The string your grandmother didn't explain
Nobody told you what it meant. Your mother pinned the gajra into your braid on the morning of a cousin's wedding and moved on to the next task. Your grandmother had done the same for her. The jasmine was simply there, the way certain things are simply there, the sindoor tin on the shelf, the steel tumbler for the puja, the particular fold of a sari pallu. You wore it because you were told to. You didn't ask why.
