Updating currently.

Yup, I know. I removed most of the short stories from here, the good ones at least. Sorry for this inconvenience: Instead of the whole story, I have just published an excerpt from each story and that is because I have a surprise for you all. Soon!

***Excerpt***

Lakshmi writes.

Today you called. I willed the phone to ring a hundred times before it finally did.

You said, “Lakshmi, don’t worry about me, I am finally living a bachelor’s life”, you tried to make a joke of it but started wheezing through your laughter – another asthma attack?

“I will call next Saturday…take care amma.”

You always called me “amma”.

~~~***~~~

I just finished talking to you. Vinay and Sangeetha are out and Abhinav is sleeping soundly. If not for him, I would have left this alien country long back. I wonder how you manage with dal and curd rice everyday. I wish you would have hired a cook. What if you have an attack in the middle of the night? After all you are also nearing 70…look what you have done now. You have made me cry again.

~~~***~~~

Today I asked Vinay to buy a straw mat for me to sleep on. He gave me a room in the basement with one of those fancy soft beds. I hate it! I cannot sleep alone. You know that. Vinay is concerned that the child won’t learn to sleep on his own. What nonsense!
Vinay has changed so much in the past 10 years, how would he understand if I told him I needed to sleep in Abhinav’s room both for his sake and mine? The cold, air-conditioned, empty basement makes me feel…lonely.

~~~***~~~

Sangeetha took me out today to the beach. She is a nice girl, always polite and courteous. I wish she would spend more time at home though. It’s as if there is an invisible line that I cannot cross with her. Like the way she never calls me athai or amma. Our relationship had no name. Perhaps, there is no relationship to talk about. As long as Vinay is happy with her…

It’s half past eight in the night, you haven’t called still.

~~~***~~~

I am so glad you gave me your little Krishna photo to give me company in America. I have marked my return date in red in the little calendar behind it and kept it under my pillow. March 3rd. Two months and 7 more days before I return back to Chennai. To…our home. Abhinav will start daycare from March 1st. I wonder how he will manage without me. I wish you were here too to see your grandson…

~~~***~~~

Sundays are my favorite days. Sangeetha goes to the gym and is out till noon. Not that I want her away but Vinay is more relaxed and talks to me better when she is away. Now don’t say I am imagining things! Abhinav is very mischievous, he never lets me cook uthapams for Vinay, he keeps running around me and pulling my saree pallu. Sometimes, the child is the only reason I think I am able to manage here, away from…everything.

~~~***~~~

Not that my grandma posted any of the letters to my grandpa. I found them in a corner of my closet years later. After she was gone.
***Excerpt***

The prophecy.

I cannot lie. No, seriously, my life’s biggest problem has always been that, I cannot lie. I could fake a lie. I could look at a red pen and say it’s blue and so on. But given the situations where I needed a sturdy, honest-to-goodness lie, I just couldn’t. One wimpy little real lie and my mouth refused to operate. And you can imagine why I am still single at 29. My mom, who is a suave liar, cannot accept these basic facts of life. She thinks I am probably the only Indian girl who is yet to be married and inching towards her thirties.

“Radhika! Are you really my daughter?! That mouth of yours is a curse, Radhika! We must pray and fight the evil eyes that has resulted in a mouth like yours that cannot be controlled!”
She said it as if it were an unimaginable tragedy that I could only speak the truth.

“Mom, are you trying to tell me I am adopted? It’s ok, tell me. I can take it. I am t-w-e-n-t-y n-i-n-e, remember?”

And she would place her hand on her heart and rush to the temple to say her never-ending list of prayers that would supposedly cure my wicked mouth. Her list has grown over the years with empathizing maamis adding to the collection of hymns that would “cure” me.

My dad is usually a silent witness to my mom’s outpourings.

“So, you have anything to add, pa? Any cures for your daughter’s cursed mouth?!”

“Radhika, it’s not a joke. You are 29 and not married. People have already started talking. I am not saying you should marry just any random guy, but, at least try…here’s a good match for you,” he shows me a circled “Bride wanted” advertisement in the Hindu. “The boy has a Masters degree in telecommunication from Florida and is back to India for good, has his own business…34 years old, older than what we were looking for but…”

But since your daughter has not been able to get married for the past 8 years, we can all compromise, can’t we? I get it.

Dad studies me for a few moments with concern and proceeds to call the boy’s parents. The boy is already taken. Pity!

I head out to the museum where I work as a receptionist. It’s not that I didn’t aspire for more. Like my marriage, my career has been pretty much a non-event in my life. I taught kindergarten kids for a while, worked at a call center for a year, even worked as a jeweler’s assistant for six months. Somehow, I got bored with the job or one of the customers took offense at what I said. Like the time a middle-aged, portly woman came shopping with her daughter to buy a necklace set for her daughter’s wedding.

“How can I help you ma’am? Would you like coke, pepsi, tea?”

She waved me off with her hand. I was after all the invisible help at the store. Our pearl collections seemed to grab her interest and she held a whispered conference with her daughter.

“Here, show this set, and the one next to it, and a few others. We don’t have all day.” She started fanning herself, “Such a hot and miserable day…isn’t your AC working?” She proceeded to produce a bright pink hand kerchief and wipe her large forehead. Her daughter did the same.

“Sorry ma’am. It broke down yesterday. Can I get you some cool drinks?”

Again the hand wave. So I proceeded to show her the necklace sets. She held the pearl necklace on her daughter’s considerably-sized dark neck which was now glistening with sweat and her large face broke into what resembled a smile.

Her daughter just sulked and studied her image which pretty much filled the entire mirror.

“Ahem ma’am. May I suggest our gold sets? Or the navratna necklace? They would look nice on your daughter...”

The fat lady turned slowly in her chair. “We like the pearl necklace. Show us some more.”

“But ma’am, don’t you think the navaratna necklace would look better?” And before I could stop myself, “It wouldn’t be such a heavy contrast against your daughter’s skin. I mean, all you can see now is the glint of her white teeth and the white pearl necklace against her skin. It takes the interest away from her well defined features…”

I heard a sort of roaring in my ears that caused the manager to rush to the fat lady and her daughter. And within a few minutes, I found myself looking for another job. God! Couldn’t I have just shut up, like mom always taught me to? Just shut up and nod. How difficult is that? But how can I explain this? Silence is not in my control. My mouth speaks its mind, whether I like it to or not. And it has always been the case since my fifteenth birthday.

~*~*~

My fifteenth birthday started off pretty normal. My dad called a few of my friends home, bought a cake; mom made pakoras and tea for everyone and then my friends and I planned to go to the beach to hang out for a few hours, of course with my parents. I cut the cake and stuffed some into everyone's mouth. I was thrilled with the novels my dad had purchased for me. My mom gave me a new half sari and blouse; the skirt had a bright yellow pattern with pink flowers all over it and I quite didn't like it but took it all the same. I didn't want to make my mom feel bad on my birthday. So, anyway, we headed off to the beach around 5.30, the sun was setting and the weather was perfect. My friends and I ate sundal and giggled and discussed whatever it is that fifteen year olds discussed. My mom and dad stopped by at an ice cream parlour and were soon deep in conversation. As we wandered farther, an old lady who looked like a gypsy woman came rushing towards us, from nowhere, it seemed. As soon as she came near, I could have sworn the beach turned darker, as if the sun decided to set at that very instant. She stopped right in front of us, finished chewing her pan at leisure and addressed me. I was a bit intimidated by her long ear lobes that were pulled down by the weight of her heavy gold? earrings; they made quite an impact along with her garish clothes and the strings of beads that hung from her neck.

"Come here little one, it's a special day for you, isn't it?", she asked me in Tamil. She smiled to reveal stained and uneven teeth.

I stared back at her open-mouthed. How did she know? My friends meanwhile, giggled and said yes, in chorus.

She held my arm and pulled me towards her. "Show me your palm, let me unlock the mysteries of your life for you, dear one!" I shrank back. I didn't want this strange woman with long earlobes unlocking the mysteries of my life. I glanced back to see that my parents were still at the parlour and did not even notice the old woman's presence.

"Do not fear, little one. Come here", saying that she produced a small earthen pot, again out of thin air, held it close to her heart and mumbled a prayer. She put her fingers in the pot and took out what looked like gooey black paste to me and proceeded to spread it on my palm. I was too shocked to object. My friends watched silently. Suddenly the giggles had died down.

"She stared at my palm for what seemed like an eternity and said, "Oh, they don't look good...oh no, no..."

"What? What doesn't look good? Tell me...", I whispered urgently. I was going to die today. Or worse get a horrible disease or maybe I would kill someone! Oh no, how could this be happening to me?!

"You will lose the love of your dreams because of..." I held my breath and for a moment, could only hear her words echoing in my head. Everything else around had become still.

"Your mouth! Your talk will drive him away! Oh, what a loss...what a loss!" she seemed ready to cry. The whole situation made me suddenly mad.

"You lie, you old woman!", I screamed at her. I was not going to let some gypsy woman snatch my dream prince away from me. "You lie and all you want is money. Get lost and take that wicked mouth with you. You are full of lies", I was crying now and shouting. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw my parents running towards us.

The old woman let go of my hand. Her eyes turned red and she stared at me until I looked away and she whispered, "Lie? You say I lie? You foolish little girl, you will realize soon your mistake..." and the next thing I knew, I was on the sand, my head on my mom's lap, all my friends standing around in a circle, looking concerned.

I believe that was the day, I lost my ability to lie. My parents and friends refused to talk about that day. Damn that old woman and her black gooey paste! I hate her. And the really bad deal out of this whole business was that there was no magic cure...no price charming to kiss me and make it all better. I was doomed. 29, unmarried and doomed to speak the truth the rest of my life.

~*~*~

How does this tie in to my being single, you ask? Well, let me just say that men can't handle honesty all that graciously. Let me rewind a little bit here. I was a pretty woman who had just turned 21 - at least my eyebrows didn't resemble overgrown bushes anymore and I had managed to attain the curves that would classify me as being feminine in spite of my somewhat casual and loose-fitting clothes - the right age for any self-respecting Indian woman to be married, my mother claimed. Actually, several events occurred in my life when I turned 21. My parents started looking for a suitable boy for me the day I turned 21. I realized that my dreams of marrying a smart, good-looking boy and settling down to leisurely afternoons of high tea with the other married women in my society were not as easily attainable as I had assumed. I hadn't exactly met my soul mate or anything remotely like that. So, I decided that I would trust my parents and let them pick my husband for me. I also met my best friend that year, Vignesh, who graduated from my Arts college the same year as me. How we met is a funny story. I was walking home from college with Lalitha, my other close friend, who had this crush forever on Viggy.

"Hey Radhika, there he is, don't look now! Behind us, he is walking towards us...", she pulled me towards her and started whispering rapid-fire instructions to me, "Act like you are telling me a joke...", "Don't over do it...I will throw my head back, delicately and laugh...got it? Simple enough. Now go!"

"Umm, Lalitha..I can't think of any impromptu jokes..."

At this, she held her hand delicately over her mouth, tilted her head back a little and laughed an extremely artificial laugh. And as I stood uncomfortably wondering how to laugh naturally with her, Viggy joined us.

"Hey Lallu, what's so funny?"

At this, Lalitha's eyes grew bigger - someone told her she had pretty eyes and she made it a point to make them look nice and big whenever Viggy was around - she sort of fluttered her eye lashes and said, "Oh Viggy, hi, didn't quite notice you. Radhika here was telling me a funny incident...weren't you Radhika?"

I cleared my throat and nodded. "Yes. Quite funny." And then I waited for my usual jumble of embarrassing observations to pour out of my mouth. It always happened within a few minutes of meeting someone new.

Nothing.

I returned Vignesh's pleasant smile, noted that he got an almost imperceptible dimple on his right cheek when he smiled; I took in his sunkissed brown eyes and the slightly dated Dev-Anand lock-falling-over-forehead hair style...and all the while, I remained silent! My confused cacophony of thoughts seemed to have subsided to soothing whispers. Nice. Lalitha has good taste!

And then Lalitha suddenly giggled loudly breaking into my reverie and I said, "Lalitha thinks you are one hot guy, Vignesh!"

Lalitha looked like she was going to cry. Her eyes had reduced to their normal size. Viggy for his part, just stared at me.

Anyway, that happened eight years back. Since then, Lalitha, Viggy and I have laughed over this incident a hundred times. Lalitha, I suspect, never quite grew out of her crush, but she seemed to have settled down to a lazy friendship with him. "Sometimes, you can't fight fate. Perhaps, we were not meant to be together. You know? Maybe he would have died the night of our marriage, like those grotesque old Tamil movies. Or maybe I would have divorced him. You know?"

That's what I liked about Lalitha. Life's little tricks never got her down. She always had a positive explanation for whatever happened in life.

So anyway, a few months before my 22nd birthday, my mom and dad announced at breakfast that a boy would be coming to see me that evening. "His name is Sanjay, we have made enquiries into the family, they are very nice people..." my dad continued listing a bunch of uninteresting details. I felt a little shiver of excitement rush through my spine. I was going to prove that gypsy woman wrong! I was going to meet my prince today! I wish I could see his picture, would he look better than Viggy? Not that it mattered. Just then dad extended a photo towards me.

And that moment, I fell in love. Sanjay was an absolute dream boat. Lush wavy hair, smiling eyes, a good build. I could see it already, Sanjay and I holding hands as we walked lazily along the beach, a smiling Sanjay serving me breakfast in bed. Nandita, Karthik, Sanjay and I planning our first trip to Disneyland! Nandita and Karthik are my little ones. I decided on their names on my 16th birthday. Lalitha knows she will have two daughters - Ramya and Divya. Viggy thinks we are a bit crazy that way but hey, which girl doesn't decide on her kids' names before hand? My dad always said I needed to be planned. He was talking about my career at that point but same difference. Anyway, I almost couldn't wait till evening to meet Sanjay.

"What if he has buck teeth?"

"Viggy, my Sanjay will have the perfect white teeth. Not uneven and crooked like yours!"

We were walking out from College that day and Viggy and Lalitha annoyingly did not seem to share my enthusiasm.

"But Radhika, what if he is really short? Like 3.5 feet tall? What if he had a girl friend before? What..."

"Lallu, stop it! Remember, you told me, everything happens for a reason? Sanjay and I are meant for each other...just wait and see..."

That evening, I dressed in my favorite color. Pink. A pink silk saree with a cream border that had little mango patterns stitched into it. I wore my mother's gold jewellery, taking care not to overdo it.

When the door bell rang, I had to hold myself from taking a quick look outside. I could hear mom and dad from inside the bedroom, "Come, come sit down. Radhika just came back from college..."

I could hear Sanjay's mom and dad and probably his sister but couldn't make out his voice. And then dad called me outside. I pretended to be shy, studying my nicely painted toe nails as I walked outside. And then ever-so-slowly looked up.

Oh thank God. He was not a midget. I had an urge to call Viggy and tell him that. And that he looked smart in a navy blue shirt and khakhi pants. Hey gorgeous!

Sanjay's eyes lit up when he saw me. The pink saree must have worked its charm. I couldn't focus on any of the conversation that floated around me. Soon, my mom looked meaningfully at me and said, "Maybe we give the kids some time alone?" and within a few seconds they were all out in the porch discussing in extra-loud voices about how pretty our porch was.

Sanjay just smiled as if to say, you go first.

"Umm, you have a charming smile, Sanjay." I didn't mean to say that but what the hell, it was an honest compliment.

"Radhika...."

I sat straighter. It seemed like my mother had called me in a strange voice.

"Radhika...I really like you...", he was saying. He was talking! He was saying these really nice things about me just like I imagined he would say to me. But he was talking in a she's voice! Let this all be a bad dream, please. I prayed. But Sanjay continued talking in his he-she voice. And suddenly I was saying, "Sanjay, I thought we would be soul-mates but am afraid I don't feel that way anymore. A deep, full-throated voice has always been my weak point. And I really can't keep you happy if I keep wondering if that's your voice or your mother's!"

There. I was officially a witch. A cruel, cruel woman who had no heart. I immediately said, "I am so sorry Sanjay. I didn't really mean that, I..." but the damage was done. The cursed mouth had spoken. And I would soon realize that that was just the first of many such meetings to find a suitable boy for me.

The first time was the worst. I cried for a week at my broken dreams and the silly predictions that came true. My mom and dad took this as a sign to look for the next boy as soon as possible, if nothing at least to distract me.

"What's the big rush to get you married, anyway?" Viggy and I were at Cafe Coffee day where I was sharing my latest fiasco with him. I had been fired from my job as a kindergarten teacher. One of the moms did not approve of my advice that she learn to care for her kid as a good mother should and focus less on tea parties and shopping sprees. I suspect she lost her head more so because she knew I was saying the truth. Meanwhile my parents had widened their nets, they were now looking for grooms also settled abroad. The next week, I was to meet a Rahul, who had finished his Masters in Computer Science and was now working at a "top" IT firm in Seattle.

"I don't know. I guess I am ready to be married...this guy sounds nice, we exchanged a couple of emails and I am getting good vibes from him...although he doesn't say much in his emails..."

"I don't know Radhika. You are just 23, take time to indulge in your passions, travel, have fun...there's always time to settle down..."

Viggy seemed to searching for something in my eyes and I opened my mouth to inform him that I was done indulging for the past 23 years, I was ready for my knight in shining armour. But strangely, no words escaped my mouth. For once, I felt it was ok to be silent. It was as if the powers were telling me that it was ok for me to just listen and be comfortable in the silence. And so, I did that.

"I mean, you used to love dancing...what happened now? You aren't even going regularly to your classes. Don't you want to study more? Do something interesting and satisfying everyday? What do you really want to do, Radhika?"

"Well, just because you are smart and studying for your MBA doesn't mean that I should study too. Maybe this is what I was destined to do. To marry and be a good house wife, to keep my husband happy..."

"You will, trust me," he placed a hand lightly on my shoulder and I had that strange need to remain silent again, "You will be a really good wife, but all am saying is, experiment a bit, live a bit, just don't...resign to fate, ok? You deserve much better..."

Viggy was the best. He really gave me the best advice at times. So, I smiled and ruffled his hair because he hated that and then told him that coffee was on me. He was such a darling really.

~*~*~

Rahul was a sight for sore eyes! He was tall, bespectacled, extremely good looking and the best thing was, he spoke in that deep-throated voice that made me absolutely melt each time he said my name. Well, he hadn't exactly said my name but I could imagine how it would sound. The initial meeting went without a glitch. His mom and dad seemed to really like me and my parents couldn't stop talking about Rahul. The next evening when Rahul called, mom was more excited than me, she quickly smeared red kumkum on my forehead and chanted a quick prayer before she let me talk to him.

"Hey Radhika, just thought I'd call and tell you that my parents would like to go ahead with the wedding arrangements and we can all go ahead with this process that is if you feel the same way?"

I was a bit disappointed. I mean, I didn't expect him to romance me with roses or anything, but just a "I missed you so much the past 24 hours" would have done. Oh, what the hell! Maybe he is reserving the best for after-marriage! I was finally getting married! To a really handsome chap, perhaps one day I would take him to that beach and find that old gypsy woman and tell her how wrong she was!

That night, I had a long telephone conversation with Lallu.

"Ooh, he sounds fabulous, Radhika! Now, am jealous!"

That made me feel so much better. I have the best friends there ever were!

"But you know what? His mom called me later today and asked if I could meet Rahul for dinner tomorrow night at the Taj...I mean why couldn't he invite me personally? You don't think he is going to be one of those mama boys, do you?" I asked, a sudden concern creeping into my otherwise pleasant thoughts. I hadn't considered this angle.

"Oh, you worry too much Radhika. Go out with him tomorrow, have a blast! Am sure he's not the mama's boy type of guy! They typically have oily hair patted down on their heads and thick, unattractive glasses! Nope, you got the right guy, girl!"

Yes, that made sense. He certainly had on a pair of designer glasses of some sort. I slept like a baby that night and woke up excited to meet Rahul that night. As my mom fed me hot, fluffy idlis that morning, I noticed that my dad seemed distracted. He was on and off the phone whole morning and didn't eat more than 2 idlis, he loved idlis. Mom couldn't stop talking, as usual.

"Remember Radhika. Don't talk too much. If you have an urge to blabber, just eat anything on your plate. Listen. A good wife always listens..."

I was confident I could pull it off. That evening, I decided to dress Western, after all he was from the United States. A short white kurti top and a long flowing skirt that looked quite flattering on me. I wore long earrings that glinted a bit as I turned my head left and right.

"Are you sure you want to dress like this? What if he thinks you are too outgoing?", mom asked worriedly.

"Mom, he has lived in America for several years now, he won't like a village bride now, will he?"

Dad had gone out that evening, on business, he had said mysteriously. But, I didn't have time to mull over that or the fact that Viggy hadn't even had the decency to ask me how I was feeling before my big date! Such a brat!

Rahul looked dashing in casuals. I seemed a bit overdressed compared to his half-sleeved polo tshirt and slacks. He drove to the Taj and I faithfully followed mom's orders. Remain silent. It seemed he was doing the same.

We had good seats reserved, a quiet booth away from the crowd.

"Nice booth...", I said not having thought of anything brighter to say. I was beginning to panic that he wouldn't speak the whole day and then would probably reject me for being so boring!

"Mom reserved the booth", he said matter-of-factly.

"Oh..."

"Ready to eat?"

He ordered wine, an appetizer I did not recognize and pasta for his main course.

"Umm, do you have idlis or uthapam?"

Mom had asked me to eat, like a lady and to eat something non-greasy so I won't have un-lady-like symptoms during the dinner. They had idlis. Whew!

Rahul didn't talk much during dinner. Maybe he was the shy, mysterious kind. So, I took this as a cue to talk to draw him out with my charming words. I could do that and so I talked about my jobs, my dancing, my friends...

"Viggy is so funny, he sometimes says the most random things, you should really meet him and Lallu, I mean Lalitha..."

Rahul just nodded, his eyes wearing a glazed expression after several glasses of wine. He hadn't touched his pasta.

"So, ready to head home?", Rahul signaled the waiter.

"Umm ok..."

What was going on? He hadn't said a word the whole time! How will I get to know my mysterious husband if he just won't talk? My mouth tired of speaking trivial details the whole evening was resisting the temptation to blurt out what it really wanted to. I quickly scanned the table for something to eat. But the waiter had cleaned our plates just then. And so, I ended up saying,

"Gosh! Do you have a problem? Cat got your tongue? Just spill it out man. Talk! You've been a dull dull date so far!"

Yup. That's what I said. It didn't matter though. Because after that, my date was anything but dull.

Her name was Lily, Lily Chang. He had been seeing her for three years now and yes, was still in love with her. She had meanwhile moved on, found another boy friend and my dear Rahul was still trying to woo her back. Meanwhile his mom and dad decided a nice Indian girl would solve all his problems. That nice girl being me. I asked him to drop me off a few minutes from home, so I can clear my head and fix my face before I went home.

As soon as his car left - he hadn't even apologized - tears poured down my cheeks. I sat down on a rickety wooden bench beneath a flickering street light and cried my heart out. Just then, my cell phone rang and I have never been happier to hear Viggy's woozy voice.

"Hey Radhika...achhooo...just wanted to ask you how your date was? Achhoo!"

Oh, the poor dear, must have a terrible cold.

"Viggy...", I sniffled into the phone, "My date was a disaster! He has another Chinese girl-friend, his parents were forcing him to see me!"

I could hear him snicker noisily on the phone. How dare he!

"Ok, so where are you now?"

"Sitting on a bench a few minutes from home. My dress looks crumpled and my high heels hurt...", I started crying again.

"I'm coming, stay put girl."

I wanted to ask him not to come but I really needed to see him now. He would know what went wrong and how to fix it.

He was there in a flash, with "buddy", his motorbike and best friend, after me, that is.

He took off his helmet and his red nose made me giggle. But, I stopped immediately because I noticed he was laughing too!

"Lily Chang, huh? You stood no chance, Radhika!"

My lower lip began to quiver again and before I could cry again, he gave me a quick hug, "You look and are adorable. Rahul is a dumb ass, ok? Trust me."

I felt better already. "You know, he had a funny sort of nose, anyway. Didn't like him quite that much!"

"Way to go! You rock, Radhika, marry me instead!"

I laughed. Viggy knew just what to say to cheer me up! I felt all warm from inside and silently sat behind him on the bike. It was so good to be silent and comfortably so.

When we reached home, dad was standing outside on the porch, looking at his watch. When he saw Viggy and me, he seemed relieved, "Oh good, Radhika you are back! Come Vignesh, come inside!"

Viggy was like a son to dad and mom. My mom said she sometimes wished I had a brother like him. Whatever!

Inside, dad had a story of his own to share even before I could launch into mine. He had asked around for information about Rahul, just basic background check and all that and it seems his friend's friend from US had called him that morning to tell him not to go ahead with the match! He had left that evening to confirm with Rajiv uncle, who had contacted the source in US, that it was indeed true.

"But Shalu maami said...", my mom began. Shaalu maami was her best friend at the temple and this match had come through her.

"Whatever Shaalu maami said, this boy has had American girl friends before and was considering marrying one."

"Chinese, dad...", I corrected him as if that minor detail was of the utmost importance. Viggy was trying hard not to laugh. He can be so frustrating at times!

"So anyway, Rajiv mama's friend in US has a daughter who knew the girl well, was her roommate for a year...it's a long story, but it looks like you have already made a decision, Radhika?"

"Yes dad. No more American grooms for me! And really, am not that much in a rush to get married. I have to focus on my career and...and my dancing, live life a bit, you know?" I stammered and Viggy watched open-mouthed.

Anyway, we all decided we needed to have ice-cream to celebrate the close escape except Viggy, he had my mom's filter coffee. Mom promised it would make his cold vanish within seconds.

~*~*~

That was six years back. A string of similar disasters followed the Rahul incident. For sometime, dad and mom decided not to look for any grooms. Instead, they took me to an astrologer. Besides making vague predictions about dark clouds and looming dangers, he suggested that we should not look too far for an answer. And he also said that we should wait a few years for all the planets to align themselves auspiciously for me to find my dream guy.

But then, I am 29 now and still looking. The only good thing is that I completed my arangetram, the graduation ceremony for my dance and am now studying under my Guru to be a dance teacher. I gave up my job at the museum, it was such a boring affair anyway! So far, it's turned out pretty good. Lalitha meanwhile married the guy who proposed to her a few years back at her company. Apparently, he had been the guy sending her all those secret messages and flowers. She was so flattered when she found out it was him. I mean, which girl doesn't like getting flowers and nice poems? Sigh, just not my turn yet, I guess.

Mom and dad tried their best to cheer me up. They still looked for suitable boys, Shaalu maami still came up with decent suggestions but somehow, it never worked out. I was never comfortable with the guys who came to see me, however hard I tried. Either I said the wrong thing or they did and it was all over too soon. The big news I guess is that I am turning thirty. Mom and dad wanted to celebrate my birthday with a small party and also the fact that I was now a qualified dance teacher at my school. They invited a few relatives, Shaalu maami and her circle of friends, some of my friends and of course Viggy over. Lallu had gone with her guy for her honeymoon to Kerala. Lucky girl!

After the cake cutting and birthday song, the adults started asking my parents the usual set of questions about my marriage. This bored my friends who found quick excuses to leave soon. Only Viggy was left behind.

"You know what? Let's go to the beach! It's so long since I've been there...and I really need to get out of here!"

So, Viggy, buddy and I went to the beach. We had sundal and settled down to talk about our future.

~*~*~
"That's quite an accomplishment, Radhika, you will make a great teacher..."

I smiled. Viggy always had this uncanny way of making me feel that it was ok to be me. I didn't have to pretend, to force myself to be quiet, or to try to impress. He liked me just for the way I was. I sighed happily and listened to him as he talked about how his parents were threatening to come down from Bombay if he didn't get married soon!

"Oh..." And suddenly that clammy sensation came back to my mouth, I needed to speak.

"So, what's the big deal? Get married!"

Viggy looked down, poured sand through his fingers and seemed lost in thought.

"Ok. I guess I need to at least for my parents...", he didn't look up to see me.

I suddenly had an urge to stare into his nice brown eyes, and then I would feel all nice and cozy, like always. But then, what if he gets married and moves away...what about the times when I really really need to be with him? I was losing my best friend to some awful woman who would probably be like Lily Chang. As these thoughts rushed through my head, my eyes started watering. Viggy was still lost in thought. Fortunately, my mouth spoke then,

"Not for your parents, you idiot! For you...and me. Marry me because we are crazy enough to keep each other happy. Forever."

And then there was that moment. Strangely it was like the moment the old gypsy woman made her prophecy. Everything seemed to stand still. Even the sand seemed to stop flowing from his fingers. A strange shadow seemed to fall all around us. I could have sworn I saw the shadow of those long ear lobes from more than a decade back. The shadow seemed to hover over us for a second and then it was gone! Perhaps, my curse was broken too! In any case, I didn't care, when Viggy was around it was like I always said the right things. He was the prince that the astrologer had said was not "too far" away.

"You know Radhika! You are one crazy girl. And I have been in love with you since the day I met you..."

The right words from the right person create the sort of magic that no amount of prophecies and dreams could create. This time, I know I am with the right guy. My mouth tells me I am.

~*~*~

***Excerpt***

Silambattam

I hate my father! He has grown so old and so blind that he cannot even recognize what he once felt for my mother. What is the point of lighting incense sticks and placing fresh marigolds in front of her photo when he has long forgotten what he once felt for her?!

What has come over me? I see myself in the full-length mirror that my father had gifted me several years ago - for "Kannamma, my dancing angel"- face bent down in shame, kohl-lined light eyes, my mother's eyes, with tears threatening to flow in angry currents, sharp nose tinged red, golden skin - isn't that what Parimal had said? And a dainty chain, my mother's gift to me. I caress the word it spells - "Kavitha" - my name; my life is anything but that. As always I turn to my mother for consolation. I wipe my tears and focus on the fading photo of my mother holding me the way only a mother can hold a child - comforting, safe, permanent...and I ask her if I have done wrong.

"Isn't three weeks enough to know when love opens its shy eye, mother? Our hearts beat as one and yet father doesn't seem to understand. His punishment is to make me stay with aaji! Oh, how I detest her house! And I'll be so far away from Parimal, for three whole weeks, stuck in Tiruchy while he pines for me here! Didn't father fall in love with you ma? Were you not from a different place, speaking a different language...why can't he understand now?"

I don't have time to bid Parimal good bye, father makes sure of that. I scribble a hasty note to Parimal declaring my love and resolve, and a day later, I sit in a musty train-compartment on my way from Bombay to Madras and from there to my aaji's house, my mother's birth place, Tiruchi.

***

"Kaapi tea, kaapi tea, kaapi tea", greets me as I step out of the train. For a moment I panic not seeing my aaji and a few seconds later hear her familiar voice, "Kavitha! Come, come, how you have grown!", she says this in Tamil. How long since I have heard my mother-tongue! Marathi will always be my preferred language but Tamil holds a special place in my heart, it reminds me of my mother. They have the same voice though my mother would say K-a-v-i-t-h-a as if it were a melody and my grandmother says it as if she is expressing her right over me. My grandmother seems not to have aged at all, clad in a maroon nine-yards saree and her trademark five-petaled diamond earrings, she peers at me through her thick-framed spectacles. Her nose ring catches the sunlight and winks at me. A quiet young girl hovers near grandmother as if her only wish in life is to fulfill grandmother's command.

We travel in an auto to grandmother's house. She keeps me occupied with a constant stream of questions and comments, "How many days will you be staying? At least for a few months, I hope! Has Abhay put on any weight? Your grandfather has gone out of town to attend his sister's grandson, Srikanth's upanayanam. Sangeetha always used to add a spoon of home-made ghee to his rice to make him fat...", and for the second time that day, thoughts of my mother carve a path through my own worries. I hide my tears from my grandmother.

We reach her house soon and I can't help but hide my disappointment, it seems old and oppressing, like my grandmother. I chide myself for these irreverent thoughts and grandmother gives a series of instructions to the maid, Shanthi - "Buy shikakai, the big box, my granddaughter's hair needs my hand's treatment, buy 1 kg of rava - she loves my kesari, have you cleaned out the guest bedroom, dusted the bed and the curtains?" Shanthi seems happy at the seemingly endless stream of tasks assigned to her.

My grandmother points to a bucket filled with water. Old customs die hard. I wash my feet and hands and follow grandmother. She appears with something in her hand and thrusts it in my mouth, jaggery! "Sweet for a sweet life ahead of you!" Ah! Finally, we broach the topic. I have already rehearsed my monologue; I am confident I will win-over grandmother and go back to Parimal. But she just fixes her disconcerting stare on me and says, "Your eyes are Sangeetha's eyes..." and as if embarrassed by her display of weakness, walks with quick, abrupt steps towards the kitchen. I let out a heavy sigh. My days of imprisonment have begun.

We sit in a small dining area facing the courtyard. The entire house is built around the courtyard - the kitchen, dining area, grandmother's room, several locked rooms and my guest bedroom. I gulp down the fluffy idlis, spicy drumstick sambhar and salty coconut chutney and feel more optimistic about my situation.

"Do you want to take some rest? You must be tired?"

Even before I shake my head, grandmother heads outside. "Come", she says and I follow meekly. We sit on the thinnai - the sitting area built around the front door, I look around self-consciously, unaccustomed to the rather public location of our personal chat.

"How old are you?"

"Eighteen..."

"And you think you are mature enough to decide whom to marry?"

"I..."

"Old enough to defy your father's wishes and side a boy you have known for all of two weeks?"

"Three weeks!" my squeaky voice is quite different from how I heard it in my head during the train journey.

"Three weeks!" she spat out the words, "What does the boy do?"

"BA, Economics...we study at the same college..."

"And you think by eloping with this boy, you will have the life of your dreams?"

My mouth fell open. "Elope? I don't plan to elope, aaji! Father saw me with him at an ice-cream shop and lost his temper...what made you think..."

"So why don't you?"

She caught me by surprise again, "Why don't I...?"

"Elope?"

"We...we want to finish our education first, get good jobs and then..."

"And what if you don't?"

"We will...that's why we need to wait..."

"I see...or is it because you want to hide under this convenient excuse of jobs and security while you weigh your options and ask yourself if you really want to spend all your life with him?"

"What? No! I love Parimal, I will marry him today if only...appa agrees and you give your blessings..."

"Yes, I am sure you would, Kavitha."

I lose my temper. Is grandmother questioning my love, love for which I am willing to sacrifice anything?! I raise my voice, "And what would you know Aaji, of young love? Of pining for him? Of aching hearts and sleepless nights? Do you even remember what it was to be young and in love?"

Aaji becomes silent and I wonder if I have crossed the line.

"Do I remember? Yes, my dear naive girl, I remember. Your old grandmother remembers what it is like to be eighteen! She remembers it as if it were yesterday!"

I shiver in the silence that follows, scared but curious about the story that is about to unfold...

"Come here Kavitha", aaji holds me my hand and pulls me towards her room. Even as a child, I had never ventured into aaji's room, it was off-limits for everyone except my mother. Perhaps, the two were privy to a secret that will explode out in the open today...

Aaji closes the door behind us and the room plunges in darkness. She switches on the light and a flickering bulb throws an expectant light in the room...aaji moves purposefully towards her cot and commands, "Bend down and pull the trunk from under the cot." I peer under the cot and sneeze at the cobwebs that greet me, I pull the trunk out with all the energy I can muster.

Grandma removes the spotlessly clean white handkerchief tucked at her waist and hands it to me. As I clear out the layer of dust, the iron trunk reveals a rich dark-brown texture. Aaji selects a key from her keyring and extends it to me.

The contents of the trunk surprise and delight me. Neatly organized in one corner are a few expensive-looking sarees and a sweater, a sheaf of papers and files separate it from the velvet-covered jewel boxes...before I can continue my visual journey further, aaji interrupts me, "Look below the sweater."

Under the sweater is a delicate keepsake box with a bright bluish-green peacock feather painted on it, I lift it carefully and hand it to aaji. She holds it in her hand adoringly and settles her heavy body on the cot. Her voice sounds soft, almost vulnerable as she says, "Sit next to me Kavitha...I will tell you a story that your mother would have told you if only...she hadn't become dearer to God...

You know Kavitha, as we grow older, some memories become so ingrained in our minds that they seem more real than ever, it's as if they have the ability to hurt, to please, just as the actual events did when they happened...and such is this story that I am about to tell you."

I steal a glance at the box in aaji's hands, I want to see what stories it hides even before aaji tells me hers...

"It was a day after my eighteenth birthday. I had always been a precocious child and my teenage years proved to be an even more trying time for my parents. I would go swimming with boys my age, pick fights with them, even come back with bruises some days - all of which shocked my parents, provided food for local gossip...and secretly I enjoyed the attention", aaji smiles and I notice perhaps for the first time, how her smile transforms her face, I see traces of the eighteen-year-old mischievous girl she describes...

"That day, I wore the new half-saree that my parents had given to me on my birthday, wore malli-poo on my hair and went to the market with my girl-friends. Your grandfather used to say, the smell of jasmine reminded him of me...anyway, that day, I had planned to buy matching bangles and other trinkets that would match my new half-saree. My friends teased me as we went to the market, a good thirty minute walk away from home.

"Raji, you look so beautiful in this peacock-blue half-saree, the whole market is going to follow your every step!"

Raji, that was how I was known before I became Rajalakshmi paati.

"Hush, and the moment a good man sets eyes on me, I bet you would want him for yourself!"

We laughed and walked towards the bangle shop called "Fancy Mart", the shop had so many varieties of bangles - plastic, glass, metal, in every color you could possibly want - copper suplhate blue, chestnut brown, Ramar color...we eagerly proceeded to try on the bangles. I had almost settled on the dozen bangles that matched my dress when I heard a loud applause nearby. A small crowd had collected in a circle and they seemed to be cheering someone.

I purchased the bangles and walked with my friends towards the commotion. I heard the words "Silambattam", "Sivan" several times and was about to ask an old man nearby when two men with long wooden sticks walked towards the center of the circle. The crowd fell silent almost instantaneously. A man walked in between the two men and counted to three. And the silambattam began.

One of the men, the larger of the two roared often, moved quickly and waved his stick often as if trying to control a large herd of cows, I turned my attention to the other man, he was about 5 feet 6 inches, well-built but much smaller than the other man. His movements were more controlled, he moved purposefully and used his silambu in carefully coordinated movements, either to block an attack or place a blow, he rarely missed, he was like a maestro controlling the flow of music...I watched his hands, mesmerized; slowly the noise around me seemed to fade and I could only hear the swoosh that his silambu made as he expertly matched his rival.

The game ended in fifteen minutes and I almost heaved a sigh of relief when my favourite contestant, Sivan, won. As the crowd dispersed, I stood rooted to the spot - I am not sure what I was thinking, perhaps that I would talk to Sivan or at least catch his glance. Just as I was about to leave, someone in the crowd asked him when the next trial run was before the silambattam festival. I pretended to pick at something stuck to my feet and waited to hear his voice. "Friday 5 PM". His deep, guttural voice seemed to echo several times in the house before I returned to the market place on Friday, alone this time.

On Friday, I dressed with care, washed my face with turmeric, even buffed some powder on my cheeks. I platted my unruly hair and adorned it with several strands of jasmine. I selected a green saree with a yellow border that looked flattering on me. All the while, I did not question myself. It was as if I knew exactly what I had to do. I was on a mission.

At the market place, Sivan was alone. He dipped a rag cloth in a bottle containing a clean solution and rubbed it on his silambu, gently. I pretended to browse at Fancy Mart, all the while stealing glances at Sivan. Finally, I made up my mind and sat on a rock a few feet away from Sivan. By then, a small crowd had begun to collect around him. He finished his task, held his silambu and rotated it effortlessly between the fingers of his hands. The orchestra had begun. I stared, unabashedly. He lowered his silambu, just as his opponent joined him and started flexing his muscles. I didn't blink an eye and then, he saw me. Standing majestic, like Paramasivan himself, with a stick in one hand and his other hand on his waist, he stared for a brief moment at me, his lips parted as if he had something grave to discuss, but soon he turned away and faced his opponent. I remember the steely, ink-black eyes that held mine in a hypnotic hold, I remember it today, Kavitha..."

I blink. It's as if I am transported to reality with a thud. "Sivan", I roll the name in my mouth unconsciously...I felt as if I were a part of that story too, witnessing Sivan and Raji. It was then that a thought struck me. "Aaji, grandpa's name is not Sivan!" A sad smile plays on aaji's lips and she continues,

"Sivan", she whispers his name, with reverence and fondness, "was not destined to be your grandfather. He was the first man I lost my heart too, your grandfather managed to heal most of my wounds...but the scars remain..."

Did she just blink away tears? She breathes heavily and continues,

"From that day, I regularly went to watch Sivan do his energetic dance. Several times, I felt his eyes on me, but the moment I looked up at him, he would be looking elsewhere. One day, after three or four months, I decided it was time we talked. I played the scenario in my head a thousand times. Finally, when the moment came after a particularly grueling silambattam practice, I waited for the crowd to thin out, walked to him and called out his name."

I drew in a sharp breath, my prim and proper grandmother had been even more daring than me in her days! Seeing my expression, aaji smiled and ruffled my hair.

"He turned towards me, startled.

"I am Raji..."

By now, a hint of a smile had begun to play on his lips, he said, "Silambattam is hardly the sport for a delicate girl such as you to be interested in."

"Well, then, you would be even more surprised to know that I seek you not just to discuss this sport but to learn it!"

I don't know why I said that. I spoke out the words that tumbled out of my mouth at that moment.

He seemed taken aback. "My dear rajakumari," he said teasingly, "this is a sport of sweat and struggles, blood and dirt, your delicate hands and jasmine scent would be lost in its embrace..."

He walked closer to me and I could smell the sweat and dirt that he talked about. I looked into his eyes and said, "And what if I welcome the embrace?"

He smiled and it was as if they drove away all my worries, I stood still, wanting the moment to last forever. He shook his head and walked away with his silambu."

Aaji stops here. She calls for Shanthi and asks her to prepare tea for us. "It is getting late, my child and we have dwelt enough in the past. It is time to move on...I shall not bore you further with this old woman's life-story."

"Aaji, I want to hear the rest of the story. Please...?"

Shanthi walks in with the tea and we both sip in silence. The sweet smell of cardamom and ginger elicits a pleasant smile from aaji.

"Kannamma, there is not much to tell, I am not even sure I should have told you this story...things don't always turn out the way we imagine..."

Kannamma, that's how mother used to call me; I have an urge to hug aaji, to wipe away the worry-lines on her forehead, to see her eyes twinkle in laughter...

"Aaji, please, please tell me. I really want to know..."

"...I continued to talk to Sivan whenever I could steal a moment with him and I maintained that I wanted to learn Silambattam. So, one day, he conceded and asked me to meet him early morning and to wear a man's clothes!

The next morning, I woke up at 3 AM, picked an old nightshirt and pant that my father did not wear often and I stitched it so that it would fit me. By 4.30, I was ready and sneaked out of my house. My poor parents, bless their soul, detected no foul play!" Aaji and I share a laugh at this escapade.

"Sivan waited for me, just as he had promised, but this time I could tell from his eyes that he was looking forward to seeing me too...

"Ah, so our brave girl returns in a man's attire!"

"Yes, and she wishes to learn the art from the master himself."

He handed a smaller silambu to me and our lessons started.

"You hold the silambu like this...", I watched him, trying not to be too distracted...

"...it becomes your other hand, your eyes only need to follow the opponent's silambu, your hand will function as you command...", and he twirls his silambu, first using his right and then his left hand.

I clapped gleefully, perhaps this embarrassed him, he blushed and soon announced that class was done.

Our lessons went on for a month and perhaps at the end of it, we both knew that we were not meeting to learn the art of silambattam. It was just a powerful excuse to bring us together...the last time we met, he seemed strangely silent.

"I have to visit my uncle in Chennai to borrow some money for my father."

His family earned their livelihood through agriculture and that year had not been good for them.

My heart fluttered at the prospect of leaving my Sivan and his ananda narthanam, his heavenly dance.

"I have something for you..."

He opened his palm to reveal a pair of shiny silver anklets.

"Something to remind you of me...Cilampu.[1]"

Ah, my poet, his clever word play at our last meeting only increased the ache in my heart.

And then aaji remains silent.

"And then? What happened?" I am not sure I want to hear how this tale ends...

"And then, people say, men belonging to rival teams from the neighbouring village attacked him so that they could earn the cash prize at the Silambattam festival...some say, he had a fatal accident in Chennai...I never heard from him again. Several years later, I saw the same spark in your grandfather that I saw in Sivan, he was ready to accept me with my past and I married him. He is not my Sivan but I would die happily for your grandfather. He is my savior..."

For a moment, I wonder if aaji's story is real. Was there a Sivan who danced like the wind? Was there a young and vulnerable Raji who waited for him to return? Perhaps, aaji reads my thoughts, she opens the keepsake box on her lap.

Inside lie a pair of anklets and two carefully preserved photos. The first photo shows a young girl in a pale-blue half-saree - aaji stands smiling coyly at the camera and almost hidden behind the bangle shop, I discern the profile of the man who stole aaji's heart. Sivan stands with his silambu, oblivious of everything around him but his art. The second photo shows a dancer in Bharathanatyam regalia, aaji at her Arangetram. Perhaps she learnt to dance because it reminded her of Sivan?

"I spent my entire life for others...for Sangeetha, for you, for your grandfather...but when I danced, I was Raji, Raji with Sivan."

The words sound incongruous, coming from aaji's mouth. I had failed to recognize the tenderness and passion that lurked beneath the surface; I only saw aaji as a strict, unforgiving grandmother...perhaps, that was her way of compromising with her past?

Her eyes seem to be searching for even a glimmer of understanding in mine. I nod. I understand, aaji. I do. I hug her and I am surprised to feel the tears that fall from my eyes on aaji's shoulders.

***

The remaining days pass so quickly, I can't believe I have spent three weeks away from my father and Parimal. Aaji hugs me tearfully at the railway station and I hug her back. She plans to come to Bombay to spend time with me.

As the train leaves the station, I think of the story my aaji told me. Why did she tell me her story? Did she think my love for Parimal would fade in comparison? Did she want to protect me from heart-break? Or was this her subtle way of testing my love and giving me the go-ahead sign? I don't know. I don't know why I broke-up with Parimal a few months after I reached Bombay. Somehow, it was different, the magic was lost. I tried in vain to feel what I felt before talking to aaji. And then I gave up. Perhaps I was searching for the intensity that shone in my grandmother's eyes several decades after she had lost her love, perhaps I wanted to wait for my own experience of Silambattam.

***

Key:
[1]: Cilampu, the origin of Cilampam (Silambattam) means either a mountain or an anklet or merely ‘to sound’ (as a verb)
[2]: More on Silambattam.


***Excerpt***

Rayil Snegam.

Thanks to L for sending me a link to this song...

Do I believe in love stories? Yes... Do I believe in happy endings and walking into the sunset? Yes... Do I believe that love is blind? No...not until a year ago. Not until I got engaged, to another man. Not until I smelt the scent of rustic in his breath. Not until rough, calloused hands grabbed mine in a delicate, firm grip. When, for a moment, we stood too close for comfort. That's probably the moment I began to believe.


U.S return. Master's degree in telecommunication. Slender, fair - wheatish would have been more accurate - beautiful? Perhaps. "Artist" would have been stretching the truth. I dab with oil paints occasionally, searching for answers in the abstract. Sometimes, impressions from my life find their way into my sketches. His silhouette is one such impression. I don't realize it until the morning rays fall on the easel. Clear as it can be. It is his face, alright. Vulnerable yet masculine. Attractive not even by a stretch of imagination. A train in the background; and my failing attempt at art would have told you the whole story.

***

Anyway, that was the description of my "Seeking grooms" advertisement in the Hindu. Except the artist bit. Name withheld of course. Not anything spectacular about Priya anyway. My father did not share the price of the newspaper advertisement. But, I can imagine my dad peering through his thick glasses counting wrinkled currency notes carefully before handing it to the newspaper agency. Money down the drain. At least that's what I thought then. Who would know that I would be married to the very first "prospective match" that came through the advertisement? But, I digress. The particular painting in question draws upon another man for inspiration. Not my husband who I very much love and adore. Another man I met in a train.

I returned from America with a romantic, dreamy India in mind. The India of the past - three years to be exact. I did not apply for jobs in America after my graduation. I knew I wanted to return back. I did not take into account how much India had changed in my absence. I returned to the object of my homesickness and nostalgia. To the country that tormented me on lonely, winter nights in a one-bedroom apartment that I shared with a 35 year old post-graduate student. We had nothing in common but it was easier on my wallet and that was good. She smoked. The stale, stinking air empty of words and noise made my India that much more dear and welcoming. It was in those days that my creative pursuits - pencil sketches graduating to oil paints - helped me. I convinced myself that art was indeed a good friend, a great listener no matter how listless my stories. So, I packed my art and my dreams in a small bundle and came back home. However, the country I wished to come back to, no longer remained. Perhaps if my mother had lived, she would have sat down with me and gently cautioned me against the tricks that the mind can play, as she combed my unruly, length hair. She never let me cut my hair when she was with me. And when she was gone, I did not cut my hair lest it should take her away from me.

My father did not understand why I returned. He couldn't love me more but certainly was not prepared for the demands I would make on his time. Long walk with his friends, temple visits, religious programmes on Sun TV and newspapers that would be read end-to-end painstakingly took up pretty much his whole day. The maid and the cook took care of the house. It is only when I catch him staring intently at my mother's photograph, the only picture frame on his bedside table, that I realize what it means to be married for 35 years. Every evening he would place fresh jasmine flowers near her photo. The scent of the only woman he had loved in his life.

***

And yet here I am. The prodigal daughter who had fallen in love twice. My first love is my husband. Varun and I meet just twice before marriage (not counting two phone calls per day) but, we know. The search has ended. We are "compatible". He has lived in the US since he was a teenager. Returned to India with his parents, for good. Intelligent and capable of making me laugh. I ask for no more. He proposes, as he is expected to. And I say yes. That night, I happily think of our future. But happiness is a bit weird, you know? It is perfectly complacent. And you wonder why you searched for so long. And then another kind of happiness blurs it. You can no longer view the initial happiness for what it is. Tainted. That's what it is. Tainted by your new-found muse. And somehow one diminishes the other. The perfect bliss I experienced earlier about Varun? Not entirely gone now. Just a bit misty, like hearing static in the radio during your favourite song. Like the India of my past. I remember how it had felt but cannot feel it in its entirety now.

The object of my affectionate remembrance is a nondescript train journey. Only that it turned out to be special for me. I was heading to Bangalore from Madras to meet Varun's grandparents and seek their blessings for our marriage. They could not travel to Madras with Varun and his parents. Obviously staying with Varun's family was a big no-no. My father discovers a distant aunt living in Jayanagar and arrangements are made for me to spend the weekend with her. Wanting to indulge my nostalgia, I decided to travel by train. After all, isn't a train journey how you get to know the real country?

***

S6 - 45 is my compartment number. I don't mind being directed into the compartment by the movement of the crowd. It's funny how small nuisances take the guise of trivial romanticisms. And so I enter my compartment sweating profusely. My white cotton salwar kameez and red bandini dupatta cling to me. I feel I can stick quite securely to any surface, no seat belts needed here! Loaded with these crazy thoughts and thoughts of Varun, I settle down in one of the window seats. The light breeze caressing my hair, that I had picturized in my head, seems a distant reality. I start fanning myself with an old Ananda Vikatan issue. It was lying around unnoticed in the house. I can barely read Tamil, ezhuthu-kooti-padikardu as we say in Tamil. But I intend to take classes to improve that situation.


Muddled, you think? That's what living in another country does to you.

The compartment fills up soon, an aged couple, a family with two - I am temped to say unruly - kids. Just as the final whistle is about to be blown, a young man climbs into the moving train. I detest the young guys who hang out of the bus endangering their lives and others. Guys rushing into moving trains fall in the same category for me. I look with distaste as he sits down panting, right next to me. But now, the train has started moving and there is indeed a breeze. I look outside and am soon distracted by the moving trees, fields and huts. I know now what I missed back then. This contact with nature. Something as primitive as a breeze. We never opened our windows in my apartment in the US - in winter it was too cold and in summer too many bugs came flying in.

Within an hour, the kids are asking for chocolate, the father, a portly middle-aged, tired man is snoring and his wife seems also in a daze as she mechanically retrieves a five-star bar from her handbag. The kids are satisfied, for the moment at least. The old couple discuss their new daughter-in-law. I gather that they have a son who after marriage has shifted to Bangalore. They are on their way to meet their son and daughter-in-law.

"Sanjay would have never opted to move to Bangalore on his own..."

"Maybe his new job pays him better, we don't know Padma...", the thatha reasons in a feeble voice.

"Why should he suddenly move only three months after his marriage? I am sure it is that girl..."

And they discuss, uninhibited, the details of their personal lives. Laid out for all of us to hear. Perhaps, I missed this too.


Soon, it is time for lunch. I take an apple out of my basket. That is when he acknowledges my presence. The apple I hold in my hand interests him more than the person holding it. He looks at it with the same condescending look that I wear on my face. As if to say, "Oh these snobs! Regular Indian food won't work for them, only fruits for travel!" He then proceeds to take out a neatly wrapped package. He opens it deliberately and the breeze brings the smell of spicy puliyodarai to me. Suddenly, the puliyodarai looks much more appetizing than the apple I hold in my hand and I have an urge to taste it. I don't of course, but embarrassingly, my stomach growls in resentment.

I bite into my apple determined to like it as he proceeds to open yet another package. Golden, fried potatoes. My mouth actually begins to water and I pull out my bisleri bottle. Cold water to drive away insane hunger pangs.

"Urulakazhangu. Enga amma pannadhu", he introduces the vegetable to me politely and I wonder if I had stared too much. And much more to my surprise, I hear myself say, "Romba tastya iruku pakka. Enakke saapadanum pola iruku."

Sheesh. Did I actually say that I wanted to eat this man's lunch?

He grins and hands the curry to me and I eat greedily. Obviously, this is a dream. So, I don't really care what I say or do. But, the urulakazhangu tastes too good to be a figment of my imagination.

Not to be outdone, I dig into my basket and hand him my cookies. I was determined not to lose the few culinary skills I had picked up as a student in America.

He doesn't seem to like them much and one of the kids actually throws the cookie I give him, right out the window. With that lunch is over. The humid afternoon and the food I ate make the letters in my Ananda Vikatan crawl away from my line of vision. Just as I am about to settle down to a sweet afternoon nap, he asks,

"Going to Bangalore for a vacation?"

He has a sing-song English accent typical of Indian languages.

"I am going to meet my fiancé."

Lest he should get any ideas.

"Congratulations. I am also going to meet my girl-friend's parents and ask for her hand in marriage."

I smile and nod and he nods back the Indian way, left to right and back in an arc. Reminds me of my advisor at the University, "This is a yes!" nodding up and down vigorously; "And this is a no!", shaking his head side to side; "I don't understand this!" and now he moves his head in a left-right arc.

He takes out his tattered wallet and extracts a photo from it delicately. "This is Lakshmi", he says proudly.

I study the face of the young girl in the photo - long, well-oiled hair separated in two plats, a big red bindi and a vibhuthi mark on her forehead, a shiny nose-ring that catches the studio lights, dark complexioned, a serene smile.

“The dhavani-pavadai”, he adds pointing to her half-saree, “was my birthday gift to her.”

Again the proud smile. I look at the photo again and am surprised that the loud red and yellow half-saree looks so perfect on her. I wouldn’t dream of wearing it.

Now, I am drawn to the story too. That's what is different about this country. People eager to share their stories and people eager to listen to those stories. No matter how personal or delicate.

“So, where did you guys meet? Tell me about your love story.”

The train has lulled everyone else to sleep. But we stay awake, the story-teller and his sole audience, unaware of the story that we will soon experience ourselves.

He narrates his love story – college-mates, she is one year his junior and he makes her cry her first day to College. Just your typical ragging questions but she starts crying and so he takes her to the college canteen to console her with a treat. She is embarrassed and doesn’t talk much, quietly sipping her mango milkshake. He predictably falls for the shy, pretty heroine and the rest as they say is history. They graduate with a B.Sc in Computer Science, she stays home to help her mother take care of her two younger siblings and he accepts an offer in a start-up company in Bangalore. His parents have no objections for the marriage and he doesn’t anticipate any from her parents. He is on his way to talk to Lakshmi’s parents and decide on an auspicious date for the engagement.

Nothing extraordinary about the story but I do like his lively story-telling technique. He speaks in Tamil and the familiar, lilting sounds of my mother tongue enamor me more than the story they tell.

He tells me he writes poems in Tamil. But he refuses to recite any to me. They are for Lakshmi alone.

“No, you must recite a poem, I love poetry! I promise I won’t laugh.”

So, he furrows his brows in concentration and closes his eyes. I lean closer, for his words come out a whisper. I watch his moving lips as they enunciate words I had learned as a kid. I think of my mother. She used to help me with my Tamil homework. I swallow the dulling pain in my throat and listen again.

It’s a poem filled with sadness. A young bride who loses her husband soon after marriage. He paints a poignant picture. A beautiful widow imprisoned by her love; her sorrow so great, tears fail to do them justice. And so she lives day and night losing herself in his memory. He ends by asking, “Had her love not been so great, would she have lived a better life?”

And he opens his eyes. I don’t realize that I am crying until his expression changes. I draw away from him and look outside the window. A tea shop owner makes frothy coffee – the kind I don’t like – he lifts one tumbler filled with steaming coffee as high as his hands stretch and pours it into another tumbler on the table, not a drop goes amiss.

“I am sorry, I didn’t mean to…”

“That’s ok. I just miss my mother. Nothing to do with your poem”, I snap back at him not knowing why.

His face falls and he doesn’t talk to me after that. We are about a half-hour away from Bangalore. I am restless, I dig up my ipod from my handbag and turn the volume all the way up. But, I don’t listen to the songs, I keep skipping them every few minutes.

Varun. I want to think about Varun. I want to feel the excitement I felt until a few days back. Will we settle down in Bangalore? What about my father? Maybe I can convince him to shift to Bangalore. Fat chance of that happening. Maybe I can sign up for an art class and weekends, we can eat out! Hmm…what does Varun do in his free time? Does he write poems too?

And then suddenly I am thinking not of my husband waiting for me at the Bangalore railway station but of the man sitting next to me reading a heavy Tamil novel, P-a-r-t-h-i-b-a-n K-a-n-a-v-u, I read the name of the book with difficult, as unobtrusively as possible. I want to talk to him, ask him about his dreams, about his poems…so much to know about him and I have no time left…

I look at him and am about to ask him a question. He is engrossed in his book. The two kids are now awake and are chasing each other. Their father still asleep, their mother is now packing their belongings, “Finally over”, her expression seems to say. The old couple look out the window. And if you asked me even the color of the patti’s handbag, I would be able to tell you. Because this scene is frozen in my head. I can’t change it, I can’t get it out, only look at it again and again, to think of uncertainties, happiness and fate.

Because at that instant, our train derailed.

All I heard was a loud screech. And there was chaos all around. The kids wept, suitcases fell over and I heard myself scream. Something heavy hit my head and a sharp pain seared through my head. I began to fall. And it was then that he grabbed my hand. An instant before my eyes closed from consciousness, he pulled me towards him, towards safety. I held him as tightly as I could before I lost consciousness.

***

Varun tells me it was not as bad as I had imagined. It was a small accident, several people had minor injuries, nothing fatal. News spreads fast in India. Varun tells me he reached the accident scene within 20 minutes. The old couple in my compartment were shaken but safe. The husband and wife stood at a nearby shop making a phone call. The kids were crying but they would soon forget. And me? And him?

Varun tells me, “There was this chap holding on to you. Left before I could ask him if he needed help. He said the bruise on your forehead shouldn’t last for long.”

Sometimes I wish it had. Something to remember him by. It’s only when I see my sketch one Sunday morning that I realize that I don’t even know his name.

***

***Excerpt***

To India, with love.

"This is the final boarding call for passengers Ravi Naraan and Erin Smith booked on flight AI144 to Mumbai, India."

The familiar feeling of mild irritation wakes me from my reverie. Although, this time the irritation is laced with a wistful thought, this is the last time I will board an Air India flight to India, the last time "Narayan" becomes "Naraan". Once I step into this flight, I know I won't be setting foot on this land again. The land of my dreams and that broke my dreams...I settle into my seat as comfortably as I can. The middle-aged American sitting next to me has his nose buried in a financial magazine, he hasn't turned a page in the past ten minutes which I take to be a don't-interrupt-me-immigrant message. The airhostess walks towards us and the curtains part for a moment to reveal the business-class section of the flight - well-reclined seats and more (prettier?) airhostesses carrying trays with warm socks, blinders, several magazines and sweet treats. The curtains fall back in place and I take the plastic cup - filled three-fourths with ice cubes - that the airhostess hands me with that familiar, affected smile. I would later practise and perfect "the smile", one that never reaches my eyes. I forget to repeat in a monotone the phrase that every Indian learns within a few weeks in the United States, "No ice please."

I try to organize my meandering thoughts and a hazy picture paints itself in my mind - a tall, lanky young man steps into the very same airport that I had left, and enquires in a small voice at the information desk, "I need to board this connecting flight...", he extends a hesitant hand forward with his ticket. Later he would learn about trains inside airports connecting one terminal to another. He walks with slow steps to stand next to an Indian family with two kids, hoping they would board the same train as him. "Maummmy, can I have some orange juice please?" He marvels at the accent and the politeness of the small voice. Later he would learn to ask with equal courtesy and an accent barely reminiscent of his Indian accent, "Wudja like a coke to go with the peeetza?"

But my thoughts wander more and the pictures dissolve to reveal a face hidden among the blurry images - Arundathi, like the star, hard to discern, I squeeze my eyes shut tighter to see her face and imprint it's shadow in memory. She disturbs my trail of thoughts, dragging it to past scenes that defined us, our life together and years later, it will perhaps remain a mere wisp buried in my head...for now, it's as if she is with me.

I saw her when I first stepped into Columbus airport, she laughed and the guy standing next to her, self-consciously ran a hand through his hair, happy to amuse the pretty girl standing next to him. I couldn't yet characterize the feeling that rose in me when I saw them together, later I would learn to put aside my jealousy - everyone fell in love with Arundathi. She was like that. Ankit and I actually became good friends later on.

After the initial awkward introductions and after I had quickly removed my heavy, greenish brown winter jacket (my already pregnant checked-in luggages refused to accomodate it) , I sat behind in Ankit's Toyota Camry and fastened my seat belt after a minor struggle. Arundathi and Ankit talked about their coursework, "Do you really think I should take up Numerical Analysis this semester, I don't want a C, you know?"

"Well, it is a required course, you might as well take it up and be done with it..."
Eager to join the conversation, I asked, "So, how difficult is the course work here, Arundathi?"

They both laughed and I blushed, frantically trying to figure out my mistake. "Well, you can take Numerical Analysis with me this semester and we will know how difficult first semester can be!", she winked and laughed again. I would later learn that she came to the Ohio State University a few weeks before me and already was a known face on campus.

We did take up Numerical Analysis together. The days passed swiftly, each day I would look forward to our study session at the library where we would sit facing each other , on comfortable sofa seats and discuss loudly, numbers and formulae that I have long forgotten.

"I just can't get this Eigen Value problem. Timeout! Timeout!", she gestures making a "T" with her hands, already comfortable with the accent and gestures that a different culture taught us. I worried that I would embarrass her with my...Indian-ness. I was suddenly glad that I was good at Maths (Math, I repeat in my head, Math. Not Maths) - I could at-least help her out with Eigen values. She tugged at my sleeve, "Let's just go get a cappucino, Ravi!"

The library cafe was open late and we went there pretty often. The guy who made the cappucino happened to be one of my desi friends, he always winked at me, pretty obviously, making sure Arundathi noticed him. If she did, she made no mention of it to me. There were other guys who tried to ask Arundathi out on study dates. And they were all turned down politely. I don't know if she came out with me because she felt I was naive and had no "intentions" or because she just took pity on me. I tried not to think along those lines and decided to be grateful for any time I spent with her.

We discussed problems and solutions, classes, professors and then cautiously stepped into more personal details, my mother's health, her college life, my aspirations to become a cryptologist and her ex boyfriend. I wondered at times, if he ever realized his blunder. Only a fool will let go of the twinkle in her eyes, the way she twirled one errant strand of her hair as she concentrated on something, the way her eyes turned translucent when she recalled a sad memory...I thanked my good fortune and held on to the star that designed my fate.

***

I must have fallen asleep...I wake up when my co-passenger gently nudges me awake. How easily we judge people and how unfairly...It's time to eat the flight-meal - a gooey chick-peas curry, bland dal, slightly uncooked basmati rice, a cup of yoghurt (yoghurt not curd, it took me several blank stares and "What now?" from waiters before I made the transition) and sweet, whitish dessert (kheer? basundhi?). I never could keep track of whether it was lunch or dinner, the two-day flight made sure of that. Disoriented physically and emotionally. I eat slowly, there isn't much to entertain me during the flight, I did not want to watch the in-flight movie, another reminder of her. I know she was looking forward to the movie's release for quite some time...

"Movie? On a weekday? No Arun, let's just rent it Friday."

Arun, my stamp of ownership, my pet name for Arundathi.

We watched Cast Away, for a full two and a half hours, until 2 AM. I went late to my 8 AM class the next morning.

"You are setting a bad example for the students. A teaching assistant is expected to bridge the gap between a Professor and his students, not make it more prominent by coming late to class."

I nodded, mumbled a sorry and felt bad the whole day.

"Whatever! I bet your Professor was late himself many times. He is just giving you a hard time!"

"I take my acads seriously, Arundathi. I can't laugh it off like you do!"

"Oh, and I am here to hang out with guys and watch movies?"

"I didn't say that..."

"You are just like the rest of them!"

The remark stayed with me. I didn't even hear the rest of her retort. I just watched the angry flush on her cheeks and her bright eyes, killing me with their intensity but I only registered one thought - "I am just like the rest of them". Did that mean she thought I wasn't like them? I was better somehow in her eyes? Was there a possibility, a chance that she felt an inkling of what I felt for her? I decided to speak up, for once. I looked into her iridescent, almost red eyes and said, "I might be just like them, but you...you are different, special for me..." And then I was voicing all my incoherent thoughts, in a stream, without thinking, speaking what my heart held since the first day I saw her, I heard bits of my rambling and wondered if she would ever talk to me again..."From the day I saw you...airport...jealous...you have the most beautiful eyes...never want to hurt you, am only hurting myself..."

Young love speaking what I cannot bring myself to utter now, two years later. She left just as her eyes brimmed over.

***

I didn't sleep well that night, I kept dreaming about losing my sight. Early next morning, I sleepily turned on the computer, hoping to see my mother's email - she sent me an email every day - and was surprised to find one from Arundathi.

"You made me cry yesterday. Don't do that again. - Arun."

And I felt like singing.

We were now an official couple. I couldn't believe lady luck had finally smiled upon me. I probably had so much difficulty believing that she soon decided to turn her back to me.

I got the call one night when the night sky had no stars, I remember looking up and crying until the morning rays wiped my tears and put me to sleep. My mother was very sick, she needed my help.

When I boarded the flight two days later, Arundathi cried with me, at the airport. I consoled her as best as I could and boarded the flight, thinking of my mother. I stayed in India that December. Mother got significantly better, the doctor said it was me. She saw me and that helped her recover. A week before I left, my mother and I had one of those rare moments to ourselves, even the maid servant had left for the day and father was yet to return from work.

“Ravi, I am happy today. If I die today, just now, I will be happy.”

I tried not to cry, for my mother.

“But if God wishes for me to live, I have one last wish to ask of him." A pause and then, "I want to see you married.”

I started to protest. She silenced me with a wave of her hand.

“All boys your age say that. I know what that really means. Do you know Preethi? Rangarajan mama’s neighbour’s daughter? You both used to be inseparable as kids, remember?”

I vaguely remembered a girl with two pony tails, I remember crying when we moved away from that locality, writing letters to her, we wrote to each other for a few years, childish scrawls giving way to teenage reluctance and indifference. And then I never saw her.

My mother pulled out a photo from her handbag, “So beautiful, don’t you think?”

Yes, she was indeed beautiful but my eyes could only see beauty in one woman and she was very far away and these eyes that smiled cheerfully at me were not hers and that was all that mattered. I wondered how I would tell my mother about Arundathi, a girl she had not chosen, she had not even seen.

We often take the big decisions of our lives in an instant, the trivial, insignificant ones, we spend several hours pondering. This was one of those big impulsive decisions. I looked at my mother's trusting, happy face and decided I would not spoil that moment for her. Tomorrow, I would tell her everything. But, tomorrow had different plans for me. Early the next morning, Preethi and her mother walked into our house.

“Ravi, is that you? How handsome you have become?!”

The next half an hour was spent in catching up with each other’s families and then the mothers left Preethi and me alone in the hall.

“You kids must have a lot of catching up to do, why don’t we give you some time together?”.
“Subtle, don’t you think?”, Preethi asked.

I laughed with her and soon we are chatting away as if time had not interfered with our friendship at all.

“I still have to get back at you for locking me in that little room, remember?”

“Of course, a masterpiece! You cried for hours together. Thanks to you, my father actually used his cane on me! The only time he beat me in my life!”

And we talked till sunset. Memories of childhood that made me forget the conflicts of the future.

That night, mother asked me about Preethi.

“I have to tell you something ma…sit down and promise me you won’t hate me.”

And I talked non-stop for half an hour and told her everything. I seemed to have developed quite a knack for talking without thinking. She cried silently, “I gave my word to Preethi’s mom. She was so happy that you both got along well…how could you, Ravi?”
And a different pair of eyes looked at me and brimmed over. And I couldn’t decide which one was dearer to me.

***

I stretch my legs and wait on the long line to get back into the flight. In Paris, the city of romance, ironically, I think of how I had killed mine.

When I got back to OSU after my first India trip, I told Arundathi about Preethi. She did not take it well. I was surprised to see a different side of the chirpy young girl I had fallen in love with. And to make matters worse, Preethi emailed me a few times from India – Arundathi and I had exchanged passwords, she enjoyed reading about how the other guys teased me about her.

“Why is she still emailing you? Haven’t you told her about me?”

“I have. She knows the whole story. Did you actually read the email?”

“No Sir! If it’s that personal, so be it! Let’s call it quits!”

“Is it that easy for you? Calling it ‘quits’? This is not a game, Arun. And if you had read the email you would have known that it was an entirely innocent email. She is my childhood friend, after all!”

“And you are already taking her side?”

And then she walked away.

Over the next year, our relationship went downhill. In some hidden corner of my mind, I wondered if my own mother had taken away from me, the most precious gift in my life. My mother continued to remind me about Preethi – “That poor girl is waiting for you, Ravi, please don’t disappoint all of us!”

As fall turned to winter, I prepared for my defense and so did Arundathi. We defended our Masters within a week of each other and started applying to jobs all around the States. In our anxiety to get a good placement, we forgot our differences and it was almost like the old times again.

One snowy morning, I heard a knock on my apartment door, early in the morning.

“I checked my mailbox today and I have been selected for the second level of personal interviews at Epic Systems! I have a good feeling about this Ravi!”

I was so happy for her, I hugged her.

And today, if I close my eyes to the outside world, I can still breathe that cold air that surrounded us that day, I can still feel the scent of my love, I can still create, just for a moment, our world, a world of silent white and our unspoken words swirling around our tight embrace…just us.

That very same night, fate changed the course of my life again. My father’s voice sounded tired on the phone, “Ravi, amma is sick again…no, no, you don’t have to fly back again. I will manage but I just…wanted to talk to you.”

I was on a flight to India within 24 hours.

This time, my mother was visibly sick. And as stubborn as ever.

“This time, God may not be so kind, Ravi. I have talked to Preethi. I have told her everything about Arundathi. That girl likes you a lot, Ravi. It’s not fair to make her wait.”

“And it’s fair to leave Arundathi?”

Mother became silent and didn’t talk much to me after that day.

I made up my mind that night. I would return to India for good. I would convince Arundathi to come to India with me, I would convince mother about her. Once, she sees Arundathi, she will come to love her. I would explain to Preethi, she will understand, she knows me well…I built a world of ifs foolishly, a pack of cards waiting for a strong breeze.

The next two months that I stayed in India, I kept myself busy applying to companies for jobs. I got a reasonable offer from Cognizant Technologies and accepted it. I asked for a month’s duration before I joined. If everything worked according to my plan, I should be able to pack my things, get my degree certificate, talk to Arundathi and be back in 30 days.

I hardly remember the flight back to OSU. I do remember the confrontation with Arundathi though. Word after word, etched in my heart.

“And so, you set up a cosy little life in India, got a job, forgot about me and came here to inform me?”

“Arun, I am asking you to come with me! I need you, especially now, please don’t make this hard for me…”

And she wouldn’t listen.

“And what about my life here? I have an offer letter from Epic systems, I am moving to Wisconsin in a few weeks! I can’t drop my life and run behind you like this! I tried to call you a few times in India, I can see now why you wouldn’t talk, you didn’t want to jinx your new world by sharing it with me!”

I couldn’t tell her that we lived in a one bedroom flat, that mother could hear every word I spoke to Arundathi whenever she called and I loved my mother but my relationship with Arundathi was personal, precious…and I wouldn’t share that with anyone, not even my mother straining to listen from the kitchen. I was so confident that Arundathi would understand. But she did not.

And she cried and I cried but Arundathi was adamant and it was all over.

“My mother is sick. I need to be with her. If I have to leave you here and go, so be it. I will die here for you and live in India, for my mother. I leave on January 23rd.

Those were the last words I spoke to her. I couldn’t see her cry anymore, I walked out of her life.

***

And that is my story. I close my eyes, take a deep breath and prepare to face my father and my future wife, Preethi. She had insisted on coming. She called me the day before I left the States,
“I don’t want to make this awkward for you, Ravi. Amma told me that things did not work out between you and Arundathi. I am sorry about that…if I have caused that in anyway. I just want you to know, that I am here for you, as a friend, to talk. We will work things out once you come back to India.”

Perhaps, in a year or two, I will be able to consider her as something more than a friend…perhaps not. Right now, my mother is my first concern.

***

At Mumbai airport, three faces anxiously survey the faces of the people coming down the escalator. The young woman standing next to the aged gentleman moves a bit to her right to see if she can catch a better glimpse of the incoming passengers. She pushes her elbow into a bouquet of flowers by mistake and the other woman drops it.

“Oh, I am so sorry. I am here to receive someone and am just nervous!”, she says smiling.

“I understand. I am here to receive my future husband. But, he doesn’t know that yet. It’s a surprise!”

“That’s romantic! I wish I had the courage to propose but I have a feeling he is not ready yet…”

The two women talk for a few minutes, wish each other the best and then continue to watch the sea of faces in front of them, waiting...

***

***Excerpt***

Why I became Krishna.

The idea came to me just like that. I had spent a week skimming through literary magazines and e-zines on Google and was still drawing a blank on themes that I could write on, about "Women for Women". I didn’t think much of the magazine when I first sent them one of my manuscripts, "Woman Power – a magazine for women, by women". I mean, that was pretty lame, even by my feeble standards. But, after getting exactly fourteen rejects from various other literary magazines and no replies at all to the five emails that I sent to the Hindu Editor, I decided to lower my lofty standards and give Woman Power a shot. And that’s how this whole thing began. Theoretically, I had all day to think of what to write about, after all, it was summer vacation, but after a week of no results, when I began to wonder if I should watch "Penn" and "Manaivi" on Sun TV for ideas, it came to me just like that, my story. And my story begins like this...

On August 15th, 1980, as the whole country celebrated outside, as festoons and flowers flew up in the air, Shankar Narayanan walked head down to his bride of a few hours, Nalini, to tell her that they were no longer welcome at his house. She sat huddled in a corner of the taxi, the jasmine in her garland and hair still fresh, her hands nervously twirling the ends of her silk saree, her mother’s wedding gift. She looked out the window of the car, her eyes squinting on something that only she could see at a distance – a hope against hope for a happy future. He studied her for a few moments, trying to come up with the right words to tell her…the sight of her profile filled him with conflicting emotions, even without the diamond earrings that she should have worn, even without the traditional bridal jewelry that should have adorned her face, she still looked so delicate, so vulnerable, he knew he would not forget the scene that greeted him now, the way her silhouette stood out and everything around her merged into nothingness. He got into the taxi and quietly told the driver, “No 26, Parthasarathy street”. She looked at him questioningly even as her child’s eyes filled with tears, he held her hand and shook his head.

I knew the beginning for as long as I can remember, I don’t recall whether it was my dad or my mom that described their wedding day to me. All I knew was that they had married against my dad’s parent’s wishes and had reasoned, argued, cried, threatened but my grandparents had stood firm in their refusal. My mom’s dad had passed away earlier and her own mom was too weak to protest or support her daughter’s marriage, she merely attended the marriage and gave her blessings when asked to. What happened between then and now was a different story altogether, only parts of which I had gathered from conversations here and there. My parents were on cordial terms with my grandparents now, we visited them once in a few months and the women cooked together without speaking, while the men talked about cricket. It was always the same, my thatha, paatti loved me though, my paatti especially was very fond of me and often took me on long walks or just took me to her room – no one else was allowed entry, not even my mom and dad – and showed me old photos, told me stories from her past and at other times just let me talk about my school and friends. My mom and paatti never seemed to cross the border between cordial and friendly though.

So, I decided to write a story about the women in our family – my paatti, my mom and I. I decided “I” would play a small role and it would be a story between a strong-willed, toothless but still strikingly beautiful old woman and her soft-spoken, self-effacing though not weak daughter-in-law. The life of the two women that I adored most in my life. I just had to catch the right people and fill in the gaps in my story, or rather construct the rest of my story.

***
I started with the easiest target, my dad. He was a well-built, well-aging man, a professor of Arts at Madras Christian College, well-read, outspoken and easily provoked. His favorite topics were sports, the sad state of Arts and Sciences in our country and of course the cynosure of his eye, his only daughter, Krishna. That would be me. So, I picked a time when I knew he would be well-fed and relaxed, right after dinner and sat on the floor next to the easy cane chair on which he sat rocking and revising the sports section of the Hindu one last time before calling it a day.

“Appa…”

“Uh Uh”, he gave his standard response, his nose buried in the sports page, my mom threw him a withering look, which was of course lost on him, as she placed his last coffee-cup of the day on the table beside him.

“Appa, I want to write for a woman’s magazine…”

He finally broke away from the newspaper and corrected his old-fashioned brown-rimmed spectacles perched so far down on his nose that it looked like it might take a dip into the coffee tumbler anytime.

“Very good. Very good. Will you be writing a book review? Critical analysis of some literary piece? I can help you with that…”

“Illa appa, they are looking for works of fiction about women…”

“Oh, stories…”, he seemed to lose interest immediately and I interrupted lest he should get back to his newspaper,

“Yes appa, but this might be a break for me to get more articles and stories published in more recognized magazines and newspapers…this is my chance!”

He looked unconvinced but decided to indulge me anyway, “Ok, do you want me to talk to the editor and make sure he doesn’t give you a hard time?”

What is it with dads and shaking up people? I just couldn’t understand that.

“No appa. Ok, let me start from the beginning. I am writing a semi-autobiographical story and I need you to fill in the gaps…I want to know about paatti-thatha and you and mom and how you all finally made up, was it when I was born?”

“Krishna, I don’t approve of you shouting out aloud, stories of our family. Nalini, come here.”

My mom who had been over-hearing most of the conversation under the pretext of cleaning the table, came right in.

“Krishna, I agree with your dad. Why can’t you make up a story? Why should it be our story? And anyway, there is not much of a story to write…ask your friend, Shalini for her help, she scored 96 in English in the half-yearly exam, didn’t she?”

And that was the problem with having both your parents in the Teaching profession; mom was a Physics teacher who taught 10th and 12th classes at Padma Sheshadri and kept a hawk-eye on my marks.

I looked pleadingly at dad and he finally let out a long sigh that meant that I had gotten my way. I gleefully got out my notepad and my mom opened her mouth to object but finally just shook her head and walked back to the kitchen murmuring, “Father and daughter can figure this out, I am not getting into this”.

“Ok, so what happened after thatha-paatti sent you away after your marriage?”

“Krishna, I am not sure if this is the right age for you to know all these details…”, it looked like he will back out but he removed his spectacles and wiped them on his veshti which meant he had acquiesced to my wishes.

“From the beginning, your paatti took it much harder and blamed me for finding my own wife, that too of a different sub-caste. In those days – it might be hard for you to imagine – but these things were just taboo, even though my parents knew Nalini well, they came up with a hundred objections when I first told them that I was interested in her. I don’t think your paatti has forgiven me completely even now, but I guess you made helped her accept your mother more than you can imagine…”

My dad talked for almost an hour and my notepad and pen remained untouched. I listened to his words, as scenes from his past played through my head; that night I willed my mind to replay what my dad had said and I started writing the first part of my story…

The young couple slowly built their home, bit by bit. Since Shankar had to take an office loan for his marriage expenses, he couldn’ t buy everything that he wanted to buy for his wife, but still he tried. Some days they would go to the beach and he would buy kulfis for them and listen to his wife talk about her day – Mrs.Neela Balachandran next door is a nice woman, she allowed her maid servant, Malliga to work at their place, the milk man still mixes water with their milk but he has reduced it after she had complained once, she wants one of those strong nylon ropes that all the neighbours have for hanging the clothes, can he come back early the next day, she wants to go to the temple early in the evening with him? - and he would relax, watching his wife, half-listening to her chatter but enjoying the sound of her voice and humming of the waves and he thought life was almost perfect. The next week, when he came home earlier than usual, he found his wife staring at the blank television screen, her eyes red and still watery. What happened? Did she get hurt? Did he do something wrong? He had enquired worriedly. She wanted to have a family like everyone else, she did not want to be the reason why he didn’t talk to his parents. Will he take her again to his parent’s house? If they saw her one more time, especially his mother – only a woman knew another woman’s heart – she would definitely take them back into the family? Shankar did not sleep that night. He knew his mother, the strong-willed, almost childishly obstinate Lakshmi Narayanan well and he knew she would never give in so easily, but he also didn’t want Nalini to cry alone when he was at work and so he decided to take her to his house the next Saturday.

I wondered how to continue the story…should I write it down as a conversation between my grandparents and my parents or just write it in indirect speech? Should I alter the story that my dad had told me, make it more dramatic, make the women have characteristics that are more distinct or should I just write the story as it had happened, real and realistic?

For the next few days, I didn’t need to convince dad to tell me his version of the story. After dinner, while mom murmured something inaudible, he continued to tell me his story and I struggled to imagine a young Shankar Narayanan and Nalini Shankar and not let my current image of them taint the scenes that he painted for me. The next night, I wrote,

She dressed with care, not too gaudy, not too casual. He waited impatiently as she got ready. He had called a week earlier and Murugan, their driver had picked up the phone, he had asked for his parents and Murugan had told him that they had gone out. They hadn’t return his call, so what would greet him at his parent’s house was anybody’s guess. They arrived after a bumpy auto ride, they got off at the street corner and walked towards the house. The door was open and Mr.Narayanan was fiddling with his favourite transistor and talking to his wife at the same time, “Lakshmi, can you get out my fan, it is so hot here and the blasted electricity board people have cut our power again…also, bring me a glass of water.” Even after they crossed the verandah and entered his house, Mr.Narayanan didn’t raise his head from the transistor.

“Appa…”

He paused just for a second and looked up at his son. An heart-achingly sincere smile spread across his face and he said, “Shankar…” and choked on his words. Nalini immediately touched his feet and held her palms together in greeting. Just then Lakhmi walked out and froze immediately, she looked at her husband and said in a clear ringing voice, “Here is your water” and walked back inside without a second glance at her son and daughter-in-law.

Her husband took the tumbler with shaking hands and looked down, unable to say anything more to erase the invisible boundary that his wife had drawn around them. They stood like that, husband and wife, for what seemed like an eternity, facing the old man and then they silently walked out.

***
My dad’s version of the story had other details that I omitted from my story – how he returned home tired after work only to find his wife crying over what happened or requesting him to try to talk to his parents one more time. Without telling my mom, he did try to call back home but whenever he spoke, they (usually his mother since his father came back late from the LIC office) hung up after a pause. I tried to keep the story focused on my mother and my paatti and till now had not succeeded much. I was determined to make the next part of the story just about them and fortunately, that’s when my dad finished his version of the story and I got to bug my mom about a woman’s view (finally!) of the happenings. It didn’t take her long to agree, she had sulked just because I hadn’t come to her first to get help for my story. Now that she started her story, there was no stopping her.

That night, I wrote a woman’s view of the story.

Every night as Shankar slept after a hard day at work, a release from all the guilt and troubles of his mind, Nalini would sit next to the rusting bureau and look through the dozen or so photos that had been taken during their marriage. It had been a simple affair, a few close friends, her mother, some of his relatives, some of hers who were more curious than supportive, his sister, Jayasree in one of the photos (she had come to tell him that he had cheated his parents and he should go back and apologize) and she would cry all over again. Nalini’s mother was now with her uncle and his family in Delhi and would only return after a few months. She had no one to confide in, Shankar, though understanding and kind was often too tired after work to listen to her silly concerns.

After a year and a half, when the scorching rays of the sun gave way to rain and trees and flowers looked happier and greener everywhere, Nalini thought maybe that her life would take a turn towards the good. And as she had predicted and prayed everyday, their family doctor confirmed that she was pregnant. She was thrilled. Strangely, she had no nausea even in the dreaded first trimester and she cooked a storm for her husband everyday. That was the happiest time for both of them. One evening as he was buying her jasmine outside the Parthasarathy temple, she wondered if she should ask him one more time. She heard the temple bells declare their blessings and asked her husband, “Should we see your parents one more time? Now that we have some good news to give them, maybe they will change their minds if not for us at least for Krishna?” She had taken it in her head that it would be a boy and had already started calling her baby, Krishna. He frowned not wanting to do anything to upset the delicate balance in this happy phase of their lives…but the past few months, he had wondered more than once if he should ask his parents to help Nalini. His own mother-in-law although was eager to see her daughter, could not travel such a long distance due to health reasons, her concerned brother would not let her – “How can I send Pankajam, Shankar? She can hardly see and is often confused about the time of the day…let us do this, I will take a vacation in a few months time and drop Pankajam myself…ask Nalini to take care of her health.”

And so once again, they set out to his parent’s house. This time, when they walked towards the house, they saw his parents sitting on the verandah and playing with Jayasree’s seven year old son, Anand. She had come home with her son for his summer vacation, her husband would join after a month, spend some time there and then take mother and son back home. As soon as Anand saw his uncle, he came running towards him and hugged him. Lakshmi got up suddenly and was just about to go back in when Nalini took a bold decision to stop her mother-in-law, “Amma, please don’t go in. We have come to share some good news with you.” The silence was so overpowering, it seemed to Nalini that even everyone had forgotten to even breathe, Lakshmi stopped in her tracks immediately and turned around to face her daughter-in-law. She studied her carefully from head to toe and her eyes stopped at the visible bulge in her stomach. She waited. Mr.Narayanan immediately grabbed this moment of silence gratefully and ushered everyone inside. Father, son and daughter had a lot to catch up on as Anand went round them gleefully, happy that he had his freedom while the adults talked. Nalini assumed that she would be required in the kitchen and nervously joined her mother-in-law.

She stood silently as Lakshmi expertly poured filter coffee for the guests. When she had finished pouring, Nalini gathered all her courage and asked, “Amma, shall I take the tray outside?” Lakshmi was silent for a long time, then she gave Nalini one of her trademark looks and asked, “How many months?”

Nalini almost laughed in relief. “Four months. The doctor says the baby is healthy and is growing normally…I…”

“Is it a boy?”

“Amma, we don’t know. I think it is a boy, do you like the name Krishna? I …”

“It should be a boy.”

And with that, Lakshmi walked out with the tray of coffee tumblers.

It was like a drama unfolding in front of my eyes. So many people I thought I knew well had assumed so many different traits that I now looked at them again to make sure they were the same people. I could have asked my paatti to tell me the story but something told me that I shouldn’t mess with my family’s delicate balance and I resisted the impulse to ask her. As soon as my mom completed her version of the story, I almost began to pen it down and then wondered if I should also get a neutral person’s view of the story, someone who had seen enough of life and my parents’ lives to give me an objective narration of past events. Enter Periamma. Everyone called her that and I didn’t know what her real name was. She had worked for paatti ever since she was a little girl, she was almost my paatti’s age now but no longer worked with her. She stayed with us. After I was born, periamma came to live with my parents. She said it was because she had come to see my dad as her own son and she missed him terribly (she had no children and her husband had died when she was still a young woman), my dad however suspected that his mother had sent her over to help her son and his wife but was too proud to let them know that. My parents were glad to have her home. Periamma had become a surrogate mother to my mom after her own mother passed away a few years back. I wondered why I didn’t think of asking periamma before. My dad had mentioned that my paatti and periamma had been very close friends but I didn’t know anything more. That evening when my mom and periamma returned from the temple and mom started experimenting with yet another new recipe from her shining new cookbook, I cornered periamma.

***
“Periamma, do you remember the time when you stayed at paatti’s place?”

She looked up from her work, she had been cleaning the silver lamp in front of the God’s photos. She continued cleaning and said, “Those were different days and anyway there is no point talking about the past, tell me Krishna, do you want me to help you with your assignments?” Periamma loved to string the English alphabets together and ask me questions from my English non-detailed lessons, it took her quite sometime to ask the questions but I know she enjoyed it and so spent several evenings “preparing” for assignments with her. She prided herself on her English knowledge.

“Illa periamma. School doesn’t open for another month. You used to tell me you and paatti studied English together. Was paatti a good student?”

“Your paatti was a roudy at school. I used to study and she used to always run out with the village boys to pick mangoes from the neighbour’s tree with stones. Your paatti’s father received so many complaints about her but she was his favourite and youngest child, he never spoke a harsh word to her.”

She placed the lamp carefully in the cupboard, “And I was always better at English than your paatti. Now run along and let me do my work.”

But, I knew I could get my way, I pestered periamma for some more time and she gave in and continued her story, “But anyway, after 5th standard, your paatti got married and I was sent along with her to her in-laws’ house so she wouldn’t get homesick – she cried for two days when her father initially refused.”

For a second, I wondered how that life would have been, to be sent along to a new house just like that, your life dictated by the people who employed you but I had never seen periamma complain and we always treated her with respect, still…I listened as periamma continued, “Your paatti learnt very quickly. She was efficient and smart and earned a good name for herself at her in-laws’ place. Somehow, she still remained stubborn. She decided the financial handlings of the house, from the kitchen stove to the TV set, she was the home-maker. Your thatha,” and here she giggled, “ was always a bit scared of Lakshmi. I think he is, even now, otherwise, your parents wouldn’t have stayed away for so long…”, she had reverted back to calling my paatti Lakshmi and that was a good sign.
Slowly, the climax of my story unfolded in front of me and I listened mesmerized, the way a woman stands open-mouthed when the salesman finally reveals the pallu – layers and layers of intricate designs, the shimmer of silk and gossamer, the most intricate patterns embedded on vibrant colors…and finally they all fall back to form the saree as a whole, together.

Periamma continued, a glazed look in her eyes, “Lakshmi although angry with your father could not hold her anger against her own grandson.”

“Grandson?”

Periamma laughed and asked me, “Why do you think you are named Krishna?”

She ruffled my head and told me what paatti had told her many years back and Periamma's words found their way into my story.

”Krishna, that girl had said. She is not dark-complexioned you know, who can tell with these modern girls and their make-up, anyway my Shankar is quite a handsome young man, the child will be like Lord Krishna himself, you wait and see Charu!” And the two women, my paatti and her child-hood friend Charu, aka periamma, had discussed at length about arrangements for the new baby, the Seemantham (7th month function) and so on. Periamma was paatti’s childhood friend who had been with paatti since they were five years old.

“So Lakshmi, do you know if they have decided on a name if the child were a girl?”, Periamma asked.

“It will be a boy. I am not interested in a girl child.”

Periamma didn’t say anything for fear of sparking Lakshmi’s anger once again. The next few weeks, the milkman, the maid servant, the grocery delivery boy and almost everyone who happened to step near the Narayanan household got their hands stuffed with sweets. Lakshmi proudly declared to them that her heir was on his way home, Lord Krishna himself. Periamma worried sometimes about Lakshmi’s strong belief that her grandchild will be a boy but not wanting to dampen her spirits, convinced herself that that her friend would have a grandson indeed.

A few months later, Nalini gave birth to a beautiful baby girl at Ponnamaal nursing home. Nalini and Shankar cried for joy with the baby. The happy news was conveyed to the family that mother and baby were in good health. Lakshmi, Narayanan, Jayashree, Anand and Periamma rushed to the hospital.

“See, I told you, Charu? See, my Krishna has come!”, Lakshmi couldn’t stop smiling.

When they entered the hospital, Nalini was asleep and Shankar rocked a tiny bundle in his arms. Lakshmi led the crowd to her son and held her hands out. Shankar handed the the baby to his mother proudly.

Lakshmi looked at the baby for a few moments, she checked it’s hands, legs, toes, ears and finally moved the cloth aside to confirm that it was indeed a “he”. Everyone watched breathlessly. She drew in a sharp breath and stood still for a few moments, then, to everyone’s astonishment, she held the baby’s cheek to her’s and murmered happily, “My Krishna is here!”

Nalini seemed to smile in her sleep.

From that day on, my name became special to me. I knew why I was Krishna. I was meant to be Krishna, the one link between my mom and paatti, the one name that they had both agreed on.

“Was paatti angry that I was a girl?”, I asked periamma.

“No, she loved you more than her life. Why do you think she sent me over here to your father’s house? I had strict instructions to keep an eye out on you, her Krishna. She declared to everyone proudly that her heir had arrived, her Krishna had come home. Her ego wouldn’t let her take back her words, of course.”

I looked at periamma and saw traces of the Charu that my paatti had trusted all her life, Charu who could tolerate my paatti’s fearful temper and need to have things her way and yet remain who she was – a patient, faithful woman who would do anything for her friend. I hugged periamma impulsively. Later that night, I started furiously typing my final manuscript.

***
It didn’t matter that I got a letter from Woman Power a couple of weeks later regretting that they couldn’t publish the story because it wasn’t sufficiently woman-oriented. Whatever. I thought it was the best story I had heard in my life.

***
***Excerpt***