Sudha Balagopal
1. THE DISPATCHSome Scars Never Go Away
Darling granddaughter,
What a noisy and confused phone conversation we had yesterday! Blame my cell phone for garbling your words. The service in my area is unreliable, unlike yours in America.
That's why I like writing letters. Your “instant” generation can't understand the joy one derives from a handwritten letter. I love drawing the Ganesha symbol at the top, I like the personal greeting and oh, how I adore filling white space with words. But, silly me, I digress.
Did I hear you right? You want my nose jewels? What on earth for? I can only suppose you saw me wearing my muthu mookuthi and besari, one on either nostril, in ancient black and white photographs―the ones taken at my 1960 wedding. Please do not, do not, pierce your nose.
You know, we were at the jewelry store—the same place where my Appa purchased the nose ornaments—when I discovered that I was to be married. He'd led me to believe we were there to choose a necklace set. While I studied swan-shaped pendants, I heard him tell the jeweler, “My daughter's future in-laws insist she must wear traditional diamond nose ornaments.”
Questions filled my head. Who are these in-laws? When is the marriage? And, they've asked for not just a generic nose stud, but elaborate ornaments?
“Is there a woman here to pierce my daughter's nostrils?” Appa asked.
The squat jeweler sat cross-legged behind a low wooden desk. A ropy gold chain hung over his partially-buttoned white shirt.
“A woman?” he smirks. “A woman cannot do this job.”
They had a man available for the piercing but Appa wouldn't let any male come close to me.
At home, I angry-wept, asked why they wanted to send me away at age eighteen. Appa said I must trust him. He'd found the perfect family for me. Family, not husband.
All night, I lay awake. How many people lived in this perfect family's household? Would they let me visit my parents?
And the man I would marry? I couldn't summon romantic thoughts about a man I hadn't seen.
The next morning, a scrawny, beady-eyed woman dressed in a faded-yellow sari arrived. Horror bit into my belly when I watched her thread her needle—thicker than the one I used to hem my blouses or repair rips in my pavadais. She gestured for me to sit on the floor, then scooted next to me. She inserted a grimy finger under my right nostril. Without a word, she thrust the needle into my tender nostril, the thread followed, into and out of my nose.
I pain-screamed, I sad-screamed. Tear-rivers coursed down my cheeks, the liquid dripping on the woman's hands. Lips pursed, beady eyes focused, she knotted the thread into a circle and snipped the excess length. Next, she pulled on my left nostril and plunged the needle again. For completing the torture, Amma gave her a cup of tea and some rupees.
I stayed in bed for the next two days. Amma berated me for sulking until she noticed the swollen red skin around the piercings. The beady-eyed woman returned. She sliced a garlic clove into a stem, inserted the stick into the piercings. “Natural medicine,” she said.
I reeked of stale garlic for days. To date, I can't abide garlic.
Amma said wearing nose jewelry is a privilege married women have. “This is our custom.”
“I don't want this honor,” I said.
“No one but you can remove the besari or the muthu mookuthi off your nose,” Amma said. “Think of them as our investment. For you.”
“Why would anyone want to take anything off my body?” I asked. “What kind of household will I enter?”
A few days later, Appa received an envelope daubed with turmeric―indicating auspicious tidings. My future in-laws confirmed the wedding date and said they'd like me to wear a bullaku, a septum ring, as well. I imagined being led like a cow with a metal ring through its nose.
The infection from the piercing took a while to subside and left little time before the wedding to add a septum ring. After the nose healed I wore the diamonds on both nostrils. They stayed on as permanent fixtures.
My husband didn't comment on my nose. Or my face. Or any part of my body. For a while I assumed it was because our large, multi-generational family limited privacy, but surely he could have whispered words, telegraphed smiles?
I didn't feel anything when your grandfather died five years after marriage―neither relief nor sorrow. It's probably blasphemous to say this, but having lived for eighty-one years, I've chosen to dispense with propriety. Widowhood permitted me to take off my nose jewels, allowed my nostrils to breathe free. I rubbed coconut oil into the holes left by the piercings.
Later, much later, I remembered how Amma said I should think of the jewelry as investment. I retrieved the besari and muthu mookuthi from the cupboard. They sat in tiny boxes, resplendent against their navy velvet bed.
Darling, to answer your question, I'm sorry but I sold my jewelry to pay for your mother's wedding. I don't have the nose ornaments, but my nose still has the holes. Some scars never go away.
Please write back and tell me you won't pierce your nose. You know my cell phone's useless. Besides, I will forever cherish a letter from my granddaughter, all the way from America.
With many blessings and affection,
Your Pati
2. BUREAU INVENTORYTea; I'm addicted.
Crunchy snack to help me think.
Lots of pens—I can't decide which one to use.
Glasses because I'd like to see.
Scribble paper to jot down random words.
A box of tissues—because some stories make me cry.
3. BIOGRAPHYSudha Balagopal is honored to have her writing featured in many fine literary journals including SmokeLong Quarterly, Split Lip, and CRAFT. Her highly commended novella-in-flash, Things I Can't Tell Amma, was published by Ad Hoc Fiction in 2021. She is the author of the novel, A New Dawn and two short story collections. Her work is listed in the Wigleaf Top 50 (2019, 2021) and is forthcoming in both Best Microfiction and Best Small Fictions, 2022.