This Marigold Blouse

Standing in the air of Hemant Ritu reminds me of doing so some years ago as a small girl, creating flames with Ajji on the auspicious day of Diwali. Though the memory is welcoming, a warming hug during this cooling month, I am somewhat saddened reflecting on the length of time that has passed since then, and in realising my age, the thought of my last Diwali in our home if I am soon to be married. These thoughts, to my relief, escape me quickly, as I hear the neighbours talk of the abundance of the blessings of Lakshmi to befall the houses alight with divas and draped in marigold garlands, swept and arranged tidily, aligning the energies she would desire to dwell in. The beauty of such preparations is unquestionable, and as I fill the divas by the entrance of our home with oil, I cannot part my gaze from the dancing flame rising and falling as steadily as the chest of someone deep in sleep. It is clear to me that such beauty possessed by the natural gifts of the gods is the only worthy way of inviting them into our homes.

Inhaling a deep breath, I attempt to savour this moment before sighing and retreating to my quarters. It is almost time for Puja. Feeling cleansed from bathing and refreshed from my alfresco dwelling, I begin to comb my hair, though it is no easy feat. My long locks have matted in the outdoor air, my waves tangled and entwined with each other. As I comb, my mind begins to drift off once more into memories of last Diwali, with Ajji’s frail fingers working steadily through my scalp to transform my knots into dark spun silk. Last year was less conversational than those before, yet not silent, as Ajji’s gentle humming filled the stillness of the air. I continue to trace back to some years before, where humming was replaced with stories that stretched vastly across the land and through time. Ajji shared tales of Rama, his heroism, and his love for his dear wife Sita. I envisioned from an early age that if I ever had the love of any man, he would have in him the same moral fibre and all other qualities of Rama. I am sure that is what Ajji had intended too.

Her stories branched out further than our own beliefs and history, to those of our neighbours across the land. She shared the tales heard from others, be it about the young boy she saw scolded at the market for helping himself to a juicy mango at his mother’s expense, or the tales of movements in communities shared to her by distant relatives from further regions, those who rode the rail our way for new earnings. Sprouting from the grounds of Panjab like the crops our neighbours harvest to feed us, the tales of Nanak and his mission of uniting faiths in Oneness and equality were dispersed like seeds of knowledge. Where someone’s Baba from one village would tell his grandchildren of the selfless deeds of seva, and comfort them with knowing that humanity can spread the kindness of langar to all those who may need to be fed, whether royal or a beggar. Ajji imparted her wisdom of other cultures, and reflecting on this now only leads me to believe that the flame within my own mind grows larger, and will last much longer, than those without this knowledge. Understanding the ways of others seems to me as natural as the rain growing all life on the soil of our land.

As the haze of these memories clear, I am drawn back to the present as I feel the now silky texture of my locks. I place my engraved comb on the dresser, and fill my morning lamp with more oil. I use the flame to light the diva I prepared beside it, watching the light both transfer to its next dwelling as well as grow stronger with its original lamp. I am in awe of this phenomenon, how an essence may continue through another life, remaining connected to that before it and still becoming its own being, much like the teachings of Buddha describe the cycle of rebirth. I tear myself away from the beautiful flames and my rippling thoughts to my sari laid out to wrap myself in. The sheen of the silk is lustrous in the light, bringing it a life of its own; the saffron hues of the fabric appear to deepen, then glisten, in a cycle as delicately ferocious as samsara itself, against the flickering light of the flames.

As I reach for the fabric of the sari to begin the intricate process of wrapping and pleating the material to my body, it almost escapes my mind to wear my blouse first. As I lace myself into the silk of this blouse of vibrant marigold, I cannot prevent the reflection on the shift I have faced in becoming a woman. Ajji, however, would tell me of a time where a woman’s body was not doused in the shame of a man’s gaze, when a sari would drape over her bare brown skin. A time before they were constricted by the blouses of the white women, irritable and hot as they are. She questioned the need for such a garment which is only good for burning a woman without a flame. Modesty provides no answer. The thought of Ajji’s riled story sparked my memory. A dream, as clear as I would expect the image of a prophetic vision, had flooded my mind with the lives of my offspring not the night before. My daughter’s navel exposed to an audience of men, marigolds adorn her hair while her skin is both hidden and bare, and the name of the chilli of the new world to describe her.

With the British Raj, our tradition shifts under the introduction of their worldview. Our bodies are not seen as one with the earth beneath our feet, but as things to be adorned for the enjoyment of others, and then to be shamed once enjoyed. These alterations will become the heritage of our land, created for us by others rather than ourselves, imported like the marigold we have adopted in our homes. And so womankind, like the marigold, is to be seen only for its superficial value.

Perhaps Ajji’s frustration carried more than what met the eye.

My mind reaches its threshold as the sun reaches the horizon at sunset, ending the light of day. This marigold blouse now constricts me beyond my mobility. This marigold blouse cages in the nature of a woman, the nature of my land, and the nature of my people.

This blouse is as foreign as the flower adorning my home.