Growth...

I am fifteen and she is twenty six. We are third cousins, curiously separated by decades of mundanities. It is her wedding day. She sits in her dressing room, strangely nervous, hidden in a bundle of silk saree, jewels, flowers and tears in the corner of her eyes. Her head is bowed and she is nervously playing with her fingers. She looks up. I am transfixed by her face - hair pulled back tightly, heavily decked with jewels, flowers and hairpins holding them in place, the red pottu at the confluence of her brows and a made up face. We are alone and there is a feeling of kinship - a bond that springs from the silence of understanding.

She speaks very softly and as she does, she tries to straighten her mouth that inevitably pouts, corners inverted. She is about to cry. "I don't know," is all she says. I still remain silent and she continues after a long pause. "I wonder why one gets married." For four years, she has been in the marriage market, her parents trying to find a suitable groom, one whose horoscope matched with her own complicated one. Finally they had been successful. But she is left clueless and agitated. "Is life such a struggle?"

Six years later, the sun is setting on a Friday evening. On our way back home, after feasting our eyes on colours and clothes, Periamma [aunt] spots the couple on the other side of the road. They are walking languidly as though they have all the time in the world.

The breeze takes the form of a chiffon dupatta in maroon and white, when it gently touches her. We call out to them. Exclamations on happy coincidences and a short walk later, we are at home, sitting and talking, reminiscing. The intimacy between the husband and wife is not one that alienates others, but one that engulfs and gentle pulls the third person into the company. It is a new experience for me. The talk turns to the tryst in the dressing room. Her husband is pleasantly surprised. "Really?" he asks wearing an indulgent smile. "You were nervous." It is a matter of fact statement, underscoring the thoughts they had already shared long ago. Their eyes meet and there is a deep communication that is unhurried and full of understanding. A small smile lights her face.

Periamma brings buttermilk in a huge vessel. She pours it out in four large glasses and hands it out to us. There is still some left in the vessel. He drinks from his glass and exclaims, "Ah this is life. Buttermilk served with a smiling face and a loving hand." He looks like a man who is throughly enjoying the moment - the evening, the conversation, the walk, his wife and of course the buttermilk. We talk of meditation and healing. What could have easily been a monologue turns effortlessly into a lively conversation because he is a good listener. I notice that she has quietly left the room. A few minutes later she returns with a half filled glass of buttermilk - the portion that was left over. As he continues talking, she takes his hand and gently places glass on his palm. "You said you liked it. Have some more." She gently urges him without interrupting the flow of talk. After some time, they take leave of us.

They would walk slowly back home. Maybe they would stop on the way to buy vegetables for dinner. I sit quietly watching the curtains dance with the breeze, enjoying the quiet harmony that fills this small room...