AND SHE BECAME GOLD

Model: Shruthy Menon
Conceptualization & Photos: Jinson Abraham
Text: Atheena Wilson
Styling: Lakshmi Babu
Make Up & Hair: Jeena
Image Manipulation: Jemini Ghosh
Assistant Photographer: Arun Menon
Jewelry: A Geera Pai, Broadway
Location Courtesy: Marari Villas, Marari Beach

A tryst with bequeathed treasures, she discovers the story and beauty of gold.

Yesteryears rusted an antique jewelry box, for it teased her with a promise of something everlasting, gold. But today she was unamused with her gifts. Hushed hours, she disrobed to feel whole but only a door away, she was to walk through as bride in the ides of October. Simplicity was a war in her mind, an expression that was hushed by the giants of bequeathed adornments.

Lulled by uncertainty, she felt the kashumalla rest on her décolletage. The cold touch of the metal was an awakening realization. She was a part of a silent conversation as she gathered the faint whispers of her ancestors, the humble request to be adorned in gold. It was a mystery that complicated itself in a rut of endless conversations. Gold never failed to be a part of the modern times, something so old fashioned led to the extremes of avarice and ostentation.

The sunlight streamed in, sharp silhouettes crawled on her skin, but the tiered necklace rested on the blade of her shoulders. She wore the udayanam that clung to her waist, beautifully carved with the deity -Lakshmi the goddess. She recollected her mother’s wedding photos. Twentyfive years ago, her mother wore it around her maroon Kanchipuram saree and now her fingers ran over it the same way her mother felt it. Against her bare skin, it shone.

 As she discovered each piece, she felt she wore a memory and felt complete. The jewelry box hid an anklet. The one that was on her grandmother’s ankle, shying away under her demure sarees. Years ago in a kitchen that cloaked too many shadows, her grandmother reached for the pickle jar – she was on her heels and revealed her pair of anklets. They were surreptiously more beautiful than the golden sun. The bride stripped herself of the saree, to be solely in her skin. She wore the anklet this time, unlike her grandmother- unhidden.

Her face was unabashedly confident to be nude. Adorned with the maang tikka and nose ring, she became coy, for she felt she was mythical. An unfamiliar face, she saw a semblance with women in famous paintings. Her fingers rode over her bindi clad forehead, one that bore kisses of blessings from her kin.

She sat in front of the mirror, without a quiver she wore each necklace. She became a woman in the eyes of the women who framed her. Whispers faded, she’s become a bride.

 As the doors open, there will be brimful smiles. Years later, a few whispers shall ring in her daughter’s ears.