I stood and stared
at my father blankly. He could not possibly want me to marry one
of the suitors who came to visit today. Like yesterday's
suitors, they were all, well, unsuitable. I did not think I could
stand to live with any of them for the rest of my life. I sighed
and listened to my father's angry words.
"You will marry one of the young men who came to visit today! You are becoming old, and your sister was married not long after she came of age! This is unacceptable for a gowda's daughter!" He continued to shout at me menacingly.
I was growing very weary of this conversation. We spoke of this topic every day, and, every day, I refused to follow my father's orders. He was growing very impatient, I knew, so I hoped silently that an appropriate suitor would soon find his way to our home. After he had tired of his tirade, I made my way back to my chambers and prepared to sleep. The next morning my mother would be leaving to visit my elder sister and her husband. I did not look forward to the time that I had to spend at home alone with my impatient, angry father. Little did I know, I had more to dread than a simple tongue lashing.
The next morning, the suitors again came to our door. I politely entertained each of them, but I simply could not envision myself with any of them for the rest of my days. As the evening approached, the prospects seemed more and more bland. I refused to be rushed into a marriage that was not suitable for me. How could my father even think that I could ever be happy with any of these men? No, I would not marry any of them.
As the evening's sunset faded into dusk, I turned from the visiting room and made my way back toward my chambers. It was odd for my father not to berate me for being too choosy about my marriage at the end of the day. I was slightly apprehensive, yet thankful that I did not have to endure another lecture. I moved quietly down the large hall. As I moved, I thought that I heard a scraping noise behind me.
With a tight feeling in my abdomen, I turned back to face the sound. As I turned, I saw a flash of metal in the shadows, and then I saw my father's face. At first I was relieved, but then the dull metal of the machete connected with my soft flesh. I screamed as the realization dawned on me. I was being murdered by my own father!
When he was done with his deed, my father buried me in the garden. My soul did not die; rather, it sprouted into a beautiful pomegranate tree. I grew tall and strong, outside the house where I had matured into a young woman. I listened as my father explained to my mother upon her return that I had died of some sudden illness, and I watched as her body convulsed with her cries for me, her youngest daughter.
Each night, from my home in the pomegranate tree, I played a soft, melancholy tune upon my vina. I knew that my parents both heard my unearthly song. I did not know that another was listening to my song as well.
My song reached the ears of the great Indra's son, and he searched for the one who played such beautiful music. He found me one night as I played my soft tune. He loved me when he saw me, and I, him, when he was presented to my eyes. In a hurry, he left for the kingdom in the sky to tell his parents of the wonder he had found inside a pomegranate blossom that night. He brought back his mother, who was awed by my beauty as well, and the pair took me from my tree to be married in the heaven-world.
After I left my tree and my flower for the world in the sky, the pomegranate tree shriveled and died, to my mother's dismay. She tried to keep it alive, but she just could not. One day, I came back to visit that place where I died. As I stepped back onto Earth, the tree blossomed again, and I watched my mother's eyes widen as she caught a glimpse of me. She cried out to me in her happiness.
"You are alive! You weren't taken by the illness as your father said! How can this be? Where have you been?" She continued to question me and rejoice in my well-being.
I told her of all that had happened: of her husband's sin, of my song, and of my marriage. She took great comfort in my happiness, and she blessed my husband and me in our marriage. My mother was no longer troubled by the fate of her youngest daughter, and I returned to my place in the sky.
The girl awoke from her dream, and she looked back at the pomegranate tree that she leaned against wearily. She arose and made her way back to her new home, glancing at the trees by the side of the road as if she might catch a glimpse of young woman peering back at her through their leaves. I knew that she was listening to me now. I would give her a new story to listen to next, a tragic and beautiful tale called The Three-Thousand-Rupee Sari.
Bibliography:
"The Pomegranate Queen" from A Flowering Tree and Other Oral Tales from India by A.K. Ramanujan. University of California Press. 1997.
Image:
"Greeting Card Pomegranate Tree". Web source: AskVille
"You will marry one of the young men who came to visit today! You are becoming old, and your sister was married not long after she came of age! This is unacceptable for a gowda's daughter!" He continued to shout at me menacingly.
I was growing very weary of this conversation. We spoke of this topic every day, and, every day, I refused to follow my father's orders. He was growing very impatient, I knew, so I hoped silently that an appropriate suitor would soon find his way to our home. After he had tired of his tirade, I made my way back to my chambers and prepared to sleep. The next morning my mother would be leaving to visit my elder sister and her husband. I did not look forward to the time that I had to spend at home alone with my impatient, angry father. Little did I know, I had more to dread than a simple tongue lashing.
The next morning, the suitors again came to our door. I politely entertained each of them, but I simply could not envision myself with any of them for the rest of my days. As the evening approached, the prospects seemed more and more bland. I refused to be rushed into a marriage that was not suitable for me. How could my father even think that I could ever be happy with any of these men? No, I would not marry any of them.
As the evening's sunset faded into dusk, I turned from the visiting room and made my way back toward my chambers. It was odd for my father not to berate me for being too choosy about my marriage at the end of the day. I was slightly apprehensive, yet thankful that I did not have to endure another lecture. I moved quietly down the large hall. As I moved, I thought that I heard a scraping noise behind me.
With a tight feeling in my abdomen, I turned back to face the sound. As I turned, I saw a flash of metal in the shadows, and then I saw my father's face. At first I was relieved, but then the dull metal of the machete connected with my soft flesh. I screamed as the realization dawned on me. I was being murdered by my own father!
When he was done with his deed, my father buried me in the garden. My soul did not die; rather, it sprouted into a beautiful pomegranate tree. I grew tall and strong, outside the house where I had matured into a young woman. I listened as my father explained to my mother upon her return that I had died of some sudden illness, and I watched as her body convulsed with her cries for me, her youngest daughter.
Each night, from my home in the pomegranate tree, I played a soft, melancholy tune upon my vina. I knew that my parents both heard my unearthly song. I did not know that another was listening to my song as well.
My song reached the ears of the great Indra's son, and he searched for the one who played such beautiful music. He found me one night as I played my soft tune. He loved me when he saw me, and I, him, when he was presented to my eyes. In a hurry, he left for the kingdom in the sky to tell his parents of the wonder he had found inside a pomegranate blossom that night. He brought back his mother, who was awed by my beauty as well, and the pair took me from my tree to be married in the heaven-world.
After I left my tree and my flower for the world in the sky, the pomegranate tree shriveled and died, to my mother's dismay. She tried to keep it alive, but she just could not. One day, I came back to visit that place where I died. As I stepped back onto Earth, the tree blossomed again, and I watched my mother's eyes widen as she caught a glimpse of me. She cried out to me in her happiness.
"You are alive! You weren't taken by the illness as your father said! How can this be? Where have you been?" She continued to question me and rejoice in my well-being.
I told her of all that had happened: of her husband's sin, of my song, and of my marriage. She took great comfort in my happiness, and she blessed my husband and me in our marriage. My mother was no longer troubled by the fate of her youngest daughter, and I returned to my place in the sky.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The girl awoke from her dream, and she looked back at the pomegranate tree that she leaned against wearily. She arose and made her way back to her new home, glancing at the trees by the side of the road as if she might catch a glimpse of young woman peering back at her through their leaves. I knew that she was listening to me now. I would give her a new story to listen to next, a tragic and beautiful tale called The Three-Thousand-Rupee Sari.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The Three-Thousand-Rupee Sari
Coverpage
The Three-Thousand-Rupee Sari
Coverpage
Author's note: I retold the
story of "The Pomegranate Queen" from the first person point of view of
the main female character. The original story was told in the
third person perspective, but I wanted to keep this story very personal
since its plot is similar to the plot of the frametale, without the
death and violence. I thought this would be a fitting opening to
my storybook because it deals with a young girl who disobeys and is
aggravated by her father, much like the young girl of the
frametale.
For this tale, I stayed within the original context and storyline. The only major changes that I made in the retelling were to cut down on the speaking parts and importance of Indra's son. I made these changes because, again, I wanted to emphasize the role of the lead female of the story, and I felt that in order to do this I needed to decrease some of the prominence of the Pomegranate Queen's husband. From this point forward, I will be shifting the emphasis of the relationships in these stories from that of father-daughter, to that between lovers, and finally the relationship that is constructed within a girl's heart with herself. I hope to show the growth of the female characters and to guide the girl of my frametale through these changes as well.
For clarification, a "gowda" is the name given to the head of a family or family group in some regions of India. A "vina" is an Indian stringed musical instrument made of ebony or rosewood, a fretted stick, and gourds.
For this tale, I stayed within the original context and storyline. The only major changes that I made in the retelling were to cut down on the speaking parts and importance of Indra's son. I made these changes because, again, I wanted to emphasize the role of the lead female of the story, and I felt that in order to do this I needed to decrease some of the prominence of the Pomegranate Queen's husband. From this point forward, I will be shifting the emphasis of the relationships in these stories from that of father-daughter, to that between lovers, and finally the relationship that is constructed within a girl's heart with herself. I hope to show the growth of the female characters and to guide the girl of my frametale through these changes as well.
For clarification, a "gowda" is the name given to the head of a family or family group in some regions of India. A "vina" is an Indian stringed musical instrument made of ebony or rosewood, a fretted stick, and gourds.
Bibliography:
"The Pomegranate Queen" from A Flowering Tree and Other Oral Tales from India by A.K. Ramanujan. University of California Press. 1997.
Image:
"Greeting Card Pomegranate Tree". Web source: AskVille