The Painted Tree

 Mist parted in the mango grove owned by the Chettinads. The first one to lift the veil of silence of the impending dawn was the little one of the grove's mischievous sunbird. It twittered and inwardly fluffed its tiny wings producing an infinitesimal jerk; enough to wake the mother. As the dawn approached, imitating a shy child being asked to recite a piece of poetry, the grove was awake. Birds tittered and ants hurried about their business. The last call from the grove was the loudest. It was always the Grey Junglebird who initiated the rituals about to happen in the small, dung caked room in the thatched house of the Chettinads.

Vaidarbhi inhaled the fragrant air of the new born day, infused with the smell of ripe mangoes and bananas from the grove and of the wet muddy banks of the Vaigai flowing unhurriedly. A silent prayer of gratitude to Vishnu the Preserver escaped her lips as she opened her eyes and performed a full bhoomi namaskara. The first thoughts in her mind were always of one particular tree in the grove. The one in the corner, out of the field of both interest, and view of the occasional inquisitive eye. She gently pulled out the stringy hair tie from the dense mass of her jet black hair. One after the other, she undid the firm plaits, their volume increasing in the process on an upward going graph. Two minutes passed and her hair were a flowing spectacle brushing her waist, just where the cotton saree left a tiny gap uncovered. She closed her eyes as her hands, out of habit, found their way to the bottle of coconut oil and generously applied them, in a massaging motion near the scalp to a smooth, straight motion at the very end. The room itself seemed awake with the hint of coconut lingering in the air.

Now was the turn was turn of the well worn plastic toothed comb. She ran it through her hair, a display of tenderness and aggression. Gentle was the comb with softer and smoother parts of the lady's hair and tougher was it with tangles that remained a memory of the previous day. Once the comb had served its purpose, she swiftly tied the oiled and cleaned mass back into tightly wound plaits. She smiled, the ways of the Chettinads were something she was well accustomed to.

Her anklets sent notes of subtle music twirling in the pristine air as she walked briskly to the grove. The mango tree seemed to welcome the daughter of the dawn. Her box of paints gifted by none other than the Nayar's son, who seldom returned from a town far off lay still on one of its branches. Filled with joy from the mere sight of it, she hurried and clasped open the bottles of exotic paint and set about finishing her masterpiece of "The Painted Tree".