The Rangoli That Stayed

A Heart-Touching Margazhi Morning Story

Pallapuram Prabakaran

Margazhi had arrived quietly. Like a prayer whispered before dawn.

Winter wrapped the village in a gentle chill. The streets still slept, but the air was already awake heavy with the scent of wet earth, crushed jasmine, and faint wood smoke curling from kitchen hearths. Somewhere, a temple bell rang once, softly, as if testing the silence.

Before the sun even thought of rising, every house woke to color.

Doors creaked open. Anklets chimed. Girls and women stepped out holding bowls of kolam powder, bending low to the earth, greeting it like an old friend. White lines bloomed on cold stone—circles, curves, knots—drawn not just with fingers, but with years of devotion. It felt as if the village itself was breathing patterns, inviting the gods to pause at every doorstep.

Bipu’s house was no different.

His amma had been awake since four. The cold turned her breath into tiny clouds as she knelt before the threshold. Her fingers moved with practiced grace—white rice flour flowing smoothly, curving into loops, then bursting into blues, reds, yellows, and greens. The rangoli spread like a living flower, its petals shaped by patience and love.

Margazhi mornings were her favorite. Months could pass, years could change—but these mornings felt eternal.

Inside the house, Bipu stirred.

The blanket felt heavier in the cold, sweeter too, like it didn’t want to let him go. Still half-asleep, he rubbed his eyes and stepped outside, his bare feet meeting the chilled stone floor. The sky was a fragile pale blue, trembling between night and day.

That was when he saw his father.

Appa stood a little distance away, camera hanging from his neck. He bent low, stood up, moved left, then right—waiting, searching, adjusting the lens as if the rangoli were a rare bird that might fly away if startled.

Bipu blinked.

“Appa… why photo?” he asked, his voice thick with sleep.

His father smiled faintly. “Your amma’s rangoli. Look how beautiful it is today.”

Bipu looked again.

It was beautiful. The colors glowed softly in the half-light, as if the floor itself had learned to smile.

He looked at Appa again. “Give me, Dad. I will also take a photo.”

Appa laughed gently and placed the camera around Bipu’s neck. It slipped down to his chest, heavy and serious. Bipu’s eyes widened. He stood straighter. Important.

“Tomorrow,” Appa said. “You take the photo. But only if you wake up early.”

Bipu stared at him.

“No, Dad. I want today itself.”

After some teasing and pleading, Appa finally agreed. That night, Bipu went to bed early—too early. Sleep came slowly. His mind kept waking before his body, already imagining the click of the camera.

But the next morning was different.

It was Amavasai.

Bipu woke before dawn, heart pounding with excitement. He rushed outside with the camera, only to stop short.

The doorstep was bare.

No white lines. Only faint red soil marks—simple, quiet, without a flower blooming on stone.

Amma stood near the doorway, her hands folded, her eyes calm.

“Where is the colourful kolam?” Bipu asked, his voice cracking.

“It’s Amavasai, kanna,” she said softly.

“No colour kolam today.”

The word felt strange and heavy in his mouth. Amavasai. The day without the moon. A day without designs.

Bipu felt cheated—by the morning, by the rules of the world, by something he couldn’t name. He didn’t cry. He just stood there, staring at the empty floor, holding the camera like it had betrayed him.

The next day came with hope again.

But Margazhi had other plans.

That dawn, the village woke to panithuli—dew rain. Fine, silvery droplets covered everything. Roofs glistened. Leaves bent low. The ground shivered under a cold, shining skin of water.

Amma drew the kolam anyway.

She worked quickly, carefully. As the sky slowly brightened, the dew began to stir. Colours softened. Lines blurred. A red curve melted into blue. A perfect loop dissolved into silence.

Bipu watched.

Before he could even lift the camera, the rangoli faded-washed away not by careless feet, not by neglect, but by the gentle insistence of morning itself.

His eyes burned.

Then he understood.

It was about love that appears every morning even when it knows it will disappear.

***