by Adithi Rao
That night, Raghu came home to find his mother cooking dinner. He noticed at once that the dark circles around her eyes had receded. ‘Are you feeling better, Amma?’ he asked.
‘Much better, putta!’ came her cheerful reply. ‘The medicines Doctor Ayya gave me this afternoon seem to be working already. I am able to breathe normally almost, and the fumes from the kitchen fire are not bothering me the way they usually do.’
Raghu sent up a silent prayer of gratitude as he went outside to wash up. Then he settled down to the newspaper, his back resting against the wall as he read out bits and pieces to his mother while she worked. This was their nightly ritual – it being the mother’s only window to the world beyond Rudrapura. There was a funny article about how an MLA had fallen asleep in the middle of a political rally in Bangalore while his party spokesperson gave speeches about how alert and proactive its members were. This was accompanied by a rather unfortunate photograph of the man himself drooping all over the table, deep in slumber. Raghu held it up for his mother to see, and she burst out laughing, pressing the end of her pallu to her mouth. Then her eyes caught the merry ones of her son across the room, and this brought forth a fresh bout of mirth. By the time they had composed themselves and moved on to the national news, the rice was done.
The next afternoon, Raghu was sorting out some puja items into a jute bag when there was a knock on the door. He glanced up as his mother went to see who it was, pulling her pallu over her head in preparation for the visitor.
‘Namaskara. Banni, Sheshadri-aure.’ Slightly intimidated, she invited the guest inside with a respectful gesture of the hand.
A tall, formidable man in his early sixties, Sheshadri was dressed in an impeccable cream dhoti. He was obviously wealthy, having business ventures in Bangalore and overseas, and was distinguished in a daunting, awe-inspiring way. The mother rolled out a straw mat for him to sit on as Raghu got to his feet to receive him. Although Raghuvir was the poorer and the younger of the two, his innate dignity and poise put him on equal footing with Sheshadri.
‘I’m sorry to barge in on you like this, Raghu,’ said Sheshadri, sitting down.
‘You are welcome anytime, Sheshanna,’ replied Raghuvir. ‘I’ve been expecting you. I went to your house the other day and Lakshmi Akka told me you were out of town. Please tell me what I can do for you.’ Raghuvir came to sit down opposite him. The mother placed a tumbler of water in front of Sheshadri, who downed the contents in one go without touching his lips to the rim of the glass. Then he spoke, and in his voice was a touch of pride: ‘It’s my son, Gopala. By the grace of god, he has got his engineering degree and has joined my business.’
He paused for a second, looking expectantly at Raghu for a response.
‘I’m happy to hear it,’ said Raghu.
‘Now, I wish to get him married,’ said Sheshadri.
Leaning over the fire while preparing coffee for the guest, the mother smiled.
‘There is a good alliance; the family is a fine one. Most importantly, I have liked the girl.’
‘Have you brought the horoscopes?’ enquired Raghu. Sheshadri immediately opened his leather briefcase and withdrew two parchments, which he placed in Raghuvir’s waiting hand. Raghu spread them out on the floor in front of him. Referring to a panchanga – the Hindu calendar – from time to time, he made several calculations, working methodically, unperturbed by Sheshadri’s eyes watching him with a mixture of apprehension and impatience. The mother served coffee.
At last, Raghu looked up at Sheshadri and smiled. ‘They match very well, Sheshanna. It will be a marriage of good understanding. Any weakness in your son’s chart is nullified by the strength of the girl’s,’ he said.
Sheshadri’s satisfaction at Raghu’s opening words was quickly replaced by concern. ‘Weakness? Any … problems … for my Gopala?’
Raghu, watching the older man, wondered whether this tyrannical patriarch of the Sheshadri household had ever revealed this vulnerable side to his son. ‘As I said, they will be nullified. Please don’t worry about it,’ Raghu assured him.
‘Still,’ pressed Sheshadri, ‘if any pujas or homas need to be done for him…’
‘None,’ insisted Raghu, gently but firmly. ‘He has a good fate, and the marriage will be a strong one. You may go ahead with it if you wish.’
Reassured, Sheshadri finally allowed himself to be happy. ‘Please find a date for the wedding – the sooner the better!’ he said jubilantly. ‘You see, since Adishree’s family is not as well off as I am, I will conduct the wedding.’
The mother looked up from her cooking. Forgetting herself, she exclaimed, ‘Adishree! What a beautiful name!’
‘I haven’t asked Gopala for his opinion. He and his mother haven’t even seen the girl yet. But I like her very much and have no doubt of them liking her too. So I’m not going to wait. I’m going straight to her father’s house to finalize the match!’
Raghu had never seen him this excited before. Consulting the panchanga again, he said, ‘The twelfth of next month is a very auspicious day, Sheshanna.’
Sheshadri Saab got to his feet. Raghu rose as well. Folding his hands in formal request, the older man said, ‘Raghu, you will perform the marriage ceremony?’
Raghuvir folded his hands and nodded in acceptance. He walked with Sheshadri to the gate and waited while he got into his white Ambassador and drove away.
When Raghu returned to the house, his mother looked up from her cooking with a wistful smile. ‘You get so many people married each year, telling them that they will find happiness and contentment. Don’t you wish this for yourself, Raghu?’
‘I don’t think about it that way, Amma,’ he replied, returning to the task that Sheshadri’s visit had interrupted.
‘If you would just agree to meet Vishwamohan Pandit’s daughter …’ she said and sighed.
Raghu continued to sort out the samaghri quietly.
Suddenly, the mother cried, ‘I met her Raghu!’ causing the son to raise his head quickly. He looked at her in silence. ‘Subhadra, her name is. She is beautiful! Thick long hair, lovely face…’
‘Amma,’ said Raghu, ‘did you remember to tell Ravianna to deliver coconuts for the puja today?’
The mother understood that he had closed the topic of marriage and there was nothing more to be said. She resolved not to speak of it again.
The girl came to the temple every morning now, bringing with her five red hibiscus flowers. More often than not, she arrived just as it was time to open the temple doors. She was slim, and her features classical. She wore her thick, shining hair in a serpentine braid down her back. But what made her beautiful was the utter lack of consciousness about her own charm. Raghu had come to think of her as the Hibiscus Girl.
One morning, several weeks later, Raghu arrived to find the temple yard covered with dried leaves. The girl too had nearly reached the temple. She was wearing a deep red sari and strings of jasmines in her hair. In her hands was her customary offering to the deity. Raghu parked his bicycle and approached Rathnavva who was listlessly stringing jasmines into garlands.
‘Avva, eeyn aythu?’ asked Raghu in concern. The girl had now reached the temple steps.
‘I’ve been running a fever since last evening, Swami, and the pain in my body is getting worse.’
The girl cast a worried glance in Raghu’s direction. Raghu was silent for a moment while he considered what to do. ‘Iri, Avva. I’ll be back in a minute.’
‘Swami …’ the old lady protested weakly, but Raghu had already crossed the temple premises and reached the entrance of his little field beyond. In the far corner of the field, Chinna lived in his thatched-roofed hut.
‘Chinna! Chinna, bega baaro!’ Raghuvir called.
‘Bande, Raaganna!’
Raghu untied thirty rupees from the knot at his waist and handed it to Chinna, asking him to take the old lady to Doctor Bhaskara. They walked back to Rathnavva. The girl was standing by quietly, the hibiscuses held absen
tly within her palms. Raghu helped the old lady to her feet.
‘Take my cycle, Chinna. She’ll find it difficult to walk.’
‘Swami,’ said Ratnavva tremulously, ‘who will do the work here if I leave like this?’
‘Don’t worry, Avva, I’ll manage,’ replied Raghu reassuringly. He helped her onto the back of the bicycle. ‘Usharu, Chinna, ride carefully,’ he cautioned the boy. ‘Drop her home after Doctor Bhaskara has seen her, and buy her medicines out of the money I’ve given you.’ Then he said to the old lady: ‘I’ll come and see you after the puja, and bring you some food.’ He turned away before she could thank him, and climbed the steps to the temple. The cycle made its way out of the premises and up the long, winding road that led to Five Lights.
As he made to unlock the door, Raghu heard the sound of a broom. He turned to see the girl sweeping the yard with swift, sure strokes.
‘Please don’t,’ he said. ‘I will do it. You may go inside the temple.’
‘Please let me serve the goddess,’ she said so earnestly that Raghu hesitated for a moment, then relented. He nodded and went back to unlock the door.
Inside, Raghu began the abhisheka of Parvati. But today, it seemed to take on a special significance for him. He was adorning something lovely, the most beautiful woman in the world…
The girl came in and laid the wicker basket bearing the garlands on the threshold of the inner sanctum. Then, sitting just outside it, she rolled wicks for the oil lamps. After she had poured oil into each, she wiped her hands and returned outside.
Raghu reached for the lamps automatically; his fingers were not surprised to find them ready for use. He knew that this girl would do these things instinctively and without having to be asked.
In the tiny room between the inner sanctum and the outer area, Raghu picked out the uppermost sari from the pile. It was blue and yellow, and he hesitated. Then he exchanged it for a deep red one, smiling slightly at his own whim. He draped it on the goddess, applied sandalwood paste and kumkuma on her forehead, and placed a garland of jasmines around her neck. He placed the five red hibiscus flowers – the girl’s offering – on Parvati’s crown, at her throat, one on each shoulder, and the last one at her feet. With that, her toilette was complete.
She looked resplendent, this consort of Shiva, beloved of Rudra after whom the town had been named. This force of Shakti that was embodied in all womankind.
Outside the sanctum, the girl was lost in prayer, a mirror to the deity with her deep red sari and the jasmines in her hair, the red dot on her forehead and the serenity that pervaded her being. Only the red hibiscus was missing. Only that one thing…
When the mangala arati was over, Raghu scooped up a handful of kumkuma and something else from the deity’s feet. He came outside and gave some to the women devotees. When he reached the girl, she accepted her share of kumkuma … and a single red hibiscus. She applied kumkuma on her forehead and tucked the flower into her braid. It rested there among the thick, shining strands, completing something that she never knew had been missing.
After he closed the temple that night, Raghu spent a long time on the river bank alone, looking into the depths of the water, the depths of his soul. The restlessness had returned. There was an unfamiliar emptiness inside him that yearned to be filled.
Before sunrise on Gopala’s wedding day, Raghu helped Sheshadri’s nephews Murali and Sridhara load all the items required for the ceremony into the boot of the white Ambassador.
‘Please leave them on the stage in one place. I’ll come in an hour and sort everything out myself,’ said Raghu.
As soon as they departed, Raghuvir went to get ready. He was late in opening the temple, and Rathnavva had already prepared everything for the morning puja and left. To one side of the temple platform were five hibiscuses laid out on a broad leaf. He picked up the leaf, taking care not to crush the flowers. He looked around keenly to see if there was any sign of the girl. Standing on the raised platform, a man could get a clear view of the surrounding area for miles. But as far as Raghuvir could see, there was no one there. He felt empty in his chest, the restlessness now stirring stronger than ever.
He looked down at the flowers, at the brilliance of their redness. Tiny droplets of dew still glistened on the petals. He carried them inside carefully, as if they were precious things.
The flames blazed in the homa kunda, consuming the sacred offerings being fed to it. Relatives, friends and well-wishers of the Sheshadri family arrived in hordes to witness the event, and Sheshadri Saab was bustling around, looking important and proud in his crisp silk dhoti. His usual forbidding manner had been infiltrated by a traitorous joy, something he had scarcely permitted himself to experience before.
Gopala was turned out in a silk panchey and a red kurta. His undisguised delight at the prospect of matrimony had rendered his comical face, with its tad-too-long nose and much-too-short haircut, almost handsome.
His mother and aunts were rustling about in heavy Kanjeevarams, greeting guests, seeing to the preparation of the lunch that was to follow, and ensuring that everybody had been served refreshments upon their arrival. At the main entrance of the hall, Janani and Sharada, Gopala’s only female cousins, were receiving the guests with gulabdaan, arashina-kumkuma and flowers. They were accompanied by Murali’s three-year-old daughter Sowmya, who insisted on getting her pesky little finger into every pie, until she scandalized one group of guests by offering a widow in their midst the flowers and kumkuma. Thereupon, she was dismissed from her post by her embarrassed aunts and sent off to play with her boisterous male cousins.
At the far end of the marriage hall, on the stage, the wedding ceremony was progressing in full swing. Gopala was straining to catch the sacred chants Raghuvir was reciting, and which he was meant to repeat. Such were the noise levels in the hall that the poor bridegroom was bumbling along the best he could, mishearing half the things and mispronouncing the rest. They sat at right angles to each other, leaving the space on Gopala’s right free for the bride when the time came for her to join in the ceremony. Raghuvir raised his voice, taking care to enunciate each word of the sacred vows with a musical clarity. This gave the young groom some relief. He smiled gratefully at Raghuvir, who responded with a nod.
Raghuvir, as he proceeded with the ceremony, did not realize it, but he was being observed keenly by an old lady in the crowd below. She saw his straight-backed poise, the benevolent eyes, the perfection of form and manner. She noticed the way he remained single-minded in his work even in the midst of the chaos. He didn’t fumble over his chanting, there were no short cuts or flurried movements. Things were lifted and placed and offered in a calm, deliberate manner. The old lady had heard much praise of this priest, and now she saw that none of it was undeserved. She had a beautiful young granddaughter by the name of Subhadra, a lovely girl of twenty, and it was the family’s wish to get her married to this man. They had sought an alliance, but he had refused even a preliminary meeting. The old lady would have liked her son Vishwamohan to see Raghuvir today, but he was attending a court hearing in Bangalore. However, she would point him out to her daughter-in-law later.
After observing Raghuvir, the old lady felt that they must approach Raghu’s mother one last time, perhaps in the coming week. Despite the many refusals, who knew what the outcome might be this time? The grandmother had lived too long, seen too much of life to believe in the permanence of anything except change.
On stage, the bride had been escorted towards the mandapa by two women and seated on Gopala’s right. Meanwhile, Raghuvir draped the mangalsutra over a coconut and placed it inside a copper kalasha.
‘Lakshmi Akka,’ he called softly, holding out the kalasha to her, ‘please get all the married women to bless this, starting with both mothers and yourself.’
She had bent forward to take the kalasha from him, but stopped midway at his startling suggestion. ‘Me?’ she asked in a half-whisper, and he nodded matter-of-factly before turning away to attend
to other things.
Lakshmi furtively touched the pendant, her gesture guilty. She hoped that nobody had seen her, for there were those among the guests who would object. Raghu, meanwhile, added more ghee into the homa kunda. The flames soared, and he felt, as he always did, their absolute power. Nothing that passed through fire could remain the same. And it was through those flames that he happened to look up and see the bride for the first time.
The girl from the temple.
His Hibiscus Girl.
In that moment of shock, there was the barest falter in his chanting. He looked away, dropping his gaze to the samaghri in his hand as he fought for control, his jaw tightening with the effort. Then the frown on his forehead smoothened out, and his face became impassive again.
When the rituals ended, the newly married couple stood up, Adishree on Gopala’s left now, to receive the blessings of the officiating priest. When Raghuvir’s eyes met hers, he saw a smile of recognition in them. Then the couple bent together to touch his feet. As he leaned forward to bless them, he saw, amidst the strings of flowers adorning her hair, a single red hibiscus flower.
The evening rituals at the Prasanna Parvati Temple were over. Raghuvir prepared the goddess for the night, but his movements lacked their customary fluidity and grace. They were stilted, as if each was an effort that caused him pain.
The jasmines on the idol had withered in the heat, and he put them into a wicker basket, to be fed to Ganga in the morning. His hand reached for the half-wilted hibiscus at Parvati’s throat, lingering there for a second before gathering it and the rest into his palms. Their brilliant redness had faded to the dull purple of a half-healed bruise. He looked at them with blurred eyes from which hope had gone. In its place was silence. Not the friendly silence he had once shared with himself, but the kind that existed in empty places, in voids. It was a void his Parvati could no longer fill, and Raghuvir wept.
