The Bride with Bangles

It was the night of her wedding. She lay awake ogling at the rotating ceiling fan. Ashoke was fast asleep. Since the time their parents arranged this marriage, which was only two months ago, she’d always tried to picture how this night would unfold. She had many versions of it. But her favorite was one where they held hands and talked all night.

She was happy ... nervous but happy. Happy to have found a man, who she believed, with time, would become her friend. She often imagined their life together- travelling to scenic lands ... she loved beaches. She had never been to one. In fact, she can’t remember having traveled anywhere outside the small state of Punjab. She was sure she would be able to convince Ashoke to take her to Goa for their honeymoon. She had always admired the place in movies and had wanted to walk the beaches in a pair of comfortable shorts- just like those city girls did. Yes, she would talk to Ashoke the next morning. He wouldn’t refuse to take her, would he?

The thought of a honeymoon in Goa enlivened her. With a modest smile on her face, she tossed on the bed. It was way past mid-night.

I must get some sleep before the alarm goes off at five.

Twenty minutes passed. She was still awake and irked now. Her chura, or the wedding bangles, were quite a source of annoyance. She was no more thinking of the lovely beach vacation. All she wanted was a peaceful sleep. But the weight of twenty-one beautiful red bangles on each forearm was something she wasn’t used to.

                                                               *        *       *

Life in Delhi was nothing like that in her small town in Punjab. She missed the rickshaws that would take her to Kareem Chacha, the tailor. She loved designing her Patiala suits and Kareem Chacha’s craftsmanship would bring her layouts to life. He would even embroider floral patterns on her dupatta, the stole – just the way she liked them.

She missed the fried sweetmeats dipped in sugar syrup that were sold at the corner of every street in the town. How wonderful those days were! The evenings were often spent with friends – a bunch of chatty girls, picking on each other over a plate of spicy snack.

But Delhi ... Delhi was different ... strange ... strangulating!

                                                                *        *       *

The chura is a symbol of wedlock. Never remove them before your first wedding anniversary. It is inauspicious to have them removed without a proper ceremony with prayers.

As she sat at the vanity table after her morning shower, she could hear these words spoken by her mother-in-law on the day of her wedding. She didn’t dare to remove them. Who knew what might befall. She had grown seeing all the newly- wed brides in her town adorned with chura – getting them polished time and again, taking pride in their matrimonial bliss. She wondered if these women really enjoyed as heavenly a marriage as promised by the chura!

Her arms were sweaty and itchy, and she was tempted to free herself from those cuffs. But soon, she brushed the thought aside and engaged herself in another tiresome day of cooking and washing.

                                                              *        *       *             

“Let me help you with those bags”.

She lifted her head and saw a man, perhaps in his late twenties, walking towards her as she struggled to carry the heavy grocery. His olive skin and chiseled jaw line were arresting. She couldn’t help but stare at him for a few seconds before declining his offer to help.

“I’m your new neighbor, Nikhil”, he quickly introduced himself. “Allow me to help you”.

After a few moments of hesitation, she handed over the bags to him.

“Well, I just moved in and my house is a complete mess. If you don’t mind, could I have a bottle of water to carry home?”

She nodded as she unlocked the door.

“Well, I must say, you have a beautiful home”.

“Thank you”. She took out a bottle of water from the refrigerator and handed it to him.

He smiled at her and turned to leave. She was about to shut the door when he stopped, turned towards her and asked her her name.

“Prerna”.

                                                              *        *       *

“Do you like the biryani? Is it too spicy? It’s my mother’s recipe. I called her up this morning and asked her to share her special recipe. I know you like the dish. I wanted to cook something special for you today.

Do you know it’s exactly a month since we got married? It only seems like yesterday, doesn’t it? Eat some more. You don’t eat well.

Do you think we could plan a vacation this month? Can’t you convince your boss to grant you a few leaves? It’s been a month and we still haven’t had a honeymoon. Don’t you think we have lots to find out about each other? Won’t you talk to your boss tomorrow?”

“I’ll see.”

                                                              *        *       *

“I haven’t painted in a while. There was a time when I would spend hours with my oil paints and brushes, gradually smearing the canvas with my imagination ... landscapes, abstracts, still life, portraits ... I would paint them all. But landscapes were my favorite. Nature has this subtle quality of setting you free. And a mere picture of the vast sky and pastoral lands, administered with perfection, can fill you with serene tranquility.

I’m sorry ... I got lost in these paintings that I just unpacked. How can I help you, Nikhil?”

“Well, I had only come to borrow your rolling pin but I think I’m going to stay a little longer and have a look at your paintings”.

                                                                *        *       *

The arrival of her mother-in-law was preceded by making her favorite pickle, cleaning of the entire house and hiding away the denim pants and western tops that were regarded undignified for married women.

“May you live long”, blessed the mother-in-law as she scrutinized the presence of all the required components of a newly-wed ... the vermilion, the black-beaded necklace, the stole covering her bosom and of course, the chura ... all in place to lift her ego and acknowledge her dominance.

The next few days were spent pleasing the old lady. She seemed satisfied at having found the right match for his son – docile and obedient. She would go back to Punjab and proudly tell her friends about how well she was taken care of. How she’d gloat when they envy her good fortune of having a daughter-in-law who doesn’t ‘talk back’!

Girls from small towns with less education make the best wives, she’d tell them.

                                                             *        *       *

“Look what I bought ... a canvas and oil paints!”

 “I’m glad you took my advice and decided to paint again”, affirmed Nikhil. “Let me know when you plan on selling your paintings. I want to pick the best ones for myself”.

“Oh come on ... you’re embarrassing me now”.

“I’m serious. You’re as good an artist as I’ve ever known!”

                                                                     *        *       *

The canvas was set. The paints were uncapped, waiting to be tickled by the brush. The palette longed to serve the artist.

Prerna sat in the store-room alone, staring at the empty canvas. She exactly knew what it would exhibit after a few hours of laborious artistic intent. But ... there was an obstacle. Big yet small ... the beautiful customary burden on each of her forearms ... sure, they prettified her dainty hands ... and also weighed them down.

My hands feel fastened ... and limited. The strokes ... they need to be perfect ... as perfect as they appear in my head.

I should’ve thought of this earlier. I can’t endeavor to paint again. This requires ... freedom ... ease ... boldness!

She sat there staring at the canvas for some time. And then, with a sudden jerk, stood up as if having woken up from a nightmare.

Her bangles danced on the floor before they rested.

Three hours and thousands of brush strokes later, the canvas seemed to pose with pride. The picturesque union of the vast coral sky and the soothing sea quenched a longing in the creator that she didn’t know existed until that moment. Her eyes beamed with a sense of contentment whose fortuity had long been erased from her heart. She sat there basking in the joy of creation.

Her musings were interrupted by footsteps.

Ashoke is home.

“Ashoke ... I’m in the store-room. Do you mind coming in here for a moment? I want to show you something.”

I’m so excited. He’d be so proud of me!

“Ashoke ... look what I created. It took me three hours to paint this. I didn’t think I could still paint so well. But look ... isn’t this a fine piece? Where do you think we should hang it?”

Bewildered, Ashoke looked at the painting and then her arms.

“Your chura ... I see you took them off!”

He walked out without uttering another word.

Prerna looked at the bangles scattered on the floor and then at the painting ... The sky appeared hollow and the sea ... desolate.

                                                                    *        *       *