The Arranged Marriage — A Play in Several Acts — Prelude
Let the stage be set, as we introduce a humble home, where the story of our play shall take flight.
Make your way down a sylvian street, where, as ever, gentle winds undulate, laden with the fragrance of jasmine and filter coffee unique to the interiors of a South Indian city, especially, the interiors of a close-knit housing community of government employees, most of them retired. A brick home, no less a character than any other in this play, stands in dignified repose.
Within these walls reside five of the key players of an imminent marital union, their hearts, paws, and hands entwined like the threads of a loom.
Enter, through the road lined with flowering trees, and move ahead towards a main door flanked by bougainvilleas. A small mosaic-paved foyer is immediately inside, where footwear is neatly arranged in an alcove rack. The main door is crowned with a wide reel of woven paddy and neem leaves, sitting beneath a small, weather-worn photo of the God Ganesha. There is a small garden just near the door we spoke of, overflowing with trampled mustard greens.
Let us not ring the doorbell and disturb their routine — we shall take a peek through the window, instead. Also, the sound of the doorbell or the phone greatly upsets our heroine - just letting the reader know, even though she’s not here yet. Anxiety, you see.
Through one of the large windows facing the road with their shutters open, evening sunlight filters, casting golden hues upon the worn terrazzo floors. The inside walls are a pale blue with seepage making patchwork on them. In a small corner of the living room is a small open cupboard with Hindu Gods and Goddesses venerated in various forms — laminates, idols, picture frames, wood carvings. From our vantage point, we see that Savitri, the matriarch, is busy with the evening rituals at the cupboard (mandir, henceforth). Her voice is soft as a lullaby as she chants the 1000 names of God Vishnu, and lights the oil lamps, finally prostrating herself in that cramped space. As she gets up, it seems like she carries the weight of several generations on her thickset shoulders, though her face is kind, and exudes wisdom and grace. She moves with a quiet strength, her hands engaged in the dance of domestic duties. She wears a floral nightgown, and has a small dab of sandal paste and vermillion on her forehead. Her hair is tied in a neat bun, and a strand of jasmine goes around it. To the uninitiated, let it be known, this is the unofficial national uniform of middle-aged married Indian women.
The dhoti-clad patriarch of this home, Shankaranarayanan (prefers being referred to by his full name, but we’ll call him Shankar for the sake of sanity), is perusing the newspaper with a frown, tall legs stretched out on the sofa. His deep-set eyes reflect the struggles the family has faced and overcome, a testament to his unwavering determination to give them the best of everything. Now retired, he toils in their five square feet garden to grow organic vegetables, stubbornly ironing his checked shirts everyday just like he used to when he was employed at the soap factory. This gardening is a task made exceedingly difficult by the resident canine Karuppa, currently harassing Savitri for dosa; he has made it his life’s mission to lift his leg at any plant taller than a few centimeters.
The couple is obviously weighed down by some yet-unspoken trouble. As evening turns to dusk and dusk turns to night, the children of the house arrive one by one. Each of them is welcomed by Karuppa’s booming barks and frantic jumping.
Vasudev, the prodigal son, is back home after a hard day at school and after— he is entering the 12th grade, and is at the scary juncture of Indian competitive examinations.
Aaaah, here comes our heroine.
Kritika, the apple of her parents’ eyes. She is 27, svelte, dark-complexioned, and is currently on the verge of having yet another outbreak of acne.
Kritika is exhausted, too. It has been a particularly long commute back home from work, and she is wishing there is something to eat. She glances hopefully at her mother disappearing into the kitchen.
In every corner of this dwelling, memories unfurl like petals. They have been here for 27 years, this family. The walls bear silent witness life, longing, happiness and sadness. Each room, with its peeling paint and well-worn furniture, harbours a tapestry of emotions. The small bedroom farthest from the main door, this is where Savitri rested for 3 months after each of her children were born. The larger bedroom has seen the glow their newlywed days, as well as grief when parent after parent passed away under their care.
As the curtains rise, we invite you to immerse yourself in the lives amidst the ordinary, where extraordinary takes root. Here, in the heart of India, amidst people that God sometimes forgets about, the stage is set for a tale that shall resonate across generations and warm even the stoniest of hearts.
Let the play commence, and let our hearts be forever changed by the magic that awaits.
