The place where the temple bells echo across the seawater,
touching every wave like a gentle blessing.
The sun rises on the horizon,
slow, golden, and full of grace.
Making the beach brighter.
Making the life brighter.
Yes. This is Kanyakumari —
The place where three mighty seas bow to each other at the feet of Mother India,
where every morning feels like it was made just for you.
The enchanted breeze knocks every door…
Whispering through the leaves of the coconut trees that stand tall on either side of every lane like silent guardians.
Whose leaves seem to be exchanging gossips as if they have been keeping the secrets of this town for centuries and cannot stop talking about them.
They were the oldest witnesses of every celebration, every prayer, every tear that had happened in these streets.
Every day is prayerful.
Every evening is magical.
Somewhere deep within these sacred lanes,
there was this one particular lane.
Every house in this lane wakes the same way.
With the smell of camphor.
The sound of sloka.
The sight of wet feet walking from the bathroom to the pooja room.
The gentle clanging of brass vessels in the kitchen.
And the soft humming of a woman who has been awake before the rooster knew it was morning.
These are not just houses.
They are living temples.
And the most beautiful of these temples —
Is the one with the freshest kolam at its doorstep.
The one where the tulsi plant stands like a queen in the courtyard.
The one from whose kitchen the smell of filter coffee drifts out and mingles with the sea breeze.
This is the house of Swaminathan —
Not far away from the rising tides, which catches the early prayers of the temple.
As usual the sun is climbing above the horizon.
And the Swaminathan family is already awake.
Already waiting to welcome the day.
The first ray of sun had not yet fully entered the house.
But someone inside had already decided that light would not wait.
We hear the sound of a matchstick rubbing against its box.
One small scratch.
And then — A flame.
In the light of that small trembling flame
We see her. Mrs. Swaminathan.
In that one moment of light,
we understand how beautiful an Indian wife can be,
The responsibilities she carries on her shoulders like it weighs nothing.
The innocence still alive in her eyes after all these years.
The devotion that never left her face — Not even for a single morning.
As she leans forward to light it —
Her bangles speak.
That perfect clanging sound,
that only a woman’s bangles make in the early morning silence.
She lights the diya at the feet of the tulsi plant.
And stands up slowly,
and begins to walk around the tulsi.
Once.
Twice.
Thrice.
Her lips moving in a soft prayer that only God can hear.
And soon amidst the silence,
we can hear the recitals of sacred mantras
breaking even the deadliest silence by
Mr. Swaminathan.
Draped in his lungi,
bound with utmost devotion and in that moment, even the morning paused to listen.
And Mrs. Swaminathan, after completing her pooja,
quickly adjusts her saree and offers a delightfully rich, aroma-filled cup of coffee to her husband.
And then, without waiting for a word of praise, she quietly slips away,
hurrying towards a corner room as if another world is waiting for her.
The room is still wrapped in a gentle shade of darkness.
As the sun’s rays begin to slip through the window,
we can see Mrs. Swaminathan lifting her hands, curling her fingers gracefully through the long curls.
She combs swiftly yet gently, with love and care.
She is doing it with an ease, quick but careful.
Holding the hair and weaving it into a perfect braid.
As the sun starts to gleam, it finds an innocent face, nodding and shaking her head, rolling her eyes up and down,
trying to catch a glimpse of herself.
And very soon —
That innocent face shifts.
Something is wrong.
Her eyes search across the room.
Looking here.
Looking there.
Searching —
For her dancing anklets.
And just then —
From somewhere down the corridor —
A sound.
Getting closer.
Closer.
The sound of anklets.
Mr. Swaminathan appears at the door.
Holding them quietly in his hand.
No words.
No scolding.
Just a father — Who found what his daughter forgot in the corridor, after her evening practice.
And soon a sight of relief spreads her entire face and very soon her lips curve into a joy full smile,
as Mr. Swaminathan comes closer and closer carrying a fragrance which drove away the darkness left in the corners of the room which couldn’t be driven away even by the sunlight.
Yes, it’s the freshly plucked jasmine, his little princess’s first love. She fell in love with jasmine before she could know what love is.
He slowly handed the jasmine rope to his wife and bent down on his knees.
Picked up his daughter’s feet and placed them gently on his knee.
His fingers tying the anklets
One.
Then the other.
And at that very same moment, Mrs. Swaminathan was weaving jasmine into their only daughter’s hair.
Flower by flower.
After the priceless moment she stood up,
touched her parents’ feet making them proud of her and
gave them a hug. It was filled with love. With innocence. With something beautifully childish, the pride of a daughter who knows she got the best parents in the world.
She picked her bag and ran down the corridor through the house, echoing the house with her anklets.
Her steps are gentle, yet fast… walking proudly (innocently) in the glowing sun. The jasmine in her hair is trying to catch the morning sunlight.
She turns into a familiar lane which she had entered hundred, (sorry thousand times).
Before she reaches the house she starts shouting
Priyam! Priyam! Priyam!
Each time louder than before.
Before she could call one more time, there was a voice from the house totally unapologetic, “I am already ready! its you who is late”
Priyamvada Srinivasan her full name stepped out and ran to her spreading her arms as if giving the warmest hug in the world, cuddles her.
Slap! on her back “You childish girl”
Then both of them burst out laughing.
No reason for their laugh.
They hold their hands tighter and even tighter as they walk down to the temple.
Their bangles and anklets sound add a beat to a silent music all the way they walk.
They reach the temple. Hands still held. Not parted. Bent down together to touch the entrance of the temple.
Hands still held.
As they stepped in the world stayed outside.
They walk through the sounds of the bell, smell of the incense and light of the diyas.
As they go closer and closer to the garbagriha — the sanctum where the goddess waited,
they let go of their hands slowly, without knowing. Only to join their own hands to pray to the goddess.
Eyes closed
Lips moved slowly, each carrying her own prayer.
It’s so peaceful.
Soon the sanctum started to get filled with a lot of devotees.
“Hurry up Priyam!”
“We have to start the rehearsal one last time….”
“I am very nervous — though I have been performing since childhood.”
They went backstage, where they are going to perform Bharatanatyam —Her second love.
They set up their costumes, adjusted their anklets and started to run through the dance one last time before taking the stage.
It’s 7:55.
The devotees, after offering their prayers in the sanctum walked towards the beautifully decorated stage within the temple.
Slowly the chairs got filled. And the noise began to rise.
There was a lot of hubhub.
Some talking about gossip. Some about the decoration. Some about the performances lined up for the morning that happens every Friday.
It’s 8.
A voice cuts straight through the noise.
Yes —
The performance is about to begin.
As the curtain unfurls,
We can see two beautiful girls already standing.
Still as statues.
Eyes cast down.
Hands folded at their chest.
The entire audience goes silent.
Even the temple walls seem to lean in closer.
And then, the first beat of the mridangam drops.
And everything changes.
Their eyes lift.
Their feet speak.
The anklets answer.
Both the friends move like they were born for this.
Powerful yet graceful.
Every finger telling a story.
Every eye movement a sentence.
Every step is like a word offered to the goddess.
The aunties in the front row stop fanning themselves.
The children who were restless go quiet.
Even the priest pauses.
Because some performances are not just performances.
They are prayers that the body makes.
As their hands return to prayer, the silence that follows is louder than any applause.
They end the dance with elegance and grace.
The silence is simply carried away by the claps.
Their cheeks turned pink as they bowed to the audience,
And slowly walked away from the stage.
No sooner did they reach backstage —
Than they started to shout out of excitement —
Hugging each other.
The same never ending story —
That happens behind the stage every Friday. As if they were performing it for the very first time.
Their excitement was completely broken when they saw the time.
15 minutes to 9
They started to pack their bags —
Removing the heavy anklets.
Getting changed.
And it was Priyam who said it first.
“Our first class will be taken by Mr. Subrahmanyam Iyer.”
A brief silence.
Both of them looked at each other.
“We cannot be late.”
“Even if we are late by a second, we have to stand outside for the whole class.”
They grabbed their bags stuffed their anklets and straightened their dupatta in a single go.
Started to run through the corridors of the temple.
They are out of the temple.
“Just a minute! I will be back.”
She said to Priyam.
And before Priyam could even respond —
She was already running.
Towards the beach. Her third love.
Her excitement lifting with every step she took closer to the shore.
Higher and higher.
Until finally, a gentle wave touched her feet.
She stopped.
The sun already bright above her.
The kind breeze arrived softly and took the jasmine strand that was lying in front of her shoulder and carried it back where it belonged.
It seemed like time had literally paused for her.
Before another wave could touch her feet,
“Nidhi” her name. (Srinidhi)
She snapped back to the present and looked back.
It's Priyam.
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