A Gift

While my grandma was alive, the most remarkable story, she retold, was of her sister, Komal’s ultimate triumph. Komal was uglier than the proverbial ugly duckling, who won the heart of her beautiful husband in the end. Well, not at the end of her life or anything. But you know how fairy tales end with the “happily ever after.” Nobody tells the story of the “after.” Neither did grandma.

At first rejected by her husband, who would not come to the conjugal bed, Komal won him over with patience and grace. Her winning quality lay somewhere in her saintly fortitude, culinary skills, talents of embroidery and knitting. She made the most beautiful mandalas with refined flour, turmeric, and rusty red soil. To top it all, she could sing like a nightingale.

Who knows when Komal’s story transformed into a parable for Lopa, my sister, and me! When admonishing us, grandma contended how we were a far cry from the iconic Komal- we were not feminine enough, we could not sing, dance, embroider, or create beautiful mandalas. Certainly, patience was not our best virtue. The keeper of those reckonings, our grandma, never missed a beat in spewing those comparisons at our slightest gaffes. When the niggling was excessive, I believed Komal to be a fanciful figment, fashioned for our torment. A few faded pictures and infrequent nods and grunts from my father were confirmations that she was undoubtedly real. The photos, in which the black had withered to a dreadful brown, did not substantiate her disagreeable countenance. All faces were blurry and faded in those remnants of a whimsical past, in which Komal turned into a desirable princess. Grandma’s retelling of Komal’s virtuous life, conquest, talents, and conquest over misfortunes was a norm in our house. We all learned to listen with restless tolerance. Nonetheless, we only begrudged grandma, never Komal.

Embedded in the corner of my mind, was an inkling that not many of Komal’s creative talents had anything to do with her husband’s surrender. There was something else. Even so, we dreamed of fairytales, and Komal’s tale was personal and evidentiary that life was not far from fiction. Young girls are often made to believe that a charming prince is the key to a fruitful female life. Komal’s story and grandma's assertions further pressed upon that notion. As it is, pretty girls have it easy or so they say, and Lopa was a beauty, so more certain to find her prince effortlessly. My situation was uncertain and undoubtedly likely to have hardships and rejections from the men I would love. Komal’s story had not only bewildered me it also terrified me. What if I was Komal in my previous life and was born to relive the trepidations? My fear was baseless, as there was no way for me to compare Komal at age fifteen. On the other hand, nobody had ever called me unappealing either. Even so, sometimes I wished that some admirers of Lopa’s beauty threw a bone at me occasionally. I desperately needed to be somewhat alluring to at least a few people. I hoped that the genetic pool has been diluted enough with grandma and mother being the factors, and the effects on me were diminished.

The constant repetitions of Komal’s unbelievable life and wondrous conquest ended with grandma’s passing. I still remember her small slender body on the thick slab of ice in our drawing-room. Somehow it had looked even smaller then. Relatives and other visitors shed some real and some false tears. Absorbing the melancholy of the room, my bitterness melted with the slowly melting ice and turning into warm tears that flowed on my cheeks for hours.

As days passed, I realized how I missed grandma and the stories of Komal- the tale of a maiden who goes to the ends of the earth to please her prince. Well, in the case of Komal, she pushed the servants aside and slaved for her prince charming. She cooked delicacies and knitted beautiful sweaters. Each morning she made a new beautiful mandala in the vast courtyard of the house of that large joint family. She sang old songs of love and yearning in the evenings, quieting the house to a peaceful calm. Apart from her face, everything about Komal was beautiful. At last, it did not take any eventful moment for her husband to succumb to her charms. He just walked to the doorsteps of her room one night and returned every night since thus submitting to her prowess. In an odd way, the story was reassuring as it underscored hopefulness.

Komal had died o a mysterious illness soon after my parents’ wedding. So, mother had met her only a few times. Komal had not made any great impression on my easy-to-please mother. After many months of my grandma’s death, my mother and I had a trivial conversation about Komal.

“She was fine,” she said.

“What do you mean,” I asked.

“Surely, she was not an ugly duckling.”

“Why would grandma say such a thing then?”

My mother shrugged.

We talked less about Komal and not at all about her journey to the fairytale eminence. I thought about her, but she did not seem as intriguing as her mysterious charm faded.

At 24, I graduated and finished my MBA degree, but to my parents’ disappointment, I did not want to marry just yet. I wanted to make a career. When I landed a job at Citi Group in New Delhi, and as I finished my first year at my new job, father had a string of suitable matches. The whimsical dreams of my teen years and my insecurities dissipated with my newfound confidence. I wanted to enjoy my freedom. In the meanwhile, Lopa was wooed by an Air Force officer. My parents again insisted that I get married soon as it was uncommon for a younger sister to win the marriage race. I resisted again. Life went on for another five years and then I met Mohan at a corporate party. We fell into a deep conversation about Ayn Rand. He was a critic, and I was a fan. In playful banter, we discovered a little about each other and decided to meet for coffee the next day. That is when we found that despite our initial conflict about the famous author, we had a lot in common. In a year, we both had fallen in love and ready for commitment. The plan of the wedding quickly came about as our families met and agreed on the alliance.

I reached home two weeks before the day of the wedding. The house was freshly painted and already decorated with lights. Lopa was home helping mother as she fought morning sickness from her second pregnancy. She pulled me into a room where the saris and jewelry were spread out waiting for my approval. The many discussions with Lopa and mother on the phone had yielded into a wondrous selection. The wedding outfit was breathtaking, the jewelry selection, eclectic. I was over the moon.

“There is something from your grandma too,” said mother.

My mind turned towards my three-year-old niece, Pia. I crept into my parents’ room and found her tiny body sprawled on the bed. A happy memory of Lopa and I stealing our way there on summer afternoons made me nostalgic. On the bed, we waited to listen to the clink of mother’s bangles as she tied her sari and emerged looking lovely as ever. I sat looking at the walls that were filled with our pictures. Some pictures of Lopa’s family were the new additions. I walked around the room reliving the childhood moments.

The dressing room, between the bedroom and the bathroom, smelled like my mother. I breathed deep as I entered it. A large trunk with its top open was in the middle of the room. There was no denying that it had once belonged to grandma. A white linen cloth was covering the contents of the iron box. Perhaps mother was rummaging through to give me a wedding gift from grandma. I pulled the linen to uncover what was beneath it. A colorful vibrance greeted me. In there were several saris of different colors of silk embroidered with real gold and silver threads. A light peach-colored sari caught my attention. I ran my hands through the luxurious fabric and imagined grandma in her youth adorned in the gorgeous material looking resplendent. Undoubtedly, she was a beautiful woman. Even in old age, the tenderness of her soft features could not be hidden. I moved the saris on the side and fumbled through. There were a few purses matching some of the saris, a pair of golden shoes, and many pairs of silver anklets with colorful enamel work. I marveled at the craftsmanship of the saris and jewelry and slowly began to empty the trunk. At the base of the chest was a large rectangular wooden box. It was coated with black paint and had floral designs in golden paint. The box had a small brass lock on it. I shuffled around for a key and found it under the bottom layer of linen that lined the trunk’s base. The lock yielded quickly. I opened the lid hastily with unbounded curiosity. The box was filled with unfaded photographs. There was a bundle of letters tied with yarn. The letters were from Komal to grandma. I opened one on the top. The paper was tattered as if it had been opened and folded one too many times.

Dear Sona,

I hope you are well. You have not replied to my letters. Know that I will not stop sending them to you. Please forgive me for everything. I had no intention of stealing the man who you were supposed to marry. It father’s decision, and I think you have a better life because of that, as you know now how sad my life had been all this time. My husband had intended to marry you, and I am paying for it through his constant and silent rejections of me. I have tried my best to win him over, but he has not yielded. At least that should make you feel better.

Asking for forgiveness again, your sister forever,

Komal

Wow! I thought to myself. Was this why grandma called her ugly? I picked another letter with only a few lines on it.

Dear Sona,

Please forgive me, Sona. I know he fell in love with you when he saw you, but you have to release him of that now. My life is going to hell.

Love,

Komal

I read a few other letters, beseeching forgiveness again and again. I reached down the crate and found a black notebook. It was grandma’s writing. Reading hungrily, I found how she hated and loved her sister at the same time. Apparently, grandma’s love for Komal was precluded by an underlying fury. Two sisters caught in a strange circumstance twined with love and hate. Perplexed I picked up a photograph. Two faces that looked identical peered at me. The two girls were the same age. Twins?

The second half of the journal was filled with numbers and calculations. A list of ten names with a number written against it. Father’s name was on the top of the list with the largest number written against it. My mother, me, and my sister were also on the list. I and my sister each had wedding gifts amounting to $20,000. The second-largest amount for Kamalakar - Komal’s husband. With a racing heart, I read a few other letters until I found the one that unraveled the myth forever.

Dear Sona,

I am forever indebted to you. Had you not visited us and helped my husband restart the business things would be as hopeless as ever. You bought me love and happiness. I am glad we are twins, perhaps he loves me because he sees you in my face.

Forever you sister,

Komal

Crash! Sigh! Release!