A mirror, a woman

She checked and then rechecked herself. Pity the mirror doesn’t lie. She plopped on the bed, her face in her hands. Is this why the respected elderly of the family told her to get up early? So that nobody could see her shed tears and so that her emptiness could mix silently in the dull, grim time of dawn. ‘Silently’. Even expletives serve the purpose of releasing frustration but ‘silently’ is an adverb that eats you up like a parasite. This was the unspoken language of silence that was eating up her soul.  

She was educated and quite the modern young woman when she met Amish, the light of her life. Soon, she had succumbed to his charms. The stoic silences, the chivalrous attitude, the traditional behaviour, the bond with family. He had seemed such a breath of fresh air amidst the so-called urban-bred guys she was used to seeing. He didn’t have that rough, spoilt air about him. He didn’t drink uncontrollably. He was troubled to see girls in the city not going to the temple. He would genuinely miss the rituals at home on every festival; even festivals she hadn’t even heard of. These were quaint rituals that she found both funny and interesting. “We don’t have rice on ekadashi”. “We don’t give or take any white sweets on Saturdays.” “Oh, today is your birthday? Let’s go to the temple first.” “We offer the first roti to a cow.” Once when he saw her eating bread-anda on a Tuesday he had looked at her in utter disdain. She had argued about the pointlessness of sparing a day but he had withdrawn into his shell, hurt and sad. Since then she did not touch eggs on Tuesdays. The easy acceptance, the unquestioning attitude, the implicit faith – it all gave the villagers a sense of confidence in themselves. A strange, strong, stable, silent confidence that people in the city seemed to lack.

And yet today ... truth is that you don’t realize when you get sucked into a belief that is followed by the majority.

She was told, rather ordered, to take help from the village tantric. A childless woman cannot be. Rejecting the modern woman’s feeble arguments she had gone to meet the tantric in his den. A savage beast whose stench had filled her with a disgust that wouldn’t go away even after hours of bathing. He didn’t grope her. He didn’t need to. He just performed the act with a mechanical ease. Wiping off the sweat from his body, he stooped to smear ash on her private parts. An act of purification. “May you bear a son.” And that was it.

He woke up to find a cup of tea by his bedside, just like all other days. She had left a note on the tray. His clothes were ironed. She had left for her mother’s. The note said she wanted some time for herself. He gulped down his tea and went back to sleep.