Inner Courtyards: Lakshmi

Lakshmi had the habit of appearing entertained by her own existence. She strutted through the town like the streets were laid for her personal convenience, and disturbed many flagbearers of proprietary in the area, which was everyone. Her behaviour would have been more digestible, had it sprung from arrogance, but it was something far less pardonable: It was the unpalatable spectacle of an ordinary girl exercising her freedom without apology or manufactured shyness. The flower seller near the temple liked her because she did not care to bargain. Adorned in her family gold, Lakshmi bought flowers with the reckless indifference of one who had never had to count coins in the fold of her saree, but she received the flowers with such radiant, ceremonial gratitude that even the old woman could not resent her extravagance. It must be conceivable by now that Lakshmi had not been raised upon scarcity. She grew beneath the full, undivided love of both her parents, amidst quiet assurances of an unimaginable aristocratic wealth. Her comfort was generational, and it lingered in the long-pillared verandahs of her house, accompanied with hanging brass lamps (rubbed bright in lemon), and red oxide floors that chilled afternoon feet. As was customary among the affluent, all glimmering heirlooms were stored in a teak chest slathered with sandalwood paste. At her throat lay the proof of it: a single necklace of thick gold, topaz sunk into it like coagulated drops of light, its clasp carved with the family initials, in a font only beheld by craftsmen.