Patterns
Kuhanandha Tharmananthar
Smashwords Edition
Copyright 2004 Kuhanandha Tharmananthar
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“Amma? Is she here yet?”
“Don’t worry, Sita.” Amma said. “Everything will be fine. Mrs Rai recommended her.” With five married daughters, Mrs Rai was the local wedding guru. Amma watched her daughter from the bedroom doorway as the young woman turned from side to side before the full length mirror, borrowed just for the day, her profile all angles and sharpness except for her brown eyes.
She frowned. “All you modern girls with short hair. Look what you did to yours; anything could have happened with hair like that.”
Sita brushed her fingers through shoulder length strands and bent her head, lips separating as she looked at herself. “Rajan loves it.”
“He’s just a boy.”
“And what does he know?” Sita grinned.
“Thank God you’re getting married.” Amma smiled and headed back to the kitchen where the smells of rice flour and fenugreek mixed with the coconut chutney’s fresh scent. She stirred the thick white mix over and over before placing a spoonful in the centre of the round dosa-pan and, using a slow spiral motion, she pushed it out into a circle. Casting an eye at the kitchen table she saw her children waiting in the past — Sita and Radha squabbling over the coconut chutney, clamouring for the first ghee dosa straight off the pan, hot-hot, handled with care and eaten with pleasure. She remembered how they’d lick their fingers, then rest them on their plates while they waited for the next dosa. They used to eat until they were full, bellies bulging against their t-shirts when they climbed down from the chairs and ran to the sofa. Maybe, one day, her grandchildren would sit there and make the same demands.
The smell of cooked dosa brought Amma back and she scraped it free and flipped it. The rice pancake showed copper side up and she watched its ghee-stained surface while the other side cooked. When it was done she flipped it onto a plate, tore off a piece and put it in her mouth. She ripped away another piece, dipped it in the sambal and ate that too, the thick taste of coriander, cumin and dhal filled her mouth. Amma smiled as she switched off the cooker.
A glance at the kitchen clock told her it was already nine o’clock and there was still no sign of Mrs Khanda. They’d be lucky to reach the hall before the auspicious time, stipulated by the family astrologer, there was so much to do; the daughter not ready, the mother not ready. Amma regretted she hadn’t insisted on samosas as a snack before the ceremony to keep the hungry relatives from complaining. No one was more grumpy than a famished uncle.
Amma went to her room and lifted up the package on the dressing table. She separated the seal and pulled the sari clear, leaving the blouse piece and the plastic cover on the dressing table. Opening the pallu, she let it hang over her shoulder, held it against the skin of her neck. The dark green silk was threaded with brittle silver, rows of parallel argent paths that curled and bent but never managed to meet. She slowly traced the patterns with a finger as she stepped closer to the small mirror on the table until she was caught on the glass. A window on the past; onto her own wedding day when her red sari, heavy with gold and expectation, covered her pale skin while her mother pinned the jewelled pallu in place.
Amma lifted a hand to her face, traced the lines on her forehead and followed the curved marks that bracketed her mouth with her fingers. She folded the green sari and laid it on the bed, arranging the blouse piece beside it, ready and waiting for later. Surely, Sita was ready.
In her room, Sita pressed her hands against her hips, tightening the silk underskirt and with a glance at the doorway, she slowly exposed her legs, bending her right knee as she lifted her thigh, the skin pale compared to hands that saw the sun every day. She raised her hands to her breasts, holding what had never been held, and wondered how Rajan’s soft office fingers would feel on her flesh.
“Sita!”
Sita dropped her hands and saw Amma glaring at her from the doorway, her arms folded. Sita opened her mouth to defend herself but then closed it. She saw Amma’s hands fall to her side and her eyes fall to the ground. Before they could break the silence, Sita heard saris rustling in the corridor and bare feet on the painted concrete floor. Two grinning women appeared beside Amma and a third bustled in.
“Aunties.” Sita gave them hugs and kisses.
“Doesn’t she look lovely?” Kolupittya Auntie grasped her arm and measured it against her own chubby limb. “Look how long her arms are.”
Singapore Auntie and Kandy Auntie joined their sister, surrounding Sita, holding, pressing and pulling, their hands and perfume close. An Auntie Whirlwind, Sita thought.
“I like her short hair.”
“Very film star. What’s her name? Anita something.”
“Shah.”
“And so so slim.”
“Too thin.”
“No, that’s the fashion these days. Not like us.”
“They used to like us round.”
“Strong.”
“Big.”
“Kolupittya Auntie.” Amma’s voice cut in and Sita could imagine her frowning.
“Why isn’t she dressed yet?”
“We’re waiting for Mrs Khanda.”
“She’s late, no?”
“No, no, we’re early.”
“What do you know? You were three hours late to your wedding.”
“Late late, it doesn’t matter so long as you get there.”
“Will she do us too?”
Sita opened her eyes and saw three pairs of hands held out for inspection, stared down at thirty fingers, six gold rings all dented and warped from wear, and she remembered her face being touched by their rough skin, her cheeks pinched between finger and thumb. Sita spread her own fingers beside theirs, all polished perfect nails and unmarked skin.
“Look at what’s happened.”
“Make sure it doesn’t happen to you, Sita.”
“This modern girl will be out teaching, not busy at home.”
“Washing, cooking, cleaning, mending, finding. It’s those useless men.”
“Not these modern men.”
“Modern men, old men. They’re still men. No one will see the henna between all these burns and marks.”
“How many times have I told you to use honey? You just don’t look after them properly.”
“Stop that, you three.” Amma spoke again from the doorway, chopping at the air with an open palm. “Why don’t you come and help in the kitchen?”
“We’ve come to see Sita before she’s married.”
“Give her our advice.”
“All the ins and outs.”
“Why is this young girl smiling?”
“What does she know already?”
“It’s all these western movies they see, they show everything.”
“No ideas of their own.”
“How long is this henna woman going to be?”
“Come on.” Amma came into the room and took hold of Singapore Auntie, who in turn, grabbed Kolupittya Auntie. Kandy Auntie gave Sita a wave as she followed the three chattering women out of the bedroom.
“Let’s watch a video.”
“Which one?”
“Singapore Auntie’s wedding of course. We’ll be able to see Amma and Appa.”
Sita took a breath and lay back on the bed, felt the familiar blankets, realizing she wouldn’t sleep here any more. Tonight she and Rajan would stay in his parent’s house, married but still physically separated, joined only in name and in spirit. Tomorrow they’d be together in their hotel, the first day of their honeymoon. And the first night.
Sita closed her eyes and imagined her friends standing in the blessing queue. Sundaram would be there, smiling with his mouth while his eyes stared at hers, her wedding finally drawing a line under the hopes she’d refused years ago. Sonia would follow him, dragging her own new husband along as she hugged her friend. So many others, people she knew from school and college, even the parents of the children she taught. Sita smiled as she recalled Amma asking who she wanted to invite and then, when presented with a small list, added the entire community.
“Sita? Mrs Khanda is here.”
“Coming, Amma.”
Mrs Khanda was already sitting down, organising her brushes and tools. When she looked up, her dark face was defined by the whites of her eyes and the yellow teeth all leaning against each other in her smile. Sita shivered as the old woman’s cold hands took her own.
“No good having hot hands for painting.” Mrs Khanda showed her teeth again as she looked over at the three sisters hooting and shouting in front of the television. “Are they all your Aunties?”
Sita nodded and caught Amma’s eye.
“Be quiet, you lot. Mrs Khanda is here.”
“We know, Amma,” Singapore Auntie said. “We’re not children anymore.”
Sita watched Amma’s eyes close against the protests, her hands on the worktop beside the cooker, crack-knuckled fingers resting by a metal spoon. The three younger sisters turned back to the television, frowning in familiar lines, their arms crossed. The room quietened and Sita leant back into her chair as Mrs Khanda arranged the bride’s arm, spread the fingers and asked her to stay still. She picked up a brush, touched it with henna and held it over Sita’s upturned palm.
“Ready?”
Sita nodded. The woman stared at the young girl for a moment, black eyes on brown, staining them with her dark reflection. She scratched a finger down Sita’s heart-line and bent to her work, her forefinger tracing lines on Sita’s skin, marking an invisible path for the brush to follow. Sita’s arm tensed and her fingers twitched, she wanted to pull away, pull away and keep going, until her bedroom door closed behind her, until the future passed by, allowing her to be as she was, forever, happy in the family she knew and sure that nothing would change.
“Stay still.” Mrs Khanda lifted the brush, allowing Sita a moment to breathe and relax. The curls and spots began again, vine tendrils crawling up her arm before stopping at her elbow. “Now the other.” Sita placed her left arm beside the right. They belonged to different people now, one marked and one clean.
One married and one single.
Once the henna dried Sita endured another bath, this time dressed in cotton underclothes and surrounded by helping relatives. The Auntie Whirlwind drew the water up and over her until the henna was washed away, leaving behind the patterns in her skin. Four towels rubbed her dry and then were held to form a cloth for her to change to silk.
She was placed on a chair and the older women continued whirling around her, combs and brushes attacking her hair, followed by clips and nets drawing it up into a neat ball behind her head. Voices called all around her, demanding, admiring, persuading and laughing; spoken words and those left silent until Sita could feel them all washing up against her, inviting her to move forward, to walk through into something new. Her breath quickened, almost as if she were running and then she was, out on the concrete playground. Chasing her friends, ribbon-tied hair lifting up behind her as she reached out with her hands.
Sita opened her eyes and saw Kandy Auntie’s nose stud, diamond bright on her flat nose, stretched holes in Singapore Auntie’s ears, thirty five years of heavy earrings. The patchouli scent of her mother’s skin cream as she leaned close to apply kohl to her daughter’s eyes. Sita’s arms felt heavy, cold gold hung on her wrists and ears, the weight seemed to slow the whirlwind. She could feel Amma tugging at the pallu and, using the pins she held between her teeth, she fixed it in position before standing up and away.
“There. Look now.” Amma and Sita stood still before the mirror, Sita tall beside her mother, back straight against the weight of the gold-threaded sari. Somewhere, underneath all the decoration, was the girl who woke up that morning, her old life veiled, traces hidden by make-up but she didn’t want the past to disappear, a part of herself boxed and placed into storage. And as she held out her hennaed hands there were footsteps in the corridor.
“Are you ready? Always late, I said for you to be…” Sita’s father fell silent when he reached the doorway and Sita smiled at him.
“I’m ready.”
“Right. Good.” He stared at his daughter. “Rajan’s parents are here.”
“I’m not dressed.” Amma’s hand covered her mouth. “I should give them something…”
“Singapore Auntie’s taking care of them.”
Amma watched her husband draw his daughter forward until Sita’s cheek was next to his. The same cheek he’d used when she was born, wrapped in white hospital cotton, baby Sita had pressed herself against her father’s warmth and from the bed Amma had seen a new smile appear on his face, felt it bend her own mouth into joy as they looked at each other.
“We’ll miss you, Sita.” Appa’s voice broke the silence.
They heard Kandy Auntie calling from the other room. “Come, come. It’s almost time.”
Blinking, Sita held her father a moment longer, smelling his aftershave, feeling his rough cheek on hers before letting go and following him into the main room. Her new parents stood up and the room fell silent. She smiled, encouraged by the light on their faces, as she stepped closer, only hearing herself, to bend and touch their feet with her hands, reaching out for a fingertip touch to toes and then her own forehead. Rajan’s father was wearing pristine white socks, his polished shoes left at the door while Sita’s mother-in-law’s feet weren’t even visible. The young woman simply gestured at the hem of the sari and stood straight.
“You look wonderful, Sita.”
“Thank you, Mrs…” Sita stopped and started again. “Thank you, Amma.” My husband’s mother.
Sita’s aunties gathered round.
“A proper Indian girl,” Kolupittya Auntie wore a smile as wide as her hips.
“It’s amazing what they do these days.”
“I saw a magazine the other day of a bride and she didn’t even have a pallu.”
“There was one with just a blouse.”
“Just a blouse?” Kandy Auntie eyed Sita and her hands stretched towards the bride.
“No, Auntie.” Appa patted them away. “She’s perfect the way she is.”
“But…”
Amma rushed into the room, her dark green sari perfect. “Hello, hello. Have you had something to eat?”
“Singapore Auntie looked after us.” Rajan’s mother took Amma’s hands.
“I’m sorry, it’s all been so…”
“Amma,” Appa said. Sita watched her mother close her mouth and cover her head with her pallu. “Shall we start?”
“Let me fetch the tray.” Amma turned slowly toward the kitchen.
“I’ve already brought it, Amma.” Kandy Auntie handed a brass tray to Amma and as it passed behind her Sita smelled the sesame oil, the sandalwood and a trace of turmeric.
“Come, Sita.” Appa positioned her in the middle of the room and Sita looked around at the old walls surrounding her, covered with pictures of family and the Gods, flaking blue paint filling in the spaces. She spotted the chip in the corner that used to be above her head, the familiar crack in the photograph of her grandparents. And Amma, looking so young, perched on a square stool beside her husband on their wedding day. So many years. Sita’s eyes returned to her mother, grey hair peeping out from the pallu on her head and dark spots on her face, points of memory to mark the passing of time. So many years.
Sita watched Amma light the oil lamp on the tray and then dip her little finger into the sandalwood paste. Following her mother’s gesture, she leaned forward and felt the finger press against her forehead, wetness on her skin that didn’t drip away.
Quietly, her Aunties started singing. Rajan’s parents joined in and finally, Amma and Appa. Sanskrit words floating on the tune of an old badjan, Sita swallowed and closed her eyes for a moment as the song continued in her ears, repeating the thousand names of God until He had no choice but to bless her.
Rajan’s parents each took one of her hands, turned palm up and pressed turmeric into the skin in the centre. They were followed by her Aunties, slowly, carefully touching her cheek with rough fingers before the song was left to die.
In the silence, Amma lifted the lamp with both hands and as she made a mantra of Krishna’s name beneath her breath, she drew circles in the air. Sita followed the wheels with her eyes, three one way and then the other, no beginnings in their perfection. She felt the heat on her face, everything seeming stretched after staring at the flame.
Amma offered the flame to the people. First Rajan’s parents, then the Aunties, Appa and finally Sita, each placed their hands near the fire before touching to their eyes, cleaning their auras with three swift motions. Amma replaced the lamp on the tray, the metal ringing against metal as her hands shook and let go, and closed her eyes to pray.
Sita watched them, saw how they all seemed different, wearing the same clothes, the same jewellery and yet something had changed. Behind her parents she saw again their wedding photo.
It was her turn.
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