
The Priest’s Daughter
“Pavithraaa!” She woke with a start, cursing loudly. Shaking out her glossy black hair, she tied it neatly into a tight bun as the bangles on her hand jingled. She cursed again with an eerie relish. Surrounded by a phony sacredness day and night, it was her small petty victory. She quickly fell into the rhythm of her chores, sweeping the verandah and washing the silver plates and accessories that her father, and hundreds of other devotees, used for worship daily. She was not one of them. The daily rituals enraged her by their hypocrisy. The money donated to the temple by the goodwill of thousands, found its way to her father’s pocket, never to be seen again. The sight of the beggars and their naked children sitting at the door of the temple sickened her.
The morning was pleasantly breezy; the sun a bit too drowsy. The roots of her hair on the left side of her head still throbbed; yesterday’s quarrel with her father had been particularly vicious. It had been the first day of her menstrual cycle. She had absent-mindedly entered the shrine to clean the idols, forgetting for a moment, her said “impurity” on such days. Her father laboriously kept a log of her dates. His eyes bulging, his voice roaring, he had pulled her out ruthlessly and an ugly spat had followed. Shouting matches and thrown insults were common between them. His foul temper coupled with her refusal to accept his way of life resulted in fiery fights, from which Pavithra rarely emerged unscathed. “Pavithra” — she scoffed at her name, ridiculing the irony of her father giving her a name that literally translated as “pure”. Having lived in a temple for 20 years, with a priest as a father, her life had been startlingly defiled and narrowly confined within the adorned walls.
Her village neighbored a bustling city, which widened into a major port and ended with the vast emptiness of the sea. As a result, illegal smuggling of goods was a mushrooming trait. There was a small group of youths in the village who had lately been swept away by this tide. Unsolved robberies plagued the village. Pavithra knew about these crimes. She also knew who was behind them. She did not know his name, but he was the mastermind and the leader of the gangly youths.
She had seen him on the street, walking with a careless grace and an air of nonchalance. She had felt her pulse quicken as she stared shamelessly at his well- toned arms and roughened palms, his broad shoulders and nascent beard. He had whipped around suddenly, catching her stares with his own, and she had raised her head slightly in defiance, raising her eyebrows unflinchingly. A shadow of a smile had played around his lips.
Standing on the terrace, she saw him again today. She noticed a subtle difference in his manner, mellowness in his walk. He looked towards her with a sudden undisguised flash of yearning, his eyes tortured and searching. She wondered what could have happened, wishing she could comfort him. She had overheard him on the previous night discussing about his upcoming thievery with his fellow bandits. His rich, throaty voice had driven her closer until the name of her father had stopped her in her tracks. Intrigued, she eavesdropped on how they planned to rob their temple of its oldest idol, a gold-plated priceless figurine.
Coming back to the present with a jolt, she realized what she must do. Grabbing her dupatta and quickly covering her head, she crept silently towards the temple. Her father was nowhere to be seen. She was familiar with the idol in question; she made it shine every morning. She reached the shrine, took a deep breath and stepped in. Snatching the dirty cleaning rag, she carefully wrapped the heavy idol in it. And she ran. Her skirt swirled around her ankles; the dupatta flew off her head. Her bare feet skimmed over the pebbled street. She found him sitting on a broken log, his back turned towards her. She placed the idol beside him and took a step back, out of breath and beaming.
Sensing movement, he turned around slowly. His face was awash with tears. Blinking furiously, he looked in surprise at the package lying on the ground. He picked it up and unwrapped it. When he saw what it was, he froze. His eyes widened in terror, and he dropped the idol as though it were cursed. Numb with shock, he looked up. Pavithra was standing there, radiating pride and waiting for the moment when he would praise her and take her in his arms.
He looked right through her as if he didn’t see her. His face was white with fear and he was gasping for air. He stumbled a few steps back, gave one last horrified look at the idol and shot off like a bullet. Pavithra watched him, perplexed, begging for an explanation.
And she remembered. Last night. Her eavesdropping. Her reckless attempt at the robbery in the middle of the night. Her father, catching her red-handed. His face, purple with rage. Her screams of pain, unheard and in vain. Her desperation to escape. The chase, that led them to the terrace. The wrath in his voice, the hatred on his face. The violent shove, the slip and the fall. A flailing of hands, a glimpse of the midnight blue sky. A loud thud, the cracking open of the left side of her skull. A blinding white light and silence.
She slowly touched the left side of her head. Feeling the dull throbbing, she screamed in disbelief. A group of old women passed her, talking in hushed whispers about the suicide of a young girl who lived in the temple. “It was not a suicide! Please, look at me, I am right here”, she desperately sobbed after them. They walked away.
After a moment, she stopped pleading. She stopped crying. She looked down at herself, at the ghostly light outlining her body. Her helplessness disappeared. Replaced by a silent rage, she shone brighter and glided away in search of her father.
