She stands in front of the almirah at one end of the dressing room. Behind her, in the bedroom, people come and go. She can hear the low murmur of their voices, deliberately hushed. But she is alone here, in this alcove-like room that leads to the bathroom beyond.

It is a large cupboard, made to order, not one of those that come in any of the usual sizes. It fits along one side of the wall, neatly, its top just sliding under the concrete slab overhead. The three doors of the cupboard are of polished wood, in a maroonish, antique color. The door handles are ornate, and of heavy brass. They stand before her now, locked.

The keys are in her hand, bunched together in a silver ring. The tinkling of the silver ornament that decorates the ring reminds her, suddenly, of the time when she used to wear anklets, as a new bride to this place. The silver anklets and this ring had been a matching set, actually. Twelve years ago, when she had come to this house after the completion of all the ceremonies, they had been part of her persona. For a year, no, more, till Babli had been born almost two years after her marriage, she had worn the anklets, and kept the key ring hooked to the waist of her sari. The other people in this house had smiled indulgently at her approach, always. “We knew you were coming… Your anklets and key ring tell us… A new bride… Nice!”

She wonders where the anklets are. She had put them away after Babli was born, because they were inconvenient. She had worn them, off and on, over the years, though not since Ashok had fallen ill. It must be in the locker somewhere, with all my other silver stuff. The gold of course goes into the other locker.

She is deliberately thinking of anklets and silver so that she can postpone the moment when she has to make the decision. Realizing this, she selects a key from the bunch, and opens a door of the cupboard. Then another, and then the last. She steps back, a little, to consider.

The people in the bedroom seem to have left. Or are they just quiet, waiting for her to come out? In the sudden hush, she can hear the tinkling of the priest’s bell, below, in the courtyard. The preliminary ceremonies have started. Ashok’s brothers and nephews are already gathered around the area that has been demarcated for the ceremonies. In this house, in these large rooms in which several generations have lived for more than a century, that is the place where this kind of ceremony has always been held. Like so much else, it is the allotted space for this specific kind of ceremony. Everything in this house has its place, every person is held to certain norms of behavior, depending on the occasion. And every occasion has a dress code.

The left leaf of the cupboard has opened to hangars on which are draped saris. The matching blouses and cholis are folded neatly on them. There is hardly any space for another hangar, another sari, to fit in here. They are placed in two rows, one on top of the other. The middle section, too, has in the same way, row upon row of long drapes that fall in graceful folds from the rods. But these are mekhela sadors, and occupy a little less space, each, than the longer, more voluminous saris. Above this section is a shelf, on which lie even more saris. The right leaf swings open, finally, to show shelf after shelf of more casual wear. Salwar suits, kurtis. But no western wear. She left her jeans and t-shirts behind when she came to this house, with its traditional dress codes, after her marriage. It would not be seemly, her own mother had said, for the youngest daughter-in-law of such a large and highly respected family to go traipsing about in trousers and skirts like some college girl. She remembers the exact tone of her mother’s voice as she had said: they have a position to maintain. There had been pride in that voice, and a sense of accomplishment, as she had added: after all they are the foremost tea planter family of this entire region. Such an old family. Obviously they have to think of their status.

She gathers her wandering thoughts again. She tries to focus on the task at hand. Soon they will be calling out for her. She can hear the voices float up from the courtyard below, though she can’t make out the words.

Ashok had teased her, often, when he had happened to see the contents of this wardrobe. His own dressing room was to the other side of the large bedroom, along with his own bathroom, so he didn’t really have to come to this side of the room much. Still, he had sometimes come in, and watched her as she had pursed her lips and decided what she would wear that day, or evening, to the event to which they were going.

“Why take such a long time to decide?” he had laughed. “Everything looks the same. Just pull out something and wear it. It’s all white, anyway…”

It was “just white” to him, maybe, for he was a man for whom shades and nuances did not exist. Things were blue, and brown, and green. Colors such as “apple green” and “moss green” or “banana leaf green” or “sky blue” did not exist in his vocabulary. Standing behind her, he had no doubt seen hangars full of clothes that were white. But she, she had seen differently.

She is still seeing them differently. Nothing is “just white” to her eyes. This one is ever so slightly cream cultured, the other one is the color of a fully blooming magnolia. That one over there reflects the sprigs of blue on its body, and is therefore tinged with the color of the sky. This other one has a richly embroidered green and gold border, naturally the white will have a slight green touch to it. There are so many shades here, of pale colors. Of fawn, of ivory, of beige… How could he have seen only white? This mekhela is touched with the palest blush of pink, this here has a lemony yellow hint to it… And in any case the embroideries, the gold and the silver weavings, make them so different in character. And the material… Georgette white and a cotton weave in jamdani white were so different… She had tried to explain all this to him, laughingly, many times, but he had always shaken his head and said, “White is white. I don’t know why you love this color – this non-color – so much.”

Her cupboards are as neat as always, in spite of the turmoil in her life. The non-cultured clothes had brought her so much joy, always. She knows that people used to talk about her taste in clothes, right from the time she came here as a bride…

“What pale colors you wear, bowari!” Ashok’s mother had said many times. “Why don’t you wear that navy blue mekhela sador we gave you for the joron? That will look good on you… Or that orange pair, it will look so nice… You have the complexion to carry off these bright colors, why white?”

And she had worn those pairs, to make her mother-in-law happy. But she had always reverted to these whites and ivories.

Other people had not understood, either. Why would a young bride choose to wear white, or such pale colors, when all the hues of the rainbow were there for her to pick from. Of course there is no taboo on the wearing of white, not really, in their community. Still, it’s always nice to see a young bride in bright magenta or red, matching the sindoor in her hair, the vermilion bindi on her forehead, while her anklets tinkle joyously.

She always buys these colors when she purchases clothes for herself. Of course Ashok had sometimes bought her other colors, pinks and greens and blues, which she wore, to please him. But over the last few years, knowing her tastes, he, too, had begun to give her white to wear. Sometimes, not always. He had always tried to persuade her to change her taste in colors for her clothes.

Behind her, the murmurings and whispers in the bedroom have begun again. She hears other people come into the room, talk to the ones already there in low tones. They are probably wondering what’s taking her so long.

Downstairs, she can hear the high pitched voice of the priest, chanting the mantras. He’s been busy, these last eleven days. He’s the family priest, called for occasions such as these, and weddings, and small pujas. He knows his job. The ceremony is being conducted by Ashok’s younger brother, since he does not have a son. Did not. And Babli, a daughter, does not count.

As for she herself, her part in the actual ceremonies is zero. Nil. She may as well have not existed, for all the significance the ceremonies give her. Still, she should be there, downstairs, while the ceremonies are in progress. After all it’s her husband whose last rites are being conducted. It will look bad otherwise. And she can’t even feign indisposition now. The women behind know she’s not indisposed, or likely to fall into an emotion-induced swoon. She’s never been that kind of person. In the last few months, as the disease spread its claws through Ashok’s body, she had never been known to break down. She had done everything that was necessary, calmly, composedly. The rest of the family had been relieved, she could tell, by this composure. Oh of course there had been compassion for her, after all that was simple humanity. But that compassion would not have come so easily if she had had hysterics, or had become a clinging vine, dependent on other people to look after Ashok. Instead, she had taken upon herself to nurse him, even towards the end, when he had asked to be sent home from the hospital so that he could die in his own bed, at home. She had slept in the same room, snatching brief naps for the last month, not trusting the professional nurses for more than a few hours at a time.

They had marveled at her strength then, those people who had come to see if they could be of any help at this critical time. They had looked at her calm face, her spotless white clothes, and said, “You’re really brave. So strong!” and gone away, not knowing that there was no other option for her. And now that the final rites are being conducted down in the courtyard, there is no place for her in the ceremonies. No place for any of the women in the house, really. The rituals of death belong to men.

She will have to go down, there’s no help for it. Already, she knows, there are people, guests down there, people who have journeyed from towns beyond this tea garden, or from other gardens. It is going to be very rude of her if she doesn’t go down.

She brings her mind, and her eyes, to order again. She reaches forward to touch the fabrics before her. The sensuousness of the silk, the sleekness of satin, the softness of chiffon on her palms and fingers bring to mind forgotten feelings. No, she must keep that door shut. Focus on the task at hand, and get ready before people are sent into this dressing room to find out what’s going on.

Suddenly, a thought comes to her. This love of white clothes, had it been an omen, then? A premonition? She will be expected to wear that non-color now, at home, and outside. Always, till the end of her days. Oh of course nobody will expect her, or even allow her, to wear homespun. No, she will be able to wear the silks she had always loved, but in white. It shouldn’t be a problem for her, of course. She has plenty of clothes in that color, or non-color.

In the world she lives in, all colors have a meaning, a significance. White is the color of non-life, meant for those who have embraced religion, or for widows, those who, because of their husbands’ deaths, are now only on the edges of life, its fringes, away from the mainstream. Saffron is for ascetics. Red, the color of menstrual blood, is associated with fertility. It is a bridal color. Purple is for kings and royalty, bright pink and magenta for queens. Blue is the color of the heavens, of Krishna, the Blue God Himself. Green is the color of life, of things growing, of life-giving trees and life-sustaining forests.

Had her love for it been a kind of practice run, so that as a thirty six year old widow she would not feel that the colors of life had been snatched away from her? Make her get used to it, perhaps? Just as now, she would have to get used to sitting at the table with the other widowed women in the family, the two elderly aunts whose diets had, as per custom become abruptly vegetarian the moment their husbands had passed away. They had both loved fish, one had been a roast duck aficionado, but now they were not permitted to even eat at the same table where non-vegetarian food was served. Did their mouths water as the aroma of mutton cooking wafted out from the kitchens? Or had their taste buds, their love of meat and fish and eggs, died on that day, when their husbands had left them?

She would soon know. From tomorrow, she would be eating with them, at their table. For the last few weeks, Ashok had been barely alive, barely breathing. But even these fluttering breaths had entitled her to the choicest pieces of fish, considerately brought to her by her sisters-in-law. “Yes I know you have no appetite, but you need to keep up your strength. He needs you by his side. And see, we’ve brought you this bowl of chicken soup… Drink it up, it will help you…”

She gets the whiff of perfume from the shelves before her. She looks at the cupboard full of clothes White, cream, palest pastels… These had never been anything other than joyous colors for her. The happiness in her mind, that bubbling over of gladness that had always been with her till six months ago, was best reflected in these lovely pale colors. Other women wore sunshine yellow, rich purple, bright magenta when everything was going well in their lives. But it was the serenity of palest taupe, the pristine immaculateness of white that had attracted her, always, in her years of contentment. These are the shades she associates with happiness, with joy. She even dresses Babli in pastels. Maybe she should stop, bring more color to her wardrobe. Who knows what will be in store for her some years down the line? She’s a girl now, but she’s growing up to be a woman, after all, and a woman is never cushioned by the knocks of fate, not by money, or position, or even education.

The murmurs behind her are growing louder. Downstairs, too, in the courtyard, she can hear the muted sound of voices. The guests are arriving. There will be comings and goings throughout the day, and they will want to pay their respects, articulate their condolences to her. She will be expected to sit there, under the white marquee that has been erected for the purpose on the sprawling lawns. White. Everything is white there. It’s as though the green around them, the green of living, growing things, has been snuffed out in this huge sea of white. The chairs are enveloped in clean white covers. The long tables that have been laid out at the side are covered in white cloths, too. There will be refreshments served to the guests after the rituals are over. The crockery is white, even the menu features only food that is white in color. Potato curry with poppy seeds, and no turmeric, so that the color remains white. Loosies, the round flour discs deep fried carefully so that they do not turn brown, but remain white. Curds made from cow’s milk, pressed rice, white sugar. Through it all, in this ocean of white, she will behave as a recently bereaved widow is expected to. It’s a groove along which she is expected to walk, draped in appropriate clothes and appropriate behavior, just as so many other women, similarly bereaved, have travelled, for generations before her. Those who rebel are not treated cruelly, but with disdain. And contempt. And disdain and contempt can break the spirit just as surely as cruelty does. No wonder, then, that not many dare to cross the lines of demarcation.

She hears footsteps behind her. Somebody has entered the room. It’s her sister-in-law. In a soft voice, she says, “Is there… Can I help you?” She is after all a woman, though not a widow, and knows the dilemmas that recently bereaved women in societies like theirs must face.

Without turning round, she replies, “No, it’s all right. I’ve had my bath, I just need to wear…” She begins to gesture towards the cupboard full of clothes, but uses her hands to tighten the belt around her housecoat instead. “I’ll be ready in a minute…” Her own voice sounds frayed, as though it has aged decades in a single six month span.

“The guests have started arriving…” Her sister-in-law’s voice is compassionate.

“I know.” She tries to bring some strength to the sound of her voice. “Ummm… Why don’t you, all of you, go downstairs. I’ll join you in a minute…”

“Sure?” The other woman sounds doubtful.

“Of course. Go on, it will look odd if the daughters-in-law of the house are missing. I’ll be down, soon…”

She listens to the women go out of the room behind her. She glances at the large mirror at the side of the room. She looks strange, unfamiliar without the sindoor that always used to blaze in the parting of her hair, or the large crimson bindi. These proud symbols of marriage she had removed on the day Ashok had breathed his last. After her bath that day, she had remembered not to succumb to habit and put them on her person, the way she had done for so many years. She had set aside her jewelry, too. In any case how could she wear the mangalsutra, that necklace of black beads interspersed with gold globes and diamonds, that was, too, a symbol of a married woman?

For ten days before he had died, Ashok had labored to breathe. In spite of the oxygen, in spite of the morphine shots, it was obvious he was almost dead with the pain and the agony. And yet, she had been entitled to wear these symbols of marriage at that time, till the body was taken out of the house to the cremation ground. His every breath had been drawn arduously, the bones of his once-fit body had stuck out through the skin. Every day, his had body wasted away some more, till he was a skeleton covered with skin.

And yet, even when he was just a breathing corpse, too far gone to recognize anyone, she had been a married woman, entitled to wear sindoor and mangalsutra. Not now though. That door had closed firmly behind her.

She turns away from the mirror, and quickly, without giving herself time to think further, reaches out and takes down a sari. She drapes it around herself, and without looking at the mirror even once, she leaves the room.

There is quite a crowd of mourners already downstairs. Ashok’s relatives, all in white, are sitting near the place where his brother is performing the rituals of death. The guests, their friends and distant relatives, are sitting around, all dressed in pale colors, mostly cream or white. Babli, dressed in her usual pale-colored clothes, is sitting with her aunts, looking at her uncles as they chant mantras to send her father in peace to his next life.

They all turn to look at her, the bereaved widow, as she comes up to them. A hushed silence descends on the crowd. Even the priest stops in mid chant and stares at her.

In that sea of white, her clothes are the only spot of color. Her sari is the last one that Ashok had gifted her, on her birthday, before he had been diagnosed with the disease. It is a bright, lively, sparkling green, a beautiful shade that reflects the verdure all around them.

Folding her hands in a welcoming namaste, she begins to greet the guests, one by one.