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The dolls were all there, in their places. They would all be put away soon, wrapped up in newspaper and old cloth. And they would lie in silence, eyes wide open, till Navarathri rolled around again next year.
Except the bride-doll. The bride-doll lay on its side, its saree-border torn, one hand torn off, hair ornaments messed-up. And Thaima had been told that it was her carelessness that had caused this.
Thaima was neither cowed nor upset. "I did not go anywhere near the dolls. You think I have nothing better to do?" She added with a sly smile, " And that too hurt poor Lalithamma….you think I don't know how she feels about that doll? Poor thing!"
"Maybe it was that cat that usually comes in every night", offered Chinakka lamely.
Nobody really understood anything.

The holiday habit began to slowly taper off soon after that year. Naturally. Everyone was growing up….they had their exams, tuition, other programmes, invitations from friends that were more interesting…..
Srini became a pilot. Kumar and Arjun joined different IITs in time, and found their way, like most children, to the US. Vidya got married after her degree, and also settled in the US. And Meera.….the only one who opted for marriage and career right there in her hometown, visited all of them…kept in touch.
Chinakka died 2 years ago….in charge of her life till the end. Everyone thought that Lalithakka would now come into her own, and enjoy her hard won status….but she quietly passed away in her sleep less than a year after Chinakka. Perhaps trailing behind her big sister was too hard a habit to break!
The house was now up for sale, and various family members had requested Meera and her husband to please take care of all the details.

She walked into the corridor. There were still faint traces of the Rampuram smell. She walked into the side-room, to the large cupboards. She stood in front of them and stared. Through the dirty glass panes, she could see a little gleam here, a little gleam there…tinsel, bead and gold ric-rac. Gingerly, she touched the green coloured glass handle, and shook it tentatively. Her fingers came away gritty with dirt, but the cupboard opened. She stared into the cupboard. Faces……shell-faces, Savithri-faces, Hema Malini faces…. a demure dancer, an upright village teacher. Smell of mouldy paper, cloth and glue. She knelt, and peered into the last shelf. And there at the back, she caught a glimpse of old red. A certain saree, a certain border. She reached in, pulled the doll out. The movement dislodged a little cloth bag lying along side. She took the doll out, put it on the ground. Then reached for the cloth bag, and opened it. Inside were a torn arm, some bits of gold-coloured border, and a couple of tiny head ornaments.

Meera was cold that night, filled with an icy anger that flowed in every part of her, so immense, she could almost taste it. All the adults in her life that day…..all of them had turned out to have feet of clay. They were nothing but paper; less real than the dolls Lalithakka made. And worse, because at least the dolls did not pretend to have more substance than the sawdust or whatever they were stuffed with.
Why would a young girl inspire such viciousness? Why did adults have to tear at children under the pretence of teaching them?

How had a girl, petted and indulged for years, suddenly turned into a someone against whom they had to actively use such strident "keep-in-her-place" tactics? Had dreams begun to slowly appear on her face? And they saw them and couldn't stand it? Did they watch a certain sparkle come into existence, and know that that same light had been part of their own faces at some point….except that they had lost it all? While here, instead, was the future, with a chance that life might turn out "better"? And so they were angry with her? It was almost as if a murky resentment had always lain under all their welcome and friendliness, and it had taken her crossing certain milestones to start bringing all that to the surface. The funny thing was, she felt as if she had always known of this dark presence.

Meera was thirsty that night. And she got up, walked softly into the kitchen. The hell with their "don't-touch-these-or-those-vessels" nonsense, she thought. She picked up a steel tumbler, gently slid aside the metal plate covering the mouth of the fat vessel containing drinking water, and dipped the tumbler in. The water made a bluk-bluk sound as it rushed in to fill the tumbler. No one heard. She tilted her head and raised the tumbler to pour water into her open mouth, then paused. Then, with a tiny smile, she brought the tumbler to her lips and deliberately sipped at the water…..another major taboo broken. She then strolled to the silent main hall. In a corner, rose 7 steps filled with the hazy outlines of dolls. At the foot, the doll-township spread out, silent, frozen in the dark….eerie. She moved closer.

So proud they all were….of their dolls, of their cooking, of their navarathri displays, their sundal, their right way of doing things, of their very living. She peered forward. Why, there was the wedding scene. Oh, and there was the bride……the old, old bride, standing coyly next to all her new, new companions, created over the last few months. Actually, she had no business there, right? She was too old, too old to wear ornaments in her hair, too old to wear a wedding garland, and why would anyone clasp a gold belt around a wrinkled old waist?

Meera knelt down. She had to correct this. She pushed at the doll. She raised her hand and using her fingers like one does when one plays marbles, flicked hard at the doll's face. The doll flopped over and lay there, foolish and debased. Meera pulled at the hair ornaments, at the arm closest to her, she pulled again, and again, the arm came off, then she tugged at the saree pleats, and part of the border tore. Then Meera sat back.

Meera, a girl who wept at sad stories….oft-heard ones at that. Something dark, something vicious had surfaced in her …….had it always been there, waiting for the right moment? Where had this deliberate violence come from? Was that all it took……the "right" adult to destroy something inside a child, and bring out the darkness? Maybe these questions had tentatively tried to enter her mind. Meera gave them no encouragement, and shrugged them all away. Who cared anyway?

Someone appeared to stir in the next room. Meera stood up, and went back to bed.

She stared at the old doll, and the little bag. She ran her eyes over the contents of the open cupboard, and the one next to it. Yes, maybe she could donate the lot…..except this one.
Surprising.
Lalithakka had never got round to repairing it, obviously. And then, she must have forgotten. After all, once the children began to move away, interest in these festivals and all the accompanying fuss also must have waned. Who knew?
Meera shut the cupboard door. Well, she had had a look around….sort off. She slipped the cloth bag with its contents into her shoulder bag. She cradled the bride-doll in the curve of her left arm, and walked out of the house. Her mother was back in the hotel, with the children. Her quiet, gentle mother……who had become quieter and quieter over the years.
She'd be back tomorrow morning with the estate agent, and Venky Uncle. Her mother had said that she'd accompany her then……maybe. "Let's see!"

In the meantime, there was a certain amount of mending to do….one way or the other.

Concluded.