The Color of Turmeric

The wind whipped the white sari hooded over Chhaya's head, exposing hair that fell in deliberate waves. Walking behind her, Sarla noticed that her mother-in-law didn't show a single strand of gray. And wondered how old she might be. Her gait still looked fresh with a quiet confidence in her tiny barefoot steps, something she rarely saw in older widows, at least here in Jelepara. Sarla looked down at the undulating hems of her own sari, bright red, gaudy pieces of decorative glass sewn on the fringes, reflecting the blue sky and an occasional spark from the sun.

As a child, she loved red. Now, Sarla wasn't sure. Red was lively, uplifting. It reminded her that her marriage was still intact, that Igra was still alive. It also suggested that life was feeble, only a tiger paw away from turning white.

"How much longer?" asked Chhaya without turning around.

"It's right there." Sarla's reply was hardly audible. She was going unwillingly.

The two women walked around the bend and visible from a distance were the rococo colors of a Hindu temple, generously painted in blue, pink, orange, and green. A large idol of one of the deities festooned with flower garlands and ribbons of silk adorned the archway of the entrance, a glaring aum sign under it. More vivid was the contrast provided by the widows in white. Squatting on the temple grounds in a tight circle at whisper distances, they dug deep into their wounds, scattered woes, and wallowed in each other's rue and pity. This was a weekly Jelepara routine, a noisy gathering of women reveling in often exaggerated tiger accounts, ensnared by the grief of their lost or missing husbands.

"So this is the temple."

Sarla nodded, her anklets tinkling obtrusively as the two women walked into an uncomfortable silence, into a crucible of glares, little arrows that jabbed with intention. The widows knew Sarla didn't like to be there, considered her dismissive of tragedy, too callow to understand the depths of their loss. Which was untrue: Sarla was fearful of tragedy, not dismissive of it. She considered herself too young to be thinking of her life in dull shades of white, too new a wife to be listening to stories of husbands arriving home as mangled bodies in bloody sheets. She pretended to be ignorant because she was all too aware of imminent widowhood in Jelepara, the village of widows, as it was known.

She knew Igra wanted to work here when they met for the first time, knew it when romantic sparks flew between them and she decided to marry him despite severe opposition from Igra's parents. Chhaya disliked Sarla because she was a destitute, not the rich daughter-in-law of her dreams, so poor she didn't have the right to be pretty. Chhaya had hoped to find a woman so wealthy Igra wouldn't have to leave his own village, Ghaner, to find lucrative work in Jelepara where most conversations during dinner or over chai revolved around death and tigers. Igra went against their wishes, married Sarla, left his parents' house, left Ghaner, and arrived in Jelepara, where they paid more to keep their workers who either quit or were unwilling victims to the untamable beast.

Since moving to Jelepara two years ago many things had happened. Igra lost touch with his parents, then lost his father, stopped fishing and started honey-collecting, which he said was more satisfying despite being more frequent. Now, Sarla was pregnant. Igra usually returned within two or three days. Every week Sarla watched him disappear into the fickle woods armed with a thick branch and a human mask worn at the back of the head. The locals believed that the animal always attacked from the rear. The mask was to deceive the beasts into thinking their prey was watching them. After consulting with her neighbor, Sarla had spent two entire days creating a new clay mask for Igra, making sure she got the paint and the features right, her sole mission being to help her husband...