The Bride-Maker
The bride-maker was known for making docile brides. Therefore, she was always busy. The bride-maker worked on only poor girls because poor girls made the most docile brides—she had her reputation to think of. Anyway, rich girls wouldn’t go near her. The rich girls didn’t like how she’d make them look, with cakey faces and big smiles, in silks bound so tightly they could barely walk let alone make a run for it. The rich girls sprawled on divans in their own houses, legs spread if they wanted, necklines biting way down their chests if they wanted. They got their pictures snapped every minute; they got their arms painted with henna from tips of the fingers to elbows; they made eyes at other men over the shoulders of their grooms.
The mothers-in-law—it was always the mothers-in-law who hired the bride-maker because the mothers were too poor—had to bring only the clothes and the girl; the bride-maker provided everything else. Her method was secret, like her ingredients, but secret doesn’t mean difficult. Like the most effective things, her method, based on the ancient science of the Psychology, was simple, though the special items in her makeup box certainly helped. Actually her method was so simple that the mothers-in-law could have handled it all by themselves, as they used to at one time, but in these stupid modern times they couldn’t risk being blamed if the girl did something dumb just to make a point, like setting herself on fire.
The poor brides-to-be differed from each other in many ways, of course, but they had these things in common: they were all very young and they all had lots of Potential, by way of pretty faces and clever brains. The Potential needed time and love to grow, but the mothers-in-law—and the husbands to some extent—saw it first and stole it to make the children clever and handsome and emotionally intelligent and excellent public speakers. “To some extent” because the husbands pretty much let their mothers pick the girls: they only rammed—um, ran—into them at night, and girls all feel the same in the dark. Don’t they?
When the mothers-in-law left, the bride-maker began. First, she stripped the girls’ clothes and threw them away—“You won’t need these rags anymore”—and then, while they stood shivering because they’d never been completely naked before (they were shy and even bathed with their undergarments on) she made fun of them. She tugged at the barely-there flesh on their hips—“Grew fat on cheap food, huh? Better lose it!”—and grabbed a shapely foot—“Yikes, flat feet! How low-class!”—and held up an arm—“Tsk, tsk. How you’re getting to marry so well with this skin, I don’t know. You lucky girl!” The girls flushed and lowered their eyes and couldn’t believe how lucky they were.
Then came the turmeric bath, during which the bride-maker handled the girl all over, gently as well as roughly, a technique she’d learned from puppy-trainers who did it to get the little creatures used to being touched by their master. Then she slipped the girls into silk undergarments—“Not for your pleasure, for your groom’s.” The turmeric paste imparted a scrumptious, earthy odor to the girls’ well-primed bodies. Nipples erect, they stood as the bride-maker commenced work on the face.
The foundation came in a plain, unbranded bottle and looked ordinary—maybe just a little thicker than store-bought brands—but was anything but ordinary: it actually made a whole new face for the girl in a color between chalk and wheat, the perfect backdrop for her soon-to-be new Smile. The new face had an amazing property: behind the face the girl might be sad but her sadness would not show. And it was waterproof so even tears couldn’t break through the surface.
Carefully, the bride-maker slicked on the foundation in an even layer from hairline to the décolletage, just like they said in regular makeup videos, and set it with a dusting of loose powder. The eyes didn’t need much—the Psychology tactics thus far had already made them pools of docility. The lips she filled in with a plain-looking red stick, the architect of the Smile. “Smile!” she said, and the girl smiled. The Smile felt weird. It felt icky and sticky and stayed on even when the girl stopped smiling inside. She didn’t know it, but the Smile would never leave her face, even when she was told that (a) she mustn’t speak when her father-in-law was around (b) she could eat only when everyone was done (c) she couldn’t nap (d) she couldn’t use the word “mine” because nothing belonged to her (e) she couldn’t go out alone (f) she couldn’t give her own mother a present or even offer her tea when she visited. Small things, not worth setting herself on fire for, if you ask her mother-in-law. Still they made the girl sad, but she couldn’t stop smiling—and ducking and bowing and cooking and plumping cushions and tidying up. She did it when her mother visited, too. They sat, smiling away at each other.
When the mother-in-law came to pick up the bride, she was ready—all wrapped in a red sari, pallu draped on head like a bow. The girl cracked a smile, touched the bride-maker’s feet, and thanked her for making her who she was. To the mother-in-law, the bride-maker said, “As you know, we offer a lifetime warranty against defects in our workmanship. She should give satisfaction for years when used in the correct manner, but do bring her back if you have a complaint.”
Anu Kandikuppa
Anu Kandikuppa’s writing has appeared in Colorado Review, Michigan Quarterly Review, The Cincinnati Review, The Rumpus, and other journals. Anu worked as an economics consultant in a former life and lives in Boston. Her website is www.anukandikuppa.com.