Shringar

Debi carefully applied her eyeliner, tracing it neatly over the soft smudge of kajal. A small bindi rested perfectly on her forehead, completing her look. She decided to keep her hair open—soft, delicate curls falling gracefully over her shoulders, adding a quiet elegance to her beauty.

She was never fond of heavy makeup. Most days, she stayed comfortable in casuals. But today was different. Today was special.
It was her grandmother’s 80th birthday.
Debi draped herself in her grandmother’s soft lilac satin sari. The fabric flowed gently, as if carrying memories within its folds. She paired it with pearl earrings and matching bangles. The earrings were especially dear to her—she had bought them with her very first internship salary.
Her grandmother sat quietly, watching her.
There was something in her gaze—pride, love, and a tenderness words could not fully hold.
As a child, Debi had always been close to her. She remembered twirling around in her grandmother’s saris, playing dress-up, unknowingly absorbing the art of shringar—not just of appearance, but of presence.
“Amma, why are you looking at me like that?” Debi smiled shyly.
“I don’t look as beautiful as you do… even today.”
There was a brief pause.
“Amma… does lilac suit me? I don’t look too pale, do I?”
Her grandmother didn’t answer immediately. With slightly trembling hands and moist eyes, she reached out and gently placed a nazar tika behind Debi’s ear—shielding her from every evil eye.
No words were needed.
It wasn’t just adornment.
Not just a sari, or kajal, or pearls.
It was a quiet inheritance—of love, memory, and becoming.
Soft music played on the radio, wrapping the room in a gentle nostalgia.
Debi sat beside her grandmother, her voice softer now.
“Amma… how did you manage everything? Teaching dance, raising three children, and later all of us? Weren’t you ever tired?”
She hesitated, then continued.
“You must have faced judgment too. I remember the house always full, and you barely had help. Yet you moved through it all so gracefully… as if life simply flowed through you and you weaving everything into a beautiful story. You remembered everything—everyone’s needs—and still carried yourself so beautifully.”
Her voice wavered.
“I have just one child… and even with so much support—Devansh, my in-laws, Mom and Dad—I feel like I’m constantly falling short. Things slip. Every day feels overwhelming.”
She exhaled slowly.
“Some days, I don’t even have time to comb my hair. I tie it into a messy bun and move on. I’m often impatient… exhausted.”
A tear slipped down her cheek.
“There are moments I feel selfish… like I want to run away from everything. I’ve even given up my dance classes, Amma. I miss that part of me.”
She looked up, searching her grandmother’s eyes.
“Do you think… marriage was a good idea for me?”
Her grandmother smiled—a slow, knowing smile. She held Debi’s hands, her touch warm and steady.
“Who told you there were no misses in my life?” she said gently. “You were too small to see them.”
Her voice was calm, yet deeply rooted in truth.
“Yes, there were judgments. But I was never as harsh on myself as you are on yourself. When something went wrong, I would simply think—‘maybe better luck next time.’”
She paused.
“We expect so much from mothers. And if we begin to stand against ourselves, then tell me—who will stand by us?”
A faint smile returned to her lips.
“Your grandfather was busy. My in-laws visited occasionally. I didn’t have the luxury to dwell on my flaws. So I found refuge—in dance, in gardening… in small moments that brought me back to myself.”
Debi listened quietly.
“But Amma… isn’t self-reflection important?”
Her grandmother nodded.
“It is. But what you are doing is not self-reflection—it is self-judgment.”
She held Debi’s hand a little tighter.
“Our true nature is freedom. Yet we bind ourselves—with roles, expectations, relationships, even love—and then we call it fate.”
Her voice softened further.
“Self-reflection doesn’t mean abandoning yourself. It means holding your own hand. It means meeting your mistakes with compassion, not shame.”
Tears filled Debi’s eyes.
“We must forgive ourselves,” her grandmother continued. “Only then can we truly learn… and move forward.”
Silence settled between them again.
But this silence felt different—lighter, kinder.
Debi rested her head gently on her grandmother’s shoulder.
For the first time in a long while, she wasn’t trying to be perfect.
She was simply… becoming.
And perhaps, that was the truest form of shringar.