The Water Lily - Part I: A Story of Loss and Liberation | Thursday Tale No. 28
Colours do not know they are auspicious. Flowers do not know they are sacred. Such distinctions belong not to nature, but to the stories people tell about it. And stories, unlike the things they adorn, are forever changing.
The Water Lily - Part I is one such story of a meaning transformed by the passage of time.
The Water Lily - Part I
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| Photograph by 대정 김 on Pexels. |
“White is so tender yet so commanding. It takes on the hue of every colour it touches, yet somehow reconciles them all,” would say Kumuda every time her friends teased her over her fascination with the colour.
Her fascination had made her wear a white dhavani (half saree) for her Manjal neerattu vizha (menarche ceremony), despite strong opposition from her family.
“White exaggerates your dusky skin, and washes out your facial features. It makes you look bleak. You should try yellow or red,” her mother would say.
“Ma, I get it. Do I not listen to you every time? Do I not wear other colours every day? But today is my special day, and I would really like to wear white. So please let me!” Kumuda would contend.
Kumuda was as fascinated with learning as with the colour white. She read extensively, studied diligently, and discoursed sensibly.
Just as she had defended her love for white, Kumuda had also convinced her father to allow her to continue with her higher education when her father was considering getting her married off. She bought herself time by saying, “Appa, I will marry as soon as you find a suitable alliance, but till then let me study, please. See, you don’t have to pay a single rupee…I have two full scholarships. Above all, I will be the first graduate in our family. I will get to make you proud, pa.”
Kumuda was like the colour white—modest yet resolute. She adapted easily to the changes of life but also diplomatically asserted herself wherever required.
Kumuda’s fascination with both white and knowledge deepened when she realised that her likes were deeply aligned with that of Goddess Saraswati.
So even for her arangetram, she wore a white kanchipuram saree with broad golden silk borders.
Soon, a day arrived when she could wear white everyday, but all Kumuda wished for were colours that were not white.
It was 1983. Kumuda was twenty-one, preparing for her university exam, when her father brought in the biodata of Madhavan—a general manager residing in Tirichy with his family. Her father added that he earned comfortably, and was an only child, which meant there would be no property dispute in the future. He also mentioned that they were relatives of Sunder mama’s acquaintance’s cousin twice removed, all of whom had testified that they were a fine family.
Her father expressed his interest in the marriage prospect, and encouraged her to make a wise decision.
Kumuda did not dislike the proposal itself, but its timing. Kumuda wanted to graduate before her wedding. So she approached her father attempting to reason him into allowing her to at least appear for her final exam. But he did not concede this time. He said that Madhavan was a graduate himself and wished for an educated non-graduate wife.
Sensing the tacit expectation expressed through his eyes and words, Kumuda made peace with herself, and agreed to marry.
Soon, the engagement plates were exchanged, an auspicious date was fixed, the pandakal was erected, invitations were printed, halls were booked, decorated, and the groom’s side demands were arranged—20 pawn gold, a Royal Enfield 350, and Salora colour T.V., and other household essentials.
The day of the wedding arrived. The groom in his white wedding vesti chattai arrived with his party to take the bride away to the wedding venue. Kumuda was sent away adorned in gold jewellery, and draped in a beautiful maroon, red, orange, and mustard koora pattu pudavai—a temple-style checked silk saree gifted to the bride by the groom’s family for the wedding ceremony.
Kumuda had wished to wear a white kasavuv saree at least for the reception, but the groom’s family were completely against the inauspicious colour. Kumuda contented herself with the huge bunch of white malli poovu, given by her in-laws, gracing her long hair.
The wedding rituals concluded as pleasantly as she could maintain her equilibrium.
It was time for the post-wedding party. Madhavan's friends arranged for many Northern-style wedding games like ring-fishing, joota chupai, antakshari, varmala, musical chairs, and many others for the bride, groom and their families. The hall became filled with joy and laughter.
By then, Kumuda became well adjusted to the temperament and behaviour of the groom's family. She had slowly become engrossed in the evening gala.
During the varmala, a garland exchanging ritual, the bridegroom’s cousins and friends formed two groups. They made Kumuda and Madhavan sit on a plastic chair each, handed each of them a marigold garland, and lifted them up along with their chairs. Then, they lightly juggled and tossed them to the music as the bridegroom tried to exchange the garlands. The task was to see who exchanged the garland first.
Kumuda sitting on the chair borne by her cousins, held her breath, scooted to the edge of the seat, and aimed the garland’s loop towards Madhavan’s neck. Gaining good momentum, she threw the garland at him. Looking at the determination in her throw, Madhavan, who did want to lose to his new bride, leant back. As he weaseled out of the aim, he lost his balance, toppled down the chair, fell to the floor, and bumped his head against the edge of a stair. He fell unconscious.
For a moment, the hall went silent, before it broke into the clamour of rushing him to the hospital. The doctors declared him dead.
- Mercy Rebonica
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