I couldn’t ignore my phone vibrating any longer. Whipping it out of my bag, I dashed out of the lecture theatre.
“When I die, you won’t have to answer my calls Deepa !” my mother screeched at me in Tamil, the moment I answered the call.
“Amma, I texted you that I was in lecture !” I said, looking back behind my shoulder at the lecture theatre door, praying that her voice hadn’t carried in. On a second thought, I could have earned extra bucks if she was leased to the school to substitute their bell.
“Text messages are disrespectful. And don’t lie to me that you aren’t using your wretched phone during that lecture that you can’t even answer a phone call!”
“Sigh, I cannot argue with you. This better be important, Amma.”
“Good girl. Well come home straight after school, we are gonna see the astrologer.”
“What for ?! Amma I told you about – “
“I knew it Deepa, first you don’t answer my calls and now you argue with me when I’m trying to have your best interests at heart. It alright, that’s how much you respect me and it’s obvious.” I could hear my melodramatic mother’s shrill voice breaking on the phone as I clenched my fist, breathing slowly. In my head, I can see the Oscar jury applauding.
“Fine. See you at home.”
“Okay sweetie, I’ll get your saree ironed. Don’t be late, the good time will be over !”
“Bye Amma.”
I hung up the phone with a huge sigh as I ran my fingers through my hair, breathing in deep. Remembering my abandoned lecture, I trudged back into the theatre with hopes of distracting myself with a huge slide on the female reproductive anatomy as a thousand eyes followed me curiously back to my seat.
•••••
My cotton saree pleats started to get trapped in between my legs as I could feel the heat sweltering through my thighs, making it rub with discomfort. The humidity was mingled with a sickly, sweet scent of sandalwood and heavy fumes of benzoin that made me cough. All the eyes in the hall turned to me with a reproachful look as I covered my mouth with the loose end of my saree. My mother apologetically gazed at the rest with a huge plastered smile before shooting me a reproachful look.
“Don’t be disrespectful, Deepa. See, everyone is looking.”
“Amma, how is coughing naturally disrespectful ? Do I have to ask permission from the gods for wanting to cough in the abode of their holy men?”
Before my mother could retort, and young man appeared from a door at the far end of the hallway. He motioned to us, as my mother stood up immediately, straightening her saree and whispered to me to follow. Trying to hide my discomfort, I trudged behind her in defeat. If there ever was a man of foresight in this place, I thought, I hope that he realises that not even God can help me.
My mother went full-fledged Savitri Ganesan inside the room. The astrologer was a dark, brooding man who probably hasn’t heard of a razor. He reeked of cigars and incense, and had bulbous red eyes that kept darting back and forth between my mother and I as he patiently waited for my mother to finish lamenting about my marriage.
“Saami, she is refusing to get married. All she wants to do is study, and girls her age are already giving their mothers grandchildren. Am I being selfish, Saami ? I just want to see her settled, please help me.”
After what seemed like half a day, fervent flipping through astrological charts and intense discussions about Saturn and Jupiter shifting houses, a whole lot of numerology and remedy amalgams (which I doubt my mother understood, because I definitely didn’t), the astrologer came to a conclusion : a red thread on my wrist and weekly temple visits would be the remedy for my unknown planetary misalignment and the stubborn attitude. Once the planets decide to line up according to the pencil grids drawn on my astrology chart, my attitude will accordingly ease and my groom will fall from the sky.
My mother was nearly weeping with gratitude as she took several bows to touch the man’s feet, which I grudgingly obliged to as well. He fished out a red thread from the altar of gods in front of him, put it to his forehead and mumbled a few words of prayer before wrapping it around my wrist and concluding with a tight knot. My mother dropped a stash of notes into the cash box as she left the room with a disgruntled me on tow.
•••••
“Deepa, don’t forget your weekly temple visits and what you need to do. I’m praying that you get a good prospect by this year.” She tucked a strand of loose hair behind my ear, smiling.
“And you suppose that this red thread is going to help me land a good boy ? Can I get more of these ; you know for every girl at school ?”
My mother slapped me on my wrist.
“This is the problem with you, you question everything. Soon, you will question my existence in your life, Deepa. Can you have faith for once?” She hissed.
“I am not questioning your faith, Amma. I’m questioning your ability to see past all these blind faith. Alright, don’t start your scene -” I hastily added, as my mother’s lips trembled.
“Muruga ! Can’t you see that I’m suffering ? I hope you give her a husband who can tolerate her and kids at least ten times worst than her ! Only then will she know my pain !”
“Amma please.” I groaned, as the cab pulled up in front of us.
My irate mother got in before me, still mumbling as I got in after her, as the cab sped off home. The shadows of my mother’s laments accompanied the red thread from my wrist that laid abandoned on the side of the road, which I managed to yank out.
To any God that I may have angered, I duly apologise. Your red thread deserves a better treatment if it has a said-ability to fix lives, doesn’t it ?
