A rangOli story - Part II

The nicest and finest deed of my chikkamma, for which I am eternally grateful, is introducing me to the art of rangOlis. While my mother, because of her beauty, was almost an automatic choice for ceremonies that needed a married woman, my chikkamma was in great demand for her extraordinary skill in drawing rangOlis. During the marriages, floral patterns had to be drawn for the feast of the bride and the groom. We call this haribhUma. My stepmother was an expert in drawing those and other rangOlis suitable for various religious occasions. Even at home, she used to spend at least half an hour to an hour in drawing the rangOli. She always used to tell that it is her “hour” when she can forget about all her worries, anxieties, daily trivia and such other mundane matters. She had all these in those days. Even though my grandfather passed away, my grandma was still alive and she always used to find fault with chikkamma in whatever she does. She also used to point out that she was ugly. At that time I wasn’t aware of it, but later I came to know that my father too wasn’t pleased with her even though it was he who married her willingly. May be all these brought her closer to us, the children of her husband’s first wife.

Except for the school work, I got myself immersed in making rangOlis. She taught me systematically, starting from the simplest ones to more elaborate and complex ones. She taught me how to place the dots evenly, how to draw the lines uniformly, how to vary the thickness as required, how to choose natural colours for coloured rangOlis, how to keep the overall symmetry in proper perspective. She also instructed me into drawing the patterns with wet rice flour and red clay. Soon I graduated to helping my stepmother in making marriage rangOlis. Besides good food, sometimes they used to present us with saris too.

Years rolled on. I finished the high school. My brother finished his BA degree and was on the lookout for a stable job. In the mean time my stepmother had a child. With so many mouths to feed, there was no way I could go to college. In one of the houses where my father used to perform the priestly duties, the lady of the house passed away after delivering a baby. I had seen her many times. Here name was Sarada. There was a boy of about twelve years or so besides the day-old child she left behind. We all attended the tenth day ceremonies. Chandru was sitting in a corner and crying. I exactly knew how he felt. My brother and I were in a similar situation a few years ago. Fortunately for us, we got a loving and tender stepmother. I tried to encourage Chandru and asked him to call me akka (sister) if he feels so inclined. He preferred to my real name Lalita. I asked him not to cry before his days old sister who is returning home from the hospital. After the ceremonies were over, occasionally we used to pass each other in the streets and I used to smile at him. After a year or so, I was nineteen then, I overheard my father conversing with my stepmother. Since my name cropped up occasionally, I began to pay attention. My father was telling my stepmother that Chandru’s father wanted to remarry and he was asking for my hand. Even though he had two children (Chandru and the year old Usha), he was only thirty-two or thirty-three. Being a school teacher, he had a stable job. My stepmother did not accept the proposal or reject it outright. She told my father that she would talk to me.

The next day dawned and after the morning chores my father went to somebody’s house to perform some rituals associated with the naming of a child. My chikkamma and I were starting to prepare the mid-day meal. I was cutting the vegetables and she started the conversation. At the end she told me - “Lalita, listen to this carefully. I am not going to convince your father against your wishes. However, you know our economic situation. I am not sure whether your father will get a better match than this. Even though there is an age difference of about twelve years, he is still young. He has a steady income. You don’t have to worry about your daily meal. More importantly, you don’t have to go to everybody’s house and to everybody’s function to keep away the pangs of hunger. By the way, one more thing; if you agree to this marriage, you must take care of the children in a responsible manner. You must give them love as well as a home. You must be a better step-mother than me.” She began to softly cry. I went to her and hugged her and told her - “chikkammA, if I am half as good as you are, I’ll consider myself good.” I too thought over the matter for a while and gave my assent.

... to be continued