Impulse, Irony & I

Birthday wishes, balloons with faces drawn on them, candles strewn around the cake, which disappears quickly, smiling faces and bonhomie. The clock announces 1 AM and people start streaming out of the house with promises to catch up later that week and more birthday wishes. He hesitates at the door, fiddling with the buckles of his slippers nervously. The last few guests leave laughing and talking loudly.

He straightens and looks at her for a few moments, his mouth partly open as if he were already saying what he wanted to say...he clears his throat and extends a tentative hand forward, "...Happy Birthday Sneha, great party...".

She smiles. He studies the tilt of her head as she smiles and seems lost for words; he loosens his collar, suddenly uncomfortable with himself and murmers, "I thought of bringing you a gift, a pair of teddy bears, bought them yesterday...but then thought you might think they are childish, I..."

She senses what his words did not convey; she leans forward, takes his hand in hers and walks with him to the door. He grips her hand tightly, scared that they would desert his. At the door, he lets go of her hand and stands for a few seconds, willing the silence around them to convey what he cannot.

*****
She drums the pen on the table, rhythmically, much to her room-mate’s exasperation. After a few minutes, she stands up with a sense of finality and looks at the clock. Two days and still no call from him. A look of annoyance crosses her face and she bites her lips. She walks to the kitchen and stands undecided for sometime. She walks back to the table listelessly and starts playing with her pen again. Minutes pass and finally, she picks up her cell phone and flips it open. Her room-mate watches her curiously, over her magazine. She searches through her phone book, lingers for a moment on his name and picks the next name to call instead. She talks distractedly for a few minutes before flipping her phone shut. Her room-mate has an amused expression on her face, which irritates her further. Fifteen minutes drag to make tea, watery and with two spoons extra sugar, twenty minutes staring at the same paragraph in “A Suitable boy” and her cell phone rings. Curious eyes follow her rush to grab it. The tiny screen on her cell phone displays his picture id. She smiles contentedly, letting her voicemail pick up his call.

*****
They were not talking to each other. Misunderstanding, miscommunication and ego – ingredients for a “well-unbalanced”, unhealthy relationship – mixed in generous proportions in theirs. Her mind however had a plan of its own and so, she cycled along the same route that he would take, she even attended the same classes that he took – not all, lest he should find out – just a few, she hung out with her friends at the same potti-kadai (small shop) that he frequented to buy cigarettes. They ran into each other often, her heart skipped a beat whenever his eyes fell on her and then sank as he looked elsewhere, his eyes lingering not a moment longer on her. She laughed derisively when her friends tried to probe with uncannily accurate observations about her feelings for him; she checked her email every hour, hoping to see a mildly conciliatory, even angry email from him.

She saw him in front of her class and for once, he did not look away, she averted her eyes, held her face high and sat as far away from him as possible.

*****
***Excerpt***

Retake - Quest for a Brahmin Boy!

OK, laziness got the better of me...and a bit of curiosity, so re-posting an old story that I submitted to Sulekha and was duly rejected :-(...anyway, this was my first attempt at fiction, sorry if it looks disconnected, I had to trim it quite a bit just for Sulekha's word-limit, also, I have already re-used some sections of this story, so, sorry if it sounds repetitive, yet another disclaimer - I have made no modifications to the original story I posted on Sulekha; to me some sections cry out aloud with discrepancies and some are just downright silly! Anyway...here goes!

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I turned back again, to say goodbye to Jai. He seemed sad to see me go, which made me feel better, in a weird sense, as if I was able to vindicate the numerous fights we had had in the past. He had a look of resignation; he had accepted the fact that he was never going to see me again, but he was too proud to verbalize what I could see, so clearly, unspoken words that would torment him for a long time. I swiped my boarding card and smiled distractedly at the airhostess.

Here I was, flying back to where I came from. Back to my colorful, exotic India! A whirlwind of thoughts filled my mind, fleeting images of relatives I said goodbye to, my parents, thatha, my brother, friends…the sights and sounds of India, that make it special for anyone who lives away; and amidst all these thoughts, I saw one face clearly and I had a gnawing feeling, a complete sense of loneliness enveloped me…Jai, of all the people…I could see him clearly, like he was standing in front of me…I closed my eyes and gave in to the feelings that drowned me…anger, hurt, remorse…I saw his tall, lean frame clearly, his small, almost round face, his sharp nose, laughing eyes, unruly hair and his weird glasses, and perfect teeth smiling at me, mocking me. I hated him now and yet, I missed him so much, the sense of power that I felt over him when I left the airport left me now, to be replaced by longing, and I felt two tear drops fall down my cheeks. I hate it when I cry…

My dad, Ranganathan Iyengar and my mom, Mrs.Padmini Ranganathan have infinite arguments when it comes to the issue of an inter-caste marriage.

My dad, a tall and hefty fifty-year-old English Professor at Vivekananda College in Madras, a man who can inspire a class of unmanageable, almost rowdy teenagers, who can explain to you the nuances of a dangling participle and an indefinite article - a professor who has a double MA in English and Sanskrit, and yet, a man who believed that it is not appropriate for a Brahmin girl like me to marry a Non-Brahmin guy."Shalu, you are just a child and we don't know the boy's parents, his kulam, gotram, no, no, this is unimaginable", he said.

Every morning, after reciting Vishnu Sahasranamam, he would sit with a cup of steaming-hot coffee made by my mom. He looked like a professor even at home. He would stare at you from his thick old-fashioned dark-brown rimmed spectacles, a look that made most people wilt away. My father, a leader, at work, at home and with friends and family, loved to organize and lead. He could teach Wharton Business School Graduates a thing or two about personal networking and people management. Some people age gracefully and my dad is one of them, the more his hair grayed and the more laugh lines that grew to adorn his face, the more dignified he looked, but his strict face and serious disposition softened to a ready smile and a bear hug whenever he saw his little Shalini, the apple of his eye, me.

Let me now describe briefly the one person whom my father pretends to not be scared of, but actually is – my mother, Padmini…say this name in our Gopalapuram temple and you will hear words of praise, small anecdotes, funny incidents, inspirations that people shared and learned from my mother. Her pretty round face with the sacred kumkuma pottu on her forehead and honey-like voice attracted people to her like a flock of bees seeking advice and sometimes, just her attention. She always had a nice word for everyone, wishing them well. People thought she was a close friend of the Lord himself and often came to her with their worries and anxieties. My mother spent, approximately one third of her time in the kitchen, one third in the temple and the remaining time at home doing her household chores. My father was very proud and a tad afraid of his talented wife.

My mother strongly supported my father as far as Jai was concerned. “Shalu says the boy looks fair and maybe good-looking…” she acknowledged grudgingly, “but he is not a good match for you, Shalu. If you marry him, what will Chelapa chitappa and Vaidehi maami say?”. As you might have guessed by now, I was, but a mute spectator when my parents started discussing Jai. So, I listened to the evil-me in my head and started designing a master plan…

Three weeks passed…
Sundar, his parents, his sister, uncle and aunt were all set to visit our house for the traditional girl-seeing ceremony and the girl in question was me! My friend, Aarthi’s parents called my parents a few days back and recommended this “jadagam” to my parents; they gave all the relevant details – boy’s caste, complexion, education, and salary and asked if my parents were willing to consider this match. My parents, noticing the six zeroes in his salary, the heavy recommendations and the fact that he was an Iyer gleefully agreed. Mom made badam halwa that day, my favourite sweet and I knew immediately that something was brewing in that mind of hers. I “reluctantly” agreed to meet the boy, in lieu of 24 hours of lecture about how I was a disobedient daughter and so, the preparations began…

Another week passed…
I had to admit, our whole house looked beautiful, it smelt like honey and jasmine and a pleasant thoranam with banana leaves adorned our front door. Mom selected a gaudy blue saree with rows and rows of gold finishing on it and a heavy diamond necklace and matching earrings for me to wear. I felt heavy, emotionally and literally. The important hour was upon me, I stepped out to meet Sundar and his gang when I heard my mom’s voice “Shalu, see who has come home”, like this was all an unexpected joyful surprise.

The first face that I saw calmed me immensely, for, Shaila aunty’s face was glowing with a serene and welcoming smile…I felt less apprehensive. My parents, I noticed, had managed to strike a comfortable conversation with Sundar’s parents and also managed to connect with Shaila aunty and Madhesh uncle, Sundar’s “relatives”, who could only speak broken bits of Telugu and Tamil. I could see that my father was proud of me; he gave a triumphant smile when I entered the room as if challenging his guests, daring them to find a better bride…


That night…
My mother sat next to me on my bed. “Shalu…I think Sundar is a very nice boy”, I remained silent, mom continued…“I understand it will be hard for you to forget Jai, but you both can be friends, maybe even Sundar and Jai can be friends…” I couldn’t help laughing at that preposterous thought. I looked at her, searching for an answer in her eyes. She said “I think he will keep you happy…I feel it in my instincts”.

Three weeks passed…
I stood clothed in a traditional South-Indian bride’s red nine yards saree and mom was fussing with my hairstyle. Suddenly, I could not take the farce anymore and I broke down. My mother looked startled. She came to me silently and made me sit down…”Shalu, whatever happens, you are the most important person in my life…” I felt a touch of guilt thinking of my dad, wondering what he would say if he heard this. She continued, “If you are not comfortable with this marriage, it is not too late now…” I was crying uncontrollably by now and tried to smile at my mother through my tears. I said “Ma, sit down, I have to tell you this right now, wait here”. As she sat down puzzled, I strode out of the room and got Sundar alias Jai into the room, “Shalini…” he said, I stopped him, “Ma, meet Jai, Sundar whatever, the only man I ever loved…” Mom looked astounded. Dad walked in on this confusion and heard what I said and immediately his face turned an unhealthy shade of red. I watched speechless and sorry that I had lied to my parents for so many days, I thought of Aarthi and how she had convinced me that this plan would work and that her parents would help me, I thought of Jai’s parents, Shaila aunty and Madhesh uncle not at all approving of this plan but finally giving in to Jai’s insistence…

A week later…
As I sit, watching the happy clouds around me, holding hands with my husband, I am thankful to my mother and father who were able to forgive their impulsive and stubborn daughter, who finally realized that Jai was not as bad as they thought he was. “We are all set”, the airhostess announced, “We are indeed set”, I thought, and smiled.
***Excerpt***

'tis the same ol' story!

The Showdown.

"Sahi na? Ava kulam gothram enna? No daughter of mine is going to run away with a meat-eating Punjabi named Sunil Sahi!", his voice rumbled, dangerously, it seemed to Krithika.

Why does he look at my mother when he says this? For once, can you make eye-contact with me, appa? Krithika nervously chewed on her finger nails, silently waiting for the chaos to descend on her.

Her mother did not respond. She stood in front of the vigrahams and perumal padams neatly arranged in the kitchen almirah, hands clasped near her chest, eyes closed tightly, lips mumbling incoherent prayers. Every now and then, she would use the tip of her kattam-potta, brown nine yards saree to wipe her tears and she would quickly steal a timid glance at the drama unfolding in the living room.

*****
"And I suppose Mrs.Smith is a magna cum laude Harvard graduate…all I need to complete my perfect day!" He nervously adjusted his tie and rang the bell. The imposing three storied-house and the perfectly manicured lawns did little to ease his growing apprehension.

"You must be Andrew…how nice to see you", high-pitched voice, strings of pearls so tight around her neck, he wondered if she felt suffocated.

Awkward introductions, Melanie trying her best to make him feel "at home"…

"My husband graduated from Harvard…", the high pitch was beginning to grate on his nerves. "Ah, so it is Mr.Smith that is from Harvard…", Andrew thought morosely as he loosened his tie a bit more.

More innuendos, forced laughs and small talk.

"I am not going to let these uppity know-it-alls make me feel bad, I am proud of my mom and I will be". His father having deserted the family when Andrew was still a baby, his mother had worked hard to bring her only son up. Extra hours at the book store, a few more baby-sitting jobs and…Andrew was now a college graduate, not good enough for the Smith's though.

"The wedding will be Catholic, of course…", Melanie’s mother drawled, with a meaningful look at Andrew, as if being "non-Catholic" was entirely his fault…

*****The Preparations.

"Haan ji, aapko idhar aane ka, baat karna he, ladke leke aayiyega..."

Over broken bits of Hindi and English, the date was set for the parents to meet to decide on "auspicious" engagement and marriage dates.

"We do not have marriages in the month of December, highly inauspicious, Marghazhi, the month to pray and we take that seriously, you see..." It was not a question, a command and he expected immediate acquiescence.

"Of course, you do not have to teach a Sikh about being devout, Sir."

Krithika watched the verbal volley with a sense of despair. A few hours passed and a date was set for the engagement, the one date that both parties had reluctantly agreed to after throwing aside several others that had been carefully selected by the priests of both families.

"The marriage will be our style?", a voice boldly ventured and Sunil looked ready to kill his uncle...
*****
"Yes tulips, tulips ofcourse, they will do nicely...", Melanie's mother was the decision maker for their wedding. The table setting, the flower arrangements, the hall, the invitations and even the dress had to be go through her mother's stringent approval process. The wedding planner tagged along uncertainly, jotting down instructions from time to time.

"It's going to be an amazing wedding! We even have a theme for the reception party...and oh, you should see the bridesmaids' dresses, they are to die for! You will have so much fun, Eva!", Melanie impulsively hugged Eva. Eva hugged her back smiling, sadly. For once she wished she could do more for her son...

*****The Event.

"Will you let go of my hair...now?!", Krithika forcibly pulled herself away, leaving a few strands of her hair in the bewildered beautician's hands.

Krithika undid the hideous coiffure and started untangling her hair. She barely finished when her mother came rushing in, "Krithu, we are very late, Muhurta neram tanda pordu, come soon!"

Krithika gingerly smoothened out her now-wrinkled koora podavai and walked to the mandapam. A cacophony of sounds and images blurred her senses. The tunes of the reedy nadaswaram seemed to mingle discordantly with the mirudangam beats, punctuated by loud Sanskrit slokas uttered, without a pause, by vadhyars sitting around the fire. Excited chatter, screaming kids running around the pillars of the mandapam, sweaty mothers rushing in all directions with garlands, vilakkus, silver plates and kumkumam, pot-bellied uncles standing in small circles, laughing loudly at comments that hardly deserved a smirk...a 3D movie in fast-forward, with the smoke from the fire adding the final touches! She looked at Sunil, clad in a white veshti, holding the sacred poonal around his chest, managing admirably with the mandrams and suddenly, the haze cleared and everything made sense to her. She smiled.

*****
"Where is the veil?!", Melanie was almost in tears. The perfect white dress, the perfect diamond necklace, perfect shoes and the veil, the finishing touch to her fantasy, missing. A few minutes of frantic searching and one of the bridesmaids came running with the precious piece of cloth.

"Do I look alright? Has the music already started?! Where is daddy?!", Mr.Smith touched his daughter's shoulder from behind her. She turned and he kissed her on the forehead, "You look beautiful and today is going to be perfect." The conviction and affection in his voice calmed Melanie considerably and she smiled.

She walked slowly down the aisle of the church, with her father. A picture-perfect wedding, flowers, just the right amount, tastefully adorned the walls, candles cast a romantic glow all around, Andrew's eyes unwaveringly followed his bride, his right hand touching his heart. She walked gracefully, stepping on the rose petals scattered on the floor by two little girls in pink dresses and matching pink baskets in their hands...

"With this ring I thee wed.", the words echoed down the hall. Andrew caught his mother's eyes for a moment and they exchanged a smile that spoke volumes.

*****
***Excerpt***

The Gulmohar tree.

The branches of the Gulmohar Tree hugged the old-fashioned brick house, the reddish-brown bricks paling in comparison to the shocking scarlet of the flowers that crowned the tree; perhaps a heavenly reproof?

Gangadharan breathed deeply, taking in the smell of wet earth..."the heavens open to wash us of our sins; hands like mine, soiled by the dirt within, can never become clean...", he held his hands forward and rubbed them against each other in the few rain drops still dripping down from the leaves...

*****
"6.30 am and he is still snoring, you wake him up!"

Shradha nudged her husband, pointing to the huddled figure snoring gently by the verandah.

Muthu woke up with a start. "Manichukonga ayya, udambu seri illa...", his bloodshot eyes seemed to implore and Gangatharan looked helplessly at Shradha. (*1)

Shradha was merciless. Muthu bowed his head down and waited for the acerbic words to stop taunting him.

Did she know? Did she care that the feeble, mute person in front of them had not opened his mouth once to retort? Had he not fallen sick because of her grandson…?

"Muthu thatha, faster, you cannot catch me if you keep slipping...", the child laughed delightfully, running round and round the Gulmohar tree. Muthu stumbled along as fast as his legs would permit him, breathing heavily, until he could run no more.

"Chinna Ayya, iniku ivolovu porum ayya, inda vayasana aasamikku idukku mela thrani illa ayya..." (*2)

The rest of the family sat talking and laughing; afterall, Muthu was there to babysit...

*****
"Amma, en necklace kaanum!" (*3), Ratna shrieked from her room upstairs. The entire house was searched for the missing necklace and the frustration of everyone culminated on the one person who would accept the allegation quietly.

"Muthu was dusting the shelves in my bedroom the other day...", Ratna said in a low voice, just loud enough for him to hear. He remained silent as he was wont to be.

The necklace in question did turn up, found in a corner in the bathroom, but, how can the disgrace that a man of dignity suffers, ever be found? How could he live with the burden of this accusation on his shoulders? He did, because life’s twisted games of cruelty had worn out his sense of pride and self-respect; his loyalty remained unwavering…the periyavar, Gangatharan’s father, had brought him up as his own son, educated him and given him a life…a life that was not really rightfully his…if he did expect anything more out of his life, he would just be selfish…wouldn’t he?

*****
Tears...unending tears wet his shoulders, the young bride was inconsolable. She knew not - how to wield the ladle in the kitchen, how to bargain with the vegetable-vendor, how to talk to nosy neighbours…she cried to Muthu, the one person who would lend her an understanding ear. He listened and he taught her and she learnt little by little, a child taking its first few steps…twenty five years back, had Muthu not saved her life? If he had not stopped her as she had walked determinedly towards the well beyond the gulmohar tree, would she be alive to enjoy the antics of her grandchild?

Twenty five years back, if he had not stopped the disconsolate young wife, if she had not vented until he could no longer see her tears but could only hear her cry silently, if he had not been her father, her mother and her savior that day, if he had not intervened to prevent that one moment of her madness, would she have ever understood her husband better? Would she have hugged Gangatharan tightly when he came home that night and whispered, "Forgive your foolish Shradha, she loves you so much it hurts" ?

*****
The gulmohar tree stood a witness...several decades back, he had lovingly planted the seed, had watered it and protected it until today...today, it stood on its own, its guardian must be watching proudly from above...

Gangatharan sat down at the feet of the gulmohar tree, his only remainder of the man he revered, his very own Muthu...where was he when he yearned for his support, for his presence? A light breeze blew and the branches of the gulmohar tree swayed gently, almost hugging him. He did something he had not done in a long time.

He cried.

*****

Translation:
*1 - Forgive me Sir, I am not feeling well
*2 - Young Master, this will suffice...this old man does not have any more strength in him
*3 - My necklace is missing!
***Excerpt***

The Choice.

"And that’s why young women like you need to consider Engineering as a potential career choice. It’s not just a man’s world anymore, is it?"

She finished with a flourish, her conspiratorial wink earning her warm smiles from many of the teenage girls of St.Clark’s High School for Girls. She had started her speech on "Career opportunities for women – Engineering, a whole new world" with some trepidation. After all, a Master’s degree alone did not make her an expert about Women and their career choices; she did accept the offer anyway – not everyday did a Software Engineer get to make inspirational speeches to shape the youth of the country.

Not many questions were asked and soon the class was dismissed. Sunitha picked up her Thinkpad and her small handbag and confidently strode out of the room. Before leaving the school she quickly studied her reflection in the huge antique mirror that covered most of the hallway, she wondered what purpose it served but was glad it was there.

Stylishly short hair with streaks of brown – she considered that her little act of defiance, a dusky complexion, intelligent black eyes behind brown spectacles, a modern career-woman complete with the air of confidence greeted her back and she smiled.

*****
"Do you have to play that dumb piece of whatchamacallit every evening?"

The exasperation so evident in her voice did not penetrate through the hypnotic hold that The War of the Worlds had on Sethu.

"I promise you, I will not hesitate to throw your xbox right out the window!"

The comment hit home and he looked up in a daze and made a sound that vaguely resembled "Duh...."

She threw her handbag on the dining table and strode out of the living room, muttering to herself. When she came back to the living room after 30 minutes, she was considerably calm after her long scented bath with essential oils, candles and daily dose of Jane Austen. He was quietly cutting brinjals into small equal sized cubes. She watched him silently for some time as he washed the vegetables meticulously. His unruly hair kept falling on his eyes and his unsuccessful attempts to push them back using his elbow made her earlier irritation evaporate as quickly as it had appeared.

She sat down with the latest edition of India Abroad and started leafing through the pages, a satisfied smile playing on her lips. Her life was as she had designed it to be. She did not become the typical house wife whose life revolved around spices and cooking, managing the maid and taking care of in-laws – a life of servitude and dependence that she did not care for. She had studied hard, worked hard, dreamt big dreams and had built her life, as she wanted it, chiseling out pieces that she felt were not conducive to her ambitions and goals. She had a life to speak of, a job that commanded respect, people listened when she spoke and Sethu gave her all the independence she demanded. She made it a point to divide housely chores between them and stuck to the demarcation to a fault. Ironically, the demarcation was a bridge in her eyes, a bridge that reduced the different responsibilities that have been thrusted on Indian men and women over the ages, responsibilities acutely biased in favor of the Indian man. Her strong views did not change when she watched her docile mother yielding to every wish, every command decreed by her obstinate and irascible father; if anything, they increased her conviction to be everything that her mother was not – strong, independent, career-oriented…

*****
"Must we really go to Sumit and Anjana’s party?" Sunitha drawled, using her most convincing tone, which she had used to some degree of success, atleast the first few months into their marriage.

"Yes, this promotion means a lot to Sumit..." He hesitated, before adding, "And since they are expecting a baby in six months, it's a cause for more celebration for them, and it will mean a lot to Anjana if we..."

The rest of his words were lost on Sunitha.

"Yes, I am sure Anjana would appreciate having us, or is it you, there? I am sure she would enjoy cooing to you – Sethooo, honey…can you give me a hand with this book please, it’s sooo heavy - flirty, air-headed disgrace of..."

Her thoughts were rudely interrupted by Sethu, "So, 6 PM sharp…we must pick a nice gift for them and for the baby too...."

"Yes dah-ling, we must," She answered mocking Anjana’s lilting voice. Sethu appeared not to have noticed it. It is uncertain whether Anjana did enjoy flirting with Sethu; In Sunitha’s mind, there was no doubt about it. This bent of her mind made her oblivious to many of Anjana’s endearing, even whimsical traits – her naivete, her culinary excellence, scrupulous maintenance of her house, her delectable voice, her constant chatter delivered unpretentiously to anyone who would care to listen – traits that amused Sethu, maybe because she was the very anti-thesis of his wife? At some subconscious level, Sunitha recognized this fact and resented it - "Sumit can indulge her every beck and call, for all I care, but, what does my Sethu see in her?"

Unjustified-possessiveness and jealousy rushed to fill in many nooks and crannies of her head, replacing the hitherto residing trust and rationality. The more Sunitha obsessed over these predominantly imagined and semi-accurate observations, the more she disliked Anjana and the more she felt the need to put Anjana down, which was no big feat, for Anjana was no match for Sunitha, intellectually among other things. But, come to matters of the home and the heart and Anjana was the uncontested Queen.

*****
An expensive red chiffon saree, glittering just enough to catch the eye but simple enough to steer clear of garishness, heart-shaped diamond earrings and a matching chain with a pendant sparkled as she moved, hair flowing down her shoulders, casually, lest it betray the many hours of preparation that went into grooming it, a touch of mascara and a light almost-natural shade of blush touched to the cheeks - Anjana looked positively radiant. Sunitha fumed inwardly as she leaned forward to kiss Anjana's cheek.

"You look nice, Anjana...my, your stomach hardly shows!"

Sunitha ignored Sethu's shocked look and continued, "Your house looks amazing, must say, you are the ideal house-wife...". The stress on "house-wife" was unmistakable.

Anjana being who she was, giggled delightfully and said, "Oh, I am so glad you and Sethu could make it..." Turning to Sethu, she said "So, you did keep up your end of the bargain, clever clever man!", she waggled her index finger playfully in front of Sethu's face, failing to notice his mild embarrassment and his wife's disapproving glare.

A hundred implausible notions ran through Sunitha's mind, "Bargain?! What bargain? When did they meet to conspire for this sneaky bargain?"

After the initial uneasiness, the rest of the evening passed by uneventfully until it was time to sit down for dinner. Everyone had a word of praise for Anjana - "Amazing biriyani, Anju!", "Noone can throw a party like you!" and so on. Sunitha patiently nibbled through the food, expending her pent-up emotions by chewing and grinding her food. She managed to remain in this precarious state of equanimity until Sethu chose to express his unfortunately-timed thought, "Anjana, A guy could marry you just for this!"

Appreciative laughter ensued at the dining table, agreeing to the sentiments just expressed and mingled with the laughter were Sunitha’s tears, which threatened to come pouring down in torrents.

*****
The next day, Sethu sleepily looked around for Sunitha, who usually lay snoring gently next to him in sound sleep, a sleep which would not let go of her until he held a steaming cup of coffee in front of her face, a bribe that she demanded everyday to grace him with her awakening. He walked to the kitchen to make a pot of coffee and stopped abruptly.

Draped clumsily in a slightly wrinked yellow saree, which looked like it had been dragged hastily out of an old trunk, Sunitha was biting her lips in concentration, trying to scrape out the slightly burnt dosa from the tawa. Yellow bangles – one of the first few gifts that he gave her after their marriage that remained ignored until today – looked out of place, resting on her hands. With her left hand, she quickly moved loose strands of hair from her face and tucked them behind her ear and he stood staring at her hair – he had never seen it in anything but a pony-tail or a bun, he stood mesmerized by the jimuki that dangled in her ear. She looked delicate, almost vulnerable in the kitchen…traces of her mother that he had not seen earlier in her, revealed themselves.

She looked up, startled at his footsteps, and then smiled "Sethu, ready for some delicious dosas? Sit down and drink your coffee, it took me a while to figure out how this filter works! Almost burnt my hand...and I..."

He silenced her with a hug. She hesitated for a moment and hugged him back, the dosa maavu still dripping from the ladle that she held in one hand, laughing and crying at the same time.

Several miles away, Sunitha’s mother deftly turned dosas on her tawa for her husband’s dinner.

*****
***Excerpt***

Caprice.

"Do you always avoid eye-contact with women?"

Interestingly catty remark. He could not resist replying, despite earlier resolutions to converse in monosyllables only.

"I don’t usually suffer from that particular syndrome..."

He heard what he had just said and groaned inwardly. So much for sounding intelligently lofty.

"I mean, oh, what the hell…this whole scene is so unreal. Do you see how contrived this is? I bet there are four pairs of eyes looking at us from behind those curtains!"

He threw up his hands in a gesture of resignation.

She found his awkwardness and sudden boyish outburst vaguely amusing.
Smiling, she replied, "Unfortunately, I do see your point. The least we can do is make it as pleasant as possible for us before we bid good bye to each other. It keeps them satisfied and lets face it, it’s kind of fun, if you can disassociate yourself from the emotional aspect of the whole mess..."

He looked away from the window, where his three cousins and his mom sat watching them, his dad was pointing to Rakesh’s football trophy collection and her parents were nodding, suitably impressed.

He looked at her appraisingly. Maybe, she was slightly different. Casually sitting, almost lazing in the grass, she looked at ease with herself and with the whole boy-seeing-girl rigmarole. She was dressed simply but tastefully in a blue salwar kameez, not the usual silk saree with layers of gold lining. Long blue earrings glinted in the sun and dangled against her wheatish, smooth skin.

"Not traditionally beautiful..." he mused, "but not bad, quite interesting actually..." He turned towards her.

"I miss Rakesh at times like these…you must have heard about him, straight A student, football trophies…the works…he can somehow worm his way out of situations like these. I cannot!"

She nodded. Her mom had filled her in on Karthik’s family background with sufficient details about his younger brother Rakesh too. "Just in case" her mother had intoned looking at Swathi meaningfully. Swathi appeared immersed in her novels.

"Mom, leave poor Swathi out of this. Isn’t it enough that you are making me go through this crazy stuff?!" Divya had argued.

She was 27, almost over the acceptable "marriageable-age" for good South-Indian girls. Her sister, Swathi, just out of school, was barely 17. Divya realized that she could not postpone this issue any further under any other pretext. She had completed her Masters at UT, Austin, she had managed to secure a job in Austin and the guy she was going to see for the famous "ponnu-pakkara" ceremony was based in Austin and a green-card holder at that, her mother had reminded her for the eigth time that day.

On the fateful day, she had decided that she would be impassive about the whole deal. She would be the suave, almost disinterested sophisticate who would sail through the day and then would casually but politely decline the proposal for vaguely disclosed reasons.

When she met Karthik, she did not think much of his almost brazen appearance, white tshirt, faded jeans and the hint of a 5 o’ clock shadow on his face. She was not the kind of girl who would be impressed with the boyish good looks that he possessed. She looked more to connect on a mental level. She was a romantic but an unromantic romantic and she was pretty sure no willing-to-ponnu-pakkara-guy would fit her strange set of compatibility requirements.

But then, almost against her will, she found herself being drawn to the conversation and the conversationalist.

*****
"Making my way downtown…" Vanessa Carlton was definitely not what she was in the mood for that morning. Impatiently, she switched channels on her car stereo until she heard "Summer of '69". She hummed along, blissfully unaware of what is to come.

Something about her drew a second glance from more than a few men. It’s difficult to say if it’s because of the independence that she exuded or the not-interested-not-free-Saturday-night spectacles that she wore, if anything, one would think these hints of feminine independence would put men away. Perhaps it was a challenge for the more daring ones to outwit her, something that did not happen often. Perhaps it was the more believable allure of delicateness that could be detected in her long black hair falling casually on her shoulders, a touch of gullibility in the way she tilted her head and smiled when something amused her, making her seem more human, more a woman. Knowingly or otherwise, she drew men to her often, but they were always the wrong men.

Today was no different for her than any other day as Senior Programmer at Logic Tech Consultancies, located at Riverside Dr, Austin. She was the personal favourite of her manager and had the corner-view cubicle to herself. Sometimes, staring outside through the glass paned windows gave her a sense of freedom, a feeling of flight, a feeling of being away from the monotony that her life had become. The seemingly nondescript day plowed on as she went about her morning routine of glancing through her office emails. The same set of virus warnings, acquisitions and one from Shankar asking her not so subtly if she would like to go out for dinner Saturday night. She was about to mercilessly send the emails to trash when one email stood out, a wedding invitation from Karthik and Suganya. It was not the content of the email that caught her attention, she had tired of the two Indian-American weddings that she had attended already, the pretense being too much for her to take. What did make her frantically open the email to check its contents was the one name, Karthik. She scrolled down and checked his last name, twice and heaved a sigh of relief. She leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes, letting her emotions overtake her. Two years and she could still feel his eyes on her when she had looked away…the image dissolved to a series of random memories and with it, the yearning, the hurt, the pain came flooding back.

*****
"Jeffrey Archer?! You can’t be serious lady!"

He had laughed out loud and she could not convince herself that it was just self-righteous indignation at being laughed at that irked her more than how charming she thought he looked when he threw back his head and laughed mockingly.

"A reader’s perception and preferences should not be mocked at ignorantly without knowing her reasons for the same…"

More laughter and eventually, she had joined in. They were now discussing their favourite authors and books to kill some more time before they would both walk in, looking not very pleased. It would make the whole rejection process easier, they had figured.

She was surprised by how much she was talking, something alien to her normal self. Whether it was to add on to his trail of thoughts or to strongly convey her disapproval, she felt the need to keep talking and to keep listening to what he had to say.

An hour passed and then another and they had still not exhausted their topics; marriages, books, society, women and even a bit of politics. She had discreetly checked her wrist watch and reluctantly told herself that she was just talking to make it all seem more realistic, so that her parents would not guess that their daughter had still not bought into the concept of an arranged-marriage.

Perhaps they had failed to notice the increasingly restless activity inside the house, but they could no longer ignore the fast approaching darkness. She looked at the moon and wondered if its beauty had cast a mystic spell on them. Disgusted at her romanticism, she abruptly stood up.

If he looked surprised or disappointed, he did not show it.
"It’s time, I guess. You are free to go now…" he said, smiling.

A small pang of guilty thrill that he had said "You" and not "We", which she ignored and said matter-of-factly, "Yes, until the next time, with yet another moron…"

Hardly had the words escaped her mouth, when she realized what she was implying. Yet, she did not correct herself, although she desperately wanted to.

He was silent for sometime and then said, "Divya, I did not expect that I would have such a good time. I enjoyed your conversation and your company and thought you were delightfully sprightly and smart…"

She had yearned to disclose what she really felt then but something within her, a bit of vanity maybe, made her hesitate.

He continued, almost in a whisper, "I don’t expect you to feel the same about me, Divya. Just wanted to let you know that if I had even sensed a glimpse of reciprocation from you, I would have taken the chance and told my parents that I was interested…"

Tears stung at her eyes and she still did not talk. It was too dark for him to notice the stories that they had to say.

"…a marriage is a big deal though and we need two emotionally involved or atleast interested souls to make the bond strong. I…" She thought she had heard a tremor in his voice but her own racing heartbeat was making her oblivious to everything.

"…I wish you a good life, Divya, God knows, you deserve it."

She did not notice when he walked away quickly, perhaps to hide his own feelings. She did not notice how long she stood there, head bent, tears blurring her eyes.

When she finally looked up, he was long gone. The rest of the process was simple, a letter conveying a politically appropriate "No" from the his family and it was all over.

*****
"Divya, about this Saturday…ahem," he stepped forward hopefully.

She dismissed Shankar within moments and then cried.

She cried in the solitude of her cubicle, wishing that the little voice, the ego-laced vanity in her had not made her hesitate that fateful night.

*****
***Excerpt***

The Communication.

He would take the same street every evening. He would start his walk at the same time everyday, 5 o’ clock on the dot. He would wear his white shirt and the same sleeveless knitted sweater that his wife had knitted for him many years ago. He would step out of the house briskly and spend the first few minutes shooing away the birds that chose to sit on his house verandah with his walking stick. A few months back he used to take longer walks and return back well into the night. His health does not permit him to take such long walks and of course, he would not admit that to himself or others.

At the street corner, he would stop for a few moments to nod a curt hello to KashiRam and with a distasteful look at the urchins surrounding the tea kadai, he would continue his walk. He was familiar to everyone in the small village but no one knew him. Children playing on the streets avoided him while a few of the brave-hearted ones would venture near him, would touch his walking stick and would run away, guffawing loudly with a sense of achievement. He would make threatening gestures at them with his stick, while muttering angrily to himself. His tall stature and rough exterior did little to scare the kids.

If one took the time to notice his face closely, perhaps one would have observed the laugh lines on his face, the way his mouth curved up at the corners with the hint of a smile, the twinkle in his eyes that made him seem a whole lot younger, but time did not give people the luxury to indulge in such trivialities.

As he was stepping into his house, the telephone rang shrilly and he almost tripped while reaching for it. He glanced for a second at the framed photograph of Srinivasar perumal before picking up the receiver, as if he were sharing a secret wish rather than praying for something.

“Appa, Madhu pesaren, iniku kozhandai…Divya avale nadanthaa pa…swetha market poindirundaa, naa thaan parthen…swetha miss panita pavam…” (*1)


The excited voice seemed to evoke little emotion in him.

“Umm…kozhandaiya pathuko. Soukiyam thane ellarum? Zamindar nalikku thaan solla poraru…veedu prachana seriyana udane varen…illa, ippo ennala vara mudiyadhu, phone vekaren.” (*2)


Repeated requests by his son and his daughter-in-law to stay with them and enjoy the antics of Divya pappa met with the same feeble but decisive excuse from him. He has to solve some legal issues associated with his house and land in the village. He cannot come to settle down in Madras until then.

He sighed, the sigh of an old man who has little to look forward to in life but his ultimate journey. He walked slowly to the cupboard in one corner of the house and fished out an old and faded photograph, one of the few remaining family heirlooms. He slowly ran his thumb across his wife’s face that was hardly recognizable, partly because of the quality of the photo and lighting and partly because he had lost her so long ago, he hardly remembered her features. They had been married when he was 16 and she was 9 and 35 years of married life had not brought about a change in him sufficient to overstep his role as the head of the house, provider to his wife and become her companion. She had lived her life in the kitchen, made sure he did not go hungry and had provided him with their only son, Madhu. He did not greatly miss his wife other than to occasionally think of her once in a while, like now. He changed to his night clothes, removed his rudraksha malai and kept it under the cot and proceeded to spend another sleepless night.

*****
The news that his son and his family were shifting to Bombay in search of greener pastures did not prompt him to say anything more than what he would have said normally. The only change to him was the absence of the five minute long-distance telephone conversation that he would look forward to once a week. He dusted the perumal picture for sometime and looked questioningly at Him before shaking his head in what seemed to be a curious mix of resignation, disappointment and anger.

It was time for his evening walk but he could not will himself to get up from his cot. With supreme effort, he sat up and looked at the Srinivasar padam for a long time. He was about to lie down in his cot again when he heard a knock at the door. Hoping against hope that it was Madhu, he stumbled to the door and opened it wide.

Standing at the door was a little girl, hardly three years old. Her dusty and tangled hair covered most of her face. Her big and expressive eyes seemed eager to get to know him. She extended her right hand towards him and in her little palm were three colored marbles. He hesitated for a second and then lifted her as he would his own paethi.

He did not notice when dusk turned into night and when the moon came out to greet them. He played with her and delighted in her mirth-filled laughter. He would hide one of the marbles and would tease her for a few moments and then would produce the lost one, as if by magic. The child would gleefully clap her hands and with each clap of her hands, one by one his worries deserted him. Engrossed in this little game, the old man and the little girl did not notice an anxious mother run up to them.

“Naan engeyo ellam poi thedikitirunden…en kannu…”, she lifted the child and kissed her all over her face. “Romba nandri ayya, en gudusa ingu thaan irukudu…velaiya mudichutu varathukula, kolandaiya kanum…” (*3)


The woman tiredly wiped her brows and told him that she worked from morning till night cleaning houses nearby and somehow her daughter had managed to run out of one of the houses she worked for.

The next day, when the tiny knock sounded on his door, he knew it was not Madhu. With a smile he opened the door and there stood his tiny guest, palm extended with the same three marbles. He smiled happily and lifted her to the skies, as the child’s mother watched the unlikely pair from one of the houses nearby and smiled…a grateful smile.

He walked in with the child and a glint drew his eyes to the picture on the wall. Today, after many years, the Lord seemed to be smiling mischievously at him.

*****

Rough Translation:

*1: His son, Madhu calls up to let him know that his daughter, Divya started taking baby steps, a scene that his wife, Swetha missed

*2: Take care of the child. Hope you all are fine. Cannot come to Madras now. Will come once my land and house problems are solved. Will hang up now.

*3: I was searching for her everywhere. Many thanks to you, my hut is nearby, I was finishing my daily work and suddenly she was missing.

paethi - granddaughter
pappa - baby
perumal - God

***Excerpt***

மனம் ஒரு குரங்கு

Author's annoying interruption: I could not think of a title for this short story that is more apt than "Manam oru Kurangu" (The mind is a monkey). I also wanted to touch upon unspoken assumptions of Indian marriage, fidelity and a few other things...but did not want to overload the title!

She woke up because she felt that something was wrong, even as she slept. She stared blankly into the darkness. Her eyes focused on the framed picture in front of her bed with the small heart-shaped night-lamp casting a cone of light on it. A boy and a girl walking hand in hand and scrawled below it the word Love and his signature.

Tonight, the picture did not reassure her. She gulped down some cold water and tried to will herself to sleep. It eluded her. She struggled not to remember the scene that had just woken her up from her dreams. The terribly inappropriate scene. She gave up the futile attempt of trying to distract herself with happy thoughts, thoughts of her honeymoon, their pleasant married life and tried to sleep again.

A few seconds of blissful darkness and then the same scene. There he was, laughing comfortably with her, both hands draped around her shoulder, leaning his head forward to touch hers. She woke up again with a start this time, more tensed than before. She picked up her cell phone to call her husband and dialed the numbers.

"He..llo", a groggy voice replied. She realizes her mistake and without thinking ends the call. Five anxious minutes pass and the cell phone rings. She flips it open even before the first ring is complete.
"Sunil, I am sorry...Ganesh is away and I could not sleep, had nightmares...", she lied, as she was expected to. She cannot believe how thrilled she feels that he had called, yet hoping for the sake of hoping that he would not.

"Shalu? I just called to say I reached safely...cannot hear you clearly...love you, will call you in the morning, bye". The call ended abruptly and once again, she was surrounded by silence.

***Excerpt***

The papers.

"...and that's why I want to be a Doctor when I grow up".

Thats how the little girl’s speech ended on children's day. Her parents sit in the first row, because she asked them to. They clap their hands, a bit too enthusiastically. She is happy.

The little girl finishes with a flourish and blushes furiously at the standing ovation. She stands uncertainly for a few seconds on the stage, smiling widely, before running towards her parents. Her parents are proud. They both reach towards her and their hands touch. Both of them draw back, as if stung. Priya, or Prikutti, as she is fondly known, all of nine years old, is too young to notice anything strange.

”Do you like my trophy, amma?” Priya asks her mother, holding the small trophy close to her heart, tilting it a bit so that the words Priya, engraved in gold letters shine in the light cast by the chandelier above the dining table.

Priya admirably hides her disappointment when she notices that her mother has not looked up from her novel. With downcast eyes, she settles down on her chair and plays around with the food. Her father notices the telltale attention-seeking signs of his daughter but somehow does not indulge her this time.

”Amma, appa hate me,” Priya concludes “because I am not as fair as Sheetal, because I scored 23.5 on 25 and she scored 25/25 in the Geography test”. Unnoticed, innocent tear drops fall down her cheeks.

Being a child gives Priya the privilege to forget what just transpired, in a few moments and she runs off to play with her Barbie dolls. The little respite offered by their only child, having evaporated, a gloomy silence fills the dining room, broken by the cold sounds of cutlery grating against plates. The farce now complete, husband and wife retire to their respective bedrooms.

*****
”But, why can’t you come? Amma, appa, me, you, we can go together to my school like we used to…”, Priya pleadingly looks from her mother to her father, searching for an answer in their impassive expressions. “Appa will take you today and buy you chocolates on the way to school”, her father tells her, hoping that this offer would shield Priya, even if temporarily, from the shock that she eventually would have to face. Priya looks back one final time to see if her mother would come with her, and then walks out with her father. She cannot understand what she has done to bring about this strange change over her parents.

*****
Today, Priya is happy. It is a Saturday, which means no school and her parents got her icecream in the morning. She sits unsuspectingly, happily on the couch, eating icecream and laughing at Tom and Jerry’s antics. Her parents are busy discussing something animatedly, which she cannot understand, a sheaf of papers spread about in front of them. She smiles happily, misconstruing business for marital bliss.

“I think we have reached an agreement then.” the lawyer says, standing up and shaking hands with Priya’s parents. Priya stands between them, curiously staring at the man’s official-looking mustache. The man leaves and Priya’s parents sit down, tired, both looking worriedly at their daughter. Priya knows enough to understand that this cannot mean any good. She tries to edge away to her play room. “Did amma, appa find out that I hit Kanchu today at class yesterday?” she wonders.

To break the uncomfortable silence in the room, Priya’s father clears his throat and says “Prikutti, pattu, inge va, unga kitta konjam pesanum”. Priya is wary but cannot resist his pleading tone. She plops herself on her father’s lap and looks up expectantly at his face. After all, in her eyes, isn't he the most important and intelligent man? the best father in the world?

Her mother looks ready to cry, unseen ghosts tormenting her mind. She stands up decisively. She cannot deceive her child further. “Appa and Amma want to take a small holiday, Priya ma…,” she says, doing her best to maintain her composure. Priya still playfully fiddling with her father’s gold chain, does not look up. Her father gently unwinds her fingers and lifts her chin up. “Holiday polame!”…nine years old and she has already learnt to infuse more enthusiasm into her voice than she actually feels. Her parents exchange a look of pain, concern, love…for a second, they feel a connection, one that they had not felt for so long that they had forgotten what it was like to feel again…what drew them to each other in the first place.

A mother’s heart can take an unbelievable amount of personal misery but somehow always disappoints when the child is concerned, it can no longer maintain its unrelenting stamina. Unconsolable tears stream down her face. Her husband sits unmoving for a few seconds. He sees his wife, the way he has not seen her in a long time. He lets his eyes, his self take in every bit of his wife. He notices the delicate creased lines on her forehead, eyes that he adored until a few months ago and now again, a small nose, red now with emotion (he smiles)…and suddenly he realizes he feels like he had when they had initially started going out. She is the same beautiful, vulnerable, stubborn girl…and he could not love her more than he did now.

Priya did not understand why her mother cried and why her parents were hugging now like they do on TV, when they make her get up to get some water for them. She is happy and runs forward to hug them. Mother, father and daughter stand in an intimate circle, the papers strewn on the floor all around them.

*****
***Excerpt***

Home.

"How much for a mozham?" He enquires, hurriedly glancing at his watch. He is in no mood to haggle. He carefully places the torn leaf tied with malligai poo in his front pocket and starts his vespa.

She is lost in her thoughts. She thoughtfully and methodically twines and smoothens out the end of her soft cotten saree.
"Appa eppo ma vitku varuva?", the child asks, stressing on the vitku, she is picking up new words quickly and delights in repeating each new word that captures her fancy, incorrectly but with child-like finality.

She checks the time on her daughter's fancy watch and frowns that it is two minutes past five-thirty and he is yet to come. Every extra second weighs heavily on her. She cannot wait to share her day's stories, about Pankajam mami and her daughter's marriage to a Punjabi, about the VishnuSahasranamam classes that she is planning to take at the temple and how the karigaikaran had charged her Rs.5 more than he had charged Susheela mami.
"I will teach that karigaikaran a lesson" She thinks. "I will not buy vegetables from him, serves him right..." She imagines his shrew of a wife wielding her ladle threateningly in front of his nose demanding that he appease her and get her to buy vegetables from him again and laughs at her silly imagination.

He deftly drives around the many potholes on the road and maneuvers his vehicle into the small lane where his house stands. He glances at a distance to watch his wife who stands demurely at the gate, anxiously waiting for him to return from the office. By her side, tightly holding her hand and half hidden in her saree, stands his fidgeting daughter, as eagerly awaiting his return as her mother. They paint a beautiful picture, mother and daughter. For a few moments, he cannot not take his eyes off them.

*****

"Talaipu Seidigal", Shobana Ravi intones from the small black and white TV. He listens with interest for sometime before turning his attention back to the Hindu supplements.
"Buy your flat in Velachery now", the full-page color advertisement screams at him. He distractedly pats his daughter's head, while nodding to her unending stories.
"Appa, shikanth is my best frind, patti says he is a good boy..." she gestures excitedly and her words go unnoticed. He looks thoughtfully at the chipping white paint on the walls and the rhythmic pitter of raindrops leaking from the verandah roof. An expression of fleeting pain crosses his face as he watches his wife coughing in the fumes in her tiny cell of a kitchen.

She looks at him and smiles, though her eyes sting with the fumes.
"Innum anju nimisham", she mouths and lifts the vessel from the stove.
He cannot take his eyes away from the pale, thin hands and the few glass bangles that adorn it. "Hands that need to be bejwelled in filigree...", he is surprised by how much ache love carries with it.

***** ***** ***** ***** ***** ***** *****

"Should be home in 5, love you, bye", she presses the button under her steering wheel to open the moon-roof on her acura 3.2 TL and takes the exit to her town house. The fluorescent numbers on her navigation system show 6:45 EST.
"I cannot for the life of me figure out how that bug creeped in, must be that Meredith's fault, silly woman...", she shakes her head to clear it off bits and bytes.

Through the white brocade curtains, she could see two shadows in a blur, running after one another. Smiling, she dug into her purse to fish out her keys.

"Mommmy!", her chubby, effervescent daughter rushes to hug her.
She hugs her and enquires in a mock-baby voice "Has my baby been a good girl today? Did she trouble daddy?"
The child giggles and shakes her head shyly but emphatically. She herself cannot help grinning at her husband, the polka-dotted apron that he sports looks silly over his tshirt and jeans.
"Hot samosas ready", he declares with a flourish, little revealing that all he did was defrost the frozen samosas that he had purchased from the local Indian store.
They sit down to eat and the child plays around with the food, and soon has food bits strewn all around her frock and her plate.
"Chellam, now if patti thatha come to visit us from Madras, they won't like this, will they?" She asks the child.

The child stares back at her blankly.

Inexplicably, tears well in her eyes. "My own daughter does not know her grandparents...they are strangers to her, the very people that she should be running to now for every little thing...the very people who would do anything to play for a moment with her....and I blame myself..."
He understands. He places a comforting hand over hers and looks around, trying to hide his own emotions threatening to overwhelm him...his eyes touch upon the high ceilings, the delicate crown mouldings in the kitchen, the glittering chandelier, the flat screen TV and not a single sight gives him the peace of mind that his little home in India could give him. He looks up, helplessly, as if the heavens might grace them with an answer

***
Translating key words:
Appa - Father
Karigaikaran - Vegetable vendor
Chellam - Term of endearment
patti - grand mother
thatha - grand father

***Excerpt***