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***

Some more chocolate.

It's not like I had a crush on him or anything. I am just curious, that's all. He is such an unconventional sort of person that I wonder what goes through his head sometimes, what makes him "Krish", the way we all see him - outgoing, smart, popular, sloppy, reckless? What made all those mini-skirt clad, high-heeled girls throw themselves at him? Just a vague, almost academic interest on the aura that he exuded that lured in such a varied fan following, that's all.

I am a loner of sorts. So, I don't have the usual giggly, best-friend teasing me about why I take a more than normal interest in what he does. I like it that way. Left alone, I can be myself, no scrutinizing eyes analyzing every piece of cloth I wore, the way I walked, the guys I have a crush on, not that I have a crush on any guy. I have more dependable friends - my books. I make up for my lack of an active social life by devouring books - history, philosophy, fiction, I read them all. I spend Friday evenings slouching on my favourite barcalounger in our campus library, surrounded by at least six books. I usually sneak in a few candy bars and munch on them, although library rules say we are not allowed to get food inside. I think my parents didn't care much about me as long as I sent back straight A grades every semester. They are too involved in their own lives, my relatives, my sick old thatha, our maid servant Malliga and such other details. I call once in two weeks and the conversation usually does not exceed ten minutes.

"Vidya, do you need us to send you some more money? You can buy yourself a new dress...is your old cycle doing ok? Do you need a new one?"

"No ma, I have money left over from what you sent two months back. My cycle is ok."

"Oh...ok", an awkward pause as if my mother was trying really hard to say something meaningful to her only child, I kind of enjoy her discomfort, "We are doing ok here. Thatha had another bought of coughs, the doctor has prescribed a stronger dosage, he refuses to take the medicine, each day is a struggle..."

"Uh huh."

"Do you know Srilekha aunty?"

"No."

"She lives on 8th street...she has started Bhagawath Geeta classes, I am planning to join..."

"That's good."

"Umm...one second ma, Appa wants to talk to you", shuffling sounds and murmers, "Vidya, Vidya..."

"I can hear you dad."

"How are you? Your courses going well?"

"I sent you my grades two weeks back dad."

"Yes, yes, I saw them. Very good. Very good. So, did you celebrate with your friends?"

"I bought myself a new book as a gift."

"Very good. Which book? What did your friends say?"

"The world is flat."

"Oh...good. So...we will talk to you in a few weeks then?"

"Yes appa. Take care, bye."

He seems to hesitate, "...ok, bye Vidya. Don't work too hard, take care of your health."

"I will, bye."

So, our conversations pretty much follow the same routine. I am not sure when I stopped relating to my parents or when they moved into their circle of concerns leaving me outside. It just happened. I mean, it's not like they were bad parents or anything, they loved me and all, but we just didn't "get" each other. Which worked ok for me. I liked living by myself, I enjoyed a freedom that few teenagers possessed. So, that's me, Vidya Kannan, five feet four inches, shy, introverted and friendless. At least I think, that's how other students saw me. I don't feel the necessity to tell them otherwise. I have better things to do.

***

So, when Krish asks me if I could be his partner for that day's experiment, I am sort of happy at the opportunity to study someone totally different from me. I like to study people, their quirks and traits, the way they make each event a life-death occurrence, because I can never do that. I am too smart to consider one tiny event in my insignificant existence bigger than it actually is, a speck of dust in the sands of time. So, I am often amused at what people consider the current milestone or tragedy in their lives - "He proposed! He proposed! Oh, I am the happiest girl alive!", "He broke up with me, I could die!" - like I said before, curious.

Anyway, I have often watched Krish fare poorly in Chem lab, his partner often did the work for him. I have time to notice this because I often finish my experiment within the first fifteen minutes of class and since I have no one to talk to, I sit and watch people around me, especially Krish.

So, I agree.

"Gosh, thanks! I owe you one!", Krish, the charmer.

"Yes, you do. The crystals are on the side table. I'll set up the bunsen burner."

For a second, he seems taken aback, but quickly recovers, "I'll get them."

I work silently for the next five minutes. When I finish, I notice him standing next to me, holding the crystals.

"So, what can I do to help?"

"Would you like to do the experiment, I can start drawing up the table to calculate the results?" I deliberately ask him this question, wondering how he will squirm out of this one.

"Err...I am not really sure. You are the smart one, so will you please do the honor?"

He smiles, what I have heard other girls term, "an infectious smile". I nod back, more out of a pity-laced courtesy than anything else.

Ten more minutes pass and the experiment is almost complete. The Chem lab assistant passes by and nods his head approvingly at me. Krish doodles on his notebook and I know he looks up to watch me do the experiment every once in a while.

"You can take off if you want. I can submit the results for both of us."

"No, I want to stay." He doesn't offer more explanation and I wonder why. Usually he talks a lot and he has his circle of friends laughing at his quick wit or his funny narration of an incident. Today, though, he is strangely silent, like me. I wonder if I have that effect on people, is that why my parents speak to me as they do? In meaningful pauses than words?

I wrap up the experiment and fold my apron neatly and return it to its cupboard. I submit the lab report and come back to collect my things and he is still standing there. I look up to him - he towers over me by a full feet - and hold his glance. He has long lashes and dark eyes. I like looking into them.

"I...just wanted to say thanks. This is real nice of you."

"No problem."

"I know this sounds odd but I have a bit of a trouble with Chem 201 this sem. Do you think you will be able to tutor me after Chem lab for a few weeks? I need to atleast make a C, you know?" he laughs nervously.

I am amused. For a second, I wonder if he has anything in his mind other than Chemistry. I watch him notice my high ponytail, my non-descript sweatshirt and jeans, a small pearl earring that my mother had given me when I left home and loose strands of hair falling untidily all over my face. The moment passes and I see me as he is probably seeing me now - a geek, a loner, a weirdo? But I don't sense contempt in his eyes, so, I look at myself in them and nod a yes.

He is gone, soon surrounded by his normal entourage and I watch him with the same curiosity with which I have studied him before. But now, something is missing. Maybe the fact that he is not just a subject that I can study with indifference, but a human-being that I am supposed to interact with. I mull over the change.

***

"A 31, phone call! A 31!" I quickly finished brushing my teeth in the common washbasin and run downstairs almost running into a sleepy nighty-clad girl making her way towards the wash basin.

"Hello ma!" I speak breathlessly into the phone, my parents did not usually call me and definitely not at 7.30 in the morning. I already knew that I was going to hear bad news, I just didn't know how bad.

"Vidya, did we wake you up? Did you have your coffee? I told your father not to disturb you this early in the morning..." as usual a stream of unrelated questions that I listen to and wait for her to get to the main topic.

"Are you both ok?"

"Vidya, yes, your father and I are fine..." I heave a sigh of relief and fall back into my normal state of indifference.

"Thatha passed away this morning. He just asked for a glass of water and I went to the kitchen to get it...he was peaceful", the world of euphemisms that my mom lived in, I preferred reality.

"How is appa doing?"

"Oh, he is busy with the preparations for the ceremony. He has taken a few days off from work...I am cleaning the house, making preparations for the priests to come...", her voice seemed to break and I tried to think of what a responsible daughter would say at this point to console her mother.

"It'll be okay, mom. Keep yourself busy", even my few words of meaningless consolation seem to cheer her up.

"Yes, I should. Vidya, if you feel...not so good, take a day off today and get some rest."

"Okay ma, I got to go now. Take care."

"Bye Vidya."

I wonder if I should feel sad. I know I didn't, maybe I should. So, I try to think of my grandfather, anything at all that will, if not make me teary-eyed, will at least cause a lump in my throat, anything to make me feel. A hazy image of a proud, old man floats in my head, gray stripes of viboothi on a forehead already marked with tired lines, a distinct limp as he walked - he refused to use a walking stick till his last day, the few times he hugged me when I had gone home during summer vacation, the time he compared me to his own mother - he said she had brought up a family of ten even on her husband's irregular income and, even earlier than that, the times when we would all play dayakattai by drawing squares on the floor with a wet chalk - was there a time when we played together? How did I walk so far away from there?, the time he wrapped all my new school notebooks with brown wrappers and stuck labels neatly on them...

Images play one by one as if in slow motion, in my head and each one seems familiar to me and for a moment transports me back to a time that I could recall but could not go back to now, and still the tears did not come. So, I sit on the small parapet wall behind the Saraswati mandir on our campus, and watch the peacocks behind the wall. Sometimes, when it drizzles, they spread their feathers and dance, those moments are more real for me than my memories, the moments when rain falls on me gently and the peacocks dance not knowing that I was watching.

***

The next day, after my classes, I sit in front of the library - I am fifteen minutes early - and I wait for Krish. I fish out a Nestle fruit and nut and take a big bite. He runs towards the library as I just finish my chocolate. I watch him walk towards me.

"Hi Vidya", he smiles and I nod back.

"Ready to start? I thought we will start with some equations, something simple to begin with..."

"Sure, I am all yours." I look up sharply and relax when I see him open his notebook in all seriousness.

We cover the basics of equations and I started teaching him how to balance difficult equations. I started writing down some more complicated equarions when he stretches with a big yawn and says, "If I come early next time, will I also get some chocolate?"

"Instead, if you concentrate now, maybe you won't have to come early next time."

He doesn't say anything and pays his complete attention to me for the next fifteen minutes. Good students made me happy and I wonder if I should compliment him when he looks up from his notebook and asks, "Can I tell you something?"

I don't like roundabout questions and am about to tell him that. And then something in his eyes makes me stop once again. Something that I do not often find in other people's eyes when they look at me, his eyes study me not out of a superficial curiosity but out of genuine interest...or so it seems to me. I hesistate and say yes.

"I like you."

For once I don't have a retort. If he had asked me out for a cup of coffee or complimented me because I was smart, I would know exactly what to say, but what he had offerred was a sincere compliment and I on't know how to accept it gracefully...or gratefully, because they are so rare.

"Thanks", I say simply and mean it.

I watch him walk towards his dorm room and make a mental note to buy some extra chocolate.

***

"Vidya, could you help me out with this program?", Richa always sits at the terminal next to mine but this was the first time she has spoken to me. Almost every guy in our batch has a crush on her. I guess being a dancer and a looker makes for an irresistible combination.

She tosses her hair impatiently and continues, "The Towers of Hanoi problem, it's driving me crazy!"

"Does it compile?"

"Yes, I keep getting this null pointer exception when I run it..."

It takes me all of two minutes to figure out what the problem is and fix it. I walk her through the logic as I make changes.

"Wow! Thanks a bunch! When you explain it like that, it sounds real easy!" and she smiles at me.

Her smile reminds me of someone else's smile and I realize I am late for my tutoring session.

I say bye to Richa and rush to the library.

"Sorry, I am late..."

He points to the empty chocolate wrappers, "I would have saved you some but you were ten minutes late!"

I smile at him, I think for the first time, "I was at the computer lab, explaining a problem to Richa and lost track of time."

"Oh I didn't know you and Richa took the same classes."

"Uh huh."

"She always had trouble with Comp 206. I told her she could get any guy to tutor her or even take the exam for her, the problem was finding a smart guy!" and he laughs.

I like the fact that he is this informal with me, talking or at least pretending to be comfortable with me. Few people took the effort to do that. He leans against the pillar and runs his hand through his hair and I can see why girls fall for him.

"Are you both seeing each other?", I ask him even before I had made up my mind to ask him that question.

"Just friends. I mean, it's not like she is my girl friend or anything...you know?" my question seems to have made him uncomfortable and so I start with my Chemistry lessons.

After forty five minutes of equations, I tell him I had to leave.

“Oh, are you going to see Hum He Rahi Pyar Ke…I heard the SGA is screening it tonight!”

“No.”

“Just hanging out at the bazaar with friends then?” I know that’s where he hangs out regularly, outside Pappu milkshakes, with his gang of friends.

“No.”

“Do you have a date then?”

I look up at him, at the hint of concern that his eyes seemed to hold, at his hands dug deep into his pockets, at the way he leans towards me a little as he speaks and I have a sudden urge to hold his hand. I must have frowned at the thought, for, he says, “I am sorry, I don’t know what made me say that…”

I usually did what I wanted to do and I thought now should be no different. I don’t exactly hold his hand, but I touch him on the shoulder, “I am going to the temple. I go every Friday during aarthi time. I like to sit on the steps outside and listen to the aarthi.”

And then he asks what I expect, hope? that he would ask, “Can I come?”

“If you leave some chocolate for me the next time we meet.”

And we walk towards the temple, in a comfortable silence that I usually did not like to share with people.

I sit down on the steps of the temple, in a corner so as to not be in people’s way. From where we sit, we could see the parapet wall and the place where the peacocks danced, we could catch the top of clock tower of the main building on campus and in front of it rows of well maintained trees and gardens. The flowers have not come out yet but the trees and grass have turned green and expectant.

The aarthi starts at 7 PM sharp and I close my eyes for a moment, enjoying the pleasing mix of sounds, of the distant calls of the pigeons that sit on the temple gopuram, the chimes of the temple bells and the aarthi being sung. Moments like these seem to remove some of the emptiness that normally fills my life.

I open my eyes and smile at the world at large.

“You look so relaxed, I almost envy you now.”

“That’s good. People don’t usually find a lot that they can envy in me.”

“You are very different from the other girls…Richa and all. I mean, with them, I know what they want, what they like…what do you want Vidya? I can never tell, your eyes seem to hold so many secrets…”

And for once, I let my guard down and let me be myself with him, “I want to win the programming contest next week.”

“The campus wide one? Wow! That’s a tough one, Richa says some of the professors find the questions hard to solve!”

“I know but you asked me what I want and that’s what I want.”

“So, are you going to be a computer scientist then? Is that where you see yourself in a couple of years?”

“I don’t know Krishna. I have not thought that far ahead, for now, I like talking to you the way I am, sitting on these temple steps, I like watching the peacocks dance in the rain, behind that parapet wall”, I point it out to him, “When they do, it’s like my wishes just came true, but I don’t have that many wishes, as long as I have these moments, I am happy.“

For a few moments, he doesn’t say anything and then he kisses me on my cheek.

***

The next week, I am busy the whole time preparing for the competition; I email Krishna telling him that I won’t be able to tutor him this week. He emails a few minutes back and I read the email a bit too eagerly. He just says, “Sure, good luck for the competition!” and I am annoyed at myself for feeling disappointed. What did I expect? A declaration of love based on the one kiss that we exchanged? Maybe it was just a vague hope that it was special for him too…

I work towards the competition with a fierceness that I didn’t know I possessed. I spend all my free periods at the computer hall and look up only when I the clock strike a quarter to ten in the night, the girls dorms’ gates closed at ten every night.

The energy that I put into the preparations seems to make me overcome my normal dull state and I even speak cheerfully about it to my parents.

“Vidya, get a good night’s sleep before the competition on Friday. Friday morning, take your breakfast, read some magazines, relax and then go to the competition, don’t study till the last minute!”

“Mom, it’s not a theory exam to study for. We will be given programs to solve on the spot.”

“Yes, yes, prepare the programs well.” I sigh and tell mom I would call her Saturday morning.

The day before the competition, I thought I saw Krishna, I couldn’t make out since it was late evening, but I did see a girl walking beside him, I wondered if it was Krishna and Richa and let the thought pass. I couldn’t afford to get distracted now.

Friday arrives too soon for me. I don’t feel as confident as I normally feel before examinations. I did follow my mom’s advice though and had a good breakfast and then I cycle to the lab.

We have three programming assignments and the total duration of the contest is three hours. As soon as I settle down in front of the computer, I begin to relax. A familiar feeling of knowing what I am doing, courses through me and I solve the problems in two hours and fifteen minutes. By twelve thirty, I submit my programs online and get up to leave. And then I see Richa sitting on a terminal nearby and wonder what she was doing at the competition. I didn’t know she was participating.

I had cancelled my tutoring session today because I decided to take a break after a week’s grueling preparation. I went to the bazaar to Sagar coffee shop, my favorite hangout place at the bazaar. The uncle there knows me well and often makes pleasant small talk with me whenever I go there.

“Come beta, long time you haven’t come? Busy with exams?”

“Yes Amar uncle, just had one today. I will have a cup of coffee.”

“I know beta, one strong filter coffee coming up!”

I sit there with my coffee tumbler and look around the bazaar. The campus crowd arrives at nights and now the bazaar looks deserted. I like it better like this, when one has time to listen to the cycles of life in motion, the mixer running in Aparna Fine Cuisine (it is more like a run-down fast food place), Amar uncle’s wife shouting over the sound of the juicer, asking him if he got sugar from the market, the bleating of the goats that walk casually in the middle of the road (it’s more like a mud path) and the sounds of the late morning. Today, for some reason, the strong filter coffee smell reminds me of mom and I feel good missing home, something I don’t do often.

And then I see him sauntering out of Pappu’s, his hands hanging loosely around another boy. He doesn’t see me and I watched him, secretly glad that he is unaware of my eyes following him. I recognize the now familiar feeling within me – it’s no longer just curiosity, his kiss had made sure of that. It’s more like a yearning, a desire to be with him, to have his hands draped loosely around my shoulder instead of the other guy’s and to feel the gentle kiss that he had left behind on my cheek.

I want to talk to him but decide to wait till Saturday morning when the results would be posted on the bulletin board. I would share my good news with him then, at the temple steps, just like that day.

I don’t sleep well that night. I get up really early Saturday morning and will the day to move faster, I know the results wouldn’t be posted until noon.

At 11.30, I can’t wait any longer and I walk briskly towards the bulletin board. I don’t see any announcement that carries the logo of the Comp Sci department. I sit down on the floor, lean against the wall and wonder if I should go to his dorm to tell him about the results or if I should just send him an email, maybe I should call him instead…

The peon comes at 11.50 carrying a single sheet of paper, my heart skips a beat. I wait patiently until he left and then walk towards the board. I scan the notice, looking only for the words, “Vidya Kannan”. I don’t find it the first time and panick. By now, a few students have started trickling in, all of them talking about the competition. The second time, I see my name, in bold. I had won!

I linger back for sometime, as if wanting to feel the envy of the students who read my name on the notice. Just then Richa rushes in and looks at the bulletin board.
“Hey Richa, Vidya won this year! No big surprise huh?!”, they still speak as if I don’t exist but I don’t care. I had won.

Richa’s face falls and she makes a strange sound as if she were being strangled and runs out. I hesistate for a few moments and then run outside too, not sure what I was going to do when I caught up with her. Outside, she is nowhere to be seen.

So, I walk back to the cycle stand and start cycling back slowly, hoping Richa feels better, but mostly feeling happy for myself. Maybe I don’t make friends easily, maybe people think I am a geek, but unlike them, I know my passion, I know what I was meant to do in life.

And suddenly, all I want to do is to share this with Krishna. I decide to cycle to his dorm and tell him.

I don’t have to cycle the whole way. I find them standing under a tree and whispering. She is still crying and he is standing close to her and holding her by the shoulders. The wind carries a few of his words to me, “Don’t worry Richa…why bother about…stupid little competition…let me treat you at Pappus…my poor Richa.”

And then I can’t stay there any longer. One, because I no longer want to tell him I won the competition, two, I don’t want him to see me crying.

I come to the dorm and call my mom and blurt out the whole story to her, while crying. It is the first time I share something close to my heart, with her. And it feels good even though I don’t remember crying so much in my life.
***

After that day, I cancel all my tutoring sessions and avoid Krish as much as possible. He tries to talk to me a couple of times, but it is easy for me to fall back to being me and I cut him off. This time, I do not let his eyes deceive me into believing that I had any chance of being his friend, leave alone being his girl friend.

A few weeks later, there is just the dull ache in me to remind me of the time we spent sitting on the temple steps, of the way he pushed the hair that fell on his eyes, the way he had looked at me a few moments after kissing me.

I fall back into my routine of spending my life at the library. The only consolation is that I now look forward to talking to my parents every Saturday, tomorrow I would tell them about my dream company, every student is expected to know their dream company by their final year. I already know and I am sure they would be happy with my choice.

I almost forgot it is Friday today and on a whim, I decide to go to the temple. For the past few weeks, I have been avoiding even my temple visits lest he should show up there. I am scared by my tears the other day, by the effect he had on me, by the pain that rushed through me when I saw his hands on some other girl’s shoulders, by how vulnerable he made me feel…

Today feels like a new day and so, I walk towards my corner on the temple steps and sit down. I feel relaxed almost immediately and close my eyes for a small prayer. When I open my eyes, I realize my cheeks are wet with my tears and I realize how much I had missed the familiar rush of feelings that I now feel as he walks towards me.

We both sit silently for sometime.

“I am sorry”, he says.

“For?”

“Whatever it is, it is not worth what I went through the past few weeks. I am sorry.”

“I am sorry Richa didn’t win…although it was only a silly little competition…”, I try to laugh and fail.

“I am sorry too but she has to face these things in life. That sometimes we win and sometimes we don’t. To her it is just a silly little competition. I know it’s different for you, Vidya. But, I am not here to talk about Richa. In fact, I haven’t seen her since the day after the competition. I came here to talk about us.”

“But…what about Richa and you?”

“Remember Aftab? The lanky guy that I hang out with?” I vaguely remember the guy who had accompanied him to Pappus the other day and nod.

“She is seeing him now. She has been for quite some time. I told her I was interested in you long back. I wanted to tell you this when you asked me about her but I didn’t think it was important to you…”

He swallows hard and lowers his voice even further, “It is you that I want Vidya, with your quiet peace and your simple beauty. You make me feel…different, more alive, you make me think…and you make me say just what goes inside my head, to share everything here with you”, he points to his head, “Like now.”

“Oh.” And now I seem to have run out of things to say. And I don’t have to, because beyond the parapet wall, a peacock stands on one leg gracefully, spreading all its feathers…

I point towards the peacock. He holds my hand as we watch it dance. I hear the temple bells chime and lean my head against his shoulder, “Krish…”

“Umm?”

“I’ll get you some extra chocolate for our next tutoring session.”
***Excerpt***

Letting go of Ananda Nivas.

The house looks older. The A of Ananda Nivas, embossed on the wall by the side of the imposing, now rusting iron gates, has been scraped off. Nanda Nivas greets me, as an old lady would, having seen too much of life to be interested in it, existing rather than living, crumbling little by little, a pale shadow of a past vivacity, a glint here, a dazzle there, if you look closely, but sallow and spiritless for the most part.

The unctuous watchman, with his beetle-juice stained teeth, smiles ingratiatingly at me and scratches his head. The iron gates screech open grudgingly. I hand him a fifty rupee note to get rid of him. I am sweating already even in a sleeveless white t-shirt, I am still jet-lagged and tired of thinking. I stand for a few moments in front of the house, my house and for a moment, it flashes with life. Rows of meticulously maintained rose bushes, the fragrance of tulsi and jasmine, long corridors echoing the laughter of children, strains of old Urdu ghazals, diyas made of clay that are laid out in a pattern around the rangoli, the cool touch of my mother's silk saree; And suddenly the house settles back and all I see are crumbling walls with dried flakes of paint, overgrown bushes and a hollow feeling, a silence that surrounds it and anyone who enters it.

I take a deep breath and call out for Geeta Bai. Geeta Bai has grown older too, almost taking the eerie quality of the house upon herself - she looks frail and sad? "Sapna beta, you have come!" I step forward and hug her without hesitation. Ten years of American culture and I still find comfort in the smell of her home-made spices and her sweat. She is crying and to my surprise, I realize my eyes are wet too.

"We have missed you beta. My son, his wife and child live an hour away, the servant quarters is too small for a family of four na, beta? Have you met Champa? She is very fair and she takes good care of my son..."

I relax as her continuous stream of conversation replaces some of the emptiness in my heart.

"I try to take care of the house, but ever since memsaab passed away...", she quietly wipes the corner of her eye with her saree pallu. A familiar suffocating feeling threatens to overtake me, even after so many years...I swallow back my tears, now is not the time to grieve. It's five years since my mother passed away, that was the last time I saw my house. It had looked different then - bleak and gloomy.

I break out of my reverie as Geeta Bai unlocks the door for me, I step in and am momentarily blinded, the curtains are all drawn, a musty smell crawls around me, I am suddenly cold, the house is cold, I stop myself before I think of what it reminds me of. I shudder.

"I come once a week inside to clean but I am growing old and I am not doing justice to this house. Beta, are you really going to sell this house?"

"Yes, I am", I look away resolutely. I have made up my mind, after sleepless nights of struggling with guilt, after endless hours of discussing it with Ankit, I don't have the strength to be sentimentally foolish now.

"I should come with you Sapna. It's not easy selling a house. Those village folks are pretty cunning; they will take you for a ride."

"No, I need to do this alone. I want to let go, by myself..."

I open all the curtains, sunlight streams in to waken sleeping nooks and corners of the house. I turn to Geeta Bai.

"Geeta Bai, I am here on a short trip, I need to get the house clean and more presentable. I have already talked to a few people who are interested in buying the house. They will be coming next week and before that, we have a lot of work to do. Your daughter-in-law Champa, does she also do house-work?"

Geeta Bai listens carefully all the while, "Yes beta. She is very good at it too..."

"Ok good. Ask her to come at 7 am sharp tomorrow. We have work to do, Geeta Bai, to make this house, what it was."

A sad look crosses her face for an instant but she smiles and says, "Yes beta, we have to work hard...the house deserves it after all these years..."

She walks out slowly and I wonder if she meant to say, "…after all these years of your neglect"?

Ankit had insisted that I book a motel room nearby, "You can't stay alone in the house, Sapna."

"I am not scared Ankit! And Geeta Bai sleeps in the servant quarters anyway..."

"At least ask her to sleep in the house too...I am getting worried already!"

"Hey, I am not a little girl..." and then in a milder tone, I tell him, "I promise to be careful."

I don't feel that confident now. Night seems to have unveiled a different face of the house, I hear moaning sounds, I see ghosts in the dark and the whole house seems to creak. I have an urge to call Geeta Bai to sleep over or call Ankit. It's too early in the morning for him and he will unnecessarily worry for me. I turn the bedroom light on and try to sleep.

What did my mom say to put me to sleep, when I was a child? I try to recall forgotten words, hoping that their familiarity would calm me down. "So jaa Rajakumari...", sleep, my princess..."kal tera rajkumar aayega...dholi me bhitake tujhe leke jayega...", your prince will come tomorrow...to carry you in a palanquin...the sound of her voice comes rushing back to me and I hear it as if she whispers them to me now, I remember her as she was when she said the story to me, beautiful and kind, I almost smell the sandalwood paste that she used to smear on her face everyday, if I insisted too much, she would put a little bit on my palm and I would be thrilled, I see strings of jasmine flowers fluttering lightly against her long braid...and she puts me to sleep once again, after so many years.

***

The house is falling apart, brick by brick. Each thud seems to send a wave of pain through me. Thud, thud, thud...

"Sapna beta, are you ok? Sapna betaaa!", Geeta Bai's raspy voice wakes me up finally, what is she doing here at this ungodly hour, breaking the door down? And then all the previous day's events come rushing back to me. I stumble down to the door and am annoyed that she looks so bright and fresh early in the morning. Behind her, a small woman stands, head bent with her pallu covering her head.

Geeta Bai introduces her daughter-in-law with a flourish, "Sapna, this is Champa, you have met her before no?" Champa looks up and gives me a shy smile and as she steps forward, an even smaller figure huddles close to her, almost hidden by her saree.

"And this is my ladla-pyaara, Kishan", she lifts the child deftly and leans towards me, the child hugs his grandmother tightly and looks scared. With my disheveled hair and white night gown, I must have looked like a ghost to the kid.

I smile and welcome Champa in and am back to business, "Champa, glad you could come. Geeta Bai must have told you that am selling the house, we need to clean the house, dust and polish everything, that's a lot of work."

She nods and says nothing. I turn to Geeta Bai, "Geeta Bai, I need a cup of your strong filter coffee, my head is pounding..."

Geeta Bai gets started on the coffee while Champa and Kishan follow me.

"So, where shall we start? Let's start cleaning my father's office room first", I pick the room that will affect me the least. I lost my father when I was ten, I remember just that he used to be a tall, well-built man with big hands, but they were gentle when he hugged me, I didn't pick up any of his traits except his reading habit. Every night, he would pick a different book to read to me, I wouldn't understand much of it, but the fact that my busy, important father took the time to read for me, compelled me to sit patiently and listen to the way the words rolled out of his mouth. He wore a turban that he removed at nights and he had the biggest mustache that I had ever seen. And that's all I knew about my father. Years later, when I would ignore mom's calls, lost in a book, she would come into the library irritated, but the worry lines on her face would always crease into a smile when she saw me cuddled in dad's huge rocking chair. That's when I felt closest to my father, she probably sensed that, or perhaps she was reminded of her husband that she admired, maybe even dared to love and lost so early in life.

The bolt creaks open and I turn to Champa, "Tomorrow morning, get some oil and make sure these bolts become smooth."

Besides the dust that the room has accumulated, it looks just the same. I walk to the ornate rosewood table - it retains its distinctive smell, and pick the open book lying on the table, "Did I leave it there, leaving the story incomplete? How long has it been lying there - my precious childhood memory, left carelessly on the table?" I suddenly have an urge to get the table shipped to America. I can easily afford it – Ankit earns enough for both of us - and Ankit might end up loving such a well-made table and...I stop myself and turn to Champa who is studying me with a not-so-shy curiosity, "Umm...I'll dust the table, open the curtains and start dusting the bookshelves. Keep the kid away, all that dust is not good for him."

And to my surprise, the child starts dusting the lowermost shelf - that's all he can reach - Champa just smiles and starts cleaning the higher shelves.

I dawdle over my task, trying to concentrate as conflicting feelings fight for attention in my head, I want to let go while holding on as fast as I could…back at home, it had seemed foolish for me to hold on to this house, a waste of money and effort spent dealing with the maintenance people who I knew were charging us double the normal rate…

"Memsaab, the shelves are done. I am going to sweep and clean the floor with a wet cloth."

"Call me Sapna", I say it more rudely than I want to but I am not memsaab, my mother, sentimental and stubborn...

"You can't make me sell the house Sapna. I can sell my wedding jewellery and maintain it. I will not sell it", obstinate, like a child. When my mom got into these moods, there was no arguing with her.

"Ma, all am asking you to do is to think about it. You can come and live with us in America. Ankit will be more than happy...and who is here anyway?"

"This is my place, Sapna. I let you select your husband but I can't let you govern my life. This is the house my husband lived in and I will breathe my last here..."

And she did, my stubborn, beautiful mother...

"Sapna beta, your coffee...", Geeta Bai is about to place the steaming hot cup of coffee on the table when I say, "Careful, you might stain the finish!" and Geeta Bai asks, "Does it matter beta? Isn't it all going away anyway?"

I would probably not have put up with her insolence any other time but am already tired today and I take my coffee, wordlessly.

***

Three hours later, my father's office is ready for visitors, gleaming and proud, like my father was. Is that what happens to a house eventually, after decades? Does it don the qualities and quirks of the person who lived there the most and made it their own? I know I should probably call Ankit but the ISD phone booth is fifteen minutes away and I don't have the strength to go there, I tell myself I will call tomorrow. My stomach growls as I wonder which room I should take on next.

Geeta Bai calls for me, "Sapna beta, come down and have your lunch. Hai Ram, what will memsaab say if she finds you working like this?", why does she always talk in present-tense as if my mother were around watching us sell what is hers...

Onion Sambhar, rotis, crisp, roasted potatoes and rice and my irritation melts away, "Thank you, Geeta Bai..."

"Hush beta, eat first", I silently follow her command. There is something about her that makes me do that.

She has set a place for me at the dining table and today, of all days, I don't wish to eat alone. I carry my plate to the kitchen and settle down on the floor amidst loud protests from Geeta Bai.

"Sapna beta, the people buying this house, when are they coming beta?"

"Day after tomorrow. I think they said morning works for them."

"Ah ok. So...", she makes a round ball with rice and alu curry in it and plops it into her mouth and asks, "do you know what they plan to do with the house?"

"What do you mean 'plan to do'? They will live in it, like everyone else..."

"But, that's not what Sevanthi says..."

I am getting annoyed with all this circuitous talk, "Who is Sevanthi now?"

"She works for the memsaab that wants to buy this house..."

I gape at Geeta Bai, was she playing me all along? "If you knew who was going to buy the house, why did you ask me? You might as well tell me what you know since you seem to know much more than me!"

"What does this old woman know beta? All Sevanthi told me was that they were planning to remodel the house, they thought the current design will probably not work for them...they also thought the entrance was too...loud, maybe rebuild the entrance..."

"What? I love the entrance, its beautiful! I love the Ganesh and elephant carvings on the door...", I am angry at this memsaab who is already bad-mouthing my house.

"What to do beta? When we sell the house, we should not care about all this...it is difficult to maintain after all..."

"No, of course not, it's a wonderful house and ...", what am I saying? I look at Geeta Bai's face closely and her eyes seem to challenge me, "It's a wonderful house, isn't it beta?"

"Yes, but am sure we needn't worry about them. They will take good care of the house. Let's get back to work."

And through-out the day, that nagging thought stays behind - "Will they really bring down the entrance and remodel my house, the house that belonged to my parents?"

***

It's dusk and Champa and I sit down on make-shift chairs in the backyard - inverted plastic buckets. I realize she is quite beautiful, dusk has a way of adding beauty to everything that it embraces, I listen as Champa talks, once she became comfortable with me and I became aware that how efficient she was with her work, we warmed up to each other and she became quite talkative.

"He is also very attached to this house...", she doesn't call her husband by name and I think it's charming...

"Ok, enough about the house...tell me..."

"No Sapna didi...I can understand why...look how she stands...no wonder memsaab was proud of it..."

And we both look at the house. I wonder what it is about the house that has drawn my mother, Geeta Bai and now her son and daughter-in-law into its arms...and as I take in each feature of the house, I notice a delicate glow to the house and am almost proud. I begin to understand why Champa says, "She"...I close my eyes and pray that I am taking the right decision.


***

The next morning, Champa greets me with a "What next didi?"

"Let's take my room next..."

I walk in behind Champa and Kishan and Kishan immediately runs to a rocking horse, my rocking horse, and sits on it. Champa begins to chide him when I gesture that it's ok.

I open my old cupboard, the one that mother wouldn't sell or give away even after I left to America. A few salwar kameez and skirts, an old box of trinkets, I turn to Champa, "Here, take them."

"No Sapna didi..."

"Take them. I want you to have them. It will remind you of me later."

For a second I think she will hug me but she just nods happily.

An hour later, we are almost done with my room and I am surprised, almost disappointed that nothing in there brought back any memories at all, it was as if when I packed to leave to the US, I had packed away all my memories too...

By evening we have finished almost the entire house, except Mom's room. But hey, if I managed my room, mom's room would be easy too.

Kishan rushes into the room first and we follow him inside. I know she is there, my mother, I can smell her as soon as I walk in. Even Kishan seems to slow down and walk with us inside. Champa turns to me and says, "I will be right back memsaab, I want to check if ma needs my help to cut vegetables for dinner..." and she leaves me alone with the child. I smile reassuringly at him and walk towards my mother's cupboard. Her room is small, a small, neatly-made bed - has it been this way since she left me? - a cupboard with a few pictures of Gods and Goddesses and an old photo of my father on top of it and a night stand. Something catches in my throat when I look at the lone photo frame on the night stand - a picture taken years ago of our family leaning against our new car...Geeta Bai stands behind, deferentially, she seems younger, happier...we all do. And standing behind us, as if guarding us, with its arms around us, is Ananda Nivas.

I sit down on the bed and take a deep breath. Kishan stands next to me and I notice that he has his hand on mine - for support, for him or me?

Is this a sign? Is mom trying to tell me something? Why didn't I just let Champa clean this room...and I am suddenly angry with my mom for having played such a mean trick on me.

When Champa walks in a few minutes later, I have already dried my tears and have removed the photo from the frame.

"Start cleaning here, I will be right back", I instruct and rush out before she can say anything. I place the photo carefully in my file of house papers and decide to take a walk to the phone booth, Ankit can get up early once for me.

I get the connection almost immediately, the shop keeper offers me cool drinks twice and I decline politely twice.

"Ankit, Good morning..."

"Sapna....Sapna, is that you", I feel sorry for him as I listen to his groggy, sleep-filled voice, "Why didn't you call yesterday, I don't even have a number to reach you!"

I cut him off, "They are coming tomorrow..."

"They who?"

"The people who want to buy the house...Geeta Bai says they might want to remodel the house..."

"That's good, so they really intend to buy the house, if they are already making plans to remodel..."

"No, you don't understand. I don't want them to..."

"You don't want them to buy the house?"

"No, to remodel the house..."

"But you want them to buy it, don't you? You told me you wanted to let go and it was just a big maintenance hassle and..."

"I know all that...I found this old photo...of our family..."

"Sapna, are you ok? Listen, if you are not ready to sell the house, then don't."

"No!", I am angry that he thinks I will go back on my decision, "I want to sell the house, so wish me luck. Will call you tomorrow once they sign the deal."

"Ok...good luck and Sapna?"

"Uh Huh?"

"Take care of you for me."

I smile as I walk in the light rain towards my house. By night, I am running a temperature and Geeta Bai insists on sleeping on a mat, on the floor beside my bed, "What? Leave you alone with such a fever, memsaab will..."

By now, I have given up on her. Yes, memsaab will be angry. I know. As thunder rumbles in the distance, I am unable to sleep - excited, confused, anxious, feverish all at once. So, Geeta Bai and I talk through the night,

"Do you remember Sapna beta, you used to such a naughty little girl, never listening to memsaab. But she would never lay a hand on you...you would pull out all her roses, get your hands pricked with the thorns and bawl loudly and would demand a gift to sop crying...memsaab never got angry with you..."

And suddenly I remember mom's flashing eyes when she refused to sell the house. Had I finally made her angry? I hear the angry sound of thunder in response.

After a few more hours, after Geeta Bai has smeared Tiger balm all around my forehead and neck, I fall asleep as she talks in a soft voice about her past and mine.

***

The next morning, I try to be or at least appear cheerful, in spite of a stuffy nose and a dull headache.

Geeta Bai stands next to my bed and announces even more cheerfully, "The streets are all water-logged, it's difficult to even walk, leave alone drive anywhere...", and hands me a hot cup of coffee.

I groan. And now the next obstacle presents itself, is there no end?

The day passes by sluggishly, imitating the weather. Kishan is cranky, stuck inside the house all day long and even Champa appears frazzled.

By evening, I am about to run to the phone booth to call up the buyers - they are five hours late - when the bell rings. Geeta Bai appears not to have heard it from the kitchen and Champa is busy pacifying Kishan and so I walk down to greet the potential buyers.

I am not impressed. I expected a traditional aunty in a salwar kameez if not a saree, an uncle equally traditional and instead a lady barely my age, in jeans and a t-shirt and a nervous looking young man stand at my door step.

"Hi, How are you? You must be Sapna!" The accent tells all. This kind of faked, polite accent cannot be anything but an NRI accent. Geeta Bai has suddenly become cheerful, did she read my mind again? and is asking them whether they would like some coffee.

"So you see, I was like, chalo Rahul, why don't we buy this quaint house here? I love the place, it's charming and ancient...and Rahul loves it too."

Rahul nods unhappily and keeps looking around the house and I want his wife to shut up, so I stand up and say, "Feel free to look around. Geeta Bai will get your coffee here in a minute."

They walk upstairs, the woman looking lost and quite foolish, she keeps up her babble as her husband still looks around him nervously as if the house were going to attack him.

"What shall I do Kishan? Will you also turn against me?"

But Kishan just smiles back, clearly not understanding a word of what I said.

"Did you say something Sapna beta? Such nice people no? I am sure they will take good care of the house..."

No more games, Geeta Bai. I stand up, "I am not selling the house, Geeta Bai. Not to these people."

"I see..."

The lost couple saunters back in and start sipping their coffee.

"You have a lovely house", I hate, hate her accent, "it's quite sad in places, almost falling apart but I am sure we can fix that." I would like to fix your face now, lady.

"Err...how old did you say the house was?", Mr.Nervous wants to know.

"Atleast a hundren years old."

He draws in such a shaky breath, I am afraid he will have an attack of sorts. I wait for them to finish their coffee. They sounded so different on the phone and didn't they say they were from this place? Maybe I spoke to someone else? I need to find that crazy agent who convinced me they were "solid buyers". And now I realize the depth of my foolishness, coming here depending on this one proposal. No matter, I will find another buyer...I must.

"I thought you lived around here..."

"Oh mummy and pappa used to. They said they even talked to you about this house. We have been in American for God knows how long...", she laughs, "we just thought, it'd be cool to buy a house in my native village, memories and all, you know?"

I know. That's why I cannot sell this house to you. Aloud, I say, "I talked to my husband last night and he seems to be having second thoughts about selling the house. I might have to call you back."

"Oh...", she seems disappointed, the husband, relieved.

A few minutes later, they find themselves outside the house and I close the door behind them, mentally preparing myself for the confrontation.

"Geeta Bai. You can clear out the cups later, I want to talk to you."

"Sure beta. Shall I get you some coffee too?" Could this innocent woman be as crafty as I think she is? I don't know yet.

"What do you want Geeta Bai?"

"This old woman wants a million things beta..."

"No, I mean why did you not want me to sell this house? What could you possibly gain by it?"

I don't care if I hurt her feelings, I needed to know.

"I didn't say that beta and what could I possibly gain by it?"

"Don't turn around my questions back to me! I am going to find a buyer for this house before I leave, I have made up my mind, is that clear?"

"Of course beta, whatever you wish. I am sure memsaab would have agreed..."

"Don't drag my mother into this!" and then I lower my voice and ask her once again, "Geeta Bai, you are like a mother to me, please tell me what's on your mind...I know all along, you have been hinting that I should not sell this house...and I am having second thoughts now...maybe you are right, mom wouldn't approve...maybe I shouldn't sell this house...Geeta Bai, will you live in this house with your family if I did not sell this house?"

Maybe that's what the old woman wanted and I don't blame her. She has done enough for the family...

She straightens up suddenly and her voice changes abruptly, "I can never accept this offer Sapna beta. This house is where memsaab lived, I am here to provide service to her and now to you. I had no intentions of taking over the house..."

"No, I am sorry, that came out wrong...", did it really?

To my surprise, she says, "Yes, it did", and I notice her pride, hidden from my eyes till today, "You hurt an old lady beta by thinking you can bribe her with this house. Memsaab loved this house, every brick in it and you sitting in your America thought you could sell this house with a few phone calls? Did you find out if those people cared? What would happen to this house once they bought it? Don't you still hear memsaab's voice in these old walls? I hear them beta...I lost your mother, who was like a daughter to me, I can't afford to lose her again..."

And here she cries, but proudly, each tear drop falling for a precise reason, the right reason, unlike mine, falling down for my mistakes. I am not crying for my mother now, I am crying because I hurt a woman who was like a mother to me...I am crying for Geeta Bai, I am crying for my home that I almost lost...

***

It's as if everything happened in fast-forward, it's already time for me to leave and I don't want to leave. But this time, I know that Geeta Bai and Champa will take good care of the house ("No Sapna didi, that is too much, I can't accept that much money from you", Champa had said, but I insisted, she deserved it), I know I have taken the right decision, no doubts to haunt me during dark nights, no flashing eyes to remind me of attachment and heritage...just the comforting smell of chandan and jasmine; I have made peace with my mom. I have let go...

I wake him up, early in the morning again,

"Hey Ankit"

"Hey yourself. So, did it all work out as you planned?"

"No, my whole plan fell apart...thank God. I know I'll be annoyed with the huge maintenance bills we get and all but I know we can at least show our child where grandma lived and where grandpa told me his stories..."

"Sounds like something a wise man told you not long ago...", darn, I remember now, he did say that, didn't he?, "I guessed that you wouldn't sell the house, Sapna"

"Yes, I bet you read my mind...I don't buy your story Ankit and how do you know I didn't sell the house?"

"I know."

"Because....?"

"Because you are your mother's daughter."

And I walk back to my house, smiling in the rain again. I am still smiling as the flight takes off to take me home, away from my home.

***

***Excerpt***