The Power of Pink

“Ma, why can’t I wear something bright and colourful tomorrow? Vijayadashami comes but once in the whole year,” Kadambari’s voice was a low whimper. Tears welled up in her large almond eyes as she tried hard to convince her mother. “I wear these dull, white cottons every single day. All my friends flaunt their colourful sarees, red bindi and shining jewellery. I never complain. Just once Ma, please let me wear that pink dhakai tomorrow…it’s still lying new in the trunk!”

Kadambari knew she was chasing a rainbow. Losing her husband just a few months after marriage had sealed her fate forever. That her deceased husband was twenty years her senior, that he was an inveterate alcoholic with a dysfunctional liver, was a different story altogether! His death gifted her the sobriquets of a witch, an evil omen, an unholy force, and so many others.

Kadambari was promptly sent back to her maternal home. Her mother almost fainted seeing her waiting uncertainly at the doorway — head tonsured, a frail stark vision in white. Her eyes had lost their innate sparkle, her infectious smile had disappeared, and she walked about the house in silence and despair. Her dream of going to college was cruelly nixed as she resigned herself to a life of seclusion and social rejection. At 17, Kadambari epitomised a lost, defeated soul.

“Mamoni, why are you being so unreasonable?” Kadambari’s mother was torn between love for her young, ill-fated daughter and the rusted fetters of societal censure. “Our country may have just become independent but we, its women, still can’t call ourselves free!”

“White is the only colour in your life now. We can’t change the age-old diktats just to suit your whim,” added her father, a man who brooked no dissent.

The next morning brought only gloom for Kadambari. Durga Puja festivities were almost over. She could not take part in most of the rituals owing to her widowhood. As she started doing her usual kitchen chores, Swatilekha, her Calcutta-based professor cousin, pulled her out and headed straight to her own room.

“Kadambari, I heard all that you discussed with Kakima yesterday. Wear this now and get ready fast. We’re going down for Debi Boron, you and I!”

Swatilekha thrust the pink saree into her trembling hands.

“But Swatidi, I can’t do this. Ma-Baba will never allow it. Neither the saree nor the ritual.”

“Kadambari, society needs to change. Why don’t you be the harbinger of that change? Why let others take charge of your life?”

And thus, Kadambari strode into the Puja pandal, looking resplendent in her favourite pink saree and bindi. Frenzied drum beats and devout cries of ‘Joy Ma Durga’ rent the air, as the goddess was given a ceremonious farewell to mark Vijaya Dashami. The knitted eyebrows, the collective gasp, and the conspiratorial whispers only strengthened her steely resolve to reclaim her life, even if it were just for a day! After all, fighting for a pathbreaking change…wasn’t that what this festival symbolised?

Glossary:

Dhakai – an exclusive kind of cotton saree, a speciality of Dhaka, Bangladesh

Mamoni – an endearing term for a daughter

Kakima – aunty

Debi Boron – an invocation ritual for Goddess Durga

Urmi Chakravorty