I had a macabre and sad discussion with my mother who opened the window to some traditions that are best buried in the past.

She talked about the events immediately following her father’s sudden death. Widowhood was so deeply frowned upon that women losing their husbands were relegated to “carriers of ill fortune” and no longer permitted to conduct any joyous ceremonies like welcoming a new bride or tying the sehra- the traditional row of stringed flowers a groom adorns.

She remembers distinctly how her own mother went through the formal initiation into widowhood. On the third day of my grandfather’s death, my grandmother’s younger brother arrived with a white sari and blouse as per tradition. Her wrists were rested on a clay water vessel (matka), and her bangles were broken through the gentle blows of a small hammer. The initiators cried as they conducted this bitter yet culturally required task of the times. The black string of tiny pearls (kaali poth) she always wore as a sign of being married was removed. Women wailed as she appeared in her new garb, formally anointed as a widow. Though she came from an aristocratic family on both sides, traditions trumped lineage!

A combination of fear and sorrow gripped my twelve-year-old mother as she witnessed the ceremony unfold. She remembers that “horrible smell of incense emanating from the agar bathis (a fragrant stick of sorts)” burning in the house. She was confused about how this could make any sense and feared that something might happen to her mother as the terror was being wrought on her soul. My mother had actually snuck into one of the large drawing rooms where this harrowing ceremony was taking place. Hiding behind one of the mourners, she surreptitiously watched the proceedings. She said unmarried young girls were kept away from such things.

62 years later, she sighs and says how unfair and brutal these traditions were and how people were unaware of our own religion which prohibits such disdainful acts on a woman.

Nanima never wore colour again.