to the relief of their wives and families! Fatherhood or for that matter every relationship, has a way of evolving with time and influencing us at our very core. Each of us here, surely have a ritual with that special somebody, which would now have become a thing of the past. It's time to pick up where we left. It's time we get that chai or whiskey or whatever it was, and settle down to discuss the what-nots, because frankly, we need it as much as they do.