The Long Braid

It's Diwali and I'm in the temple room of the Hindu Temple of Atlanta, where families have come together to celebrate the Indian New Year. I'm alone, but strangely enough, I don't feel alone. I can feel India's presence in this one holy place, where the aroma of cocunuts and kumkum powder make me feel at home. I see little girls skipping around their mothers' brightly colored silk saris, the edge of the sari skirting upwards as if accepting an invitation to dance.

At the front of the temple room is where Lord Balaji resides, and today He's covered in freshly garlanded carnations - pink, white and red. The priest approaches the devotees, wanting to know who would like an offering to be made on their behalf. I see one couple step forward. She is striking, with her hair done in a long black braid that reaches far below her knees to her calves. An orange rubber band adorns the end of the braid, perfectly matching the tone of her sari, and the end of the braid ends in a perfect cone shape. As she moves, the braid curves in the opposite direction as if painting a canvas.

Seeing the braid makes me recall a memory from my childhood. I am in the 6th grade, in Mrs. Brown's English class. My hair back then is long, reaching to the small of my back, and my mom has done my hair in a long braid. As the bell rings and I, along with the other students, file out of the classroom, I hear Mrs. Brown's voice along with someone touching my hair. "Wow, Devika, your braid is so thick." She moves her hand along the notches of my braid.

This disturbs me at the time, and I now realize why. I was the only Indian girl in the class, and my hair was notably thicker than everyone else's. Mrs. Brown had picked me out of all the children in the class because I was different, and in middle school, it defintiely wasn't cool to be different.

"No, it's not," I said as I turned away, my hair escaping the clutches of Mrs. Brown's hands. I hastened towards the door, eager to reach my next class. In the hallway, I tore my rubber band away from tip of my braid and ran my fingers through my scalp allowing my black hair to shower down on my shoulders and upper arms.

Seeing this beautiful Indian woman's braid gliding across her back, the blackness of the knots making the yellow silk appear more festive made me wonder why I was ever embarrased about my long hair and how I wore it. Subconsiously, my hands wandered to the back of my scalp, and then to the edges of my ponytail. My hair now rested only a few inches below my shoulders, and I made a promise to grow my hair out like hers, a promise that I knew I wouldn't really keep due to the busy nature of my work. But I was grateful for the opportunity to be in an enviroment that brought me a little piece of India, where I was able to appreciate the beauty of something for which I once had disdain.