Shreya DasA lazy afternoon in my parents’ bedroom. An idea sprang to my mind, muselessly. I ran into my room, shut the door hard and sat to write the piece. Oh yes, I locked the door, so that Maa doesn’t intrude. Clearly, I have not been an ideal daughter since puberty had set in.
Her oral tales were an exceptional part of my upbringing. Like twinkling twinkling little stars, dipped in nostalgia, far and farce. She has always been an eager storyteller; never had to coax her into narrating them. From her constellation, what shines the brightest is her childhood game of wedding the dolls. I have listened to it plenty of times. The scenes, thereby, sparkle gleamingly in my mind.
My Maa always had a female doll. Same plot played out time and again. During the play, it used to be the bride of the day. A dark and damp store room was the arena. But every arrangement made was grand and pompous. A corner was tidied up to represent the wedding destination. Tiny used-up candles were lit up to ornate the wedding evening. Leftover foods from the kitchen were stolen beforehand to be served to the guests.
Soon the groom arrived with his family. My Maa’s friend with her male doll. And then began the astounding wedding. Youthful appropriations of ancient mantras were chanted. Like distant cousins of the Sanskrit language. Meaningless murmurs of sparrows. All eyes fixated at one corner. The stale meal with the junkies tasted heavenly. Innocent giggles flooded the place.
Suddenly there were echoes of my Maa’s neighborhood aunty. Play-time over. Soon arrived the ritual of bidding adieu to the bride. Tradition, tata and tears! And Maa had to lose her doll. Every time, every game. And I wondered. So much of arrangements, so much fear of getting caught in the kitchen, so much effort… all for losing a doll?
Every time I heard the story, I interrupted jeering loud, “How silly a girl you were, Maa! Why didn’t you get a male doll instead? You could have then kept the groom to yourself, and got the bride as a bonus!” She responded with a smile. Every time. Just a smile. That is it.
Damn! Here she comes, knocking on my door. – Ends my blog.
Fast forward to present. I am unsure how much my understanding has ripened over time. But my eyes get watery every time I decode the meaning of her silent smile. How the game of dolls got replaced by the game of reality: life!
I underwent a traditional Hindu wedding in my late twenties. Much to my current unlearnings and learnings, I now regret involving Brahmin men and their sexist chants. My Maa, however, was open to any form. All she wanted was a gathering with family and friends over food and fun.
But I went greedy for the cliched photos. Red sindoor delicately dumped on the middle parting of my hair, matching with the red benarasi saree. I do not like to look back at those casteist ritual photos from the wedding anymore. Except for those flaunting my golden glitter sneakers.
I do not regret the exit ritual though. Neither Maa nor me shed a tear the next morning. She was constantly on her toes in the crowded chaos. Later however, I had a panic attack while glancing at the heap of shoes scattered at the entrance of my in-laws’. But what is an Indian wedding without some drama, right?
My Maa is otherwise a major weeper. I used to tease her by calling her “Kolkata Water Corporation.” Now I safeguard her vulnerabilities. Thanks to time and therapy my humour got sensitised. Now I bet she cried the most after my departure for the year abroad. When my old 3G phone of the third world failed connecting to the 4G WiFi of the first world for three effing days. Tears of pride, intertwined with the pain of missing her only child.
Damn! Here my phone rings, as she is video-calling. Cannot wait to see her face again. My Maa’s precious smile.
But I wonder now – Did she ever lose her doll?
