String of Jasmines

Malati combed her long opal black hair.  She loved running her fingers through these wave-like limpid tresses before organising them into a graceful plait. Then, in her twilight pink sari, she ambled down the winding mud road leading to the railway station.  There, at the corner of the platform sat Shiva, the jasmine seller, one she had known since her childhood.  He had his usual endless string of those fragrant white blossoms coiled in his wicker basket.   He nodded and smiled as she approached him.  “Your usual, missy,” he said, measuring a string of jasmines of  the length of his forearm and cutting it for her.

“Thank you,” she answered, handing him a fistful of coins.

Inhaling the rich scent of these dainty blossoms, Malati felt like a demi-goddess in a floral haven.  She pinned the flowers on to her plait.  How she loved this Sunday ritual and the pleasing adornment of a fresh jasmine string hanging down her hair!  Sometimes, on week days on her way back from ‘The Daily Telegraph’, where she worked as assistant editor and feature writer, she would stop by the train station to get some flowers.   They inspired her, enriching her sense of beauty in this little town.

Today when she returned home, her mother was waiting for her.  “Darling, I’ve some news for you.  A wonderful doctor by name Manu Mehta came to my office to set up insurance.   He’s  well-off!” she added, her eyes gleaming.  “More importantly, he saw your photograph on my table and is interested to meet you!  This might be a good match if it works out, by God’s grace!”

“Mummy, I’m in no rush to be married off.  Why do you persist in forcing a match on me?”

“Well, you’re not getting younger.   And I’m getting old.   If you cross the marriage age, it’ll get more difficult.  Do you want to be a spinster?”

“No, I don’t, but these things must come from the heart.”

“Very poetic thoughts, but you’ll miss your bus.   Give this a chance, Malu!” her mum begged.

So, from all her mother’s persistence came the day when a meeting was arranged at their home in their drawing room.   Malati had on an opulent magenta raw silk sari with an ornate gold border.  From her luscious braid hung her favourite string of white jasmines.  The doctor arrived with his parents.  They sat down.  Tea was served.

Manu said, “So, Malati, I hear you’re a very accomplished lady, writing excellent articles and stories for your paper.”

“I hope that makes me accomplished,” she replied, laughing softly.   “And you’re a doctor.”

“A cardiologist practising in Bangalore,” he replied, adjusting his glasses.  His eyes surveyed her from head to toe.  Balding and slender, he had an intent stare as if he was policing every aspect of their conversation.   Malati felt a bit disconcerted by his look.   However, she tried to be nonchalant.  

“It takes many years to be a doctor,” she said.

“And a respected one at that,” he added.  “A lot of people know me.”

“I see.”

“You’re pretty,” he noted.   Then looking at her hair, he shook his head, “If you cut your hair, you’ll look perfect.”

“But I love my long hair!” she protested.

“I can see you’ve lived a sheltered life.  Short hair is the way!” he said.

Malati found this discussion uncomfortable.   Fortunately,  Manu’s parents commented on the delicious crisp samosas served with tea. The evening went by.

And like a sudden startling deluge came the Mehta family’s swift acceptance of this match.  Malati felt overwhelmed, her vision obscured by her mother’s comments on how fortuitous all this was.  So, the young journalist went with the flow of events.   A very quick engagement followed.

After the little ceremony, as she was walking down the garden with Manu, he said, “We’re going to have to find a good hairdresser to cut your hair.”

“But I love my long hair,” she repeated.

“You’re being very wilful.  Can you not do this to please your future husband?”

“I’ve not asked you to change yourself,” she said.

“Well, I’m bestowing my title on you, that’s a bit different.”

“I cannot!” she mumbled.

“Now don’t look so stolid and stony-faced,” he commented.  “With that type of expression, I’d have rejected you like that,” he said, snapping his fingers.  “You’re lucky to marry me!”

The conversation ended there that evening.  Malati spoke to her mother that night after the engagement.  “Mummy, I’m not sure this will work.  He’s rather insistent and kind of mean about my cutting my hair.”  However, her mother didn’t wince in the slightest.   “The family has money and prestige.  You’ll have a good life,” she said.  “Just do as they say.”

This answer was not in any way understanding or satisfactory to this young future bride.  As she tossed on her bed that night, she felt ill at ease.  She wondered whether she was after all, wilful and unreasonable.  Perhaps she must accept her lot in life. Her mind was too cloudy with conflicting thoughts, but she felt her destiny had already lined up her marriage path.   It rained heavily that night, as if the rain gods were commiserating with the tears she withheld.

    After that, the hours and days flew wildly and before she knew it, Malati was Mrs Manu Mehta.  Right after the marriage, the newly weds took a taxi to the train station, from where they were to head on their honeymoon to a charming beach resort.  In the cab, the doctor brought up the subject again.  “So when are you going to cut your hair?”

“I don’t know any hairdresser who does that,” she said, waving her hands vacantly.

“Well my dear, you’re quite unsophisticated!   You still hold on to the ways of the illiterate. You must stop being a village idiot.  I expect you to be a lady.”

“I wasn’t a village idiot to start with!” she said, tears filling her eyes.

“You are, but I like it when you’re submissive!” he replied, smiling into her downcast eyes.

“Makes  you much more demure than with that ugly plait you have hanging behind you like a rat’s tail.”

“You’re being unkind on our honeymoon,” she said, her voice quavering.

“Well, how do you expect me to be romantic with your stubborn attitude?”

They got out of the cab and walked to the train platform.  Through the film of her tears, Malati saw the vendor Shiva, with his basket of jasmines.  He exclaimed, “Missy, I’ve been waiting for you!  Shall I cut you a string?”  The bride glanced at her husband.  The doctor’s stare was like a piercing edge of glass that could rip to bleeding shreds the tender exchange she had with the vendor.  Malati shook her head at Shiva.  “Perhaps in a few days,” she mouthed.  He nodded sadly.

“Who’s that?” barked Manu.

“Just a flower seller,” she answered.  She was glad that her shrug dismissed any further interrogation.

As the couple sat in the train, Malati looked out of the window at the green carpet of paddy fields and fiery pimento hues of the tomato plants.  A woman was combing her daughter’s lovely long hair near a well.  Malati gazed at her wistfully and remembered her mother’s words.   Reluctantly she considered cutting those shining ebony tresses after their return to Bangalore.

Once at the honeymoon resort, she sauntered with her husband on the beach.  There were other couples enjoying the sultry splashing waves, whispering and strolling arm in arm.  Malati smiled and reached to touch Manu’s arm.  He pulled away.  “Tch tch, that’ s a very aggressive move!” he said.  “Show a little  modesty!”

“Modesty?  I thought I was supposed to be the modern wife!” she retorted.

“You’re being very aggressive!  Now you don’t have to pull an ugly face.  You’re quite the village idiot, aren’t you?”

“Nothing wrong with people from villages!” she said.  “Many are quite intelligent.”

“Is that what your illiterate mother taught you?”

“How can you say things like that?  My mother is very educated.  Perhaps more than you in many ways!” she retaliated.

He gave a loud laugh and said, “You’re both stupid!”

Malati stared at him in horror and disbelief.  Were all these cruel words about her family simply because she hadn’t cut her hair?

The rest of that honeymoon felt for her like an isolated trip with nothing to hope for.   Malati walked on the shores of the beach by herself because her husband was busy reading a novel.  When she returned he said, “You forget that you’re my wife and don’t just wander off by yourself on the beach!  Only street walkers do that!”

“Street walkers are seldom virgins, nor are most women on honeymoons, “ she wanted to lash out, but said nothing because she couldn’t bear to hear more ugly accusations.  She looked instead dully at him from within this empty vaccuum.  “Don’t stare at me.   At least try to smile like a lady, Malati,” he said.   Her head spun as she watched him spewing vicious gibes at her incessantly.

That night, she lay on her side on the bed, seeing the streams of blushing twilight and listening to the rocking waves mocking any romance that a honeymoon could possibly have.   Until she cut her hair, perhaps hostility and brutality would be all that she could possibly expect from this self-righteous man tied to her by law.

After their time at the resort, Malati stepped into her new home in Bangalore.  She tried to say very little to Manu to avoid any confrontation.  Resigned to cut her hair as soon as possible, she hoped for a more pleasant attitude.   Perhaps he would be a caring husband after all her efforts.

So, after a couple of parties hosted by the doctor’s friends to congratulate the couple on this marriage,  Malati finally found a beauty salon nearby, a fancy and expensive airconditioned place.   She walked in.  The elegant lady who ran the place welcomed her in.    “I’d like to surprise my husband and have a stylish haircut,” said Malati.

The lady undid her plait.  She ran her fingers and comb through those lustrous silky streams and gasped in delight. “Ma’am, you have such beautiful hair!  Are you sure you want me to cut this?  I could always style it into a bun for you,” she said.  “That way we can save your hair.”

“That’s very kind of you.  Yes, it’s taken years and years for my hair to grow this long,” she said, choking on her words.

“Then, would you like to think about it?” asked the salon lady.

“No, my mind is made up.  I’ve got to decide whether I save my hair or my marriage,” said Malati.

The matter was settled.  With her scissors  the hairdresser cut two feet of her hair.   An hour later, the doctor’s wife had shoulder length hair.  She requested that her cut hair be put in an envelope, which she intended to keep in her drawer.   The hairdresser had an elegant large cover with floral designs to save the tresses she had snipped.   Malati paid her and left for her home with that envelope.

That evening, when Manu came home, she stood in front of him with a half smile of expectancy.  “Okay, Malati, I see you’ve cut your hair.  It’s a good start,” he commented.

“A good start?” she asked.  “I thought that was what you wanted.”

“My dear, you’re going to need to stop arguing with me.  Be more demure, be more feminine!” he  said.

“I’ve just given up something that meant a lot to me to please you.”

“Well, haven’t I given you a home?   Shouldn’t you be grateful for my title?” he asked.

“A home?  I always had one.  I thought this was about being a couple.”

“Okay okay, just stop being so stony-faced.  Be more of a lady.  I know it’s  hard for you as someone raised the way you were.”

“Raised?”

“You have a long way to go before you are up to the standard.   By the way, you served cold food  tonight.   Don’t you know how to serve hot food?”

Malati took the pot to the kitchen to heat up the dish.   Her fingers trembled.   When was this going to end?  She brought back the warmed food to the table.  He ate silently, without a comment of appreciation about her efforts to cut her hair, without a kind word, needless to say without the least trace of tenderness one could hope for in a husband.

Malati got into her nightgown ready for  bed, feeling a strange emptiness behind her back, without the tresses she had loved so dearly.  Before she switched off the light, she went to the drawer.  In it lay the envelope with that silky hair.   She caressed the wavy tresses.  “How I already miss you and the jasmines that adorned you.” she whispered.  “You sound like a schizophrenic.  What are you mumbling?” shouted Manu.  “Oh nothing!” she said.  “Just remembering something.”   “You sounded strange,” he barked.

That night, she dreamt that she was taking her usual walk to the train station in her town.   Shiva was waiting for her with a jasmine string.  She held it against her hair, but the flowers slipped and collapsed to the floor.   Malati’s eyes flew open as she woke up, her body perspiring and her heart racing.   Manu was fast asleep snoring.

In the days that followed, the insults became worse.  Manu was constantly berating her for the food she cooked, her speech, her walk, her upbringing, her mother.  “Please stop!” she cried out.  “Stolid and stony-faced,” he spat constantly.  “Please stop,” he added, mocking her in a high-pitched voice.

Malati decided to telephone her mother.   She told the latter all that was going on.  However, her mum said calmly,  “At least you’re in a secure marriage.  Be patient.  He’ll come around.”  So Malati persevered in her efforts.   However, nothing that she did in her housekeeping or cooking pleased her husband or stopped his relentless flood of insults.   It grieved her that the hair she had so painstakingly sacrificed made after all, no difference whatsoever to her marriage.

One day after that, she went to her hometown on a birthday visit to her mother.  After lunch, they watched a movie together and Malati took the train back.   When she returned home, Manu was waiting on the sofa.   “You’re home late.   There is no food,” he snapped.  “I’m sorry, I had prepared some and kept it in the fridge so you could heat it!,” she answered.  “Oh, so you expect me to be the lady of the house as well while you romp around irresponsibly shirking your duties!” he said.  “I’m trying my best Manu,” she responded.  “Today happened to be my mother’s birthday.”  “All excuses,” he mumbled.

With a sigh, she went to the bedroom to set some things on the dresser.  Opening the drawer as she usually did, she reached for the envelope having the locks of her hair.  It wasn’t there!  Her heart raced.  She opened other drawers.   Then she rushed to the living room.   “Manu?” she said breathlessly.  “Yes?” he replied.  “Have you seen a floral envelope in my drawer?”  “You mean the one carrying all that stale filthy hair you cut?” he asked, rolling his eyes.  “It was not stale and filthy!  It’s the hair I gave up for you, the hair I treasured!” she cried out.   “I threw it out in the trash somewhere far far away,” he said with a crooked smile.  “Why?” she asked.  “Because it’s distracting you and making you ignore your duties as a wife.  All you still think of is your hair and your jasmines.   Now you can concentrate for a change on being a wife.”

As Malati watched him, she felt a silent scream tear through her tender spirit.  How much further could he go with his demonic desire to destroy her soul?  All this was behind that veneer of being a proper person and respectable doctor.  He had finally stamped out any illusory hope she had ever had of salvaging this empty shell of a marriage.  Malati shuddered as she lay her severely throbbing head down on her pillow that night.  Manu snored, oblivious as always.

The next morning after he left, Malati took a train to her hometown.   Disembarking as it stopped, she walked towards Shiva.   He was there in his usual spot like a fixture, his name and presence almost imprinted on that platform.   “Missy!” he exclaimed in shock.  “What have you done to all that beautiful hair?”   Unable to control her sobbing, she told him what had happened.   “I don’t know why I even agreed to such a marriage.  I lost everything.”   “I’m so sorry to hear about this terrifying experience my child, what are you going to do now?”  “I don’t know, I need to get away.  My mother won’t sympathise in the least either.   I’m going to take that train and go on a journey somewhere.”

“Where?” he asked.

“I don’t know.  Wherever it takes me.”

Together they watched the train with black smoke floating out of it, trailing endlessly like the tresses Malati had lost.  Shiva said, “Here, please have several armfuls of the jasmines strings you love so much.  No no, don’t pay me anything.  Let them be a blessing to you as you journey.   Your hair will grow back for the joy of more of these fragrant beauties.  I hope I’ll still be alive to see that day.”

Accepting the jasmines gratefully, Malati held them close to her nose.  Their familiar magical sweetness transported her back to the special haven she knew so well, before she climbed that train.