Short Story
THE SERPENTINE JASMINE OF THE CURSED
by
Hareendran Kallinkeel
"Kanyakakku sarpa dosham kanunnu," the astrologer passed his verdict.
The maiden had the curse of serpents.
Malini sat, allowed the impact of the seer's words to sink in.
Oh! The dusky skin on her thighs, the pale-brown hair on them. The slithery movement of the snakes tickled. Sometimes her hairs got tangled on their rough scales.
When she slept, they glided in sleek dancing motion between the threads of her dreams. Sometimes the cold touch of their forked tongues woke her to reality.
When she bathed, they snaked out from the shower, pounced on her in thin streaks, and dazzled her breasts with cold shivers. Sometimes they released a trickle of warmth between her legs.
They played along, all the while, just to slap her with curses?
No, the seer was wrong. Somewhere in the intricacies in calculating the position of planets, he had faltered.
She remembered the jasmine garlands. Small, white jasmines stacked in long coils. White serpents. Fragrant reptiles.
During the night, their heady smell wafting down from upstairs lulled her to sleep. In the mornings she saw them in the dustbins that the maids brought from upstairs. Their brightness dead. Their fragrance smothered. Brown stains encroached their white pallor.
It was those flowers that cursed her. Not the serpents. No. Not those lovely, lively creatures.
"Aren't you listening?"
An old fang pierced; her eardrums ruptured. It hurt. "Huh?"
The baldhead came into focus. Grey eyes behind the lenses magnified. The tips of the white moustache quivered.
"Yes, daddy. I am…"
"There is a hitch in her marriage. Something unpleasant is to occur on her marriage night. She must do the Naga Puja in the Sarpakkavu, the temple of the snakes, for forty days to overcome this curse," the astrologer said.
The grey stubs became more visible on the chubby cheeks as betel leaves and areca nut grinded between the jaws. The gold rings on daddy's ears jumped as the bald head nodded in assent. "Carry on…" he said.
"This, her nineteenth year, is a crucial age. The stars say this stage determines the direction of her life. So the rituals are very important," the astrologer offered.
"But…" Malini stopped as she began. The cold wave of a look from her father froze her to silence.
The astrologer resumed, "The stars indicate marriage before twenty. But we will have to remove the Sarpa Dosham , the curse of the serpents, with prayers and offerings to the Naga Raja, the King of the Snakes."
"What else do the stars say?" The father asked.
"Everything will be fine. Just take care of the rituals. That will avert any mishap on her wedding night." The astrologer concluded.
He gathered his kavadi, small shells used in calculating the position of the stars, put them in a cloth bag and tied a lace around it.
Raman counted out four five-hundred rupee notes and handed them over to the astrologer. Malini saw an eager smile light up his face as the astrologer accepted the notes. It should be ten times of what he received from an ordinary customer.
Her father tried to get her destiny weighed with willing accuracy.
The astrologer left. Raman spat out a lump of betel leaves and nuts onto the lawn. Narrow red lines appeared on the corners of his mouth. He wiped them with the back of his hand.
"You've started forgetting your manners. How often need I tell you not to interfere when men talk?"
Her father referred to her protest when the astrologer spread the shells of her destiny.
"I'm sorry, dad," Malini said.
'Oh! The wretchedness that seeps down my legs,' she thought.
"Tell me now. What did you want to say?" Her father asked.
"My studies…I won't be able to adhere to the requirements of those elaborate rituals. It'll disrupt my studies."
"To hell with your studies. Destiny matters. Now is your time for marriage; not after your hair turns grey."
"Dad, I'm only nineteen. Can't we wait till I graduate?"
"Bullshit. Remember, you have a dent in your destiny. You have to mend it. And what should you study for? You don't need a job to support yourself." Raman spat out the remainder of beetle and nuts.
Malini stood up. The wretchedness now flowed down her legs. She started for the bathroom.
"I have amassed enough wealth for generations." Raman called after her.
'And more sins than the generations could ever hope to seek penance for.' Malini thought as she slid behind the bathroom doors.
# # #
The stench of scotch arrived first. The male scent of her brother.
His tall figure loomed over her study table; the dark shadow covered the monitor.
"You'll spend the rest of your life painting these stupid pictures on this screen. Why can't you do something worthwhile?" Ravi asked.
Perspiration struggled to break loose on her skin. Malini willed them back.
She did not want her brother to smell her female scent.
"I just don't understand why you are so indifferent," her brother said.
"I am sorry. I will try to mend." Malini replied.
"I doubt it. Well, tell the maids to keep ready all the four bedrooms upstairs. The houseboats and outhouses are full today. I have more tourists than I can handle."
Ravi left. The male scent remained.
Backwaters flooded with boats. Boats overloaded with foreign tourists. More tourists to flood the bedrooms upstairs. More jasmines than the maids could handle.
White jasmines illuminated the dark void around her. Her father stood there, his shadow spread a black cover over the brightness of the jasmines. Her brother approached, his shadow swallowed her father's shadow.
Her father raised his arm and patted his son on the shoulder, "Well done, my boy. You'll keep adding to my empire. You are a fine boatman who knows how to move his oars. You are a fisherman who knows where to lay the baits and when to lay them. You know how to haul the catch."
The shadow of her brother loomed larger and larger as the jasmines whimpered. The shadow moved closer to her, poised to sweep over.
The cold touch of a forked tongue woke her up from her reverie. It licked its way down her legs.
As it crept further down, she felt its warmth.
She moved. She must take care of things. She should hurry.
# # #
Malini heard steps on the staircase. Rapid. Heavy.
The smell of jasmines, coiled around her hair, braided in long curls, propelled her forth as Malini stepped out of the bathroom.
She walked through the bedroom and out of its door. Stunned whistles of appreciation followed her.
She stepped into the next bedroom. Shocked emission of choked breath erupted as a girl withdrew her head from Raman's lap, in answer to Malini's footsteps.
Heads turned, limbs ceased movement, as Malini treaded the third bedroom.
Amidst the suffocating male odors in the fourth bedroom, the male smell of Ravi was distinct. She stepped in, the impression of her feet silent on the floor.
Malini went straight to the dressing table. She stood for a moment in front of a portrait, eyes closed in prayer.
"Mom, why didn't you let them know your eyes were open, you could see?"
Her question cut through the sounds of passion.
Ravi stopped pumping.
Feet, soft as cotton pads, clamored the floor as the girls ran for their clothes. Girls with jasmine garlands coiled around their braids.
The scent of jasmines that churned out lust. Jasmines that brides wore on their hair on their first nights.
Rough hands pulled up trousers heaped around their feet as the tourists heard her.
Malini didn't bother to count the numbers.
She walked straight to her brother. "My body is still young. Sell it like you sell the others."
Ravi closed his eyes against the fierce glow of his sister's naked skin. His hands shot up covering his ears.
Malini stepped closer. She wrenched his hands away from his ears.
Serpents hissed. Their shining bodies wriggled in the heat of excitement. Malini felt the perspiration break loose on her glistening skin.
"Those girls you sell to these tourists are also someone's sisters. Someone's daughters."
Malini saw her brother choke. Her shadow swallowed him.
As the girls ran out of the door, Malini realized that the room filled with a suffocating haze.
Oh! Her feminine odor.
The trickle between her legs had stopped.
§ § §
Hareendran Kallinkeel is from Kerala (India), presently living in New Delhi. Hari enjoys writing, owes it to his tolerant wife and sweet little daughter. He remembers the lush paddy fields and the hillocks beyond, listens to his grandmother’s voice. His stories are appearing in the October 2002 issue of Poet’s Canvas (Web) and Peeks & Valleys (print).
He can be reached at: megha555@satyam.net.in
Alternate email: hkallinkeel@rediffmail.com .
Send the URL for this work to a friend!