WEDDING GARMENTS
Ravuri Venkata Satyanarayana Rao
Puttanna owned a hut, supported by two center beams. He put up the two beams to provide a shade
over their heads. Actually, the husband and the wife were the two beams for that hut. Puttanna and
Sitamma were of the same height not only physically but also at heart. If you see them you would
wonder if the Creator had split one soul into two, created two bodies for them and sent them into this
world, saying “go, play for a while and return.”
Puttanna was a weaver by profession. But for a few hours, he would keep working on the shuttle in his
hand all day, weaving the cloth in the frame. Sitamma would never leave the spinning wheel. Sitting by
her husband’s side, her job was to separate the threads, winding them around the bobbins, starching
the cloth after it was dried and brushing them. Her eyes blossomed each time she finished winding up
a bobbin. Each time Puttanna finished a piece of cloth, a smile spread on his lips like the snake gourd
flowers. They never felt like they were slogging. They had accepted their work as a sacred ritual, a
yajnam.
There was a ganuga tree in front of their hut. A cow was tied to the pole under the tree. The cow was
a sight for the onlookers with her faded orange colored body, the two horns straight up and joined at
the apex, and bountiful udders bearing down. That ocher-colored cow had a white baby ox. The baby
ox was tied to a pole away from the mother. The mother cow was looking at her baby and mooing
sometimes. At other times, she would crane her neck and watch the village. For her, the baby ox was
not the only baby. She had adopted several other babies in the village. The babies’ parents brought
spouted pots each morning to Puttanna’s house. Puttanna milked the cow, filled those pots, and
returned home with his empty pot. If you see him at that moment, you would notice moonbeams on his
face. That was because he was content that his cow’s milk was feeding the little ones in the village.
Puttanna’s ancestors had lived in that village for a very long time. Cherishing the good relationship,
which had been handed down for several generations, was an important goal for him. Whenever a
wedding took place in any home in the village, he must weave the special garments, madhuparkaalu,
and present them to the bride and the groom. Every year during the wedding season, he would spend
days and nights at the loom. Sitamma’s hand would never leave the spinning wheel, or, so it seemed.
The bride and the groom would wear those clothes, sit on the wedding planks and pour talambralu on
each other’s heads. For Puttanna and Sitamma, watching the event and shedding tears of joy had
been a custom for a very long time. They never accepted money for that pair of special garments.
Puttanna had no desire to accept charity from others. Good deed and duty were his fortress which
needed no validation. Sitamma never asked for anything beyond that either. However, there were
necessities. The cow needed to be fed. Therefore, the people who came with the spouted pots were
also bringing the feed stuff and sesame slabs, a byproduct in making sesame oil. During the thrashing
season, farmers were bringing hay, although Puttanna never asked for it. A few others brought bales
of janapa stalks and repaired his roof. Puttanna objected but they would not listen. “Your cow is
kamadhenu, the heavenly cow,” they said, smiled and left.
Thus, all his money went into making madhuparkaalu year after year and eventually, his entire income
was gone. He was too proud to ask for a loan. He would say to Sitamma, “Ayya [father] used to say
that it is better to kill ourselves than borrow money.”
Sitamma agreed, “Would I suggest taking a loan? Of course not. How could I even bear the thought?
Isn’t it like the big eagles eating up the little birds in the nest?”
While life was going on like this, Papayya, the village alderman, set a date for his daughter’s wedding.
Usually, weddings would not be performed in the Sravana month. However, the family members were
worried that Papayya’s mother was losing her sight. She said, “Wouldn’t you let me see my
granddaughter’s wedding?” Papayya was moved by her words and set the date for the wedding. And
they decided to perform the ceremony within five days.
Sitamma went to the well to bring water. On her way back, she ran into Papayya. He said, “Chellemma,
we’ve decided to perform my girl’s wedding on coming Saturday. Tell Puttanna also.”
“Yes, annayya! That’s good news. I’m bringing water. I’ll go to your place to talk to vadina, after
leaving this pot at my home,” she said and left. \
The news of the wedding brought smiles on her face but they were gone after walking a few steps.
She quickly went home, put down the pot, and gave the good news to her husband. At first, he
laughed but the laugh was squashed soon like a lamp lit in the blowing wind.
“We can put in physical labor but where can we get the thread?” he fretted.
“Maybe, just for this once …” Sitamma said and stopped.
“Just for this once … what? Ignore the custom? Is that what you’re saying? I cannot do away with the
custom. I would rather do away with my life,” he said, struggling to control himself.
“I did not say do away with the custom.”
“What did you say then?”
“Maybe, a loan.”
“Don’t say that to me. If we borrow one rupee, the man who gave us would have a sway on us, which
you can’t even imagine. Now we have good sleep at least, even if it is brief. That will be gone. With the
loan on my mind, can I stay calm and work the woof? I will not take a loan, no matter what,” he said,
dabbing his eyes with the cloth on his shoulder.
Sitamma was sorry for bringing it up. “You’re right. Don’t borrow,” she said.
They both kept quiet for a while. Puttanna covered his face with his palms and said, “Maybe, the cow
...”
“The cow?” said Sitamma.
Quiet spread between the two once again. They both felt an indescribable pain in their hearts.
“What can we do? Isn’t it better to let go of the cow instead of the custom, handed down to us for
generations? Suffice to provide the wedding garments in time just for this one wedding. We can go
away before the next season sets in, away from this town, if that’s what it takes. The custom does not
follow us to the next village, isn’t it?” he said.
“If we sell the milking cow, what happens to all those who’ve been coming to us for milk every day?”
she said.
“What else can we do? All right, we’ll sell her to some one right here in town. All those people can go
to that buyer and get the milk from him,” he said.
“How do we know he will have the same thought as we do?” said Sitamma.
“We can think only so far. I will put the cow on the market today itself. After I am done eating, I will go
to the city to bring the thread,” said Puttanna.
“All right,” said Sitamma.
Puttanna dabbed the tears with the uttareeyam on his shoulder, untied his hairdo, shook the strands
of hair, put them in a bun again, and left.
The sunbeams were barely showing. The moon was sitting atop the ganuga tree as if it was stuck
there. The cow saw Puttanna into the yard and lowed. Puttanna could not control his grief. He went to
her and embraced her neck. “Are you angry with me? Are you hurt for selling you? What can I do? I
have to do this for the sake of custom. Wherever you are, I will come and visit you everyday. I’ve been
worshipping you like a goddess. Who can save me now, if not you?” he said, wiping her entire body
with his uttareeyam. And then, he left, struggling to leave her behind.
Next morning, he broke a branch from the ganuga tree and brushed his teeth The sun on the east
rose halfway up; the rays shrouded the village. The birds were wiggling their wings, still sitting in their
nests. The spouted pots arrived at Puttanna’s home. There was no cow.
An old woman asked, “Puttanna, where is the cow?”
“I sold it, amma!” Puttanna said, without turning toward her.
“Ayyo! You’ve sold it? What happens to our babies now? Because you are pouring a mouthful for the
kids, they’re not cranky and they’re sleeping well,” the woman said.
“What can I do, Amma? That’s the way the time is! When I sold, I told Acchanna, the buyer, to continue
to give the milk to the babies,” he said.
The people with spouted pots stood there looking dejected.
The local priest was one of the people who came for milk everyday. He came forward and said, “You
are a saint. You’ve made a sacrifice for our babies. Because of that, so many stomachs have been
filled and the babies have slept well, so many mother’s eyes reflected their gratitude.”
“What can I do, Babu! I would not have sold the cow, if it was for my livelihood. I had to sell it to save
my standing in the village,” said Puttanna.
“That is our ill-luck,” the priest said.
Just then, Sitamma came out. She said, “Here, listen, I’m going to Acchanna to hand over the kuditi
pot to him.”
“Go ahead. Starting today and with that kuditi pot gone, our ties with the cow are severed once for all,”
Puttanna said.
***
Papayya’s wife came with two new bed sheets, and showed them to grandmother, and asked, “Pinni!
Which one do you suggest I use for the couple’s bed?”. The grandmother was braiding the bride’s
hair. The bride’s name was Parvati.
Grandmother held Parvati’s braid with one hand, fingered the two sheets with the other, and said,
“Both are so so. Spread one over the bed and fold the other and keep it on the head side of the bed.”
Parvati’s mother took Parvati’s face into her palm and asked, “Which one you’d prefer?”
“Why ask her? All she’s cared about is whether her man is a good person. What does it matter how
everything else is?” said grandmother.
Parvati’s mother went inside with the sheets. Grandmother said to the bride, “Parvati! Never mind all
this teasing. You’re going to meet your husband for the first time. One life is going to become two, and
the two lives become one. This youth and love are not going to survive until and unless you win him
over. The only things that stay forever are sacrifice and dharma. Both of you should keep that in mind.
I’ll tell you a story. If he asks you to talk, tell him this story. This is not from some far off place. You
know our Puttanna. This is his story. This is not from long time back but the present. Do you know
what a great sacrifice he has made for you.” So saying, she narrated the entire story—how he had
sold the cow to make madhuparkaalu for them.
Parvati heard it to the end and kept thinking about it. From that reflection, the thought that she should
help Puttanna somehow rose like a ball of wool in her mind.
Grandmother tightened the braid and capped it with kuppelu and sat there playing with the warped
flowers that were left behind after the braid was done.
***
In the bedroom, Parvati stood next to the bed. Rammurthy, the groom, smiled and took out a gold
navarsu, from his pocket and reached for her sari palloo. She quickly stepped back.
“Gold, gold,” he said. Let us assume he was calling her by that name. He put the coin in her sari palloo
and tied it into a knot. Then, he said, “You may spend this as you please. On the first night, per
custom, a man must present a gold coin to the bride and then only receive the woman as his wife.”
She was doodling on the floor with her toe.
He seized her hand.
The incense sticks burnt half-way through to ashes.
She told him the story—how Puttanna had sold his cow to make the madhuparkaalu for them.
Rammurthy lay back on the pillow and listened to the story, holding Parvati’s kuppelu in his palm. At
the end, he said, “We must bow to Puttanna for making such a great sacrifice. He has done his duty
and now we must do ours.”
“What is our duty?” asked Parvati.
”We will return the cow to him.”
“Will he take it back?” Parvati said, looking into her husband’s eyes.
“I’ll think of the details later. By daybreak, the cow must be in Puttanna’s yard. By the way, where is
Acchanna’s house?” he asked.
“The house next to the Rama temple!”
“If so, I will be there by the time the rooster crowed, pay him the money, and tell him to hand over the
cow to Puttanna.”
“But, if I buy the cow with this gold …”
“Is there a better deed than that, Parvati? You told me about a magnanimous man on our first night.
Youth is like a white horse in our lives. No doubt, there is a pleasure in riding on it. Yet, there is a
greater message in traveling with our eyes set on the life’s goals. Let us not fare like all the others,
who are blinded by youth. Let us make our journey with greater good as our goal. You’ve convinced
me that you will be my arthangi, literally one half of my self, in achieving that goal. The belief that our
lives will be blessed is rising up in my mind,” he said, stroking Parvati’s locks gently.
”What else can I ask for if not walking in your footsteps and sharing a steadfast life with you?” Parvati
said, feeling overjoyed. Rammurthy rested her head on his chest. Her heart clung to his soul like the
dharma to sacrifice. The rooster crowed in that moment. She flinched. He laughed and held her tightly
to his heart.
***
Puttanna and his wife had remained focused on their duty until the madhuparkaalu were delivered to
the wedding party. That was over now. The weight in their hearts was fading. But they missed the cow
most. Somehow, they had managed to comfort themselves and fell asleep. The cow appeared in their
dream.
Puttanna heard the cow bellowing. He rose with a jerk, pulled out some hay from the top of his hut and
took it to the tree in the front yard. He saw the empty pole standing there sadly. It was like he
sustained a crack at his heart and a few pieces fell on the ground. He went back into the hut and lay
down but could not sleep. He had a feeling that the cow came back, rubbed her face against his
stomach, and asked him to scratch. He sat up abruptly. His eyes were piercing through the roof and
the heart into the void. He remembered the words of the priest, “The children were sleeping without
spasms because of the milk you’d given them.”
Then followed the cries of the children; they kept haunting him. He shut his ears tight and called, “Sita,
Sita.” He told her about his feelings.
“Why worry about the things past. We have to think about what is next,” she said.
“Did God think of the things to come? All we can do is only to feel sorry for what had happened,”
Puttanna said and went out.
The sunbeams were spreading on the eastern sky. Puttanna could not look at the pole; he lowered his
head. “Moo,” he heard the cow bellowing. He thought that was also his imagination yet looked up. The
cow was standing under the ganuga tree. He ran to her, embraced her neck, called “Sita, Sita!, the
cow freed herself and came back.”
“What do you mean ‘freed herself’? Wasn’t she tied to the pole as always?” she said.
Both of them were awestruck. Who would have brought and tied her to the pole? Maybe, she had
freed herself and been wandering on the streets. Then, probably, a passerby had seen her, brought
here and tied her to this pole, not knowing she had been sold,” Puttanna said and started wiping her
horns with his uttareeyam. As he wiped the two horns, they seemed to be saying to him two things:
one horn seemed to be saying, “You taught us to sacrifice” while the other said, “How can we achieve
your sanctity?”
“It is time for milking the cow. Let’s drive her to Acchanna’s home,” he said, untying the rope.
“We can take her there after letting her eat a sheaf of janapa,” the wife said.
“Let’s take the bunch of hay also to her owner. Babies’ parents might be waiting there for milk,” he
said. He untied the rope and started to walk with the rope in his hand.
The cow did not move.
“There is no other way. I have to bring her back to Acchanna,” Puttanna said.
The cow started walking as if she had heard his words. She walked forward.
Sitamma followed them, holding the janapa stalks. They walked a few yards barely before they saw
Acchanna.
Acchanna told them that Papayya’s son-in-law had paid him the money, and so, he had brought back
the cow and tied her to the pole in their yard.
The couple looked at each other. “What do you mean he gave you the money?” asked Puttanna.
“Maybe, it was a loan,” Sitamma said.
“We’ll ask Rammurthy ourselves. Let’s go,” Puttanna said and turned to Acchanna, “You keep the cow
at your place, Bava!”
“I’ve got the money in my bag,” Acchanna said.
The couple tied the cow to the pole and went to Papayya’s house.
Papayya’s son-in-law was sitting on a plank, decorated with silver flowers, and brushing his teeth.
There was a silver jug with water next to him. His father-in-law was standing on the patio and waiting;
he was ready to respond, if his son-in-law asked for something. Papayya’s wife came to the window,
saw the son-in-law, pulled the sari palloo around her shoulders and threw smiles at her husband. He
stuck out his tongue, signaling she should go in.
Puttanna and his wife came.
“Bava! You came so early in the morning, what is the matter? Thinking of leaving my sister here?”
asked Papayya.
“If that is the case, would I come? My Peddamma used to say that there is no need of permission for a
blackbird to coo and a daughter-in-law to go to her natal home,” Puttanna said.
Papayya was tickled but did not laugh though, remembering that his son-in-law was present. He cast a
sidelong glance at his son-in-law.
Rammurthy was about to gurgle but could not control his laugh. He spit it out.
Papayya said to Rammurthy, by way of introduction, “This is Puttanna bava. He is the one that had
made madhuparkaalu for you. Not just you but for every wedding in this village, he is the one that
supplies them and never accepts a paisa. He is that generous”.
“I know,” Rammurthy said.
“What” Do you call it generosity? How? Have got a temple or its apex built? Or, chowltries got built? I
came to ask your son-in-law one question,” Puttanna said.
“What is that?” Papayya asked, surprised.
“I’ve sold the cow to Acchanna. Your son-in-law bought and brought her back to my home and left her
in my yard.”
“Ha? Your cow?”
“Yes, I tied her to the place in your yard. I’ve received it—the thought—from you only. You’ve sold her
as your dharma. And I bought her for the same reason and brought her back to you. Can you say that
it is wrong for us young people to learn about sacrifice and dharma?”
“I am not saying it is wrong. … But I am asking why donate the cow to a person like me? You will the
reap the fruits of your action, If you give her to a family with children, but not when you give her to me.”
“I know, Thatha! If you have the cow, you will feed ten babies. If I give her to one family, only the
children of that one family will be fed.”
“Probably, that is true. Yet, it is not right for me to take the cow from you. I will give you an IOU.”
“You will write an IOU, Thatha? You’ve given us madhuparkaalu; have we given you an IOU? Has there
ever been a time when you’ve given madhuparkaalu, allowed it to settle with an IOU? These
promissory notes have been put into place only because of a lack of sense of cooperation and
dharma. The god had signed one promissory note to the entire human kind, which said it is only fair
that ‘the haves should pay off the notes signed by the have-nots’,” said Rammurthy.
Parvati was standing by the window and listening the entire conversation. Puttanna stood there without
uttering a single word.
To Papayya, his son-in-law’s words sounded like a shower of nectar. He was peeking into his son-in-
law’s heart through the window of those words. He was fortunate to obtain such a fine man as his son-
in-law, he thought. Then told himself again, “No, no, it is the good deeds my Parvati had done in her
previous birth.”
“So be it, Thatha, consider the cow not as yours but yourself as her trustee. Continue to give the
cow's milk to the children in the village.”
Puttanna’s joy knew no bounds. “If that is my job, I would do it, and dance with joy. They say there is
plenty of goodness in helping the people in rank and file, but the service rendered to children is equal
to serving God. If you assign that kind of work, anybody would take it with pleasure. Alright, I’ll leave
now. I do not know how to bow to you. Whenever you visit this village, you should come and visit me
and the cow.” So saying, he took two steps, turned around and said, “You are young yet have a good
heart. There is an adage, which says ‘one should live under the roof of those who possess good
thoughts’. I will stand next to this patio until you left. If you have any more good words, please let me
hear it.”
“Thatha!,” said the son-in-law.
“What is it Babu? More good words came to your mind? Tell me, Babu.”
“Yes, I’ll tell you. How can there be a dearth for good words when I see you and your enthusiasm?
Listen what I am about to say. I have plenty of wealth. My father-in-law signed off two acres of land to
me per custom. Because he called it ‘gift’, I could not say no to him. I was wondering to whom I should
gift it. Now I know. You are the great donor who has been giving madhuparkaalu to newly wedded
couples. I will sign off those two acres of land to you. I will call it the madhuparkaalu trust. You keep
weaving madhuparkaalu and giving them to all the newly-weds in future. Use the income from that land
to pay for the garments.”
“That is a gift? You are calling it Madhuparkaalu manyam? If I accept that, how can I call it a service?
No, I do not want it,” Puttanna shouted.
“Thatha, do not speak like that. However much you may receive from it, it still would barely suffice for
the thread. You still need to put in plenty of work to produce the madhuparkaalu. Your pure soul is
reflecting in your woof and warp. You are not only worshipping the idyllic weaving trade but also
donating your labor. Yours is a great soul. It is only through people like you, our culture sustains in its
traditional form. Who else can be called patriots and thyagamurthulu if not the supporters and
patrons of these vocations. You are like beams of moonlight for the rural life. The village is like a tent
of flowers and people like you are the flowers in it. Thatha! I will have the papers drawn this very day.”
Puttanna was chocked with pleasure. He had no words to say, went around in circles and finally said,
stuttering, “Alright, Babu. I will see you soon.” He ran to his home. The village accountant was also
very surprised at the gesture of Papayya’s son-in-law. He followed Puttanna.
Parvati, who was standing by the window, threw a marigold flower onto her husband. He turned around.
“Thyagamurthulu!” she said.
“Who’s taught me that?” he said. He poured some water from the silver jug into his palm and splashed
it on her. The water drops glimmered on her face like pearls of snow on freshly blossomed lotus petals.
***
(The Telugu original, madhuparkaalu, was published in Krishnapatrika, possibly in the forties.)
(Translated by Nidadavolu Malathi)