Uptan ritual. Chuyia’s aunt rubbed the turmeric paste all over her niece’s firm little body. Chuyia looked down at her body askance. “I don’t want to turn yellow,” she cried, trying to wiggle out of her aunt’s grasp. “My friends will laugh at me. Wash it off!”
“You won’t turn yellow. You’ll turn golden, and your husband will be dazzled by your beauty.”
“I don’t want a husband!” Chuyia said petulantly. “I don’t want to get married.”
“Marriage and death are not in our hands. They are in Bhagwan’s hands,” her aunt said firmly. Then she laughed. “Don’t worry; the uptan has magical properties that will make you love your husband.” She looked at the naked, asexual little creature standing disconsolately in front of her, and her expression softened. “You don’t understand what I’m saying, do you? You will in a few years—when our mouse is ready to go to her husband’s house.” And before Chuyia could speak, she added, “You will understand a lot of things then—so shush now.”
After the beauty treatment, seven married women—relatives and favoured neighbours—in turn squeezed Chuyia’s supple hands in theirs to push tight red-and-green glass marriage bangles onto her wrists. Chuyia bore the ordeal happily and shook her arms to show off the jingling bangles to her envious friends. The seven women represented the seven forms of God, one for each day of the week. Since their village was situated on the Bengal–Bihar border, the rituals represented a mixture of Hindu customs from both provinces.
Chuyia was shown the presents the groom had sent her—jewellery, which included a gold mangal-sutra necklace, and several saris for her to change into on the wedding day. Elaborate makeup was applied to her face, with small white dots over the eyebrows, and her hair was decorated with flowers and stuck with the ornaments she asked for: sun, moon, stars made of tinsel. A gold chain was placed along the part in her hair and another around her neck.
The wedding took place in the village temple. Preparations were underway to feed the guests, and the entire village would receive a helping of sweet rice and milk kheer served in shallow earthenware dishes. Since the presence of menstruating women would defile the wedding and pollute the temple, food would be left for them at their doors.
Children ran around shouting and playing in the large compound, but the main attraction was the temple elephant and its year-old baby. They watched, enchanted, as the pujari fed the wrinkle-hided little elephant bananas. Later on, they would get to ride in the howda already strapped on to the big elephant’s back.
As the bride, borne in a palanquin, and the groom in elaborate head-gear (both preceded by ragged village bands) made their separate way to the wedding hall, the women from villages in Bengal ululated to draw attention to the wedding ceremony itself; a conch was blown to complement the “oolu-oolu,” in keeping with the tradition.
An admiring murmur rose among the onlookers, and Bhagya turned her head to gaze upon her son-in-law as he entered the temple. Hira Lal carried his forty-four years lightly, and he appeared to support the decorated cake-like headgear—rising almost a foot above his head—with ease. He looked at least a decade younger than Somnath. “Not bad-looking,” Somnath had said. With the deep cleft in his chin and the glow of health suffusing his features, yes, Hira Lal was not bad-looking.
Only Brahmins were allowed inside the temple. Since the temple hall had no walls—just the tall pillars that supported the roof—everyone could see the wedding ceremony as it took place. The guests nodded their heads and made approving sounds as Somnath presented Hira Lal with a gold ring, a new dhoti and a handsome new umbrella. It was a ritual they were familiar with and enjoyed.
Bhagya thought of her sons and wondered, would she be able to give them the quantity of milk and fat and fish that had nourished Hira Lal’s trim body? And even as she mutely appealed to Lakshmi, the goddess of wealth, to bless her household, her misgivings concerning her daughter’s betrothed quieted. The goddess had favoured her, but she had been too thick-headed to recognize it; it was plain to see that the connection with Hira Lal’s family would benefit her household.
Chuyia was made to sit in front of Agni, the sacred fire. The sari, pulled over her face, narrowed her vision like blinders.
Bhagya could barely recognize her daughter; seated next to the groom, she looked like a diminutive doll. Hira Lal sat cross-legged within the graceful folds of his white dhoti, the sacred thread prominent across his bare chest. A corner of Chuyia’s sari was tied to a long stole wrapped around Hira Lal’s neck and shoulders, and they were made to stand. With Agni, the Holy Fire as witness, the groom and his bride walked seven times around a pattern on the floor. Bhagya hid her smile in her sari; Hira Lal appeared linked to the ambulatory little bundle in red silk as to a pet. The purohit reverentially fed Agni with rarified butter and frankincense and, chanting mantras to invoke the blessings of the gods, solemnized the marriage.
Hira Lal’s eldest sister brought the traditional Sindoor Daan on a tray. The groom applied the red sindoor to the parting in the bride’s hair and to her forehead. As a Hindu woman, the bride would wear this symbol from the time of the Sindoor Daan until her death. Of all the ceremonial gifts, the kanya daan, or bride-gift, is considered to be the holiest. Just as the giver can no longer lay claim to an object that has once been donated, the parents of a traditional Hindu bride have no rights over their daughter once she has been gifted to the bridegroom. The groom then offered his bride a new sari with which to cover her head, and with this act the couple was considered officially married.
As the demand for her husband’s service grew, Bhagya expended a small fortune on joss sticks and sandalwood and spent more time praying to the pantheon of gods and goddesses ensconced between her cupboards. Twice a day, drenched in gratitude, she prostrated herself before the Goddess Lakshmi and, weaving jasmine garlands from the bushes in her compound, hung them around the goddess’s neck.
“Once the goddess decides to give, she is not stingy,” Somnath declared between mouthfuls of a fiery fish curry mixed with rice, as Bhagya fanned him with a palm leaf. “She tears asunder the sky to let wealth pour through in a multitude of forms.”
Bhagya nodded in agreement, as she spooned more rice into Somnath’s plate and poured more curry into the hole he made in the rice with his fingers. She had just told him that their cow had calved and, because of the improved quality of its feed, was giving richer after-birth milk than ever before.
Except for an occasional reprimand in the months following the marriage, there was no marked difference in Chuyia’s carefree life. When Bhagya remembered to, she would say, “Cover your head, you’re a married woman now,” or, “You mustn’t go jumping in the pond and wandering off into the forest like this: if your mother-in-law finds out she won’t like it.” Chuyia would do as she was told for a few days and then return to her old ways until her mother remembered to scold her again.
She continued to play with her brothers, romp around with the other village children, and wander off into the forest at will.
By the end of two years, Chuyia had almost no memory of her wedding.
WHEN SOMNATH HAD FIRST come home with the news that Hira Lal was ill, neither Bhagya nor he thought it was anything to worry about. People got sick, and after a while they recovered. And Hira Lal was a strapping fellow, glowing with health.
However, five days later, Bhagya guessed from the sombre look on Somnath’s face, as he came into the kitchen and sat down on the mat, that things were not going well with Hira Lal: what else would cause him to look so troubled? She covered her head and quietly placed the dishes before him. As she served him, she asked, “How is our son-in-law doing?”
“He has typhoid.