Wednesday, April 1, 2015

The Veil


It was around 8:30 a.m. I didn’t know it simply because I spotted my wife from the corner of my eye, holding her second morning cuppa—the one after the kids had left for school (the quiet cuppa, she called it). Nor did I know it from the crow making its first appearance on what had by now become its own ledge. It was because I spotted Saira Mohammed (or so I had christened her), appearing on the horizon.

From my second floor balcony vantage position, I could see her walking down a bit hurriedly today. Her abaya (as I had learnt was the correct term, not the more commonly used “burqa”) was flailing about as she walked toward the Chella Vinayagar Kovil, which was opposite our apartment complex. From my balcony, I could have dharshan of the Lord on a good day. Good day for me, that is.
It was a small and cute temple, actually just a shrine, but had somehow earned the reputation of bringing peace to the devotee. And so, needless to say, was nearly always full. But not today.

Saira went to the little space between the wall of the shrine and the house behind it, and removed her abaya. She then folded it neatly, almost reverentially, on her backpack, and emerged in a pink salwar kameez that brought out her features quite beautifully. Her eyes were pretty, almond shaped, and her nose was long and nicely shaped. But something seemed missing from her face.

She dutifully folded her hands in prayer, and immediately went to the brass container that was screwed to the pole in front of the sanctum, and wore the kumkum. Her chest heaved a sigh, almost audible to my second-floor ears. And her face was now complete.

Saira then went to the shrine, and recited a sloka without stopping for a break. It was as if a break would break the prayer itself. She was looking straight ahead, not at the Vinayaka on her right, as if transfixed.

When she was done, the priest, who looked at her sympathetically, or so it seemed to me, gave her a flower from the God’s garland, and she smiled and accepted it. She went around the prakara once, and returned to give God one last salutation. She closed her eyes and a tear escaped from the prison of her eyelids.

She moved away from the shrine and brought her palm to her forehead. Her hand paused for just a moment, trembled, and then the kumkum was gone. She went back to the space between the temple and the house behind it, and when she emerged, she was nowhere to be seen. She was metres of black cloth.


Her backpack was on her shoulders, and she made her way back to the bus stop. As she had been doing for the past ten months.