Mother Figures

☆~How Blue is My Sapphire~☆

My sapphire is an illuminated speck of subdued agony and several vibrant shades of pastel ultramarine. My sapphire bleeds a blurred, burnt blue. It runs intense and deep. Hidden in its Prussian depths is the pale, gloomy blue of the isolated lake studded with scum. Neglected, but in bloom.

I am the daughter of a devadasi. Are you wrinkling your nose? You should. After all, I am not supposed to exist. If you are not, then it's a God-forbidden sin; you are ascertaining eternal damnation in hell.

Let me enlighten you. Devadasi comes from two words: "dev," meaning "the Almighty," and "daasi," meaning "slave." A slave of the Almighty ought to be a good thing, right? Except for the fact that a devadasi is His eternally owned servant, restricted to the quarters of the temple for an entire lifetime serving the Almighty as His slave and His wife.

So, the question becomes even more obvious. How did I turn up?

No, I didn't turn up on a red muslin-draped floral platter with a handful of rangoli and sweetmeats. As far as bringing a parcel is considered, all I brought for my mother was a plate of unasked-for misery.

My sapphire is the munshell of dusk blended with midnight. Soothing to look at but hidden in the shadows.

I might have been conceived by chance, but I was brought up by choice.

As far as I can remember, my memory is misty with thoughts of dhoti-draped Brahmin and incense ash; early hours of dawn, the throaty screech of the conch shell; garlands and the huge gong in the temple; abuses and insults from strangers, my twenty-one-year-old devadasi mother shielding my ears with her palms. I spent my childhood playing around the temple with the starving children, sliding down the edge of the stairs, climbing trees and combing my waist-long hair.

I used to love dancing. Not the way my mother danced in the temple, facing unknown crowds in colorful sarees. She used to come back from these so-called aradhaana nrityas, completely drained, eyes swollen and red marks on her wrists. She complained of headaches but never forgot to treat me to her delicious, homemade halua.

I was a free bird - the wanton wind of the monsoons. The unrestrained flight of the kingfisher. I was the vibrant shade of sapphire. Navy blue. I loved dancing to the beats of mridanga and dholak playing near the temple. Here, girls of varying ages danced in harmony, but I wasn't allowed inside to join them.

I wouldn't be stopped. While the girls danced within, I took to the pavement outside. After the completion of the nritya dance, I watched the women sprinkle the holy water - gangajaal - on the stairwell.

In our hut, there was little more than a bed, a small fireplace, and a couple of old photographs. Whenever I told my mother about the inconvenience I caused near the temple, she tried her best not to smile.

Yes, she smiled. She often told me stories of mischief and the carefree days of her too-short childhood. She, too, was the mischief-maker of the family - until a twist of fate made her a devadasi.

She wasn't ashamed of having me. She tried her best to provide as much education as possible, in spite of the complaints. She confronted the opposers. "Their rejection makes me determined to prove them wrong," she often told me. "I will give you the life I have been deprived of."

My sapphire is the crystalline azure of pointed ice. Beautiful but ephemeral.

Early in the morning, I used to leave for the old Brahman's place. There I touched his feet and sorted flowers. He would recite scriptures and his elder son taught me the Telegu and English alphabets. It was the happiest hour of my day.