Sisters for life; made for each other and the lovely bride. Don’t know what my name is, for Kangana always refers to me as Behana and apart from her I have no soul, addressing to me as someone. Yet, Kumud speaks volumes articulating unspoken words through her demeanour and carrying us with her as loyal aids. Surprisingly, we never rest like this in a box.
“Kangana, how come today we are in this closet? Being on the left with little movement at arm’s length, I doze off very frequently. Being on the right hand you know the right detail.” I quip to get a stoic response.
“Behana, the mistress has succumbed to her maladies. We are orphaned, sister.” Kangana’s sobs echo in the closet. I’m numb. Golden describes her character more than our form. Our glassy cousins have been banged to death when their mistress lost her spouse, her pride. But ours is a different story to tell, a diverse culture to celebrate.
Satish doesn’t want to see us. After all, we are his mother’s first approval towards the coy to- be bride. With a smize, the mother in-law has slid us onto Kumud’s capable wrist. As if silently telling her, I give you all I have. She hugs her new mother tight and we sisters stick to her like a perfect match.
“Behana, remember how restless she was when you went under the bellows for a minor surgery?” Kanagana’s tinkling breaks my reverie.
“Aaaah….How can I forget the homecoming! She cried as if had found a lost child.” A pearl falls off as I reminiscence this memory. Her friends were right we are out of fashion and now out of her life. Some frowning, some joking faces welcomed her when we were discovered even in a shindig. Mother in-law dancing to your tunes, cousins teased her when we did a jig after she raised her hands to slap the forehead in despair.
But now the sisters have lost their charm. Slowly we will be pushed behind the mundane clatter of her life.
The house is dressed for the morrow. Strings of green mango leaves held together by coarse white twines sway over the doorway. Inside, in a room far removed from the merry making sits a lonely young woman, missing her mother and her warm farewell.
Satish enters the sanctity with us in his hands.
“Little Kumud, I don’t know how a good father I was to a motherless child. Forgive me if I have disappointed your upbringing.” With a smize, he slides us on to her wrists, as if silently telling her, I give you all that I have of a woman who loved you so dearly.
Years later too with our clinking Little Kumud imagines sweet maternal cooing whispered in her pinkish ears. Our dazzle is the glow of a face she never remembers having seen. Yet we have a different story to tell every day, a diverse culture to celebrate in every life.
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