𝔎𝔬𝔱𝔥𝔞𝔦: The virtue of infinite love

Chapter 10

Golden silence pooled across Vishnuchittar's courtyard, thick as ghee upon sacred fire. Bees drifted drunkenly between champaka blossoms, their hum weaving through the jasmine vines that curled around wooden pillars like verses from an unwritten poem. Beneath the neem tree's dappled shade, Andal sat cross-legged—her fingers dancing among marigold and rose, each movement a silent hymn to the Dark One who haunted her waking dreams.

Her father whistled softly beside her, the tune of a man at peace with the world.

"Kothai," he suddenly exclaimed, slapping his forehead, "Aiyo! The cows! Lakshmi would pull my ears from heaven if she saw me forget her sisters!"

Andal's laughter rippled through the courtyard as he hurried away, his grumbles about stubborn bulls blending with the rustle of leaves.

Alone now, her fingers resumed their sacred work—threading blossoms with the reverence of a priest preparing temple offerings. The petals seemed to lean into her touch, as if yearning to be chosen.

Then—

The silver cry of anklets at the gate.

Vasanthamalai and Sudhamani appeared, their faces flushed not from sun but from swallowed storms. No baskets swung from their arms—only the weight of unspoken words.

"Kothai!" Vasanthamalai collapsed beside her, "Have you heard?"

Sudhamani's head found Andal's shoulder, her sigh heavier than monsoon clouds. "Madhavi's parents are consulting astrologers. The groom search has truly begun."

Silence bloomed between them, thick as temple incense.

A breeze stirred the vines overhead. A marigold petal drifted from Andal's frozen fingers—a tiny fallen sun.

"I remember," Vasanthamalai whispered, "when we bathed in the village tank, pretending to be sacred rivers. Now we're being plucked like flowers for strange altars."

Andal's gaze remained fixed on the half-woven garland, though her soul wandered distant shores.

Then—

Madhavi herself stood at the threshold, her eyes shadowed by sleepless nights or unshed tears. Her usual vibrant plaits hung loose, her simple pavadai clinging like a wilted leaf. She moved as one walking toward a pyre.

"Come," Andal murmured, spreading her saree's pallu like a sacred cloth.

Madhavi sank down. The silence deepened.

"What troubles you, dear heart?" Andal pressed a rose into her trembling palm.

"I...am afraid." The confession slipped out like water through cupped hands. "This marriage path—leaving home, serving an unknown man, becoming someone's 'wife'... What if I fail? What if this life becomes a cage?"

The words hung in the air—fragile as spider silk stretched taut.

Andal lifted her face to the sky where clouds drifted like silent rishis. When she spoke, her voice carried the weight of Vedas and the lightness of dawn:

"You fear not marriage, sister, but misunderstanding its sacred thread."

"The Lord weaves each life through the four purusharthas—not as burdens, but as bridges:

First, Brahmacharya—our girlhood of learning and prayer, where we planted seeds in sacred soil.

Now comes Grihastha—your flowering time. Yes, there will be toil, but also dharma shining brighter than any jewel. To nurture a home, to kindle sacred fires, to weave order from chaos—is this not divine work?