The Bath

I wrote this as part of a writing exercise with a limit of 500 words, and the theme being 'Silk'.

As the orange glow of an errant sun hung lazily over the mist-clad temple on a wintry morning, Shyamala poured another pot full of water.

“This is the last one,” she assured the shivering Kanika.

It was to be a long day, and Shyamala knew it well. Though she had little memory of her own time, she had seen the ritual being performed several times every year. She was only thirteen when she herself became a Devdasi, and at that time she knew little more than what her mother had told her the night before – Tomorrow, you shall be God’s bride. Then on, my daughter, you shall dance only for the God. It didn’t matter much to her, for dancing was all she cared about; for whom, was the least of her concerns. Later, of course, she realized that the God could change form, and sometimes appear in flesh and blood on sultry nights when obscene whispers filled the women’s quarters. But then, as the other Devdasis said – At least we get to choose our men.

Presently, however, Shyamala thought of none of that. Her mind focused on the task at hand – The ritual bathing is done. Apply the sandalwood powder after this, and then the vermillion and the flowers. And, looking at the saree, she smiled – Ah, and the white silk saree – vibrant and lustrous like the bride herself.

Kanika too looked at the saree. It reminded her of its weaver; the same lowly silk weaver to whom she had whispered, in between her sobs, the previous night, “Shanmugham, you can be my patron, my lover. But, I can never belong to you.” She thought he would understand. After all, she thought, would he, who himself sacrificed so many tiny lives at this altar of this vain world, not understand the insignificance of their own little lives, their own little love. Shanmugham did not understand. Only a word escaped his choking throat as he walked into the darkness. The memory of that word brought a fresh swell of tears that perished in a stream of cold water that her mother poured over her.

“Whore,” remembered Kanika. “And that’s all I will ever be.”

She arose as the last trace of water, and along with it the tears, drained itself. Inside the temple, hurried activity spurted with a festive rhythm of cymbals and drums. Shyamala dressed up her daughter, applied the sandalwood powder, the vermillion, the flowers.

Draped in the white saree, emerged the embellished bride – vibrant and lustrous like the silk.