White Clothes

She has been wearing white clothes for decades, and least of all because she is a Hindu widow.

Black was discarded because it revealed the darkest parts of her subconscious. She thought about all the people and events which brought misery to her life, and the non-verbal outpourings from her mind came close to what we call curses. She wouldn’t dare to voice those thoughts ever. But why did those thoughts even occur? Karma paybacks are for everyone, and Divine Justice will take it own course.

The other choice was saffron, but she recoiled from the political connotations the once spiritual colour had acquired over a period of time.

She chose white for its nonchalance, its blankness and the wide scope it offered for new stories to be written. Should the stories be painted in images, or inked in words? She thinks of different formats every day, and then decides that the time is not ripe. Fresher versions will be better. Only if she lives till then to set the stories free from incarceration….

The family often wondered about the sealed envelope at the bottom of her drawer. The maid surprised everyone by informing that the number of envelopes has been increasing. Where does she get those from?

She responded with a rhetorical question.

“Why can’t envelopes procreate and multiply like desires?”

“Ma, what kind of desires can one have at your age?” asked Guruji in silence, when he came for the annual puja rituals.

“Is there an age to desire freedom?”

“Aren’t you already free?”

“I dream of a deconstructed life, where there are no rules and routines. I will start the day on a blank page, and end it with words and images. Is there some other format which can capture all that I think every day, and then delete the thoughts?”

“How do you plan to achieve your goal?”

“I don’t want anyone to open those envelopes as long as I’m alive. They contain waves, winds, clouds, storms, colours of deconstructed art and the venom that spills from spaces between words. They hold silence that occurs between storms; silence that kills every conceivable emotion; silence that acts as a gatekeeper and allows only acceptable thoughts to verbalize.

I’ve lived in those cracks and nobody is remotely interested in that subcutaneous existence. The flawless skins I wear conceal the cracks well.”

The puja usually ended with a meditation session.

Today, it ended with gasps of shock.

“She’s gone. Can anyone have a better platform for death than this?”

The colours of turmeric, sandal and vermilion used in the rituals stained her spotless white clothes – colours flowing into each other to form new ones not seen before.

Guruji silently opened the drawer to find only one envelope – an open one. The birds and all other things she described had flown away.

“May her soul rest in peace…” chant the devotees in the gathering.

“May her soul face, accept and overcome the storms she carried within!” is Guruji’s silent prayer.