Mother Escapes Re-Marriage – Part 2

This is the second and final part of a two-part story. You can read the first part here.

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We are in Grandpa’s SUV. Puvanath is known and receives tourists from throughout the country, but it just so happens to be a two-hour drive away from Leelapur.

Grandpa is driving, Rajat is sitting on shotgun, Grandma and Mother sit in the middle, and I am alone in the back. I have my headphones on and my phone is playing my road trip playlist, but the lyrics do not reach my ears as I’m focused on Mother’s hair.

She has her hair up in a bun, and a big bun it is. It is something that I see everyday, and so I never appreciate its sheer thickness and length as much as I ought to. Sinners come to Puvanath to repent, and part of repenting for your sins is cutting your hair, with the length cut proportional to the severity of sin committed. Adultery is considered a grave sin in the scriptures, so it is amazing to me that no one else in the car has so much as mentioned anything about what our visit could mean for Mother’s hair.

There is something odd about seeing her like this, all dolled up for a deeply traditional ritual at a temple, powerless, docile, and with a complete lack of agency. Growing up, I’ve always known Mother to be a strong and independent woman. Mother would take Rajat and I anywhere in the city as per our wishes, when Father was toiling away at work. She had hobbies, she had friends, and she hung out with people without a care for how she’d be judged. The past week has been wild, and I never thought I’d see Mother in the state she is in, reluctantly accepting to be married off to some old man against her will.

I shouldn’t feel this way, yet along with remorse and worry, I feel certain sensations on seeing Mother’s hair, sitting helplessly in its bun, at the mercy of Grandpa and Grandma and the priests at Puvanath. I close my eyes, and fall asleep, a scene unfolding in my mind of Mother sitting at the altar, head bowed down, all of her hair tied ready to be given away.

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Our car enters the temple campus gates, but we do not head for the main temple first, as first we have to check-in. A visit to Puvanath is not a one-day affair, and we will be staying the night at their lodge facilities before heading back to Leelapur tomorrow for Mother’s marriage. Three rooms were booked – one for Grandpa and Grandma, one for Rajat, and one for Mother and me.

In the lodge, Mother and I found ourselves alone together for the first time since we left Delhi. There was so much I wanted to talk to her about, but she still seemed distant, and did not once acknowledge my presence. I wanted to ask her how she felt, but I doubt she even recognizes me as her son anymore. We left our luggage, and regrouped with the others before heading to the temple.

The temple was crowded, and the queue that led inside extended long outside. It would have likely been at least another hour of waiting, had Mr. Ramchand not arranged special passes for us to enter. It sure is an easy life to live, as a rich man in India. Arranging passes into temples, arranging deals with politicians, arranging your very own marriage just a day prior without notice. We enter the main hall of the temple, and I’m amazed by what I see.

Seated on the floor are rows of people. At each spot in a row, is a person seated on a slightly raised wooden seat, and another in front of them. The people on the raised seats adorn traditional clothing, and are giving the person in front of them the ritual cleansing. In particular, the shaving of heads.

There is a plethora of hair on the floor, concentrated in the gaps where the shaving occurs, but spread sparsely across the floor space around. Standing up are a sea of bald heads, each having likely finished their own turn on the floor. I’ve never seen this many bald people and also so much hair in my life.

I glance at Mother, and notice a subtle change in her expression. Her face is still for the most part stoic, but there is a hint that she understands where she is and what may come of it. However, I find it hard to read what is exactly going on in her mind.

We drift through the rows of shavings, Grandpa in the lead. We reach a man on the seat with no one in front of him. He looks to be on the younger end of the practitioners here, with his appearance suggesting he is about the same age as Mother. The expression on his face suggests that he was expecting us.

Grandpa leads. “Hello, we are the Kashyaps. We are here on the recommendation of Mr. Ramchand.”

The man smiles. “I was waiting for you,” he says. He turns to Mother. “Are you Anjali, the bride?”

Mother nods. I’m not sure if I’m seeing this correctly, but her cheeks are flushed red.

“Have a seat.”

Mother lifts her dress and settles down in front of the man. My mind is in a frenzy. Is it really happening?

“What sin have you committed? Mr. Ramchand has told me already, but I’d prefer hearing the story directly from you.”

Mother clears her throat. “I…” she starts, in a feeble voice. “I am, er was, married, and I betrayed my husband by… having sexual relations with another man.”

The man scratches his chin. “I see. How do you feel about it now?”

“I feel terrible about it. I want to repair my marriage. My husband was a good man, my sons are good children, and I… feel guilty that they now bear the consequences of my actions.”

“That is good to hear, Anjali. I’m no psychologist, but you seem to be sincerely regretful about your actions.”

Grandpa hastily interjects. “My daughter is a very good girl, and she has always believed in the One and his teachings. What she has done is a grave error, on her part, and she understands that. But she is getting married tomorrow, and so we would appreciate if there was no ritual as a part of her cleansing that involved irreversible changes to her physical appearance-“

The man raises a hand to Grandpa. “Silence. Mr. Ramchand has explained the circumstances to me. Now, let me be clear, what your daughter has done is a grave sin, no matter how she feels about it now.”

All of us have our eyes trained on the man, in anticipation of his passing of judgement.

“But, that said,” he continues, “given the circumstances, Anjali is excused from any cleansing ritual of a more… persistent nature. The bath will suffice.

Grandpa and Grandma clasp their hands, as if to show how much they value the forgiveness offered by the man.

“But, someone would have to still undergo the ritual on her behalf, and the rituals have helped me determine who the ideal candidate for this is.”

“Who?” asks Grandma.

The man points to me. “Him.”

I freeze. Rajat, Grandma, and Grandpa turn to me. Mother gets up and moves to the side, but does not look at me.

I chuckle. “Me?”

“Yes, you. Take a seat.”

I look at Mother, hoping she would say something. Something about what is going on. About how this is wrong. But she does not meet my eyes.

I know this is wrong. I cannot be made to undergo a ritual for the sins committed by another, even if the person is Mother. I will myself to refuse, but just like in the train on the way here, with the stranger who was staring at Mother, I do not have the guts to question what is happening. My body moves forward, and I sit down in front of the man. I keep my eyes bowed down.

“What is your name, young man?” asks the man.

“My name is Divya.”

“You have a nice name, Divya,” he replies. “Your hair is quite long for a boy. Why did you decide to grow it?”

“I… like my hair long.”

“I see. If, suppose, I gave you a choice. To keep your hair long. Would you take it?”

I glance up at the man, a little surprised. I know my answer, but I wonder if it is the right one. But I conclude that there’s nothing wrong in honesty.

“I… would.”

”Okay. You know what? Maybe we don’t have to cut all your hair. But, the ponytail will have to go.”

I love my ponytail – my thick, lush ponytail – but it seems like I have no choice. This is as good as a deal I’m going to get. I nod, “I understand.”

“Good, turn around, and we can begin.”

I turn around, and the man wastes no time. He begins by drenching my hair wet with holy water. My ponytail, which is usually a fluffy presence behind my back, now feels like a cold liability, a think mop that sits meekly against my tee. Grandpa and Grandma watch, Rajat takes a video with his camera, and Mother has her eyes fixed on the floor, as the man scissors through my ponytail.

“And… done. Get up, boy.”

There is a sudden lightness in my head. I shake my head around, and my hair that was only just tied back now gathers around my shoulders. I run my fingers through my hair, and find it odd that it now ends at my shoulders. I get up, and watch as the man ties my glorious shorn ponytail up and puts it in a cover. It is tempting to reach out for it, to feel my ponytail one last time, but it is too late.

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The rest of the day is spent in the lodge. I am alone in the room, as Mother still had to undergo the remaining cleansing rituals, the ones that my sacrifice did not excuse her from, and the ones that would not leave as permanent a mark on her as the shearing of my hair did.

I play around with my new haircut. It looked quite plain in its initial state, but with some brushing, I succeeded in adding some movement. I’ve always considered male hairstyles to be quite boring, so I consider what I could further do on getting back home to Delhi. A bob, or maybe some bangs? Suddenly, the whole ordeal doesn’t seem so bad. Until it dawned on me that there is a chance that we do not go back to Delhi at all.

Mother’s marriage. I might have saved her from cutting her hair, but she was still to be married off tomorrow. Mr. Ramchand lives here. What is the plan for after marriage? Are we to move here to join him? The mere thought of having to spend the rest of my life here is scary.

Mother arrives in the night. I hoped that she’d at least now acknowledge my presence, acknowledge what I had gone through for her, but she still does not say a word. The uncertainty about tomorrow, and the lack of clarity, is starting to get on my nerves. All this would have never happened, if Mother was only a little bit more vocal about what she wanted.

I get up from my bed, and walk to her.

“Mother,” I say in a stern voice, “are you aware of what is going on?”

Mother glances up, and there is a smidge, just a smidge, of a change in her expression.

“What do you mean?”

I sigh. I do not know how to say it. “You… you’re getting married tomorrow. You do know that, right?”

Mother frowns. “Yes, I do.”

I remember what Rajat said, as we waited for Mr. Ramchand to arrive earlier today. About how maybe re-marriage is what Mother wants.

“Is that… what you want?” I ask.

Mother goes silent. Her expression is, like many times before today, hard to read. She does not speak a word for a while.

“Yes. Mr. Ramchand is a nice man and I… look forward to marrying him.”

”Okay.”

I shut my thought and go to sleep. I wait for Mother to join me, but she stays awake for a long time. A part of me wants her to just come and lay beside me, so that I can hug her and tell her how much I love her. But another part wonders if maybe with the divorce, a part of Mother, the part that I loved, has irreversibly died.

There is a brief moment in the night when I awake to what sounds like the sobbing. But after a long day, I’m too exhausted to make more sense of what is happening, and I return to sleep.

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“Divya, wake up.”

It is the sound I first hear when I awake. A familiar voice, one that I hadn’t heard for a while. The lights in the room are on, and my eyes, which are still half-asleep, burn. I turn to the side, and the table-clock says that it is 4 AM.

Mother comes into view, and shakes my chest.

“Divya, we need to hurry, we do not have much time.”

It is the voice that Mother had left in Delhi.

I get up, confused. We were supposed to start for Leelapur in the noon, and so it is odd that she is waking me up, because there is plenty more time to sleep.

”Mother… what is going on?”

Realizing that she has no other choice but to explain, she stops in her tracks and comes over to me.

“Divya, I’ve made my mind.”

”Made your mind about what?”

“About the marriage. I will not be marrying Mr. Ramchand, against my will.”

I gasp. “Wait, really?”

“Yes.”

“But… how? Isn’t it too late for that? The marriage is today!”

“That is correct. Which is why I need you to get ready quickly. I’ll explain more soon.”

I do not waste any more time. I go to the bathroom and shower. Mother’s newfound energy is invigorating. After yesterday’s conversation, I thought that there was no saving Mother and that she is a lost case, but apparently I was wrong.

By the time I’m out, Mother has changed clothes and has readier herself. She wears a simple light blue kurti, a matching dupatta around her neck, and a bindhi between her kajal-lined eyes. Her hair is loose and falls around her like a curtain. She is dressed like any other devotee in this temple, yet her features make her look incredibly stunning.

The Mother I have always known and love is back.

“I have packed, what I hope are all your essentials, in this duffel bag. We can leave the rest here.”

“Okay… where are we going?”

“Follow me.”

We get out of the room, and with care, Mother locks the door. The other two rooms, the ones where Grandpa, Grandma, and Rajat sleep, are adjacent to ours, and so we skirt past quietly, hoping to not make a sound. Even though it is unlikely that any of them are awake at this hour.

I thought that we would be heading for the exit, but instead we take another path. The path that we take looks familiar, but I do not recognize it until we almost reach our supposed destination.

I grab Mother’s hand.

“Why are we going to the main temple?” I ask.

Mother smiles. “To do something that would, beyond doubt, cancel the wedding.”

“And what is that?”

Mother does not answer. She simply stands still, and blushes.

I gasp when it hits me. “No way.”

“But there is no other choice.”

”But… you love your hair, right?”

“I do, but also, I think I’m long overdue for a change. Now let’s hurry.”

Mother runs ahead, her hair flapping behind her, and I do my best to keep my pace up.

The temple is now much less crowded than it was when we visited yesterday in the evening, yet, there are more people than I thought there would be. Mother weaves past the thinner crowd organized in rows, towards the edge of the hall, where there is a huge basin with taps. Most of the people in the area are men, using the taps to wet their hair for their shave. Mother takes off her slippers, and crouches beneath one of those taps. But instead of turning the tap on, she looks at me.

“Divya, I want you to wash my hair.”

I look around. Some of the men waiting in line for their own turn are staring at Mother and I, presumably wanting us to hurry. I take off my own shoes and enter the washing area, standing behind Mother.

“Why?”

“This is my last day with my long hair and I… want it to be special.”

I place my hand on the tap, but do not turn it. Even if this is just a wash, turning the tap on feels like an irreversible action. It is a simple action, yet it feels heavy. As if Mother has entrusted me to do something deeply intimate.

I slowly turn the tap, and watch as the first droplets fall onto Mother’s scalp. She twitches when the first drops fall, but slowly begins to ease into it. I turn the tap further, and water comes rushing faster.

“Massage my head,” Mother does not ask, but commands.

I let the running tap be, and gently position my hands on either side of Mother’s scalp. Her hair is soft, but it feels especially softer now, and smoother too in its wet state. Over the course of growing my hair, Mother has touched it so many times to care for it, but this is the first time I’m touching her hair. She moves her head around, beckoning me to cover different parts of her head.

“Divya… I’m sorry.”

“Sorry about what?”

“For not intervening. When you were asked to cut your hair on my behalf.”

I go silent. I understand that Mother wasn’t in an okay state of mind at the time, but the topic is touchy because I do sorely miss my hair.

“For what it is worth, I really think the shoulder-length cut suits you.”

“Really?”

Mother nods. “Yes, it does. When we go back home, I can maybe style it better, give you some bangs.”

”You will not believe this, but I was thinking the same thing.”

Mother chuckles. “I’m not surprised. We are similar.”

It is refreshing to see Mother’s carefree attitude again. She has been under the clutches of Grandma and Grandpa ever since we left Delhi, but she has won her battle, and at just the right time. Still, it probably pains her to have to give her hair up.

“I think you’ll look great with a shaved head.”

This time, Mother turns towards me. It is evident from her eyes that she was tearing up. I gently wipe the tears from her face. She smiles.

At this moment, she looks more beautiful than she did yesterday when she was readied up for Mr. Ramchand. She looks truly like her own self now.

I take her hand, and we head towards the rows of practitioners and people undergoing the shaving. Most of the seats are occupied, but incidentally, there is just one seat that is empty, and it was the one where I had my ponytail chopped yesterday. At the spot is the same man, and he looks confused on seeing us.

“Hi… you’re Anjali and Divya, right? From the Kashyap family?”

“Yes, that is correct,” says Mother.

“What are you here for?”

“I’d… like to give away my hair.”

The man’s eyes widen in surprise. “But, isn’t today… your wedding?”

“If thins go as per schedule, yet, it would be.”

“Are things not going to schedule, then?”

Mother smiles. “Perhaps not.”

“Intriguing,” says the man. “May I ask what changed your mind? Why are you donating your hair?”

“Well,” says Mother. “I could lie and pretend that I’m doing this to atone for my sins, to cleanse myself, or for any other noble cause of a religious nature. But that is not it. I’m doing this for a noble cause, yes, but a different one. The noble cause of doing this for my own good, and for those around me,” Mother glances at me. “So, unless this isn’t a good enough reason, let us get going with this.”

The man smiles. “I appreciate the honesty. Please sit.”

Mother adjusts her kurti, and sits on the floor. She bows her head down, but it does not look like an act of surrender. Her hair, which is wet, falls in a curtain around her, into her lap.

The man partitions Mother’s hair with her hands, first drawing a straight line down the middle of her hair starting from the nape and moving towards the scalp, and then tying them into two pigtails, each secured with a rubber tie. A small crowd begins to gather around me. There are murmurs, people wondering what sin Mother has committed to be shaving her beautiful hair, but I pay no mind to it.

“Anjali,” the man says, “I must ask this before I begin, are you sure about this?”

Mother does not hesitate. “I’m one hundred percent sure.”

“Then let us begin.”

The man pulls out the ceremonial blade. It bears the marks that it has already been used many times before, yet it looks as sharp as a new blade. The man places the blade at Mother’s forehead, and she tenses. Her hand reaches out backward, and I take it. I remember how difficult this is for Mother, no matter the fact that she has chosen to do this. The man pushes the blade forward, and the first strands of hair are shorn, leaving behind a patch of smooth scalp in its wake.

There is generally a mechanical quality to which these practitioners shave people’s head, because no matter how intimate this event is to the receiving person, this is the practitioner’s job, and they do this many times seven days a week. Yet, the man moves his blade with a delicateness that is unusually seen in these shavings. He takes his time, moving the blade with care, and with each stroke the bald patch on Mother’s head grows, and the pigtails become heavier and fall closer to the ground.

When the pigtails are close to being completely separated from Mother’s head, I consider leaning in and holding them by the ends. But in the end I just let them be, and almost symbolically, with the last stroke of the blade, the two tied masses of hair fall down Mother’s shoulders and into her lap. Mother gets up, and the pigtails roll off her kurti and onto the floor on which she sat, joining the hair of many others that had come here the previous day but whose hair is yet to be swept away.

Mother runs her hand across her pate. I stare at her in awe. She looks remarkably different, because her long hair had served as a central part of her appearance. Without her hair, her head might be indistinguishable at first glance from the heads of the many, mostly men, who have just also shorn their hair, yet as a whole, there is still a femininity about her appearance, although it is a different one. She turns towards me, her face with a smidge of uncertain expression splayed across it.

“Divya, how do I look?”

“You look gorgeous as ever, Mother.”

Seemingly satisfied, Mother relaxes and smiles. Smiles not just because of my validation of her new appearance, but also because the deed is done.

Mother has escaped re-marriage.

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