Watering A Marigold Plant

The girl didn’t dare look across the dinner table. She kept her head bowed just enough to convince the rest of the family that her gaze was fixated on the food. Once in a while, just for a short moment, she would glance at the boy across the table who was cradling a cup of chai. His sharp features were easily distracting. He had an easy smile and she had found that he could make conversation with anyone just about as easily, something she found terrifyingly amusing.

“Why haven’t you touched your food?” His voice startled her as if catching her in an embarrassing deed.

This time it didn’t have to be just a glance, she looked at him. He had rolled up the sleeves of his kameez, and rested his elbows at the edge of the table, a bite of Biryani nestled between his fingers this time. The girl watched as he elegantly helped himself to the rice. She remembered how her mother had always taught her not to eat using her hands, but here he was doing just that.

She quickly shook her head and started eating, suddenly aware that his eyes were on her.

He had joked earlier that vegetable Biryani wasn’t really Biryani it was just vegetarian Pulao. Her father had chuckled at his little joke. She knew he had been amused by the little man since the very moment he had met him. She didn’t find the humor in it though, for her mother had said that it was Biryani.

She played with the rice on her plate with a spoon, as she heard him describe the taste of the Chicken kebab that his mother had prepared to her father as if trying to lure him into tasting it. She felt her cheeks getting hot.

It was Eid, and the spread on the dining table was just apt for the occasion. She was wearing a small maroon Bindi, the only way she ever knew how to adorn herself. The soft yellow light in the room, reflected off the skull cap the boy was wearing, making it appear golden. It was as if a highlight on the fact that her story with a man in a skull cap should be like Romeo and Juliet's, not that of siblings. It was a reminder that even his name felt foreign to her.

-x-

The girl sat on the lawns of the new home. She loved the swing that faced the elaborate garden. Sometimes she would watch the boy watering the plants in the lawns. She would think of offering to help, but would always hold herself back, fearing that helping in beautifying the house, would inadvertently make her consider it her own.

Last year, two weeks before Diwali, she and her mother had potted a Marigold plant. She would watch her water it every day. The Marigold flower, her mother had always told her, was a symbol of brightness. Mother would use them in her divine offerings to the deity every evening.

The girl found herself wondering for a moment who watered the plant now, even though the answer was painfully obvious.

-x-

The girl watched the woman laying out a series of bright pastel-colored, heavily sequined kurtas. She had offered the girl to take any of them as she pleased. The heavy embroideries and the intricate craftsmanship left her bewildered to the point that she was almost intimidated. With every bewitching outfit that she laid out, the girl became increasingly conscious of the blunt features on her face that she reckoned, would ruin the aesthetic of the dresses.

She remembered her mother throwing the loose end of her saree over her shoulder. She used to pleat the saree carefully lest she be bothered all day by the fabric sticking to her legs. The plain cotton saris always brought to mind empty canvasses as if left unpainted by an indolent artist. But the moment she was done draping the saree on herself, it always used to become clear that it was her that was supposed to be the art all along.

The woman stood watching the girl, trying to choose for herself from the collection. An expression resembling anticipation, but not quite it, played on her face. The girl looked at the collection with admiring eyes, studying each piece closely, aware of the fact that the woman was watching her.

The girl addressed the woman as her mother now.

The girl remembered how once her own mother had forced her to dress in a plain saree for a function at her school. She hadn’t protested the lackluster piece of cloth even once. Just that one simple thought was enough for her to excuse herself from the woman, stating that the clothes were too fancy for her taste.

-x-

The girl had to wrap a shawl around herself one evening, sitting on the swing in the lawn. There was a slight nip in the air that reminded her that it was Diwali the next day. Her father had never been around enough to celebrate Diwali. In this new home as well, he was an enigma.

She wasn’t decorating the house, sweeping the floors, and laying out designs for an elaborate rangoli. She wasn’t standing on a tall stool, cleaning the dirt from the ceiling fan. Although, she was aware that in her new home, floors were always sparkling and the ceiling fans were always clean.

Even the neighborhood was not shimmering in vividly colored decorations.

In her room, she had set aside a violet and golden bandhani salwar suit, that her mother had bought for her from the bazaar in their hometown. She had chosen a pair of dangling gold earrings to go with them. She was well aware that she would be grossly over-dressed, unnecessarily festive. But for once she was definite that she would not be concerned about the bluntness of the features on her face.

-x-

The girl woke up, shampooed her hair, and cleansed her skin for no apparent reason. The dress she had chosen sat neatly ironed and steamed on her bedside.

The environment was unmoving even on the morning of Diwali. She had hoped that her father would return from his business trip, but deep down she knew he wouldn’t. She decided not to dress up and went downstairs donning her pajamas.

The girl strolled into the lawn while the boy was watering the plants. For the first time since they had shifted there, she felt that she had nothing else to do and for that reason alone, she walked up to the boy and offered her help. The boy turned around and handed her the watering can. He sprinted inside the house and came back, clutching a polythene bag. He set the bag on the ground and took out a small box from it. He undid the ribbon that tied the box, opened the lid, and held it in front of the girl.

“You slept for so long, we thought you had forgotten it was Diwali,” He said. “Happy Diwali, Anjali” his lips broke into a wide grin.

The box was from a nearby sweet shop, filled with Kaju Barfi, a sweet that she helped her mother make every Diwali. It was a very little part of the tradition. But then maybe the start of something always feels little, doesn’t it?

“Happy Diwali, Zahid” she replied, his name no longer feeling foreign on her lips.