In India, turmeric doesn’t begin with symbolism. It begins in the kitchen: sometimes pulled from a packet, sometimes crushed fresh using a mortar and pestle into a thick yellow paste. It stains fingertips, simmers in milk, soothes wounds. It is antiseptic, anti-inflammatory, and antioxidant. A pantry staple. A home remedy. A humble beautifier.

But in weddings, turmeric transforms. Folded with flour or curd, stirred with essential oils, or bathed in milk and sandalwood, it’s lifted from the everyday and pressed into skin like a blessing made visible. It becomes sacred. Haldi. Manjal. Halad. Arisina. Across India’s dizzying sprawl of traditions and topographies, this root glows like a sunbeam that binds it all.

At 23, my mother was wrapped in a white cotton sheet at her Manjha, the turmeric ceremony observed in our Muslim community as a prelude to the wedding, meant to bless, beautify, and protect. The turmeric roots were chosen carefully and crushed on a sil batta (a traditional flat stone used for grinding), mixed with rosewater and milk, and placed into a ceremonial bowl. The paste was warm, fragrant, alive with purpose.

Her grandmother began the application, followed by her aunts, mother and cousins. Traditionally, it started with the eldest married woman and moved downward in age. In earlier years, only married women applied the paste, seasoned enough to pass on their wisdom. But time softens and circles widen. Cousins, sisters, friends—all who mattered to her were included. The ritual still began with the elder, but by the end, every hand had touched the bowl.