uneven asphalt. The other houses were darkly quiet. No chirping of awakening birds, just a guard dog barking far away.
In high school, every exam day had begun with Amma waking her up very early in the morning. Amma would quickly make a cup of coffee, and Leila would study the last portions of chemistry, physics, history, between sips of the sweet brew that was meant to keep her awake.
Now Leila stood silently in the bathroom, uncomfortable about the upcoming ritual. She could barely remember the last time Amma had bathed her. For a moment she wanted to crawl back into Amma’s womb, wanted to forget that this was the last time they would do something so intimate together. Then Amma filled the bucket and motioned her to sit on the little wooden stool.
Leila shivered as Amma poured a mug of cold water over her. The long saree petticoat and sleeveless blouse, “the Indian nightie,” Indy called it, clung to her body. The paste of turmeric and sandalwood felt warm as Amma’s fingers kneaded her skin. Inch by inch, every part of her was covered. Amma lifted the petticoat discreetly to reach her thighs.
This was the bath of brides, destined to leave her skin a faint, glowing yellow, her body perfumed like burning incense. Only now was she ready to put on the special nine-yard wedding saree, and she walked into her bedroom, where Indy, Aunty Latha, and the others waited.
Most sarees are six yards long, and on warm evenings servants often walked back and forth in twos, drying the rectangular material between them so they would not need to spend money on the ironing man. Leila had worn sarees since her sixteenth birthday, and was used to wrapping them, shroudlike, as Indy liked to say.
But this one, three yards longer than ordinary sarees, kept going around and around, adding bulk to her slim hips.
“I look fat.” She stared in distress at her reflection as Amma draped the pallao over her left shoulder. She also felt she looked old. At another time she would have joked that since she was probably the oldest bride in their town, it was fitting that she wear a saree, the oldest national costume in the world. But it was too close to the truth, and so she concentrated on how the folds of silk fell from her waist to the floor.
“No, Akka, you look beautiful. The color really suits you.” Indy kneeled down to fan out the pleats. Usually Leila did the same for Indy, but today was different.
“Now you sit and we will to decorate your face,” Aunty Latha said, taking over from Amma.
Leila felt the cold touch of gold as delicate strands of the shining, 24-carat metal framed her hairline, falling in a gentle curve to her ears. A thick gold chain was pinned to the middle of her head, completely covering her parting. Earrings shaped like open umbrellas dangled, almost to her shoulders, their weight pulling at her lobes. Aunty Latha clipped on a diamond-studded nose ring “to bring your husband plenty of good luck,” and slipped gold bangles, interspersed with glass ones, over her wrists. Most of the jewels had been borrowed from relatives eager to help, with Aunty Latha contributing the nose ring.
“You must to be virry virry careful when he removes the bangles tonight,” Aunty Latha warned. “If the glass breaks, you may get hurt.” Everybody laughed, and briefly, Leila felt a thrill at the upcoming night.
Aunty Latha’s warm breath was sharp with the scent of cardamom as she bent over Leila’s face to paint the red dots. One by one, the same size and shape, they went on in a line above her eyebrows. Black kajal to outline her fish-shaped eyes. A finger dab of rouge on her cheeks, and finally, red lipstick. Her face was ready.
Amma took charge of her hair, weaving it tightly into one long plait that reached Leila’s waist. A rope of champa and jasmine flowers embraced the braid so that no black strands showed. When the last flower was in place, Kila proclaimed, “You look like a princess, Akka,” and Amma
In high school, every exam day had begun with Amma waking her up very early in the morning. Amma would quickly make a cup of coffee, and Leila would study the last portions of chemistry, physics, history, between sips of the sweet brew that was meant to keep her awake.
Now Leila stood silently in the bathroom, uncomfortable about the upcoming ritual. She could barely remember the last time Amma had bathed her. For a moment she wanted to crawl back into Amma’s womb, wanted to forget that this was the last time they would do something so intimate together. Then Amma filled the bucket and motioned her to sit on the little wooden stool.
Leila shivered as Amma poured a mug of cold water over her. The long saree petticoat and sleeveless blouse, “the Indian nightie,” Indy called it, clung to her body. The paste of turmeric and sandalwood felt warm as Amma’s fingers kneaded her skin. Inch by inch, every part of her was covered. Amma lifted the petticoat discreetly to reach her thighs.
This was the bath of brides, destined to leave her skin a faint, glowing yellow, her body perfumed like burning incense. Only now was she ready to put on the special nine-yard wedding saree, and she walked into her bedroom, where Indy, Aunty Latha, and the others waited.
Most sarees are six yards long, and on warm evenings servants often walked back and forth in twos, drying the rectangular material between them so they would not need to spend money on the ironing man. Leila had worn sarees since her sixteenth birthday, and was used to wrapping them, shroudlike, as Indy liked to say.
But this one, three yards longer than ordinary sarees, kept going around and around, adding bulk to her slim hips.
“I look fat.” She stared in distress at her reflection as Amma draped the pallao over her left shoulder. She also felt she looked old. At another time she would have joked that since she was probably the oldest bride in their town, it was fitting that she wear a saree, the oldest national costume in the world. But it was too close to the truth, and so she concentrated on how the folds of silk fell from her waist to the floor.
“No, Akka, you look beautiful. The color really suits you.” Indy kneeled down to fan out the pleats. Usually Leila did the same for Indy, but today was different.
“Now you sit and we will to decorate your face,” Aunty Latha said, taking over from Amma.
Leila felt the cold touch of gold as delicate strands of the shining, 24-carat metal framed her hairline, falling in a gentle curve to her ears. A thick gold chain was pinned to the middle of her head, completely covering her parting. Earrings shaped like open umbrellas dangled, almost to her shoulders, their weight pulling at her lobes. Aunty Latha clipped on a diamond-studded nose ring “to bring your husband plenty of good luck,” and slipped gold bangles, interspersed with glass ones, over her wrists. Most of the jewels had been borrowed from relatives eager to help, with Aunty Latha contributing the nose ring.
“You must to be virry virry careful when he removes the bangles tonight,” Aunty Latha warned. “If the glass breaks, you may get hurt.” Everybody laughed, and briefly, Leila felt a thrill at the upcoming night.
Aunty Latha’s warm breath was sharp with the scent of cardamom as she bent over Leila’s face to paint the red dots. One by one, the same size and shape, they went on in a line above her eyebrows. Black kajal to outline her fish-shaped eyes. A finger dab of rouge on her cheeks, and finally, red lipstick. Her face was ready.
Amma took charge of her hair, weaving it tightly into one long plait that reached Leila’s waist. A rope of champa and jasmine flowers embraced the braid so that no black strands showed. When the last flower was in place, Kila proclaimed, “You look like a princess, Akka,” and Amma
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