I say that this is old-fashioned, not all families follow these traditions anymore. I tell her that I am missing schoolwork; my exams are coming soon. But she is adamant; she is doing the best possible thing for me. She will secure my future, my chastity and marriage to a good boy from a good family. She says, “If you aren’t properly looked after now, no man will take you for his wife. You will stay here with us until you are old and dried up. All alone without a husband or children.” She strokes my hair and says, “You don’t want that, do you?” and I have to shake my head.
On the fourth day, I can’t stand it anymore. I go to the window and tug aside Amma’s old red sari. A blade of sunlight falls onto my face and across the room. I stretch my arms overhead and look out onto the garden, down the sloping lawns and to the river. There with his back to me is Samson, and even as I am pulling the sari back, he turns as if pulled by my gaze and looks straight at me and his hand goes to his gaped mouth. I twitch the sari down, blocking out sunlight and his shocked face. I stand there, heart throbbing. What have I done? What demons have I called forth? What pollution have I allowed to pass from me to him? I walk to the bed, sit down carefully. I have unraveled all of Amma’s plans, all of Thatha’s trust. It feels as if someone has pierced my skin, pulled back the plunger on a syringe full of shame and shot it deep into me. When shame reaches and floods my heart, I know I have done what cannot be undone.
*
I try to forget his eyes. The old fog descends. Everything is cloudy.
On the seventh day, Amma wakes me at dawn, says, “Come, come. Quickly, it is your auspicious time. Come before we miss it.” I get up, bleary-eyed, dry-mouthed. She leads me outside, her arm holding my elbow. The nerves in my toes are alive, feeling cautiously along the ground, trying not to stumble. She leads me to the well, and I stand there blinded in the pink-lit dawn. The dhobi woman is there, an old woman with breasts like wrinkled fruit in her sari blouse but smiling as if it were her wedding day. Amma gives her a package: my uniform, my destroyed panties, the small gold earrings, everything I was wearing when the blood first came.
The dhobi woman has filled a tub with well water, floating jasmine, cloves, and sticks of cinnamon. She pulls my nightdress over my head and pushes me down into a crouch. I wrap my arms around my knees. Her clawed fingers undo the ends of my plaits and rake the hair down my back. She fills a small earthen pot, pours it slowly over my head. The shock of cold water is electric against my skin. Jasmine flowers cascade onto my head, tumble down my back, land in the groove between my thighs and on my small breasts. I open my nostrils wide to catch their scent. The dhobi woman moves my head this way and that, scrubbing my scalp with expensive-smelling shampoo. She pulls me up to standing, soaps each of my limbs until every inch of me is covered in frothy white suds. She washes away the suds in streams of water. I am reborn, embraced by the light, the old woman’s hands, and my mother’s smile.
*
Amma takes me into her bedroom. I sit on the bed as she pulls out sari after sari. They are silver and bottle green, peacock blue, and every shade of gold. They throw light onto the ceiling and the walls from the reflection of their sequins, crystals, and embroidery, so the room feels like a treasure cave. She says, “All of these will be yours when you get married. I’ve been collecting them for you. Look at this one. It was the first your father ever bought for me.” She pulls out a sari of faded ivory with a pattern of fine ebony swirls. She shakes her head. “That man. No taste at all.” But the way she fingers the material tells me there is some small tenderness in the memory.
She looks straight at me and says, “You have to be careful from now on. People will make up ugly stories. If they see you with a boy. Even if you are just talking to him. Even a cousin. You have to be very, very careful. You are a big girl now, and your reputation is your responsibility. Do you understand?” I nod. She goes on. “You have to guard yourself carefully. You must make us proud. You know that, don’t you?” I nod again. I agree with whatever she says, this beautiful and loving mother. I’d do anything for her. The memory of Samson turning to look straight at me jabs like a thorn. Shame flushes through me while I smile at her. She holds my face in her hands like a flower, brushes my cheeks with the pads of her thumbs, kisses my forehead with the tenderest lips.
*
At my attaining age party I wear a white dress with a full skirt and puffed sleeves that Amma has made for me. I pull it over my head and it falls perfectly into place around my body. It billows around my legs when I twirl for Puime in my room. We talk and talk. She tells me everything I have missed. Suresh has still not even looked at her. But she doesn’t really care because a much nicer boy has started going to the boys’ school, and anyway he has much better hair than Suresh.