A picture speaks a thousand words

Shantanu is looking at her picture. She charms in the life-size frame. The frame is nailed on the entrance wall.

It isn’t a close-up. She is visible entirely. Clad in a red and white garchola, Chitra is seated on an old wooden chair. Her sari is embroidered with golden zari, small white beads are woven finely, adorning the border of the chundari.

A dark red bindi resides on the forehead. Her eyebrows, neither thin nor dense are left untouched, uncared. Not a thread has plucked a single hair. Her long braid rests on her shoulder.

The picture, it speaks of a newly wed. It speaks of the change of house. It speaks of entering a new world. Of adjustments, of comforts, of trust, of relationship bound by the word marriage. It speaks of a new beginning, like a stream of water merging with a river, flowing with full vigor; finally submitting itself to the sea. It talks about blending with a new family. A family of kaka and kakis, of mama and mamis, of masa and masis; the picture, it speaks of the new neighbourhood.

The long braid rests on her shoulder. Her one hand twiddles the chains of fresh moghra pinned to her hair. The other clenches the arm of the chair. The bunch of gold and white bangles filter the view of mehndi crafted on her hands. The elephant, the lotus, the peacock, the flamboyantly lettered initial of her husband dwell on the dorsum of her hand. Her eyes lay low; the thick line of kajal rubbed against the eyelid allows itself to be captured in the painting.

The picture, it speaks about her love towards her husband. It speaks of her house, and the wealth it possesses. It speaks of the abundance of jewelry and clothes – not of dowry or rivaz but of love and relationship.

The picture speaks
A thousand sweet nothings

Her sparkling eyes,
Half seen half not*

Her young skin
Against heavy gold

The mangalsutra
The faded haldi

The mithai plattered
The children gathered

The shannai
The pandit
The Pheras
The bidai

Shantanu beholds her picture. She charms in the life-size frame. The frame is nailed on the entrance wall. Little white lilies put together form a half round.

Of whispering leaves
And the lingering drops

Of hovering flies
And the month old pickle

The open umbrellas
Sheltered pedestrians

The scented wind
O’ Wet Soil

The fresh white flowers,
They speak of the midst monsoon