Her Henna Bled White

 A tale of love, loss, and the color no one chooses—white. The gift of a war to her, ironically, is the Color of Peace! 

 When I went to sleep, my hands were natural. The next morning, I woke up to both hands wrapped, each in an old cloth piece.

“Mumma! My hands!” I shouted.

My mother came smiling and removed those cloth pieces, saying, “Go and wash your hands and see the magic.”

I ran and scrubbed my hands, removing that dried muck from my hands, making faces, and shouting Yuk! Yuk! 

Voila! “This is henna! When did you apply it to my hands?” I had no idea something so ordinary could turn into something so beautiful.
That morning, I didn’t just wash my hands, I washed away sleep and stepped into celebration. Compliments filled the air like monsoon petrichor, soaking into me.
That day, I felt special. Wanted. Adorned. Isn’t that what love is? A surprise in the night that blooms in the morning. I was delighted and ran to her and every person in the house to show my hand, expecting compliments. 

I admired myself in the mirror with my palms facing the mirror in front of my face. 

It was drizzling since morning, but I wanted to go outside, play with my friends, and take swings. My friend had a jute rope swing in her veranda.

The whole day, I ran across the house and the neighborhood, showing my hands to everyone and getting praises, compliments, admiration, and smiles back.

This was the festival of ‘Teej’ and I loved it for the mehndi patterns, colorful bangles, high swings, Ghevar (a sweet delicacy in north India), new clothes, and the songs my mother used to sing on this occasion.

This festival is all about visiting the mayka by married women.

Married women are used to singing songs to call their brothers to take them along, as they miss their mother and friends. And on reaching the mayka, they would sing songs to call their beloved. As now, they miss them.

What an irony! Haha…

How peculiar that women keep waiting—first for their brothers, then for their beloved.
Their hearts stretch like swings tied to trees, swaying between home and the world outside.
Those songs, half lament, half laughter, were the unsaid verses of a woman's longing.
Even at my young age, I sensed a sadness stitched between those joyful notes.
But I never imagined I’d one day understand that sadness with such clarity. 

My mother was used to making a mutthi (fist) design with henna. She would spread a blob of henna on the fingers and then ask me to clasp my fingers in a fist, and one more blob on the remaining part of the palm outside the fist. One needed to keep the fist closed until the henna dried up to make a beautiful pattern. After the henna dried, it would leave a deep color on the palm, leaving the lines either unpigmented or very light-colored. 

I didn’t realize then how much power lay in the simplicity of that fist. Closed hand, holding tight, capturing warmth and intimacy. Our fists were full of shared traditions, echoing the rhythms of sisterhood and belonging. The henna dried and washed, but its fragrance lingered long after, the way love does, quietly persistent.

The tighter you make the fist, the clearer and darker the pattern becomes. Similar to the love of a close-knit family. Love is in sharing, and beauty is in caring. Who got what or who did what doesn’t matter? The efforts were fewer, still, the outcome was so beautiful. Almost all women had the same type of patterns, and the comparison was only the darkness of the color. Who got the darkest hands? We giggled and teased, as if darkness on palms equated to the depth of love.

 As the henna patterns became intricate, they lost their feelings, or I think so…

I didn’t know that one day, I'd crave even a pale imprint, just to feel remembered. That shared laughter now returns to me, echoing in empty rooms, asking: Where did all that color go?

 I’m Disha. I no longer apply henna to my hands. This is for unmarried girls or married suhagan (married women whose husbands are alive).

There was a time I counted days to Teej. Now, I count silences between phone calls. I no longer run around showing my hands. I hold them still, close to my chest, as if to protect whatever memory remains. The songs stopped. So did the swing. But my fists still tighten in longing, not play. Now, I go to sleep wishing someone would apply henna on my hands. But no one does.

My beloved has gifted me a permanent color when he made the supreme sacrifice for the motherland and came back wrapped in the tricolor. I touched that flag like I used to touch his cheek, gently, reverently. His last embrace came not with arms, but with silence and ceremony. People said, "Be proud." I am. But pride doesn't warm a cold pillow or answer a child's questions. And yet, I wear that pride every day like white bangles; silent, strong, unbreakable.

When all the colors of light become one, they appear white. White is my color now. And I’m proud of it. The color of peace. When all colors unite, they make white. For me, now white is the color of unity. People say white is plain, the absence of color. But they don’t understand. White holds all shades—joy, pain, love, loss—folded into quiet surrender. It is not the color of emptiness. It is the color of everything.

______________________________________________

Many martyr at the border, leaving behind their families and dear ones to tackle life. We have seen many bravely fighting the situation, but not all are as strong or have a support system with them. They struggle to come to terms with their loss. Wars are about holding power and showing off to the world for some, while others lose their world to wars. War doesn’t end when guns fall silent. For some of us, it begins there—with a folded flag, an empty side of the bed, and hands that once wore henna now clasped in silent prayers.

How I Wish I Had a Sister!

 

Growing up in the seventies and eighties, our wardrobes had a simple logic—two types of clothes: one for home, and the other, bahar pahenne wale kapde—the designated outfits for going out. These weren’t ‘party wear’ in today’s sense of glitter and brands. A ‘party’ back then could be anything—your cousin’s wedding, a neighbor’s birthday, or a family function. And wearing those special clothes was a treat in itself.

Getting new clothes was a carefully timed event. If there was a wedding in the extended family—say, a maasi, mama, or chachu getting married—you might just get lucky. But even then, it depended on your pecking order among your same-gender siblings. If you were the eldest, good for you. If not, you probably ended up with someone else’s hand-me-downs.

And we, believe it or not, didn’t really mind it. Not until someone (read: a sibling seeking revenge for some petty fight) decided to remind you loudly at a gathering that your ‘new’ dress was, in fact, their old one. Sometimes, this cruel reminder would be delivered with a smirk, a pointed finger, or worse, in front of friends. It stung, but you couldn’t really complain. That was just how it was.

As the only girl among four siblings, I initially thought I had hit the jackpot. While my youngest brother wore hand-me-downs from the older two, I had my own set of clothes—no sharing, no fighting. I used to secretly thank God for not giving me a sister. Imagine sharing clothes with another girl, I thought. Or worse, handing over my favorites once I’d outgrown them.

But that gratitude didn’t last long.

Being the only female child came with its own strange setbacks. Clothes, for instance, were considered a wasteful investment when there was no one to inherit them later. My mother would say with a practical air, “If only you had a younger sister, we wouldn’t mind buying more. But these go to waste once you outgrow them. So, let’s buy just one now, we’ll get another next time.”

And that “next time” was always just… next time.

I still remember sulking quietly after one such verdict. That day, the desire for a sister was very real.

But the feeling hit its peak during birthday parties. Those get-togethers were beautifully modest—homemade kheer, halwa, or gulab jamun; potato chips from a local bakery; orange squash or Rooh Afza; and lots of giggling over passing-the-parcel. The excitement started days before and built up like a festival.

So, when I got invited to a friend’s birthday, I was thrilled. Until the permission hurdle showed up.

My mother had one condition: “Take your youngest brother along.”

It was her default clause. If I wanted to go to any gathering, he had to accompany me as a mini bodyguard. He was small, clumsy, and sometimes afraid of the very stray dogs I’d be shielding him from. But my mother thought he was my security detail. And without agreeing to this arrangement, there was no party.

I didn’t want to take him. None of my friends ever dragged their brothers along. If only he were a she, I thought. Maybe I wouldn’t mind as much. Perhaps we could have matched dresses or shared secrets. Maybe I wouldn’t feel like I was babysitting.

But that wasn’t the case.

So, I gave in. I said yes, because a party with conditions was better than no party at all.

And that evening, as I adjusted the one carefully chosen dress I had for such occasions and looked at my brother trying to adapt his crooked belt, I sighed and thought, God, how I wish I had a sister.

Looking back now, I smile at the absurd logic of those days, the fairness of frugality, the unspoken sibling rivalries, and the strange companionship I shared with my tagalong brother.

I never did get that sister I longed for, but over time, I gained something else: stories worth telling. Stories stitched with fabric, old and new, borrowed and passed down—not just of clothes, but of a childhood lived richly, even in its simplicity.

And today, when I see siblings bickering or sharing outfits on Instagram, I still think wistfully, How I wish I had a sister! But then again, I had brothers, and that, in its own chaotic way, was a different adventure altogether.