Shvetratri, the white night
Amma held a secret nobody knew.
This is the first story written in Folktale week 2024. It will be a series of seven stories, a part of Dead Sister’s tales. These are all free. If you don’t want to miss out
Heerganj only celebrated one festival, Shvetratri, the white night. Nimit and Antara didn't want to miss it but had no choice as they followed their grandmother away to the forbidden forest.
The village got cut off as more and more mist enveloped them leading up to the night. Some villagers didn't leave the bonfire in the middle for the whole week, keeping it alive even during days, while others on the periphery moved closer to the center. During the last three days, they barely got any sunlight, blending the mornings and nights.
The siblings dreaded the beating they would get if caught. They could hardly see their Amma in front of them. Only she didn't seem bothered. She hacked her way with a machete, ignoring their stumbling and falling.
The children were wary not to get their new clothes dirty, slowing their pace. It was a lost cause for Nimit's white dhoti, but Antara, a year older than his nine, considered herself responsible and jumped over fallen branches to save her saree. It had taken a month of begging her mother to buy her the attire reserved for married women. She wished Papa was around to help her, so she was adamant about not letting it stain.
Antara kept her eyes on the gold anklets that peeked through Amma's saree. The jewelry glinted and helped them keep track of their way in white.
After an hour, they could hardly hear the sound of drums and the singing women. All the sweets would be wiped off by others by the time they would go back. Nitin had gobbled two plates of kachoris before he was whisked away. He licked his lips of the remaining savory taste while Antara's tummy grumbled in protest. They had to fast till the last pooja by the lady's head. Amma had grabbed her before she could eat anything.
They were sweating despite the cold when their leader stopped to listen. She tilted her head to the right, straining the only working ear to find out the source of water. Amma took a sharp turn to the left till they reached the clearing on the shore.
They couldn't hear what Amma was saying. So, they moved inwards. The old lady pushed her grandchildren down on the ground. They clutched each other in fear as she made a circle from the wheat flour she made Antara carry. She got in after doubling the circle and sat in front of them.
Antara wondered why she wore the same golden saree every year. Did she come here when they thought she went back home after puja, tired of the songs and dance?
"Do not go outside of this circle. No matter what happens around you!" She grabbed them by their shoulders when she thought they hadn't listened and repeated the warning.
She took the small bag from Nitin and laid out the biggest diya the children had ever seen. That's what had been poking him in the side. Amma filled it with oil to the brim. She lit it before starting another prayer.
She was repeating three sentences. Antara leaned in to listen better. They could only see her. Nothing outside the circle.
Nitin whimpered when he felt arms dragging him away from his sister. His scream rang through the open air, and Amma grabbed his other hand. But he tried to get free when he saw her raise the machete. He squirmed in her grasp, and she yelled at Antara to hold him down. The little girl did so, but only to stop him from getting out of the circle.
Amma made a small cut on his palm and held it over the diya, nicking Antara in his struggle.
The screams that surrounded them now didn't come from the trembling boy. It came from the mist. Amma dropped the machete and kept her hand around the diya to stop it from being blown out by the furious winds.
"I am sorry. We are sorry. Please leave us!" Antara remembered her repeating before it all quietened down, and she lost consciousness just like her brother as the only light extinguished. Not before she saw her Amma shaking her head furiously and crying, "No."
When the little girl woke up, Amma and Maa were whispering. She peeked with her eyes slightly open to avoid her mother.
"I told you not to take him! I could have gone with you." Maa ran her hand over Nitin's head. She wiped her tears away with the edge of her saree.
"It doesn't work that way. It has to be my blood. Not yours." Amma looked away from her outside the window. The mist was slowly lessening. They could finally see some sunlight peeking through the dense covering.
"My son will not pay the price for your mistakes. It's bad enough you have taken my husband."
The little girl had opened her eyes now. She saw Amma's tears fall freely, "I wish I could go back."
And she did in her mind. It had been fifty years since that night.
But she relived it every single day. It was fresh in her mind as if it happened yesterday. She beat herself over what she could have done differently.
She had been recently married to the son of the Village head. She had been asked to fetch fish from the ocean alone for the first time. She ran into her elder sister at the coast for the same task. She was left alone soon.
Resolved to impress her new family, she had stayed later than evening to catch more. Amma kept her weapon in hand, alert for the wild animals and humans alike.
It was a blurred moment in her memory, the only one. A doctor her son had taken her to in the big city told her it was the mind saving her from trauma. She knew better.
She had tried to help her sister, tried to explain she got confused in the mist, that she was not able to see, but her sister had gurgled the end through blood, "Haven't you taken everything from me already, Mohini?"
The young bride had stepped back in shock. Not from her sister's words. She had always known that her sister held resentment for getting married before her. Then, why was she back with the largest fish in her hand?
Her father-in-law was the first one to pay, and her husband soon after the birth of her son. Everyone knew it was because of the mistake she made. They couldn't touch her as the remaining head of the village. But stories started. And they turned against her when Mohini returned the next year with full vengeance.
Amma squashed the rebellion from the villagers with her show in the public square, leaving them awed and coming out as the savior. She took her son to the ocean and asked for forgiveness every year.
And every year, her sister whispered in her ear the only demand she had.
"No one has to pay the price. She will not trouble us anymore." Amma looked straight into the eyes of the little girl.
Nitin's mother left the room in anger.
Amma bent her head and touched it to the ground as the little girl sat in her cot, following the lady out with her eyes.
"She is trouble, Shveta."
Amma looked up in the eyes of the woman she had murdered.
Shvet means pure and white, diya is earthern lamp, kachoris are fried savory pieces of wonder, and saree is a dress worn by Indian woman, yards of cloth draped over body.
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