The place where temple bells echoed across the seawater, touching every wave like a gentle blessing.
The sun rose on the horizon, slow, golden, and full of grace.
Making the beach brighter.
Making life brighter.
Yes. This was Kanyakumari.
The place where three mighty seas bowed to each other at the feet of Mother India, where every morning felt as though it had been made just for you.
The enchanted breeze knocked on every door, whispering through the leaves of the coconut trees that stood tall on either side of every lane like silent guardians.
Their leaves seemed to exchange gossip, as if they had been keeping the secrets of this town for centuries and could never stop talking about them.
They were the oldest witnesses to every celebration, every prayer, every tear that had passed through these streets.
Every day was prayerful.
Every evening was magical.
Somewhere within these sacred lanes,there was one particular lane.
Every house in this lane woke the same way.
With the smell of camphor.
The sound of slokas.
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 had been awake before the rooster knew it was morning.
These were not just houses.
They were living temples.
And the most beautiful of these temples was the one with the freshest kolam at its doorstep.
The one where the tulsi plant stood like a queen in the courtyard.
The one from whose kitchen the smell of filter coffee drifted out and mingled with the sea breeze.
This was the house of Swaminathan, not far from the rising tides that carried the early prayers of the temple.
As usual, the sun was climbing above the horizon.
And the Swaminathan family was 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 heard the sound of a matchstick rubbing against its box.
One small scratch.
And then, a bright flame.
In the light of that small trembling flame
We saw her. Mrs. Swaminathan.
In that one moment of light,
we understood how beautiful an Indian wife could be.
The responsibilities she carried on her shoulders as if they weighed 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 leaned forward to light it her bangles spoke.
That perfect clanging sound, that only a woman’s bangles made in the early morning silence.
She lit the diya at the feet of the tulsi plant.
And stood up slowly, and began to walk around the tulsi.
Once.
Twice.
Thrice.
Her lips moved in a soft prayer that only God could hear.
And soon amidst the silence, we could 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 adjusted her saree and offered a delightfully rich, aroma-filled cup of coffee to her husband.
And then, without waiting for a word of praise, she quietly slipped away, hurrying towards a corner room as if another world was waiting for her.
The room was still wrapped in a gentle shade of darkness.
As the sun’s rays began to slip through the window, we could see Mrs. Swaminathan lifting her hands, curling her fingers gracefully through the long curls.
She combed swiftly yet gently, with love and care.
She did it with an ease, quick but careful.
Holding the hair and weaving it into a perfect braid.
As the sun started to gleam, it found 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 shifted.
Something was wrong.
Her eyes searched 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 appeared at the door.
Holding them quietly in his hand.
No words.
No scolding.
Just a father, who found what his daughter had forgotten in the corridor, after her evening practice.
And soon a sight of relief spread across her entire face and very soon her lips curved into a joyful smile, as Mr. Swaminathan came 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 was the freshly plucked jasmine, his little princess’s first love. She had fallen in love with jasmine before she could know what love was.
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 tied 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 knew she had 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 were gentle, yet fast… walking proudly (innocently) in the glowing sun. The jasmine in her hair was trying to catch the morning sunlight.
She turned into a familiar lane which she had entered hundred, (sorry thousand times).
Before she reached the house she started 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! It's 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, cuddling her.
Slap! on her back. “You childish girl.”
Then both of them burst out laughing.
No reason for their laugh.
They held their hands tighter and even tighter as they walked down to the temple.
The sound of their bangles and anklets added a beat to a silent music all the way they walked.
They reached 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 walked through the sounds of the bell, smell of the incense and light of the diyas.
As they went closer and closer to the garbhagriha, 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 was 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 were 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 was 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 hubbub.
Some were talking about gossip. Some were talking about the decoration. Some were talking about the performances lined up for the morning that happened every Friday.
It was 8.
A voice cut straight through the noise.
Yes
The performance was about to begin.
As the curtain unfurled, We could see two beautiful girls already standing.
Still as statues.
Eyes cast down.
Hands folded at their chest.
The entire audience went silent.
Even the temple walls seemed to lean in closer.
And then, the first beat of the mridangam dropped.
And everything changed.
Their eyes lifted.
Their feet spoke.
The anklets answered.
Both the friends moved like they were born for this.
Powerful yet graceful.
Every finger told a story.
Every eye movement was a sentence.
Every step was like a word offered to the goddess.
The aunties in the front row stopped fanning themselves.
The children who were restless went quiet.
Even the priest paused.
Because some performances were not just performances. They were prayers that the body made.
As their hands returned to prayer, the silence that followed was louder than any applause.
They ended the dance with elegance and grace.
The silence was 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 had they reached backstage than they started shouting out of excitement hugging each other.
The same never-ending story that happened 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 packing 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 running through the corridors of the temple.
They were 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 lifted with every step she took closer to the shore.
Higher and higher.
Until finally, a gentle wave touched her feet.
She stopped.
The sun was 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 as though 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 was Priyam.
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