7 minute read
THE GURU DAKSHINA AND THE LEAVE-TAKING by Dr. Elizabeth V. Koshy
THE GURU DAKSHINA AND THE LEAVE-TAKING by Dr. Elizabeth V. Koshy
I return home from the parlour. Hair styled, artificial jasmine buds pinned into my short wavy hair. I've worn a white and gold tissue saree. My face is made up to look perfect under the lights.
The house is filled with guests: close relatives and families of second and third cousins. They have come to participate in the ritual Guru Dakshina and the leave-taking ceremony conducted before the bride departs for the marriage. Relatives from Kerala have come the day before. Those from Hyderabad, Bangalore and Bombay arrived early in the morning.
I look at my packed bags and suitcases lined up in the room. I had gone through all my possessions, packing things that I could carry with me for my new life ahead and setting aside those that I would have to leave behind. I packed all my books first. Then my silk sarees and dresses bought for the wedding. In another suitcase I packed clothes for home wear.
Choosing photographs was difficult, as most of them were available in only one copy. I wanted to take pictures of my extended family too; I finally packed only photo albums from my college and university days and cards and letters specifically addressed to me. I tore up a lot of pa-per: poems, study notes and photocopies of articles used for my research.
My green balcony full of plants, each evoking a special personal memory I couldn't bear to leave behind but I thought taking them with me would not be right.
The gifts for the ‘adukala kannal’, the ritual of the bride's family visiting the groom's kitchen soon after the wedding include an electric idli and dosa stone grinder, a gold chain for the groom and a ‘kaccha and mundu', a tra-ditional dress for the groom's mother.
The first night of married life is traditionally spent at the bride's house. After the ‘adukala kannal’ and a high tea of varied snack items at the groom's house, the entire entour-age is to return to the bride's house for dinner and stay.
Invited guests and family wait for the ceremony to be-gin. A beetle nut in a beetle leaf and the gift of a shawl is given as ‘Guru Dakshina’, first, to a favourite teacher from school who has been invited for the ceremony.
My mother’s brothers and then my father’s cousins visiting Pune for the first time, are given ‘Guru Dakshina’ next. My father always made it a point to visit all his cousins each year. We used to rent a car and travel three whole days from after breakfast to before dinner, visiting his cousins and my mother's brothers and sisters staying all around Central Travancore. Most of them made it a point to reciprocate the love by attending the wedding and bringing gifts of gold, pearl sets, silk sarees, dinner sets, bed sheets and silk dresses as tokens of their love.
I am already in tears after the hugs and kisses from my extended family. My eighty four year old grandmother who had come a month before from Kerala for my mar-riage, came next: my tears are unstoppable now. She was the matriarch of our family. My grandfather had passed away eight years before. She was my role model and a very inspiring figure. She was able to move everyone to tears hearing her prayers and supplications to God. I won-dered how often I would be able to visit her after marriage. I would sorely miss going to Kerala every summer.
My father’s brothers and their families come next. We were a close-knit family. Two of my father's brothers and their families also stayed in Pune. We celebrated each birthday, Christmas and Easter together. We went to Kerala together and had a blast with our cousins in Kerala and our youngest uncle every year. My youngest uncle gave me a bone-crusher of a hug that I still remember. My make-up is all but ruined. An aunt tells me to control my tears. It is now the turn of my immediate family.
My father refuses to come for the leave-taking, in spite of being called. I see him moving away, wiping his tears, letting out his breath forcefully to control his streaming tears. I was always a father's daughter. After I got back from school, college, and even work, I would be narrating the events of the day to him. My mother used to be busy in the kitchen and she was not as interested in my stories as my father was. My father had great dreams for me. He was always giving me examples from the newspaper about great achievers and their achievements.
My mother kisses me on both my cheeks breathing in the air as she used to, eyes brimming with tears. She would miss me in the kitchen and in the home. I looked after my parents' home like it was my home. I wondered how she would manage. We did have a maid do the chores but nobody to help in cooking meals.
My brother is next. He is six years younger than me. I used to carry him around when he was a child and look after him like a second mother. We had had many argu-ments and even physical fights a few years ago. This was the first time that he had embraced me. My father's eldest brother, a priest, then proceeds with the final prayers.
Friends, neighbours and relatives soon leave for the marriage ceremony at church. My cousins dry my tears to save whatever is left of the makeup before I walk towards the front door holding a beautiful bridal bouquet of pris-tine white crepe flowers and real leaves prepared by an aunt and her daughters. The church and the bridal car were decorated by my cousins.
I see my father walking towards me, face and eyes puffy and red, trying to control his sobs. Before I cross the threshold, he gives me a side hug breaking down into tears. My father was of the old school of thought that love should not be expressed physically, in the form of hugs and kisses. I did not remember him ever embracing me. This was the one and only physical expression of love I received from him before my marriage. We are the last to leave. As I descend the stairs I turn to see him lock the door to the house I called home.
Things will not remain the same anymore I know, when I return from the church. I have walked out from home as a bride in white but I would enter home as a married wo-man, with my husband, wearing the wedding ring and the ‘minnu’, a gold beetle leaf with a dotted cross, the sign of marriage, strung on a thread made from seven intertwined threads taken from the wine red wedding saree blessed by the priest during the marriage ceremony.
