Alta In My Palms

3.07.1978. I turned fourteen that year. I imagined myself flying in the cotton candy skies, amidst the clouds floating. That year was the same year I wrote an obituary for my dreams in my diary; my heart shattered into millions of pieces, microscopic in size and they could never be glued together. I was imprisoned. But I committed no crime. Or maybe my birth was one. Before I could flap my wings, they were clipped.

I was draped in the grand red *lehenga, decked up in golden jewellery and my hands were red, with gleaming red glass bangles and *alta. The significance of Alta is that it resembles blood, which is symbolic of fertility and prosperity. I wore a big red *bindi on my forehead to hide my worries. Those red chokers choked my neck. I could feel my throat, losing its voice; no matter how much I scream, it reached the void. My eyes were red with tears, the hall was adorned with red carpets and decorations. I was the talk of the town for that day as I received the accolade every girl of my age would receive: the sacred knot. The sacred knot which tied me into knots that I was unable to come out from. I wore my garland of red flowers, sprinkled with tears and made it look fresher to hide the dead petals of my heart. The holy mantras were chanted, the ritual fire was lit, the knot was tied, the drums were beating, the trumpets of joy were blowing, tears of joy were wept among families and we became the match made in heaven. He applied *sindoor on my forehead, red again. He was twenty four and he worked in a construction site, carrying bricks over his head. My eyes looked at my legs, red with alta as it is disrespectful for your eyes to shine in confidence. Women have to be the servile daughter, wife, daughter-in-law and mother. I remember my mother’s words as I left home:”Sacrifice. Marriage is all about sacrifices. We, women have to make many.” It was that day I lost joy, freedom, dreams and most importantly, me.

I looked up to see the sky I wished to own to see the leaky roof. I sat on the cold and dusty floor, pressing my in-laws’ feet; the very feet which kicked me. I swept floors, mopped them, cooked food in the *chulha, got whacked by my husband and in-laws and do I sleep? My pillows are drenched with tears, my dreams became nightmares, my body cried in pain and agony as it counted every slap. With every slap, my dignity slipped, gradually I forgot what it meant. My husband smelt of alcohol, showered “praises” devoid of love and care and used me to satisfy his insatiable lust. Yet I couldn’t raise my voice against this noise; my silence crumbled me.

I was fifteen, 1979- I bore my next burden; a baby. I knew I wasn’t ready, but nobody asks for your consent. My in-laws demanded for a son, the bread winner, the champion of the human race. A daughter is a curse so is the one who bears her. 1980: she was born. I gave her a name. *Asha. It meant hope. I made up my mind to sacrifice once again for her to live her dreams. I didn’t want her to be me. I wanted her to fly and see skies and not leaking roofs. I wished to set her free from the cages of stereotype. Finally I had life beyond those four walls of hell. But having a dream is a crime. Killing it is the norm. Again, I land in the place of shattered hopes and dreams. Again, my body was devoid of life.

They killed Asha; what’s the purpose of existence? She was seen as a curse. But she was my light. She became one among the many daughters whose statistics decorate the newspaper. Female infanticide. I lost a chance to learn about it in school. Now life taught me. I wanted to see Asha, carry her in my arms, protect her and give her wings to fly. But I knew this world would crush Asha and how can there be happiness and light if Asha is crumbled? I had a dream once again.

Now I stood with my hands red again, not with alta but blood. I remembered the red bangles gleaming as tears were streaming. This time blood dripped from the kitchen knife, which chopped onions and tomatoes for my family. I stabbed them with the same. I watched them scream in pain and it brought joy to a venegeful heart, craving for pain to those who slaughtered Asha. My heart was dancing in delight but that satisfaction lasted a few minutes.

Soon, the epiphany hit. The world moulded a soft cotton heart into iron. No, I don’t have a heart. I lost it. I cried in dismay. Asha is gone. I thought I destroyed the demons. But no. There are many more ghouls in this world, and many more Ashas in their clutches. Death seemed less painful than bearing the burden of the curse. I wiped my tears for the last time. I popped in 1,2,3,4,5 and slowly closed my eyes, praying to meet Asha in a place where we can fly. 

*Lehenga- a full ankle-length skirt worn by Indian women, usually on formal or ceremonial occasions.

*Alta- a bright red dye or liquid color used to adorn palms and feet in simple patterns.

*Bindi- a coloured dot worn on the center of the forehead.

*Sindoor- a traditional vermilion red or orange-red colored cosmetic powder worn by married women along the part of their hair.

*Chulha- a small earthen or brick stove.

*Asha- is used symbolically suggest her longing for hope and light.