A Saga of Mothers Bangles

 A Saga of Mothers Bangles

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There was a lane dedicated to bangle shops in our small town.

It was a slim lane bustling with activity during the afternoon and evening.

The vendors were mostly Mohammedans, with their antecedents traced to Uttara Pradesh. However, as time passed, they learned the local language, culture, and traditions and almost became a part of the local Muslim community.

 The teenage girls, to be brides, married women everyone thronged the shop throughout the day.

On specific evenings, my mother and her friends used to visit the shop together. The ladies hardly ever kept a large stock of anything at home and only bought things when they were needed. For instance, my mother would wait until she had only three or fewer bangles in her hand before going to the shop to purchase a new set of bangles.

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There were plain and designer bangles, the plain bangles were cheaper in comparison to the ones with the golden imprints.

On festive occasions, mom used to buy designer ones and rest of the year plain bangles. Both patterns looked stunning on her arms. A dozen bangles in the center with gold bangles on both sides as borders was the most popular fashion trend of those times.

 As a child, I accompanied my mom to the market many evenings after returning from school. The shops were always filled with beautiful glass bangles, in a multitude of colours bringing so much joy to women from all segments of society in a small bylane of the main market.

Some of my male classmates lived in the colony adjacent to the bangle shops. I often used to spot some boys while on mom's shopping spree, but we were all prohibited from acknowledging each other outside of school. It was scandalous to speak to a boy beyond the school premises even if he was our neighbor, the cracks widened with time and more so as we entered our teens. 

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After we visited the bangle shop she used to remain careful while working in the kitchen to avoid collision with anything which may lead to the breakage of her precious glass ornaments.

The inimitable jingling noise from her armful of bangles while beating millet rotis or, when oiling my hair was melodious.

The tinkling sounds generated by the collision between gold and glass bangles always sounded an alert of her arrival. The one with the sharpest ears would sense it first and then throw a warning to the rest of us with his glances, it was always the older brother who led the pack. He was the vigilante all the time, making gestures to each of us to act as if were studying.

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The memory of her bangles is still vivid to me, especially the day when we got our year-end results or the day we fought in the colony with "so-called" friends. She used to call us three siblings and slap one after the other. 

This often resulted in the breakage of her bangles, and the sharp glass pieces would pierce her skin, causing her to bleed a little. She would then pause to remove the glass bits, and then continue with her fury.

That one minute of respite between the beatings was a godsend for us. We used to calculate in our mind,  

Is it going to end here?

Is the wound big? 

Does she need help?

Will she get distracted with the cut and spare us?

No, it never happened!

 She would start from wherever she left it and give us a nice thrashing for our blunders since the previous beating session. She had an excellent memory of our wrongdoings, she would settle all of it in a go, as she would get into a thrashing mode once in a while, to release the pent-up anger.

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Following the punishment session, my mother would prepare a modest dinner for the family, as a way of showing her disappointment towards our inappropriate behaviour and lack of dedication to our studies. We would all eat quietly and then return to our respective beds, feeling remorseful for our actions. 

The mother, weighed down by guilt, would often toss and turn in her bed, perhaps shedding a few silent tears. 

She would then call us to her bed, wrap her arms and legs around us, and drown us with her affection. It was like a dog licking her newborn pups with care, love, and conviction that only she could be their saviour.

In that moment, all of her rage and guilt would disappear, replaced by love that would lull us into a peaceful and happy sleep.

 The next morning, we returned to our usual uncivilized behaviour, as if the punishment had never happened. 

Finally, it was time to visit the bangles shop lane again.

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In the loving memory of my mother, I adorned my arms with the abandoned bangles from the remote corner of the dressing table drawer.

These bangles were gifted to me by the welcome team of Chidambaram Palace employees.