Silambattam

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"How old are you?"

"Eighteen..."

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

"I..."

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

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

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

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

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

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

"So why don't you?"

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

"Elope?"

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

"And what if you don't?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"He turned towards me, startled.

"I am Raji..."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I have something for you..."

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

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

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

And then aaji remains silent.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

***

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


***Excerpt***

Rayil Snegam.

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

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


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

***

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

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

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

***

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

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

***

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Going to Bangalore for a vacation?"

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

"I am going to meet my fiancé."

Lest he should get any ideas.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I am sorry, I didn’t mean to…”

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

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

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

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

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

Because at that instant, our train derailed.

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

***

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

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

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

***

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