The State of Whiteness (The Shrinking Woman and Other Stories) Bangalore: Unisun, 2009) Shortlisted for the Unisun short story competition, 2008

Rano knew they were witches – the women who came visiting after His death. They smelt like witches and their feet didn’t touch the ground. They even had the slanting eyes and dry brown hair of witches. Rano felt her head. White flowers, instead of hair, covered her scalp in riotous profusion. She chided herself for noticing them only now for of course they had always been there. She took a moment to revel in their whiteness. Unknown to her family, she had always liked white. It was one of those things for which there is no clear reason. Rano could even hear white. It was the sound of snow falling, though she had never been within miles of snow all her life.
For the wedding, she had been clad in red. That was the only colour a bride was allowed. Her mother had been horrified when someone had suggested white glass bangles to contrast with the red ones Rano was to wear. She wanted her daughter to live the happy life of a suhaagan. And so it happened that Rano was trapped in a red bubble. Red sindoor. Red saris. Red bangles. Red bindis. Red cheeks. There was to be no place for white in her life. Now of course all that had changed.
Rano plucked a flower from her head. On examining it closely, she concluded that it was almost as white as snow – not quite but almost. She had heard Maamu speak of snow. Maamu who had been to Kedarnath in winter. He said snow was whiter than white. He said it was whiter than the paper he wrote his accounts on, whiter even than a white man’s face. Maamu knew many things. He knew, for instance, how to build a fire on a windy night and how the widows of Vrindavan sold their bodies to keep themselves alive.
Some years later, after she was married, Rano had had another encounter with snow. This time it was the picture of Mount Kanchenjunga printed on a sheet of old newspaper that had accidentally made its way into her hands. Rano had kept the picture, loving its snow-covered peak, marvelling especially at the way its whiteness stood out. She would have loved to paste it on the kitchen wall but her father-in-law did not approve of frivolity. Neither did He. So she had stowed it away carefully with her red bridal sari in the trunk her parents had given her. She had never really forgotten though, mentally revisiting its vibrant white for at least a few minutes in her warm and crowded day. From time to time, when He was not around and when the work of the kitchen did not entirely occupy her, she would take the picture out of the trunk and gaze at it. He had caught her at it once and chided her for wasting her time. Rano wondered what He would say to the white flowers that she now wore like a crown. He didn’t like flowers much. She smiled to herself triumphantly.
The witches were busy marauding her widows’ garden, looking for hair. All witches lusted after human hair. Rano wondered who else had been widowed recently. The witches must be all over their garden too.
Pluck, pluck, pluck. Each witch who came visiting left with what she thought was one strand of Rano’s hair. They all said the same thing – that it was the custom in the family – the run-up to the complete shaving of her head by the barber. But all the time Rano was laughing to herself. The witches hadn’t caught on to the fact that what they held in their hands was not Rano’s hair but white flowers. They would find out soon enough and leave her alone…
He had passed away on poornima. That night, the moon had been whiter than usual and it had three rings around it. The little black cat inside was barely visible. The whiteness had apparently swallowed it. Everyone said He would go straight to heaven. Those who died on poornima usually did. Moreover, He had been a good man, a kind and generous soul who hadn’t cast Rano aside even though she hadn’t borne him any children in all those ten years of wedded bliss. No one said a word of course about how ugly He was and how His lips twisted grotesquely when He smiled. The consumption had put a stop to everything. He had become increasingly irritable, insisting that she never leave His side. Yet He would eat only the chapathis made by her. He had been a difficult patient. Her father-in-law had been heart broken when He died and had stopped eating altogether. Rano had still not seen him face to face. Neither did she wish to. It would interfere too much with the whiteness.
On the day following her husband’s death, the first witch had come to offer her condolences. She had assumed the form of Sita Bhabhi, her sister-in-law. Witches did that, taking on different human forms. At first, Rano had believed that the woman who had come visiting was really Sita Bhabhi. Her tears had dried by then. ‘A widow must cry,’ the witch who called herself Sita Bhabhi advised, ‘What will people think otherwise?’ Then, just as she was leaving the woman put out her hand. Rano lowered her head to receive what she assumed was a blessing when she felt a sharp, searing pain the likes of which she had never experienced before. The witch held out a strand of hair from Rano’s head. ‘That is the custom in this family, Rano. Before a widow’s head is shaven clean, the women who visit her must pluck a strand of hair from her head. That way, the widow is fully prepared to face the barber on the thirteenth day.’ The witch had even sounded like Sita Bhabhi – cold, pragmatic, sensible. So Rano had learnt that this was the forerunner, the terrible forerunner to the barber’s knife. And she had laundered that terrifying knowledge into whiteness. She was in a garden surrounded by witches like Sita in Ashokavan surrounded by rakshasas and her hair had turned to white flowers.
The other witches had followed on the heels of the first, cleverly assuming the form of various relatives – cousins, aunts, her dead husband’s nieces who could not possibly have travelled all the way from Udaipur…. And each one of them had helped themselves to a white flower in keeping with family custom. Not all of them had been as matter-of-fact as her sister-in-law. Some had apologized even before the act. ‘What to do?’ they said, ‘All these customs…. Please bear with us.’ In the meantime, Rano had learnt to anticipate their move. She watched them from out of the corner of her eyes and usually saw their outstretched hand reaching for her head. She had decided not to scream and protest. She would be generous instead. Perhaps, like her, the witches too were in love with white flowers. And it didn’t hurt any more, not like it had the first time.
It is only the fifth day, her husband’s paternal aunt Chayyabuva had whispered, it will all pass. It did, for me. You will get used to it in time. This will be your life. White sari. Not eating meat and spices. Sleeping on the floor alone. All that hair-plucking that happens only in this family. That hurts, I know. But then those Rai Bahadurs still send their widows to the pyre. Your father-in-law is not that heartless.
At sixty, the feisty old widow whose in-laws had sent her packing to her brother’s house when her husband passed away was not doing too badly. She ate meat on the sly and it was rumoured that she even had a lover – though no one could be quite sure of his identity. At first, on seeing Rano the sea of feelings Buva had contained for so long had spilled forth. She had sobbed louder than Rano, thinking perhaps of her own dreary existence. But she had quickly composed herself and begun counselling Rano. What the old woman did not see was that Rano had entered a state of whiteness. The barber’s knife that she was to face in eight days, the searing pain that the witches caused her, the knowledge that she would never again be able to eat meat – none of this mattered to Rano any more…
The state of whiteness was lovely. Yards of white sari falling like snow. Crisp, frozen, cool. White flowers raining down on her. Like snow, they had no fragrance. She remembered suddenly that she didn’t know what the flowers were called and panicked. She didn’t want the whiteness to disappear for the lack of a name. She would call them Shwet – white. With that decision made, she felt better. She picked up a flower, caressed the softness of its petals, spoke to it tenderly. Flowers responded to love. Ma had told her that long ago. Ma who loved all flowering trees. She would have liked these flowers. Rano wondered when Ma would come. She longed to tell her about the state of whiteness. Ma, you were wrong after all. Red is not the only happy colour.
Buva was saying something. Buva was the only one around who was not a witch. She must give her one of those flowers. From one widow to another with love. She felt her head. It was bare. The crown of flowers was gone. The witches had plucked them all. The flowers that had fallen at her feet had withered in the heat. But she did not despair. She would flower again. She had not touched water all day long. The flowers needed water… water, water, Buva…. Her voice came in a hoarse whisper. Maybe someone else was speaking. Buva thrust a glass of water in her hand. Her hand had become a branch – the branch of a flowering tree. Water trickled down her face in a ritual bath. She was pure now as widows should be and soon the flowers would reappear. Was that Buva crying? Or was it Rano herself? Don’t cry, Buva. There will be another flower soon. Another one and then another one. You don’t have to sleep on the floor any more. I will make you a bed of flowers…
It was late in the night. Buva was fast asleep by her side. Rano stood up and walked towards her bedroom. Her sari fell about her like waves. She had to be careful not to wake the witches. They were all over the house now. The door to the bedroom creaked noisily. Luckily, no one came to investigate. She looked at the bed that had been stripped bare after His death. Did it miss the warmth of their bodies – hers and His? She looked under the cot. The trunk was still there where she had left it. She dragged it out and dusted it with the edge of her pallu. Then she unlocked it with the keys she wore around her waist. They had not yet taken those away. The picture was still there. She held it to her bosom and let the snow quench the heat that rose in her body. Carefully, lovingly, she placed it back in the trunk. She picked up the bridal sari next and took it to the kitchen. Around her a column of whiteness moved. She had never felt happier. Red would soon turn to white.
At first the flames were feeble. There was a strong breeze that night. But eventually, Rano was able to build a stronger fire that blazed red and angry. There was a bit of Maamu in her and the kerosene helped. The fire was red too like the sari that first fed it. Rano stood there with a smile playing on her lips. The flames felt cool. Rano was playing in the snow, dressed in white. The witches had disappeared. They had probably smelt the fire. But one couldn’t be too careful. She walked all over the house with the can of kerosene and a box of matches and the flames followed her everywhere. She didn’t see anyone nor did anyone see her. Slowly, she heard the screams…Buva, her father-in-law, the servants….
Everything was going to be alright. They would soon turn to ash. Ash like snow would be cool and she, Rano, would have helped them enter whiteness. She felt a sudden twinge of regret when she thought of her trunk with the picture in it. That would perish too. But then she knew it had no life outside her own…. She stood amidst the blaze hearing snow.
The state of whiteness would live on.