Shyama and Shanta

 

The Qabailis had been driven from the Valley and life had started to limp back to normal, yet a feeling of unease persisted. The atrocities of the Qabailis were on people’s minds and had adversely effected  their psyche. Anxiety about the safety of their women, especially unwed women and young girls, was felt keenly in the Kashmiri Pandit community. They were forbidden from leaving their homes, or to wear jewellery. Many Kashmiri Pandit weddings were solemnised hurriedly that late autumn.

 

Aunt Prabha and Uncle Vesheshwar Nath withdrew Shyama and Shanta from school. They now spent their time learning to embroider and performing domestic chores. This disappointed them greatly. Shanta would flip through my books, but both sisters were essentially wasting their time. Then, almost indifferent to what Shyama and Shanta either desired or were prepared for, their parents decided to get them married at the earliest opportunity. These events of my boyhood are worth retelling.

 

The search for suitable grooms began in earnest. Word was sent round and astrological birth charts invited. The collection of trousseau started. Much was needed: a few pieces of gold jewelry, shawls and saris, clothes for the grooms and their close relations, kitchen utensils and kalvallun (head coverings) for the bride. The kalvallun consisted of the kalposh (a skull cap with a brocade top and a Pashmina rim), the zoouge (a netted white fabric with a silk border), and the pooche (a length of muslin, reaching from the head to ankles). Procuring these articles was neither easy nor inexpensive. Though the kalvallun formed a key part of a dowry, no Kashmiri Pandit dealt in the trade as it attracted certain social stigma. Only a few Kashmiri Muslims worked this trade.

 

Qadir Khan was our favourite kalvallun dealer. He was an elderly man with a tall frame and a cheerful face with a hooked nose that seemed slightly bent to me. He carried a bulky cloth bundle over his shoulder, and went from house to house hawking his wares. He came by often, squatted effortlessly in our woet, unwrapped his bundle nimbly, and let the ladies examine the items. Sometimes, he left items behind for further scrutiny.

 

One day, Qadir Khan came to collect payment. Finding me in the courtyard, he tugged at my sleeve. He wanted me to look discreetly for Aunt Prabha. Feeling important and wanting to help, I raced from the courtyard into the house and back out yelling, “Prabha, Prabha! Qadir Khan is here.” Hearing my shouts, Qadir Khan did not wait any longer. He quietly walked away. Aunt Prabha arrived soon after. Finding Qadir Khan gone, she said, “He understands our situation. He is so discreet.” However, she scolded me for shouting her name in the presence of the elders.

 

Soon, suitable grooms were chosen and the wedding date was set. The ceremonies were completed quickly. The idea was to keep the functions brief, but the mainz raath (a wedding ritual) was special. Music and merriment were important.

 

“Mainz Raath is a night of rejoicing,” Aunt Sati remonstrated.

“I will not curtail it. My nieces are getting married,” she emphasised.

 

All the relatives assembled for the night. Dinner over, Shyama and Shanta were ushered into the kainee with great affection, and seated on a raised platform. While the elderly ladies invoked blessings with traditional hymns, Aunt Sati lovingly washed Shayma’s and Shanta’s feet and hands. She then applied henna to the soles of their feet and drew patterns of flowers on their palms. Ladies sang to the beat of the tumbakhnaer (folk drum of Kashmir). The Gindhangur (troupe of performers), attired in colourful costumes, entertained the audience. They sang:

 

“Malee Malee Saaban, Hai Dhobh Baiyee,

(Lather ye clothes, O Washerwomen,)

Choin, Choin Babaji Hai Aao,

(The Babaji with the clanging bells has arrived,)

Wah, Wah, Mamatoth Hai Aao.”

(Hail the maternal uncle, he has arrived.)

The revelry continued into the early hours of the morning.

 

The harassed looks of Shyama and Shanta on devgon (a ceremony performed on the eve of the wedding day) upset me. First, they were given an oil massage. Then a yellowish paste of curds mixed with chickpea flour was rubbed on their faces, and then they were given a bath. Later, they were helped wear bright silk saris and put on jewellery. The priest lit the fire and recited prayers, while relatives hugged them and wished them a happy married life. How prepared Shyama and Shanta were for the married life we did not know.

 

My cousins’ leaving home, was not easy for me. We had grown up together under the same roof, played sazze loung in our courtyard, and studied together, often with the same tutors. Shyama was one year older than me, and Shanta a year younger. Shanta was intelligent. She was keen on her studies and would have excelled had she been allowed to attend school. I could hardly bear to see them attired as brides, saris drawn over their heads and veiling their beautiful faces, walking tamely behind their husbands.

 

During the first year of their marriage, I visited Shyama and Shanta in their new homes several times, on occasions such as the birthday of their husbands, of their in-laws, and on important festivals. I had to learn the involuted arithmetic of teth (a standard on which the quantum of gifts from a bride’s family to her in-laws was based). A higher teth indicated better economic status of a family. Our family adopted a teth of Rupees twenty. In practical terms, this meant payment of a cash gift of half the teth. On these visits, I also had to first present atgath (cash gift) to the bride’s mother-in-law on behalf of the bride. The social code of the day was that a bride gave her in-laws some cash, every time she returned from her parents’ home during the first year of marriage. Mother, Aunt Prabha, Aunt Sati and Arundati, discussed and approved the quantum of in-kind gifts for the in-laws, for important relatives, even for the grooms’ maternal grand­parents.

 

“I have to deck-up two horses,” Aunt Prabha emphasised implying that she had to procure gifts for her two daughters. She repeatedly reminded me to be polite to the in-laws’ and ask their forgiveness for any lapse on our part.

 

The gifts did not remain private for long. They were displayed and announced to the relatives, soon after they were quietly presented. My self-esteem was never as low as when I visited my cousins’ in-laws. Mercifully the words I was supposed to say were never needed. Eager as they were to receive the gifts, the grooms’ mothers were grateful. “This is more than enough,” they reassured me. Perhaps, they were being honest. This helped me regain comport.

 

Being the younger brother of a bride teaches one many lessons in humility, but it has some advantages too. During my visits to Shyama and Shanta’s in-laws I was invariably offered milk, flavoured with almonds and cardamoms, and puris. They also returned a small portion of the cash gift. Once back home, Aunt Prabha would impatiently enquire as to what transpired at the in-laws’, about their reactions to the gifts and whether they were pleased. I was supposed to read their minds. Feeling reassured, Prabha would say, “They are good people. They know our limitations. Who would not like to give a piece of her heart to her child?”

 

As the months went by, I saw Shyama and Shanta transform from blithe girls into somber ladies, trying eagerly to please their in-laws. My distance with them widened as our path diverged. I continued with my studies. They became housewives with children, yet were hardly out of their teens.