Pieces of life

Book review.

2010-08-26T08:14:00.004-05:00

http://coffeeconversationandmore.blogspot.com/2010/08/last-laugh-book-review.html

3 minute short story: The red table

2010-03-22T13:36:00.004-05:00

3 minute short story based on this photo: NPR

That was our table. All shiny and red and exciting but if you looked closely, you would see the cheap plastic falling apart in the corners, one of the legs was wobbly and it was placed close to the door. I remember feeling annoyed at the blast of cold air that would hit our face when someone walked into the café. Come to think of it, the table was much like you and me. But, it was our table and that was all that mattered to me in those days. I can’t really remember why we picked that particular table on our first date. We just did and after that, that drafty old corner became ours. Do you remember that you touched me first sitting at that very table? You sort of sneaked your hand to pick up the plate and when your fingers grazed mine, you let them remain there for a moment before drawing them away. I remember the silent blush that rose up your cheeks when that happened. But, we were just sixteen then. What did we know of love really?

When two years later, you produced a tiny velvet box and placed it quietly on the red table, you should have heard my heart pound. My fingers shook as I took the box and glanced upon the tiniest but prettiest diamond ring I had ever seen. I said yes and at that moment, the table sort of wobbled and we had laughed. Oh! How we had laughed! You had tears in your eyes and for a few seconds there I couldn’t tell if you were laughing or crying with joy.

I remember coming there alone just once. Two days before Charlie was born. We had a huge row over something – it had seemed so important then but I can’t even remember what it was about now. The waiter had looked at me questioningly – how come I was alone? I ignored him and ordered for two by mistake and then corrected myself. I did not touch my food that day. Every time the cold air hit my face, I would look up to see if you had followed me to our table to say you are sorry. But, you didn’t come. Finally, I rose to leave and opened the door and there you stood with a huge bouquet of daisies. The waiter grinned at me and showed me a thumbs up sign. How could I not forgive you? You never gave me a chance to stay angry at you long enough. And now, I can’t even recall those arguments so I can make myself miss you a little bit less. I hate you for that. If you offered me a bouquet of daisies today, I would refuse. I want you not those damned daisies, don’t you understand? I want you with me so I can live.

Nobody told me death would be like this. You didn’t tell me you were planning to die on me and take my life with you. Or I wouldn’t have sat there with you on that first date. I wouldn’t have accepted that tiny diamond ring. Or the daisies.

Why does it feel like this all the time? As if time had stood still but I am still waiting at this table expecting you to appear any time and make a silly face at me, make me laugh. Cry. Live again? I have not come here since you left. But today, I am here. There is no one at our table. Just an abandoned newspaper fluttering now and then.

Book sales at CRY Walk/Run

2009-08-31T10:57:00.006-05:00

Showcased The Last Laugh @ Child Relief & You Walk/Run! Donated $2 per sale towards CRY :-)

Available in India!

2009-08-14T08:28:00.002-05:00

The Last Laugh is now available in India @ pothi.com:

http://pothi.com/pothi/book/ramya-sethuraman-last-laugh

And it's much more reasonably priced that $11.25 * 47 Rupees!

Do leave reviews on the pothi page if you happen to buy it!

The Last Laugh available @

2009-08-11T21:17:00.002-05:00

Createspace:

https://www.createspace.com/3375429

Amazon:

http://tinyurl.com/http-thelastlaugh-com

More details on:

The Last Laugh page on Facebook

Finally -- a real book!

2009-07-30T12:58:00.005-05:00

Finally took the plunge! No...not that, I got married in 2005 :) I mean, I am publishing my own book! A collection of short stories:

It will be up on sale on createspace and amazon soon! Do tell if it rocked or otherwise!

Updating currently.

2009-02-19T10:54:00.007-06:00

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

Lakshmi writes.

2008-09-05T10:42:00.004-05:00

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

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

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

You always called me “amma”.

~~~***~~~

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

~~~***~~~

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

~~~***~~~

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

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

~~~***~~~

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

~~~***~~~

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

~~~***~~~

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

The prophecy.

2008-02-26T15:40:00.033-06:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

~*~*~

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

~*~*~

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

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

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

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

"Hey Lallu, what's so funny?"

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

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

Nothing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What if he has buck teeth?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Radhika...."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

~*~*~

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Oh..."

"Ready to eat?"

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

"Umm, do you have idlis or uthapam?"

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

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

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

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

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

"Umm ok..."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Ok, so where are you now?"

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

"I'm coming, stay put girl."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

~*~*~

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

~*~*~

Silambattam

2007-06-25T19:30:00.002-05:00

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.

Rayil Snegam.

2007-04-09T20:02:00.002-05:00

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.

***

To India, with love.

2006-10-10T20:00:00.000-05:00

"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...

***

Why I became Krishna.

2006-07-10T20:41:00.000-05:00

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.

***

Some more chocolate.

2006-05-17T10:23:00.000-05:00

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.”

Letting go of Ananda Nivas.

2006-04-21T22:15:00.002-05:00

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.

***

Radha and I.

2006-04-18T21:45:00.002-05:00

Radha and I were best friends, the kind that other girls envied. We laughed for the same silly jokes, we had similar tastes (I would later realize just how similar), we were both toppers in our classes and we could make each other laugh and cry. And we were fiercely protective about each other.

And still I broke her heart. I tore it into little shreds that reflected not a bit of my love for her, my almost painfully intense love for her. I broke her heart fully knowing that she let me do it, knowing that I had the power to do it. And I broke it because I let one weak moment of envy overtake my senses.

And now I see her broken in front of me, still holding on to me for support and I hug her in a guilty attempt to console her, my hug a pale shadow of what it used to be - tight, so close that I could hear her heart beat, so close that I felt I would let nothing come in between us. But I did. I came in between us.

***

I was the prettier one ("Kalpana, some poor guy will fall down hard for those big brown eyes of yours"). She was not what you might consider beautiful, but if you took the time to look, you will notice a delicate, almost vulnerable feeling about her, the kind of feeling that wants you to protect her from all the evil in the world.

But, how can I protect her from me?

Radha always used to say, "Kalpana, you will marry a rich NRI and then what will I do Deekra?" Deekra, Deekra - her honey-like words swirled around me to haunt me at nights, Deekra, like a mother calls her child...

"Radha, enough with this nonsense! I don't want to marry a stupid NRI with a false accent! I want to go to exotic places, I want to do my MBA, I want to fall madly in love with a romantic city and make it my own...I don't want to spend my life, catering to the needs of Mr.NRI!"

She would look shocked. My dear Radha, so naive, so genuine in her feelings, even then I could never give back what she gave me so generously - trust, steadfast and complete.

"Kalpana...", she would begin hesitatingly, "do you think someone will fall in love with me? Maybe if I had been a bit more tall and fair, like you...you have the face of an angel, Kalpana!"

And I would disagree, my eyes are too small, my legs too thin, while I secretly accept the praise that she heaped on me.

"Come on Radha! Who cannot fall in love with you? You are smart, witty and perhaps the best wife that a man could hope for!"

And for the smile that would light up her entire face, what would I not give up? How ironic that I, the sentry guarding this delicate smile on her face, would wipe it all away...until all that remained was a face devoid of the life that had made it sparkle.

***

We stayed at a Girls hostel, Radha was in her final year of B.Sc Physics and I was in my final year of BA, Literature. We would often end up staying late, many nights to complete our assignments or prepare for an exam but would spend most of the time talking. I never tired of our conversations, probably because Radha always let me talk. She listened as a mother would, to her child. Sometimes, she would sing, if I insisted and I would fall asleep, listening to her voice. I always envied her voice, smooth and carefree, passionate and powerful, very unlike her self. Maybe it was her voice that killed our friendship, maybe something so pure and compelling should not have existed at all, if only her voice had been a little more coarse, her sense of melody not so flawless...if only, he hadn't closed his eyes to me, to hear her sing...

He, the he that our lives entwined around, struggling for a hold, until one of us had to let go...and Radha being who she was did let go. What she did not know was that I made her let go.

Anand, the joy of our lives. The joy that we both wanted to capture and hold in our hands, the joy that I snatched from her life?

He studied at a nearby Engineering college. Radha was selected as our college candidate for the intra-college individual singing competition. I stuck along for moral support. Our college bus took us, along with other participants on a rainy Thursday morning. We played anthakshari in the bus, joked about the boys in the Engineering college, shared girly secrets and laughed...perhaps we had laughed too much then, perhaps we cried later to make up for that bus trip.

I saw him first. Tall, lanky, a stubbled chin, a cap worn backwards, a tshirt declaring, "I don't care!", jeans that looked like they had not been washed for years and the most bewitching eyes that a man could have! I hated him for trying to be cool and I turned back to look at him thrice. I stealed a glance at Radha and she seemed lost, silently mouthing the song that she was going to sing, boys nowhere in her thoughts, certainly not this kind.

"Hey Anand, one of the girls is a no-show for the singing competition! Substitute her?"

So Anand must be some events-coordinator guy...

"Hmm...let's wait until evening. What's her name?"

"Radha...Radha Shiv...something"

I felt Radha break out of her reverie. She rushed towards them and said, in a breathless voice, "I am Radha...sorry, we got delayed!"

"No problem babes, the competition isn't until 5", and with a grin the two guys vanished into the crowd. "Babes?" That's so not cool.

And to my surprise, Radha turned to me and said almost shyly, "What was his name? Anand?"

And I wondered why I didn't like the sound of that name in her mouth.

***

A pleasant breeze rustled the leaves in the trees, they seemed to sway lightly to and fro, a flock of birds flew across the sky and even the fluttering of their wings seemed to carry a rhythm, a light rain fell on me and it was as if I noticed all this just in a corner of my mind, a frame that resonated with the pretty picture in front of me, my Radha singing on stage. And even as she sang, I knew she would win, her voice seemed to flow all around us and take us with it...I closed my eyes and heard her sing, no words, just the sound of her voice.

She finished and it was as if a spell had been broken, a pause and then suddenly everyone started clapping at once, I clapped the loudest. I looked around to capture the expressions on the faces around me so that I could tell Radha, I couldn't wait. Until I saw him clapping.

He was standing, clapping with a careless abandon, his eyes focused unwaveringly on Radha and that was when I stopped clapping, that was when I lost the smile on my face. And as I watched, he walked up to the stage and held out his hand to her. I watched, almost holding my breath as she extended a shy hand towards him, I watched him hold her hand with both of his hands and shake it. And before I could react, the light drizzle suddenly turned into a downpour, saving me the need to confront my feelings.

As I was about to leave, Radha caught my eye and waved excitedly. I hesitated for an instant, turned back and left. I caught an auto and came back to the hostel, headed straight to the mess and ate everything that I saw. I walked back alone to my room and started leafing through an old issue of Women's Era.

She came in after an hour or so. I heard her footsteps near the door and wondered what I would tell her.

"You didn't wait for me...you didn't even come with us in the bus..."

"I had a headache and you seemed to be too busy to notice me anyway..." My words sounded false even to me but to my surprise she said, "Deekra, sorry, please don't be angry."

She sat down next to me and leaned against my shoulder.

"Deekra, am so happy, Anand told me he thought I would surely win. He said..."

"Radha, you didn't ask me if I liked it?"

"Kalpana, what's come over you today? I don't have to ask you, I know you liked it, it's one of your favourite songs, remember?"

And then she started humming the song, I closed my eyes and tried to forget what I felt, standing in the rain, and slowly the image dissolved and soon I sang with her too, in a voice high-pitched and a bit too cheerful, as if to make up for what happened earlier.

***

Things moved pretty fast after that day. The more Radha talked about Anand, the more she described his bold antics and exciting talk ("An adventure, Radha, marry me and I promise you a roller-coaster ride for life!"), the more she confided her own feelings for him, the more distant I felt from her. I wished I could scream at her and make her stop. But, I did not. I heard every single word she said about Anand and at night, wondered if maybe a quirk of fate had delivered Anand to her instead of me. What if I had talked to him first? How could he fall in love with Radha then? Radha, who was shorter and fatter than me, who...and I suddenly stopped, wondering when I stopped being her friend.

But, that's not true. I still loved her. I still felt a gnawing, rise from the pit of my chest, when I saw her hurt or sad, a feeling that overwhelmed me and scared me for what she could make me feel. And then I wondered, did she feel the same about me? If she did, how could she not see in my eyes, what I felt for him? How could she be so selfish?

A few weeks later, we both sat on the small verandah. I read a novel and she just sat there and smiled at everything. I had an uneasy feeling.

"Kalpana, do you want to come out with Anand and me? I mean, if he is the one - I don't know if he wants to marry me - but if he is, I want you two to get to know each other. I want to know what you think of him, Kalpana."

I wanted to say no, for all the right reasons but instead I said in a light voice, "Sure, why not? He can't be that bad after all..."

"He said his friend, do you remember him from the other day at the competition? wants to ask you out and maybe all four of us could go out for coffee..."

I vaguely remembered a guy talking to Anand that day but I wasn't interested in that guy. I wanted to talk to Anand and what was wrong with that? She wants me to get to know him better...I should, maybe once I talk to him some more, I wouldn't feel jealous anymore, maybe I would like him much less...

"Kalpana...?", she placed a hand on my arm, "Is something wrong? You don't like Anand?", she was studying my face carefully and I wondered if she had read my mind once again.

"I don't know Radha, I'll come because you asked me to but I can't promise to like him."

And I had become a liar too. Jealousy, envy and now lies had made their way slowly into our lives, all because of a stranger! I gripped her hand and said, "Don't worry Radha, I will like him..."

And silently, I told myself - only a little, not so much that it hurts.

***

His friend, Jagan called me and politely asked me out and I said yes. He seemed to be a nice guy but for some reason I couldn't bring myself to be interested in what he said.

That evening, I dressed with care. A bright blue salwar kameez ("It's made for you, Kalpana!"), long earrings that dazzled when they caught the light, bangles (I can't remember when I wore them last) and my long hair left loose.

"Do you think I should wear a saree? No? Too old-fashioned?", Radha asked as she rummaged through our cupboard, she picked a saree and a salwar kameez and held it out to me, when she saw me, her mouth dropped.

"Why Kalpana? You look stunning! Jagan is a goner today!" and I laughed along with her, wondering if I had indeed dressed so carefully for someone that I had spoken ten minutes to. Why not? I had only seen Anand once, how could I be dressing up for him? I shook my head, as if to shake my silly thoughts away.

I noticed that Radha had picked a plain looking salwar kameez for herself, her haid tied neatly in a pony tail, as if she had decided not to compete. With me. Did she know?

And even before I could push it away, a voice spoke in my head, "How can he fall for her when you are with her?"

We caught an auto to the Coffee shop and waited nervously outside, both of us lost in our thoughts. Radha had been silent through out the ride but I was too involved in my worries to ask why.

"Radha!", he waved as he parked the bike. Jagan let out a low whistle when he saw me and I hoped he had heard that.

We walked inside and sat down at a booth, Anand and Radha facing Jagan and me.

"So, Kalpana", I looked up almost immediately, the first time he said my name and my heart was beating so fast, I was scared he would hear it, "Radha tells me you are her best friend and I have no hope of capturing her heart unless you give the go ahead?"

"Radha says the silliest things, Anand. So, shall we order?"

And every time Anand started a conversation with "Radha", I ended up saying something mean, subtle but stinging. Radha was strangely silent throughout.

Even as we ate, I couldn't stop thinking of him, I hated the way his hands lightly rested on her shoulders, I hated the way he whispered to her, asking her if she liked her food, I hated him and I hated Radha.

After our awkward dinner, we broke up in pairs, Anand with Radha and Jagan stuck with me. We stood just enough apart to not be able to hear what we said.

"Kalpana, do you know Anand from before?"

"Uh...no, I saw him at the music competition..."

I could hardly concentrate on our conversation. I kept stealing a glance at Anand and Radha. He sat casually on his bike and held her hand. What did he see in her?

"Kalpana?"

"Oh sorry, you were saying?"

"I am saying, it's not worth your friendship. Don't do it.", and without explanation, he walked towards Anand and said, "Hey, it's getting late, why don't you two love-birds find another time to talk?"

Radha blushed and looked away. Anand grinned. I felt angry and disappointed. We were saying goodbye and he had hardly spoken a sentence to me the whole time.

That night, after we lay down in our beds, I heard Radha's voice in the darkness, "Kalpana, do you like him?"

I pretended to sleep.

"I think he will propose to me...should I say yes?"

"No!" and my head screamed no even as I said it.

She sat up on her bed, "Kalpana, what did you say? Did you say no? Kalpana, look at me!"

And then I spoke the words that I would repent for, for a long time to come, "He hit on me today...I don't like him."

"Kalpana...what are you saying? When? I was with him the whole time!"

"Don't you believe me? Now, he is more important than me?", I was shouting now.

"When...Kalpana, please tell me..."

"When...when you had gone to the ladies room, Jagan left to make a call and Anand asked me out next week..."

"No...no deekra, enough...don't do this..."

I didn't understand what she said. I was too busy crying inside. Why? Why did I do that? I don't know. I am not even sure if I wanted Anand or I just wanted him to not be with Radha, to not see her so completely happy.

Radha said nothing. She didn't even cry that night. The tears would come later. She didn't ask me any more questions and I didn't have the strength to answer them anyway. I was too busy destroying our lives.

***

That was a month ago. A month filled with unhappy nights, Radha cried silently sometimes, sometimes with me. I cried for what I had told her and for what I could not. Now that Anand was no longer in our lives, I began to hover around Radha with a kind of fierce devotion that only guilt can bring. I took care of her, wiped her tears and even sang to her when she couldn't.

Anand called her many times. He even tried to reach me and we both turned away from him. We held on to ourselves and consoled each other for what she had lost and for what I made her lose. But we were once again best friends, bound together by something stronger than before.

***

"And then, what happened? How come I have never met Radha aunty?"

"And then, I don't know, we moved on with our lives. I came to the US to do my MBA, met your daddy and married him. Radha stayed back in Bombay, I don't know whom she married, if she even married...and I don't know why I am telling you all this, Sanju."

Sanjana, my thirteen year old daughter, she shares this quality with her dad - to make me tell her exactly what she wants to know about me, I can't hide anything from her, or her dad. I had told him about Anand and Radha within a few weeks of getting to know him.

"And today, Radha aunty is coming..."

"Are you going to tell her you are sorry, ma?"

"Yes...and many more things that I didn't tell her so many years back..."

We are both silent, when Sunil walks in, "Shouldn't you girls be getting ready for your special visitor? What's all this talking business?"

We both grin and get up to get ready.

The door bell rings at 6.30 PM sharp, always on time, just like before.

I open the door and the years dissolve between us, I don't know how long I stand at the door hugging her or how long the tears continue to fall down my cheeks.

"Deekra, I can't tell you how much I missed you..."

We talk for hours, sharing old stories, catching up on our lives, my MBA, when Radha came to the US, she is happy being a house wife, she doesn't talk much about her husband, I talk continuously, just like old times, about Sunil, about Sanju and me.

And finally, it's time to leave and Radha hesitates at the door, "He is coming to pick me up, he should be here any minute. Kalpana, can I talk to you alone for a second?"

Sanju who has been watching us with her hands on her cheeks, lying stomach down on the floor - her favorite story-time pose, gets up and says, "Yeah, yeah, you girls catch on! I am sleepy anyway...good night aunty, good night ma!"

Radha turns to me and says, "Kalpana, I know. I knew all along. Don't apologize."

How did she know I was going to say sorry? How much more did she know?

She holds my hand and says, "Remember the day we all met at the coffee shop? I understood then and I understand now. That's why I had told Anand that it wouldn't work out. I saw how you looked at him, I saw everything...and I couldn't afford to lose you...I never want to lose you, Deekra."

I stand speechless, still holding on to her hand.

"But no harm done, we are both happy now...aren't we?"

And I hug her once more, like old times, tightly. And when she gets into the car to leave, I try not to notice his face too closely, I try not to think of thoughts that had almost faded, I try not to draw an image of the face that I had fought to forget. And a few seconds later, I recover and walk back in, my past did catch up with my present, but at least now it has completed a circle. I had revisited the past, held on to it for a few seconds and had let go. I notice Sunil and Sanju laughing and throwing pillows at one another. I close the door of my past and walk towards my future. I join in and throw a pillow at them laughing.

Dreams, Words and Secrets.

2006-03-15T19:32:00.000-06:00

#1. Burdens on my Dream.

"I feel her, I feel her!" I cry excitedly to Sudeep. For a moment, in the bewildered and happy smile that we exchange, we are almost our old selves again. It's as if love sneaked in for a moment under his palm that touched my belly and my baby, snuggled there for a fraction before letting itself out, as suddenly as it had appeared. We regain our old selves back - my baby refuses to kick again, perhaps even she realizes that she is not strong enough to hold together the fraying bonds between us - his hands move away without hesitation and we freeze in our earlier positions, sitting close yet not close on the sofa, appearing to be yet not watching the meaningless images flit across the television screen, as if an invisible wall surrounds each of us and we cannot break out of it. Perhaps we don't want to.

"I need to get some work done, do you want something to drink? A glass of milk?"

Just the right amount of concern in his voice, the right expression on his face, yet the right amounts of everything seem to come not naturally, but with a strained effort. I shake my head and forget to thank him anyway.

He runs up the stairs two steps at a time, as if his new gained freedom - from me? - has given his legs an additional vigor. I sit for a long time staring at the television, wondering about us, how did we grow apart so soon? How can I smoothen the wrinkle that creases his brows? Will baby Sapna do what I have failed to so far? Sapna - that is what I have decided to call my baby, she will be the dream that brings us together. Oh Sapna, so young and so many burdens placed on your delicate shoulders already. Will you promise to try? I hug my baby and we fall asleep on the couch once again.

***
#2. Dosas for Breakfast.

The next morning I wake up with a purpose. I move with a lightness in my heart, for Sapna and I have a plan, our little secret. I make sure Sudeep is still asleep and walk down the stairs as soundlessly as possible. I search for the tea kettle in the cupboards, I know Sudeep likes strong ginger tea in the morning, my preference is a hot cup of coffee but today, I will do anything to make him smile, to make our marriage work. Sapna and I thought of this idea in our sleep last night. I bend down with some effort (after all Sapna is all of seven months old now) and find the tea kettle. I set the tea to boil and decide to make dosas for him. I look at the clock, fifteen minutes past eight. He will be down in another fifteen minutes. I make crisp, golden-brown dosas for us and freshen up. I carefully selected a night dress yesterday, a pale pink that he had mentioned (how long ago was that?) was flattering on me. I brush my hair with a few quick strokes and place a bindi on my forehead. I study my reflection in the mirror - not bad, I tell myself, I look almost cute and very pregnant, I decide.

I sit down at the dining table. I am already tired - this is enough exercise for me, no matter what Dr.Sheila tells me. He walks down - the same hurried steps, is it my imagination or is he in a hurry only to leave this house, to leave me? - I am surprised that he is already dressed and ready with his laptop to leave. Sometimes I can't tell if he is getting dressed for a picnic or for work. A programmer needs to be comfortable or all he is going to code are software bugs, he had told me long back. Today though, he is dressed with care, no sleepy stubble on his chin, a white full hand shirt and faded blue jeans. A shirt? He must have a presentation today, I tell myself. His hair is as unruly as ever, what was it that I found so attractive about it? I can't quite recall. He stops when he sees me and the table set, ready for him. For a second, he can't seem to decide what to do, he comes close to me and lightly pats my head. I feel like a dwarf sitting in front of him - at six feet, he towers over me by almost a foot but today I feel short, pudgy, ugly? I try to guess the look in his eyes, eyes that I knew so well not so long ago, now I seem to be guessing what they convey, all the time...

"I am sorry, I have to go for a meeting. Nancy called for a sudden meeting at nine..."

I nod, still trying to guess what he is thinking, the feeling that flits across his eyes so often nowadays. Minutes after he has gone, it hits me - pity! I am suddenly angry at myself, I should have been more careful, just a year in America, I don't even have a drivers license, the time when we should have gotten to know each other better, the time that I should have spent getting to know this country, all lost now...and then I think of Sapna and am overcome by a guilt-laced love, nevertheless, a love so strong, it makes me scared. What if she is not as beautiful as I imagine she would be? What if I die without seeing her? And the question that I always push away before it can haunt me further, what if she cannot bring in Sudeep the change that I myself struggle to bring forth? I nibble on the now cold bits of dosa and wonder if Nancy is pretty.

***
#3. Susheela Aunty Drops In for Tea.

My routine, bland to begin with has become more predictable nowadays. Earlier I used to call Sudeep during the day just to whisper sweet nothings to him. He would always respond in kind, he would always say "love you princess" before he hung up. I hear the words in my head and try to savor the feeling that it generates. I feel a bitter taste in my mouth and before I know it I am sick again - didn't Dr.Sheila say the nausea lasts only the first trimester? Maybe something else leaves this bitter taste in my mouth. Nowadays, I introspect too much, maybe I am reading too much into everything, maybe it's just my hormones driving me crazy, I tell myself unconvincingly.

After Sudeep leaves, I tidy the kitchen a bit if I can stand the food smells. I watch old reruns on TV - Full House is my favorite. Earlier Sudeep used to join me for lunch sometimes and we would laugh together watching the show. After lunch, I try out some calisthenics for about fifteen minutes. Then comes my favorite time - I snuggle into bed for some light afternoon reading and a nap. The reading is often not light though - today I have a penchant for pathos, nothing less than Wuthering Heights! I fall asleep with the book in my hands and dream that I am Catherine pining for Heathcliff, that there is a little girl by my side who cries along with me for her father, even as he gallops farther away on his horse, do I see a woman with him on the horse? I can't tell for I wake up wanting to use the restroom again.

Around 3 pm, Susheela aunty sometimes drops by for some afternoon tea and some "useful" advice for pregnant women - "After all, I haven't been a mother to four children for nothing!" She is a kindly old woman of about sixty who is desperate for any company, anyone who will listen to her talk, that is. Her only son – “my sonu beta” - and his wife, Amy both work full time and the old woman often gets lonely in the afternoons. She gives me strange recipes for dishes I can hardly name; to my credit, I did try out her recipe for soya upma, it reached the trash can even before I had swallowed my first spoonful. Today she is in a pleasant mood, she tells me, "You should drink a glass of juice every morning, in your America you get so many varieties of orange juice, why don't you buy one of those bottles?"

When she speaks, it's always "my America". I take an irrational pride in claiming kinship with a country that is still alien to me. I nod kindly and resist an impulse to tell her I can't stand orange juice in this country with its strong tangy taste, so unlike the sweet, frothy orange juice made in Indian fruit stalls.

"Savitha, you must avoid pickles and drink lots of milk with kesar in it. Your daughter will be so fair, a Rajakumar will fall for her pretty soon!", she laughs at her impractical little story and I join her, although it is too soon for me to think of the Rajakumar who will take my dream away. I need her with me for a long time to come. I shiver suddenly and Susheela aunty says, "Here, put this shawl around you, I will make you some chamomile tea today. The American bahu taught me to make it today."

When Susheela aunty talks about Amy, it's always "the daughter-in-law". Like the country, her daughter-in-law would also never become hers. Are we similar in this strange way? Bonded together by a strange country and stranger people (I see them all the time on People's court - who are these people)?

The afternoon passes by pleasantly enough and soon it is five in the evening, six...I stand by the window of our apartment and marvel once again at the colors I see - green, gold, rust, red, the colors of fall spread out in pristine glory while I sit cooped up inside my now suffocating apartment. I promise myself I will go out for a walk tomorrow but I am scared, scared that the rich and beautiful people of this strange country will laugh at me, brown skinned, in a strange costume (I just have a few pair of jeans and they don't fit me now), that I would lose my way and my identity on the way...

I don't hear the key in the lock and Sudeep startles me by kissing me on the cheek from behind. I blush (silly woman, old enough to be a mother and blushing still...), I turn around to hug him with relief and stop when I see his face - strangely flushed, an excited look in his eyes - I am suddenly worried, what causes my husband to be transformed thus?

Sudeep tells me, "I am going to Florida on a big assignment. If this thing works out, I am all set for my promotion!"

I smile because he expects me to, a hundred questions surround me like the sudden flock of birds that appear out of nowhere in these American skies, What will I do alone? What if I need to go to the hospital? Who is going with you to Florida?

He doesn't hear my thoughts, he continues, "Nancy is excited about this! She says..."

I feel as if I am sinking, down, down, until I can sink no further. Nancy is going too, his sexy and successful boss, Nancy, a witch with bewitching eyes. I am being silly, a little envy and it paints such wild images in my head...

He stops talking at my lack of enthusiasm and says, "Savitha, I really want this project to take off. If this works out, we can even think of buying a house, imagine...the baby will have a huge room to herself, we can paint it ourselves..."

So many dreams, one built on another, so fragile...I am scared they will dissolve if I dare to even sigh.

That night we both pretend to sleep as we immerse ourselves with thoughts that seem to be drifting farther apart from each other. Sapna seems to be the only one holding them together.

***
#4. Wuthering Heights meets Catcher in the Rye.

Another day, another resolve that daughter and mother have taken together. Today, I am not anxious when Sudeep leaves me alone at home, today we plan to step outside, to smell the refreshing air outside, to experiment, to set out on our own adventure. I dress in one of my nicer cotton sarees, select a smaller bindi than the one I usually wear, bright kohl lined eyes, a sharp nose, smooth cheeks and well-defined lips stare back at me. I feel confident as Sapna and I step out of the house.

We have decided to walk to the park today. If nothing, Kentucky boasts of several state parks, verdant and lush all around before nature decides to turn more colorful and don shocking shades – purple, gold, maroon, as she has today. I walk at a leisurely pace, Sudeep promised to get dinner from India palace, so I have the whole day to myself. I smile at passersby - mothers like me with their little ones, trotting beside them, in colorful strollers, waving air kisses from their shoulders...I can't wait to take Sapna out on these walks. One old American lady stops to tell me how beautiful my Indian "sahree" looks. Perhaps, I misjudged America...

Although the park is just a ten-minute walk away from the apartment, little beads of sweat line my forehead and I sit down on the park bench conveniently situated under a huge tree with golden arms. Little yellow leaves encircle the base of the tree like garlands on a young bride, I enjoy the rustling sounds they make as I walk on them...I sit down, lean back and close my eyes. My hands rest on the smooth black surface of the bench - even inanimate objects here appear so perfect, flawless...

I must have fallen asleep because I am surprised when I open my eyes to see a man sitting at the other end of the bench immersed in a novel. Curiosity gets the better of me and I lean forward discreetly to read the title on the cover.

"Wuthering Heights", he says with a smile and puts the novel away. I am pleasantly surprised and he says, "Quite a coincidence, isn't it?" he points to the book peeping out of my handbag and I smile some more.

"I was hoping you would wake up, actually..." he continues, "All the Catherines of this world were beginning to get to me!" I laugh imagining his world full of Catherines.

"You know we can continue to talk like this and share deep dark secrets with each other and say goodbye, the way one does with strangers during a trip...or we could call each other by our real names or at least the names that we will tell each other just about now..."

How long has it been since I indulged in a friendly banter with a stranger. In India, the land of no strangers, this conversation would mean little but here, I am thankful to be talking to someone from my country.

"Hi, I am Savitha, new to this place which you can probably tell. I am from Calcutta, newly married, my husband works at Airtel...where are you from?" I groan inwardly as I hear myself - I sound like a first-year student in college.

"I would like to say Kentucky but somehow think you are looking for something more familiar, so let me say, I am from Pune, my parents are, that is, and I was born there. I have lived most of my life in Kentucky though."

I want to ask if I am that obvious but decide not to sound too vulnerable. I smile and think I should be getting back, it's almost Susheela aunty's tea time when he says, "I come here whenever I get the chance, I love spending time in the open. Buildings, rooms, walls, they suffocate me. My parents think I am crazy."

Something about his frank, almost boyish confession makes me want to know more. I take a closer look at him, he is probably my age, a few years younger perhaps? Kind, almost bored eyes, a lean face with a boyish stubble - almost like a teenager, only his nicely combed hair gave him a semblance of maturity, I think he looks cute.

"I should probably be leaving now. Just thought I would get to know the community a bit..."

"And do you like it so far?" he grins as he talks and displays a broken tooth. I feel much older than him now but I nod anyway. I feel better than I have felt in days. I talked to someone other than Susheela aunty and Sudeep.

I get up slowly to leave and he says, "Do you know if it's a boy or a girl?"

I think his question is not one that should be asked in a first meeting but he has such an innocent inquisitiveness on his face, I say, "It's a girl. Sapna." Something about his expression made me share a little secret with him that even my husband does not know. I now share my dream with a stranger.

He gets up to leave too and I am amused to notice that he wears a long brown kurta and pyjama. "It gets people all the time..." he says and grins some more, a flash of the broken tooth again, "I just like kurtas".

I wave goodbye and start walking away and he says, "Oh I am Ashok and I was reading Catcher in the Rye for the third time but figured I would break the ice faster if I picked Wuthering Heights".

I could have sworn he winked at me as he left. A harmless wink. I smile to myself.

***
#5. Of Stories and Conversations.

A small addition to the routine, ever since Sudeep left - my walk to Jacobson park. Susheela aunty approves, she says the walk will help me have a smoother pregnancy. She even offers to accompany me once - "A brisk walk will probably do an old woman like me also some good..." - and I manage to say no to her without hurting her. It’s the only time when I feet comfortable, free, almost happy being alone, it’s the only time solitude is a blessing and not a curse, how can I explain this to Susheela aunty? So, I make up a more plausible excuse and she seems to buy that.

I take the same route everyday, my newly gained familiarity walks with me like an old friend, comfortable in silence. I take one of my fat novels with me usually and park myself at the now familiar bench and for an hour, Sapna and I are lost in a surprisingly life-like but definitely imaginary world of weeping heroines, handsome princes, majestic villains, glorious castles and lives very different from our own. Sometimes, I read out aloud to Sapna and I eagerly look forward to the time when my daughter will sit beside me on this very bench and discuss these stories with me, with a fire-like passion in her dark eyes, the delicate curls around her forehead dancing all around as she gestures animatedly...

And I am almost lost in one of those lazy day dreams when he pops up out of nowhere. "Caught you!" a flash of his crooked teeth brings a spontaneous smile to my face.

"What mischievous dreams are you hiding, madame? I can see all!"

"And you think I would confide them to a stranger so easily?"

He places his palm on his heart, in mock hurt. "Ah, how your words hurt me, fair woman!"

I am not sure when I started looking forward to these pleasant, meaningless conversations with Ashok. There is something nice about talking to a stranger, there is no pressure to say the right things, no expectations from him, just a smooth flow of words meeting their partners, no hidden meanings, no dark corners to worry about, just a well-lit, easy path where they can flow towards any destination they choose...

The next day I stay back in the park longer than I normally do, losing track of time as I tell Ashok about how I met Sudeep, how my parents were not happy with my decision, how my relationship with them had become more strained since I came here. I almost tell him about my worries about Nancy but then decide against it. Ashok insists on walking back with me that evening - "What?! Leave a beautiful mother-to-be alone in the dark? What kind of a man do you take me to be?!"

I step into my apartment and notice that I have a new voice message.

Sudeep's tinny voice floats into the apartment, "Savitha, I have been trying to get in touch with you for the past hour! - he sounds anxious, I smile at the empty room - "Call me back as soon as you reach home. I need to talk to you", a pause and, "Princess, I am worried, don't do this to me again..."

I almost hum to myself as I call his cell. He answers immediately, "Where have you been?! I have been trying to reach you forever!" I feel a small pang of guilt.

"Sorry...I just went for a walk to Jacobson park..."

"Anyway, I wanted to tell you that the project is going really well. Our customers loved what Nancy and I presented to them. If things go as planned, I should be back soon! We are going to celebrate today, dinner and drinks, the usual..."

I try to muster a bit of genuine happiness for my husband and fail. "That's great Sudeep. Come back soon, we are waiting for you."

"We? Oh...yes of course, my kisses for her. See you soon, gotta run!"

We? Did he forget Sapna so soon? My good humor deserts me and I stand alone once again. I look up the number of the nearest Chinese takeout place and order noodles and stir-fry vegetables. So what if she is paper-thin and sinewy, I will eat all I want. I throw away the fortune cookie without looking at it.

***
#6. A friend gained and another lost?

The next day, I wake up feeling not so good. I check the calendar again, almost a month left for my due date, I suddenly panic, what if my water breaks before Sudeep gets home? Whom should I call? I searched frantically for the small post-it that Susheela aunty had given me with her son's number scrawled on it. I find it lying below the telephone, I copy it down on the calendar, label it “Susheela aunty’s son”, circle it and feel better.

I lie in bed for almost an hour, even my novels do not entice me that day. I switch through all the twenty three channels on our television and stare blankly at the screen. I have a sudden urge to speak to my mother, I buy a calling card online and punch my home phone numbers. I don’t get a good connection, I hear my mother's feeble voice on the line, "Amma, can you hear me?" I am screaming into the phone now and she keeps saying "hello". Does she hear me and not want to talk to me? Finally, I hang up tired with the effort.

The day outside matches my mood - dark and gloomy, it rains whole day, the kind of rain that depresses you, not a full hearty downpour, not a gentle drizzle, rain that came in unruly patches, taking you by surprise, leaving you drenched and helpless. I watch from inside my apartment even more upset that I cannot take my daily walk, Sapna would miss that...

Days roll into each other, marked by nothing noticeable except their sameness. At least it didn't rain today and I can step outside the apartment. I pick my novel - Catcher in the Rye, I found it among Sudeep's collection of novels – lock the apartment and walk towards my bench. Perhaps I take the novel because I hope to run into Ashok, I hope that he would express his surprise (mixed with delight of course) that I had chosen to read it too...I don't see anything wrong in wanting to run into him, after all, he had become a good friend over the past few days and what is wrong in wanting to talk to a friend? Didn't Sudeep talk to Nancy all the time? Maybe they were friends too like Ashok and me...

"And how are we feeling today?"

He appears as if he had just jumped out of my thoughts in front of me and much to my embarrassment, I blush.

"And to what shall I ascribe her bright smile to? Perhaps dear husband is expected back soon with roses and gifts for his beloved?"

"Enough Ashok. Sudeep is not going to bring me roses or gifts. He is too busy with Nancy!"

I feel bad as soon as I say that and even before I can admonish myself for their unfairness, something else distracts me. Ashok. He looks preoccupied, despite his light-hearted questions, and almost restless...

"Are you ok? Did you have a rough day?"

And I suddenly realize, I know nothing of this young man sitting in front of me in his crumpled yet charming kurta, his hand distractedly smoothening out his hair, stray strands unusually out of place, gentle brown eyes studying me as if trying to reach a decision, almost melancholy without the constant twinkle that accompanies them...Is he? What if he...likes me…?

Even before I can complete my thoughts he says, "Things are not going so well between us."

"Us?", I blurt out spontaneously...

"My wife and me, that is..."

I let out an almost audible sigh and he looks at me curiously, "Yes, my wife Amy and me. Did you think? Oh come now, Savitha, you didn't think I was hitting on you!"

I blush again and look down not wanting to lie to him and to my surprise he laughs. "My dear dear Savitha, no, I would never have taken advantage of our relationship...I have grown too fond of you to spoil it by doing something silly like that..." He puts an arm around me and leans his head towards mine. I lean back on his shoulder gratefully because now I know that it cannot be misconstrued, acceptance won through innocence.

Relationships are like that, especially a young one, still finding its foothold, wavering this way and that, sometimes strained, sometimes delightful but growing all the same, taking tiny steps towards adulthood and along the way, like a child falls down and learns, we misjudge and fall too and grow up wiser, the bonds that hold us together, stronger by the very things that had threatened to break them apart. I begin to trust Ashok that day.

He tells me about the small fights that he had had with his wife, especially since his mother came to stay with them. His mother, an old-fashioned woman very different from his American wife. He talks for a long time and I share my own experiences with him, a woman's view of the world. He says he is going to try to have a heart-to-heart talk with his wife and his mother and see if he can help them sort out their differences. I begin to say that perhaps that is a good idea but stop myself. Maybe he is right, maybe being frank is the key to a strong marriage. I wish him good luck and he leans towards me and kisses me on my cheek, "Savitha, you are like the Indian sis I never had, I owe you one babe!" and he is gone taking with him the impression that he leaves behind on my cheek. "I owe you too, Ashok", I whisper and get up from the bench. A sudden thought strikes me, what did Susheela aunty say her daughter-in-law's name was?

But I don't have much time to ponder on this trail of thought.

There comes a time in a woman's life when she is made to feel guilty for no apparent reason. She is wrapped all around by a look so grave, so poignant in its loss, so jealous with indignation that she feels suffocated, as if she can breathe no more, as if she caused the pain...but why should she feel that when she has done no wrong?

I cannot answer that question. I just feel as if Sudeep's look will scorch me to cinders, to ash that the wind will scatter away heartlessly. He storms back to our apartment and I rush as fast as I can calling out his name over and over again.

***
#7. Words - his and mine.

"Sudeep, will you just stop and listen to me?" I am running, screaming, not at all relaxed, all a big no-no according to Dr.Sheila but I didn't care, I pray for Sapna to be asleep. I talk in a rush, I tell him that I was afraid, jealous of Nancy - I had seen her once, young, arrogant, confident, a head turner and here I was ugly, fat, so dependent, that I met Ashok during my walks, that we became friends and that's all we were...

I speak so fast I almost don't hear my own words. They jumble and fall twisted all around me, powerless and meaningless, words made more weak by huge tear drops that betray me, as if I am guilty, I cry for all my lonely days, for my insecurity, for my parents who no longer think of their daughter, for Sudeep who no longer loves his wife, for Ashok whose wife no longer understands him, I cry for all my problems and all problems that are not my own but have become mine that moment...

Sudeep remains silent through out and then speaks calmly, in measured tones. Words are funny, they are so short-lived and yet you hear them as if they are permanently etched in your self, and the funny thing with words is also that you learn how to use them - to hurt, to delight, to pacify, to cut, to heal - the more familiar a person, the more you are privy to their inner thoughts, the more they become vulnerable, you twist and turn words in your mouth, choose the right ones to use - words, daggers and doves, today they prick my heart leaving behind scars...

And suddenly I feel Sapna move in my stomach and a strong pain ripples through me, again and again...contractions! And then I feel myself drift away, away...

When I wake up, a man leans towards me, his brows lined with sweat, his breath hot on my face, breath smelling of fear, guilt, love? I shut my eyes tight and open them again, squinting in the bright light that fell all around his kind face, Sudeep's face. Did I die? Is that why I cannot hear what he says? I try once again.

"Savitha, I am sorry...I understand. You were right all along. I want to tell you so many things. I am sorry I hurt you. I love you my princess..."

I must surely be dead, when I was young and beautiful and alive, my husband used to speak sweet sounding words like these to me...Sudeep continues to talk, "I should probably wait longer but I have to tell you everything right now. No more secrets between us. Nancy...she said she was interested in me, she said Indian men fascinated her and I confess I found her attractive but I told her no. Savitha, do you hear me? I said no, I said I loved my wife..."

A pleasant feeling suffuses through me and I think perhaps that I am alive.

"And then when you held your stomach and fell down at home, I thought I had died, I thought I would never see you smile again, would never fight with you again...I died Savitha, those few moments, you took away my life..."

I taste salty tears on my lips. I am completely, happily alive. I try to speak but words, so many words that I have read and heard, they all swim around me just out of my reach and so I hold my husband's head in my hands and kiss him on his forehead. I touch my cheeks against his, both wet with tears, mine and his, each having appeared for a specific reason - love playing a part in each.

"Dr.Sheila said you were probably experiencing bracks and hicks, our little daughter is not ready to come out yet..." he pats my stomach and smiles at Sapna. My dream seems to be within my reach now. Is this also a dream?

I whisper, "I have to share a secret with you". For a second he looks startled and then smiles back, "The last secret that you have kept from me. No more secrets princess, no more secrets…"

***
#8. The Final Secret.

The next day I wake up in good spirits, I remember wisps of the dream that I had dreamt - a happy dream with sunlight and blue skies and smiling babies. Sudeep walks in with a cup of coffee for me, "Good morning princess, I have a surprise for you today! Get dressed soon and come down" and he kisses my questions away and walks out of the bedroom. I am fully awake now and wonder what my husband has in store for me. I dress up as much as Sapna would let me, she moves so often nowadays as if she can't wait to meet me.

I walk down feeling pretty and the table is set for me. For some reason the post-it note that I had stuck a few days back catches my eye...I try to recall what it was that I had overlooked? A stray thought left incomplete but the smell of ghee and spice ends my speculation. Sudeep has cooked hot rotis for me and panneer masala curry, the panneer slightly burnt but you only see that if you look closely, "Smells lovely, a nice little surprise Sudeep!" and he says, "This is not all" and as if on cue, the bell rings. I watch open-mouthed as Ashok walks in hand in hand with his wife, Amy - she is in a saree and not at all as I imagined she would be, behind them Susheela aunty walks looking resplendent in a silk saree, her nose ring glinting in the sunlight. Ah, that was it, it came back to me now - a circle of bonds, Susheela aunty, Amy, Ashok, Sudeep and I all connected in that circle, bound to each other by strange twists of the past. I am happy to be in the circle. It looks like my womanly words of wisdom and his own worked well with Ashok and his family.

"Surprise!", Sudeep whispers in my ears before welcoming our guests, our family...for once, I feel at home, away from home, I look around the table and each face smiles back at me with a familiarity that puts me at ease, even Amy who is just getting to know me, holds my hands as if she were a childhood girl friend. So many problems that had appeared so big seem to have just dissolved...tomorrow perhaps they will reappear, tomorrow they will seem larger-than-life, complex, confusing but today they don't exist and I hug Sapna and tell her in my thoughts, "Sapna, today is a dream come true just like you are...I can't wait to see you". She hears me, I know that.

I lean towards Sudeep, "My secret is not as big as yours but it's something that daughter and mother have been hiding from you for a few months now. We have decided on a name. Sapna."

***

Shades of gray.

2006-02-08T19:17:00.000-06:00

My new task, my new challenge, to put my thoughts into words that would carry its weight after I am gone. Maybe not my hand that would pen the thoughts but my thoughts all the same. It was Srikanth's idea. I didn't think much of it but I have a lot of free time to kill and lately, I have become rather experimental, daring if you will, with my life and so I decide to humor Srikanth, myself more than him, perhaps. And so when Kannamma left that day, Srikanth and I got started on what would become our nightly rendezvous.

"Kannamma...that's not really her name, you know?", I ask

Srikanth holds the pen ready and waits, smiling in anticipation.

"Write", I command and the pen becomes busy filling blank sheets with words.

August 8th, 2006. Kannamma came again today. Violet saree with a cream border...

I want to get this right, I tell him. When she will not come anymore, I want to remember her as she is now.

Vermillion sindoor blazing from her forehead, taunting me, challenging me, every moment. Jasmine flowers dotting her graying bun, vaira mukuthi catching my eye, almost her every accessory a strong reminder to me, a jolt to wake me up from the languorous stupor I get into sometimes. I am her husband. I still am. She feels that now more strongly than ever and I should honor her tenacity. Its been five years now and her anklets herald her arrival at the same time every day. Sometimes, she insists on staying back at night. I don't let her, she has a life to live, to live differently from me, active and alive, a living life.

"You have always called her Kannamma...I never really thought about her real name.", Srikanth rarely interrupts my thoughts, when he does, I welcome it, it gives me a chance to respond to stimuli from the outside world. I need to know that I can still do that.

"Pankajam. My beautiful lotus, shedding tears everyday for me...", I smile and look at Srikanth. He has his head bent, hand furiously scribbling my thoughts, as if tomorrow they may not exist...

***

For someone like me, it takes an intense, almost maniacal kind of concentration to not be bogged down by daily routine and activities. Everyday is a test of my will-power, a challenge to see if I can squeeze an ounce of creativity out of myself. What can I achieve today, acting within the boundaries that shackle me? What do I need to think about today to not concentrate on the boundary itself but to look beyond?

I don't believe in self-delusion. I am not one of those stiffly smiling people who have only themselves and noone else convinced that they are lucky to be who they are and how they are. I am not going to smile and be grateful. It works much better for me to face reality rather than shroud it in a cloud of feel-good dreams. Face reality and stab it in the face. Don't indulge it by giving it a personality it does not possess.

These thoughts, I keep to myself. Why risk invoking sympathy? So, when Srikanth comes that night, I tell him, I want to talk about the weather.

"The weather, Partha?", he looks amused.

"Yes, I want to talk about rainbows and rain, sunshine and sorrow..."

"Do you notice how people attribute their own moods to the weather? Its a sultry summer morning to some, a smiling sunshine to some, pleasant summer showers to you and an outpour of my own tears, to me..."

Srikanth looks up, concerned.

"The heavens cry too sometimes, Srikanth...", I am happy to see him concerned. A need for revalidation, to assuage my restless soul questioning every moment the role I play in people's lives...I who did not care for emotions, drowning in my own self-pity!

I shake my head to clear it, slowly. "It was one such bright summer sunshine that brought Kannamma to me...she shaded her eyes with her right hand and stood carrying a basket of drumsticks, tomatoes and mangoes in her left hand...so simply dressed in a pale half-saree, waiting patiently for the woman beside her to stop haggling...I had an urge to move the hand that shaded her eyes and read what they say...don't ask me why. And then she spoke and it was like raindrops falling gently on parched earth, gentle and melodious. I wanted to hear her talk..."

And I describe the first few words that Kannamma spoke to me, hesitant and shy. My lotus flower, wilting away now...how you blushed when I held your hand the first time, where has the color gone from your cheeks now? Oh, how I wish I could bring them back to you...

***

A lot happens in my life. A lot happens around me, people come and go. Machines hum. Seasons change beyond the window that frames my world. Kannamma, Srikanth...images that come and go. Sometimes before going to sleep, I try to close my eyes tightly and bring their faces infront of me, to hold them with me wherever the night takes me. If I should come back and see them one more time, well, the night has just been kind. If not, I tried. I tried to take with me the memories that made me. For memories are all that we can carry to our sleep, aren't they?

Today, I want to spend in frivolity and so I watch a movie on TV. Images and sounds move meaningless on screen. I try to follow the story, I try to forget, I try to live atleast for these few hours as the little people who move on screen. But, I cannot. Reality keeps dragging me back. Soon static fills the air and the screen is dotted in black and white. My life, neither black nor white, hovering like a ghost in shades of gray.

"Srika, I tried to watch a movie today."

Srikanth sits in his usual place, facing me and picks up the diary.

"No, not today. Let's just talk."

I describe to him what little I gathered from the movie.

"These movies are funny, Srika. They neither portray reality, nor do they deal in anything fantastic, its as if they try to portray life as it is and it turns out to be a mockery of life. Do you know what I mean?"

I can see in his eyes that he doesn't. He can empathize but not well enough to transition to my world, to see movies, through my eyes - a mockery, of people, of time, of life. He is still in his world, a world where one is blessed enough to laugh and cry with the scenes on the screen.

"Am I growing senile, Srika?"

"Senile anna?", Srika laughs, "You are too sane to be senile."

"But I feel old. Life has this way of imposing the maturity of years on you suddenly. One moment you are a child and the other, a world's burden is thrown on you to handle and you suddenly become aged. Do you understand, Srika?"

"Yes Anna, I brought a calendar for you...", he says and I know I want to see what he has brought for me but darkness closes over my protesting eyes and I drift to a dreamless sleep.

***

The next morning, I wake up to see my beloved. I smile and wonder if I am dreaming.

She laughs - the sound that heaven is made of, the sound of bangles tinkling, the sound of temple bells, the sound of music - and I know I am awake.

"No, you are not dreaming. Look what Srika brought for you yesterday!", she points at the calendar on the wall. Krishna holding on to Yasodha or is it the other way around? standing near a pond, a solitary flower blooming at dawn, drawing their eyes to it - a lotus, my Pankajam.

"So now, I have to see your face every morning too?", I ask her and she looks down. My pankajam, blushing like a young bride, still...

"I have something for you too...", she says hesitantly, holding tightly to her jute bag.

"Show me, kannamma. Today, I will take anything you give me."

She shows me a picture full of smiles. Three faces one in each angle, smiling at the camera. I recognize the face of my son and daughter-in-law, and look closer at the face of the young child smiling innocently at me.

"They are here. They want to see you..."

I close my eyes tiredly. We have had this conversation before. Where were they all these years when Pankajam needed them? Why the sudden re-strengthening of bonds that did not exist?

"Adith...he is three years now...", Pankajam brings the picture closer to me and I obstinately close my eyes. I don't want to see the sickening smiling faces one more time.

Pankajam leaves crying that day too. I open my eyes and see that she has left something else for me. Our first year anniversary photo, taken in Shimla, she is so cold, her nose is red...I remember she held me close in public, for the first time - "It's so cold here, I don't care", she had declared...there was snow all around...one of my favourite photos, where did she find it?

And on the photo frame, the words, "Happy Birthday, Partha ma", inscribed. Partha ma - she called me that during rare moments, the only term of endearment she allowed herself to use for me...Partha ma...

The one day that I did not want to make her cry. My birthday. And she did cry.

***
A few days pass and Adith's face keeps drawing itself in my eyes, weaving its way into my heart. That day, I tell Pankajam, "Bring them to me. I want to see my grandson. If he has his old man's looks..."

Pankajam does not cry this time. She just places her hands on mine. I try to recall her touch, the tingling sensation that coursed through my skin when she touched me...this time, I cry.

Srikanth comes within an hour, he hovers near the door, "Anna..." and clears his throat. I motion him in with my eyes, and with that give him my permission to let my son see me as I am today. Something that I have been preparing myself for, for the past few hours. I will be strong. I tell myself one more time. My ego raising its voice after so many years.

And in runs a child. Straight towards me. He looks straight into my eyes, no awkward, curious looks around me, just my eyes and he holds my gaze for a few moments and then he breaks into a smile, "thatha...", he says almost breathlessly and for the first time in this life, I have an urge to break free and take him into my arms, my strong will to not give way to such thoughts broken by innocence...I admit defeat. My eyes fill up again...

Witnessing the powerful interplay of emotions, the ugly voices of our egos fade to nothingness. We talk, haltingly at first, breathlessly later on, to race time to fill each other's lives.

All the faces that make me whole, faces that make me feel alive even now, faces buried safely in my heart...I look around the room and smile contentedly at fate, "See if you can beat this!"

***
And that night, Srikanth writes as I speak,

Today, an epiphany in the form of a child made me realize that my world is the same as yours. That I can feel love and pain, as strongly as you can, Srika...do you understand?

Today, I lived life as it should be lived, in complete surrender. My life, no longer hovering in shades of gray, my life, now crystals of black and white. I almost forgot my "condition", as these doctors like to call it all the time. Do you know Srika, it took me three times to get it right?

"q u a d r i p l e g i c"
***

An incomplete story.

2006-01-19T14:13:00.002-06:00

They say, all your life flashes before you, in a moment of clarity, just before you die. Mine did not. Maybe because I knew I was not ready to die. I knew that the images that flash would not complete the story they recount, because the story is still not complete. The story of my life and now death. Incomplete.

I was happy. That was the irony of it all. I was completely immersed in my life, in myself, complacent and satisfied with who I was and what I did in life. Although I had nothing that I could identify, nothing to call my identity, nothing to argue passionately about. I was still happy. And then he came and threw my world into chaos.
***
"Thayyum thath thath, thayyum thaha", she intones and we dance. Sometimes, I dance with my eyes closed. I feel the rhythm better, hear the melody within my head when I do that. I am Meenakshi teacher's favorite student. At kalakshetra, I am a different person - confident and capable. I excel and I am aware that I do. Perhaps it is this vanity that draws me to him in the first place. Not my vanity itself but the fact that I feel none of it, in his presence. He does not allow it and I submit to his wishes, unwillingly and completely.

I dance, with fury, with energy. I am alive when I dance. Transformed. This is probably what Meenakshi teacher notices in me too. My hands and legs move in perfect synchrony, as if they move of their own will, effortless, in smooth movements - it's as if each mudra comes from within, emerging from my soul to give my body a purpose, a shape. We are not separate elements - the thalam, the ragam and my dance steps - they compete and complete each other to form a whole. He tells me this, leaning casually against a wall, just outside Kalakshetra. His words flow all around me and linger behind, long after he has gone, the import of each syllable impressing itself upon me, with each passing second; their intensity dawning upon me, as I stand there listening to them in my head. His words, over time, replaced by my voice, explaining to me what I knew not about myself, my identity that he helped construct, one bit at a time - my vanity withers and yet I am more aware.

The first time after practice, I don't notice him. The second time, I do. It's not anything about him as a whole that makes me notice him. It's only if you take the time to notice, his eyes that hold your glance for so long, you have to look away; his mouth that taunts you with a hint of a smile; his hands, constantly active, restless? the way he stands, unconcerned, almost indifferent? And I would notice them, not all at once, but would take my time to be drawn to him - slowly but intensely, madly, passionately. How I wish I had known then, that time was the one thing that I had not?

But, I notice him for none of these reasons. I notice him because he criticizes me.

"You missed a step."

"Am sorry?"

"Alaripu - as soon as you began."

And I spend the next three hours fuming over this non-conversation. I cannot take criticism easily. Especially about my dance, the one savior in my otherwise insignificant existence. Yet another revelation! I know I like to dance. I just do not attribute anything more important to it. Talking to him makes me think of priorities in my life. I don't know that yet for this is just the beginning.

***
The next class,

"I did not miss that step."

"But if I say you did, will you react to it better now than before?"

"Are you saying you criticize for the sake of it and not for a reason?"

"Is there not a reason?"

"Yes, there is! You want to put me down because..."

"Because if I do before someone else does. Maybe next time, it will leave you with just a tear and not a scar."

"And why do you care?"

"I do and you know. Does anything else matter?"

Always questions. Questions that make me think, evolve. I don't blame him for making me lose myself. I love him for making me find my real self. Does it matter that I don't live long to spend time with us? Maybe not. Aren't all epiphanies short-lived? They make their mark and are lost forever, carried away by the winds of time to guide some other lost traveller's journey. My gentle philosopher, my epiphany, I wonder if you will be lost too if I don't exist? Did you die the day I died?

***
What is this invisible bond that ties us together? Music, perhaps? In my dance, in his words, in my naivete, in his beats...two people entwined so completely, it is not for either of us to decide when to break free - it is beyond us, dictated by a consciousness that we , as separate individuals do not possess....but together, we create magic. I wonder if he thinks that? My artist, what goes behind that powerful gaze? Do let me glimpse...

He plays the mirudangam. Better than I can dance, I sometimes feel. I will admit that to noone, not even him. I don't need to for, my eyes betray me when I watch him play.

He plays with his head slightly tilted towards his right. His eyes closed. Brows furrowed in concentration, as if constricting, to prevent the music that plays within his head from escaping. His fingers dance across the either ends of the mirudangam - fleeting, light touches or so it seems and yet they evoke such powerful feelings through their rhythm - subliminal yet mesmerizing.

I wonder if he is playing the mirudangam or if indeed the mirudangam is making his fingers dance to its tune. His senses perceive nothing of the reality all around him, he is in a world away from where I stand - a world where music fills the air and the soul, a world of melodies and beats...

and I long to be transformed as he is and for even a moment to step into this world and lose myself, where the only consciousness is music and I am one with it.

***

Love, you ask me? Is this love? I don't know and I turn to him for an answer.

He laughs.

"Don't we all wish it were love?"

And as my eyes brim over, he replies,

"When,
to see you, I look into my eyes,
to hear you, I listen to my heart beat,
to find you, I look into my soul
to feel all that is you, I need only to feel what is within...

And when I feel thus, how can I say anything but that I am in love?"

And that is the moment, I wish with all my heart, that I would live, live forever to be with him, my dear poet. That is the moment that I begin to love. And that is the moment that I hope will surround me just before I take my last breath.

But it does not.

My accident is like all other accidents - a car wreck, flashing lights, shivering people huddled around and silence. No music now. Just silence. My melody has died. So perfect even in death, did I imagine that you called my name when I died? Did you cry when I wouldn't open my eyes? Did you shiver, not from the biting wind but just a gnawing feel deep within you, as if your soul died but you lived on - incomplete and helpless?

And even if you did, how would I know? A million questions yet to be answered. How did I have the heart to leave them all unanswered? My philosopher, my artist, my poet, answer me now - why did I die?

***
And that is the story that I would have told you if I had died. I did not die though. He did. He just took my life with him. That's all.

Soundarya.

2005-12-27T23:52:00.002-06:00

A mark. A stain. A disgrace!

She was all of that, my Soundarya. My daughter, Soundarya. Ten tiny fingers, ten tiny toes and we thought the world was perfect, Vijay and I. We were a family, our beautiful daughter completed our family. And so, we named her Soundarya. And today she is beautiful only to my eyes, sometimes even my eyes deceive me. She stumbles and falls down and sometimes, I don't rush to pick her up. She falters and forgets words and sometimes, I don't correct her. I have done it for three years now. I don't have the strength in me to correct her, to make her what she was meant to be - Soundarya, anymore.

I have a son, Aditya, all of five years old, handsome, too mature for his age and perfect. God made one perfect child for me. I fight to not stay angry at the injustice of it all. I shall not ask why I was chosen, to be the mother who had failed. And yet, I can't forget the downcast eyes, the heavy sighs that surrounded us when we told them that Soundarya will be like this - moody at times, incoherent at times, clumsy at times...and at times like these, I forget I have Aditya. Something tells me, he understands. I wish he did not. A five-year-old had no business trying to fight the shadows that strangle the word, "special".

"Oh, she is a special child? Yes, we admit special children in our day care center."

And on our way out, Aditya asks, "Ma, is Soundarya special?"

And I am faced with one of those heart-wrenching decisions again. To burden a child with the realities of life or to leave him in the dark bliss of ignorance for some more time?

Soundarya stumbles on nothing, falls down and bruises her knee. Aditya rushes to help her and I make my decision.

"Yes Adi, she is special. Because God decided to make her special. God was so fond of her that he wanted to make sure everyone here in our world realize that she is a special child, special to God, special to us. She is God's gift to us, Adi. We always have to take care of her and love her."

"Did you hear that, Soundarya?"

Soundarya - his voice has so much conviction, so much love, so much beauty when he says her name that I wonder if I feel for my daughter what Aditya feels for his sister...

"God loves you Soundarya. We all love you."

The younger of the two consoles the older and they whisper to themselves in a language only children can understand. I watch from a distance as if afraid to intrude and I cry.

***

"She does not eat her food. Mrs.Watson said she tried and all she does is cry for Aditya."

"Okay. We will work something out."

Vijay's indifferent tone annoys me.

"We have to work something out, now! She can't go on like this. I can't go on like this."

I notice Aditya shrinking away to a corner of the room, noticing the familiar strains of anxiety in my shrill voice. This is not the first time.

"What do you want to do?"

"Me? Why can't you decide for a change? She is your daughter too!"

"I didn't mean that Poornima. I was just..."

"Or let me do this. Let me run away from all of this so that noone can blame me..."

I start to cry again. Vijay waits for a few moments, walks towards Aditya and takes him to his room. He no longer hugs me when I cry. He used to do that the first year. Now, I just cry myself to sleep. It's easy to sleep, to not live and face life, but Soundarya is in my dreams too. Only, in my dreams, she is beautiful, flawless and she hates me. I am grateful that she is capable of such emotions atleast in my dreams - be it love or hate and as I drift in and out of consciousness, I try to quell the voice in my head that seem to haunt me every night, "You hate your own child!".

***

I wake up late, with a headache. Vijay has left a note for me, stuck to the fridge door, "Dropped Adi at school. I will pick him up from Joy's place when I come back from work. Get some rest. Soundarya is still asleep. I love you."

I feel guilty for the previous night and I suddenly want to see Vijay and tell him that I am sorry. I start calling him, when I hear Soundarya calling out for Aditya, "Adi, Adi...". I walk towards her room and she looks at me with questioning eyes, "Adi...". She doesn't say much else. I wonder, irrationally, if she cannot call me, "amma" because she knows what goes through my mind sometimes. I walk towards her and hold my hands out to her, "Come here. Talk to me. Say a-m-m-a...".

She leans against the wall and watches me as if I were a stranger in her life. Her eyes move slowly, taking in each part of me. She holds my gaze for so long I think I cannot look into her eyes any longer. She has large, brown eyes. She looks at my expectant hands for a few moments and slowly turns her head away, towards the window. My arms drop down, lifelessly.

I look at the small figure framing the window - tousled hair all around her little face, small gold earrings that catch the sunlight at times. I go near her and without touching her, observe my daughter, as if seeing her for the first time. She has such a pensive look on her face - it suits her. She is not pretty, as children her age are. Her left leg is shorter than her right leg and she often leans to one side as she walks, like an old woman. Her left eye is smaller than her right eye, but just as expressive. No, she is not beautiful as girls her age are. No one oohs and aahs when she talks. No one rushes to pick her up when she seems to fall. They just twitch their lips and whisper among themselves.

I hold her by the shoulders and gently, make her face me.

"Soundarya, Soundarya, Soundarya..."

I say her name, clearly, lovingly until she suddenly raises a hand and touches my cheek. I wait for her to do something that would make me love her so much, that it will hurt. I wait for her to wipe my tears away with her tiny hand. I wait for her to hug me. I wait for her to treat me as her child.

Instead, she takes her hand back and puts her wet fingers in her mouth. Her face assumes a comical expression as she tastes my salty tears.

I laugh, hysterically.

***

It is Aditya's big day today. He plays the role of the genie in Aladdin and the magic lamp. His school has been preparing for the play for the past six months. Aditya is excited to be the genie.

"Did you iron my costume?", he demands.

I smile at him and say yes for the third time.

"Now Aditya, don't be nervous. Genies are not nervous. Be confident and smile at the people."

"Ma, I can't smile. I am a genie. I grant wishes, I can't keep grinning at people!"

I shut up and help him get ready. Vijay is trying to give Soundarya her dinner. She is sulking and does not want Aditya to leave her.

"Adi..."

"It's ok Adi. Appa will take care of her. We are getting late for the play. They will join us soon as Soundarya has her dinner."

Instead Aditya leaves his costume bag down and goes to Soundarya.

"Soundarya, if you have your dinner soon, you can come see my play. I am going to be a genie..." and he waves his hands, in his best possible imitation of a friendly genie. Vijay smiles and I do too. Soundarya begins to cry.

She repeats his name and holds on to his sleeve. Vijay and I watch helplessly.

"Soundarya, I am not leaving you. I will be with you always", Aditya holds her close and its as if the words were spoken by someone a lot older than five years.

She cries loudly now and begins to hit him. I try to pry Aditya away from her. I receive a few of her slaps - tiny slaps on my cheeks, her nails scratching my face and leaving little red marks. I am used to them by now - the only way she knows to touch me. And as Aditya and I walk away, she frees herself from Vijay and before I can stop her, bites Aditya on his right arm.

He screams in pain and I do the one thing that comes to my mind then, I drag her aside and slap her - a resounding slap for the years of pain she has given me. Soundarya stops crying instantly and moves away from me, as if I were evil, a witch come to hurt her, a bad dream.

Aditya cries silently. And so does Soundarya. She walks towards him and touches his hand. He shrugs her hand away and says something that makes me forget my own pain, "I hate you, Soundarya, I really hate you."

And her face - the expression in her eyes, keeps coming back to me as I drive Aditya to the play. It's as if she understood every word of what he said, as if its import had killed something within her. She watched him with those surprised, tear-filled eyes until we walked out of the house. And then I realize what it was that I read in her evocative eyes but did not comprehend until later - hurt.

And it is as if I found my daughter again. It is as if I had become a mother again.

***

"Your son was amazing! We loved the genie!", his bubbly English teacher tells me, shaking my hands vigorously.

I smile and say thank you. Aditya grins shyly and hides behind me. Mrs.Kapoor ambles towards me, smiling widely.

My cell phone rings.

"Vijay, Adi was great today. You missed it. Is Soundarya giving you a hard time?"

"Poornima, Soundarya was not feeling good. I am with her at St.Johns hospital. Can you come here? Do you know the way? It's on Woodhill drive..."

My heart skips a beat.

"Your son is a natural on stage, Poornima", Mrs.Kapoor is saying, patting Aditya's head.

I try to smile, excuse myself and Aditya and first walk, then run towards my car. I drop my keys down, curse and take the car ahead instead of backing out of the parking spot and go over the pavement.

"Mom!"

I stop the car and try to take a deep breath. Aditya deserves an explanation.

"Adi, Soundarya has fever and we are going to see the doctor now."

He nods, with a frightened look on his face and asks no questions.

At the hospital, I know something is wrong when I take one look at Vijay's face.

"I just talked to the doctor. She is doing better now. She wouldn't stop crying when you left with Aditya and then she started turning blue, stopped breathing...but she is out of danger now. Its ok."

I look through the glass door, at the little figure huddled under blue hospital sheets and wires running around her. But, what concerns me further is the way Aditya presses his nose against the door and stares at his sister, stiff and unmoving, I can't even tell if he is breathing. Vijay moves towards Aditya and I motion for him to stop. I need to handle this. Vijay is too exhasusted to argue. He walks inside and sits with Soundarya, holding her hand.

I stand next to Aditya and look at my husband and daughter through the glass door.

I hear a sniff and Aditya says, "It's my fault. I made her cry and now she won't wake up, ma"

"No Adi. It's not your fault. Soundarya will wake up but...she is sick because I did not understand her, because I have not been a good mother to her."

And once again, I forget I am talking to my son. It's as if I am conversing with someone my age, exchanging views, arguing, consoling each other...

"Does Soundarya hate me?"

"No, Adi. She loves you...she loves you more than she loves me or appa...you are her big brother who will take care of her forever, remember?"

Adi nods, his eyes still on his sister and he says, "Ma, God gave me the best little sister."

"And the best daughter I can ask for", I whisper, hoping Soundarya will hear it, someday.

I put my arm around my son and we stand together, hoping, praying for Soundarya. Vijay looks up at us and motions for us to come in.

We take tentative steps towards Soundarya, tentative steps towards the destiny that Soundarya will carve for us. We sit around her, taking turns to hold her hand, talking to her, waiting for her to wake up, to complete us.

And she does. She opens her eyes and smiles at Adi and then at us. And in the bluish glow that night, I realize I have the most beautiful daughter in the world - she creates beauty all around her - beauty in a brother's love, beauty in a father's tears, beauty in a mother's realization, beauty that defines life, us - my beautiful daughter, Soundarya.

The harmony in my life.

2005-12-17T13:08:00.002-06:00

I sit down on the sand, facing the ocean, far away from whispering couples and boisterous teenagers. In some dim corner of my mind, I notice the beauty of the marked moon, I notice how it catches each of the rising waves, giving it its moment of glory before it dies - like my own life until now? At some sub-conscious level, I feel grateful for the stinging chillness of the wind hitting my face. But today, I will not let the calming elements of nature console me. Today, I want to think, alone.

But instead I cry. I cry for reasons I don't fully understand. I cry until the wind dries my wet cheeks. I cry like a man who has lost, a man who is lost.

And I have neither lost nor am lost. Without her. Because she is still with me.

***
"I am getting married."

Priya says it in one of her matter-of-fact tones. She has several tones, their repertoire, almost a second nature to me, in just two years? I feel I know her like I know myself - natural, instinctive.

So, I do what comes naturally to me. I laugh.

"What's so funny? He happens to be a sensitive, good-looking gentleman..." and she adds, "unlike you!", when I continue to laugh.

"Poor guy. Did he not take a good look at you?"

"He did! And he happens to like me. A lot. He said he liked me from the time he met me first at the coffee shop!"

"Oh...that guy. The oh-am-so-goody-goody-I-will-turn-up-fifteen-minutes-early chap!"

"Yes and that chap has a name - Arvind. OK, Prem, please be serious, for once?"

"As you wish, madame. When do I get to meet him? Obviously you are joking about the marriage bit, right? You didn't already say yes, did you?", I ask in mock anger.

My feeble attempt to make her feel guilty. And I lose, as always. The girl never gives me a chance!

"Of course not. That was just to get your attention. Am not saying yes, until you give the go-ahead, buddy!"

And she tilts her head a bit to the side - something she always does when she is happy - and smiles.

For a moment, I feel a pang of something I can't quite place my fingers on. I touch her lightly on the head and tousle her hair - "I am going to miss you, Priya."

She doesn't say anything, just closes her eyes and leans against my hand for a few seconds.
***
"Excellent", I make a little circle with my thumb and forefinger and Priya's mom laughs.

"Have few more idlis, Prem. You seem to be growing thinner by the day!"

I am about to reply when Priya rushes in, "Amma, do you think I should wear a saree instead?"

She looks adorable.

"You look fat."

"Amma! See what Prem is saying...", she turns to her mom, with a querulous tone in her voice. Her childish pout delights me, I grin and Priya's mom rolls her eyes as if she were settling a fight between two children.

She is still a child, atleast to me. Just as she is about to walk off in a huff, I catch her hand and say, "Arvind is going to be swept off his feet today".

She has such an expectant twinkle in her eye, I suddenly feel protective about her - he better keep my Priya happy. My Priya? I smile to myself - not anymore. I let go of her hand and wonder for the first time, if I really want Arvind to be swept off his feet...

***
That night, she calls me late in the night to tell me all about Arvind.

"I was waiting for mom and dad to sleep. So many questions...do you like him? Does he seem like a decent boy? Did he ask to meet again?"

I interrupt and let her catch her breath, "Well?"

"Well? Well what?"

"Well, do you like him? Did he ask to meet again?"

"Uh huh"

I wait and she says, "Prem?"

"Still here."

"You know how all your life, you wait for this one perfect person? The one person who understands you even when you don't say a thing? The one person who knows you better than yourself? So much so that he completes your thoughts even before you have finished having them?"

I wait for her answer.

"...well, you know, that's kind of impractical. There is no such person. Well, I have you but..." and then she pauses as if her own words confuse her.

I realize I am holding the receiver tightly and I also realize I am holding my breath. Why? She is my friend and I should be happy for her. But, all I feel is a slight sense of relief that her perfect guy is just a figment of her imagination and Arvind is none of those. I assume.

"...but you know, Arvind is sweet, patient and he adores me. He has that look in his eyes, you know what I mean? I can go on waiting for the right person and maybe I will never find him...but I just know that Arvind will keep me happy..."

I still say nothing.

"So?"

"So..."

"Will you meet Arvind?"

"No."

Why did I say that? I should want to meet Arvind now, to make sure he is right for Priya - I am after all her best friend, I should do this for her...

And I hear myself say again, "No, Priya, not tomorrow. This week is not good for me..."

"Prem, you promised! You have to meet him. He is waiting for me to say yes..."

"Oh?"

"...or no. Please, will you meet him sometime this week? I have told him so many things about you..."

The idea of this stranger knowing me intimately, as Priya knows me, infuriates me. I know I am being irrational but several other feelings overpower the practical me.

"Why? You don't have to go behind my back, talking about me, to your sweetheart!"

"Prem, stop being silly. Remember the time when we went forty five minutes late to the carnatic music concert and we tried to bribe the gate-wallah to let us in...I was telling Arvind about that and we had such a laugh...you must..."

"I suppose he had a good laugh and preached about why I must be on time?"

"No...Arvind..."

"Priya, all this talk about Arvind is getting really tiresome. Can we do this someother time? I have an early morning conference call to attend..."

"Prem...ok", she says in a small voice and I know she will cry after she hangs up.

And still, I say bye and hang up. That night, sleep eludes me for a long time. Early morning, I have a dream about Arvind and Priya laughing and pointing...at me! I wake up, feeling just not right.

What is the matter with me? Am I just not ready to let go? Or am I confusing friendship with something else? Why is it that a part of me wants Arvind to hurt her so that she comes running to my arms? That can't be love - I shouldn't want to hurt if I am in love...

I make up my mind. It's just best for her and for me, if I move away from her, for sometime. Time will clear my thoughts and direct our lives. Time...that's all I need.
***
The next few weeks, I feel miserable. I don't return her calls. Her emails to me still announce that they are unread. I avoid her, perhaps hurting myself more than am hurting her. I hardly stay in my apartment, making my working days as long as possible and working even during the weekends.

One dreary Saturday afternoon - it had rained the whole day; I remember because she walked in slightly shivering, rain water dripping from her clothes - she decided I had given time enough time to steer our lives. She decided it was time she took our lives into her hands.

She sits down next to me. The silence around us interrupted only by the constant pitter-patter of the rain outside.

"I am sorry."

"Yes, you are."

"I just thought I needed some time to sort out...my life. Without you."

"You can't."

"Sorry?"

"Your life is a mess", she smiles and it's as if everything is the same between us, "What makes you think you can sort it out without me?"

I smile at her and fight back an impulse to hug her tightly.

"You think I will run away that easily and let you live your life the way you want to, you idiot?"

She continues, "I can't let go that easily, Prem. I know that you can't either."

And I suddenly wonder who the child in our relationship is.

"Priya, I know that. I don't ever want to..."

But, she doesn't let me complete what I wanted to say. Instead, she talks about Arvind. She likes him. She wants to say yes and she is still waiting for me to say yes.

And I say yes. Just like that.

"But, you haven't even met him!"

"Yes, but I have heard a hundred things about him, from you. I am sure he will be a nice and boring husband - no surprises! And if he is not, I will kill him for you."

We laugh together and I wish, I could make that moment last forever.

***
I know she is probably getting ready for her engagement tomorrow. I know I should probably be with her now. I just can't bring myself to face us together, one more time. So, I walk to the beach and sit down at her favourite spot. It reminds me of time spent in her company, of laughter, of friendship - of all the things close to my heart. And then I cry.

I am not sure how long I have been sitting there. I think about friendship and love. I think about Priya and Arvind and I know we have taken the right decisions in our lives - Priya and Prem...

I know it is Priya. Even before her hand touches my shoulders. Even before she sits down next to me and takes my hand in hers. I just know. And these are the little things that confuse me - this feeling of nothingness, lightness when she is around, it's as if there is not another person sitting next to me - I can be myself - boring, witty, caustic, funny, whatever I want to be because I know she will understand...

"I thought about it for a long time too", she looks at the waves as she talks and for once, I see their turbulence reflected in her eyes.

The wind carries her hair all around her tear-stained face, hiding it from me. She tries to smoothen out stray strands of hair with her right hand and the moonlight reveals a bride's delicate hand - the mehendi has not even dried.

"Arvind knows am here...with you. Everyone's so excited - my parents, Arvind...they are all talking about the engagement and I just needed to be alone, to listen to the voices in my head. But, then I realized, I just wanted to hear you talk. I knew you'd be here."

We sit there, seemingly no different from the other couples who sit at the beach that day - holding hands. But we don't whisper like them - the silence between us talks for us. I know we are different because we are friends. We were meant to be friends. To be anything else would be unnatural, incomplete. And that night, holding Priya's hand, I know as she does that we will always be friends.

"I love you Priya. I should have said this a long back, without hurting you...I love you as I can love no one, perhaps not even my wife."

"And I love you too...",

It's as if the wind is whispering those words to me.

"...in a way, I can never love Arvind. I am sure I will be insanely possessive about him, I would not want his eyes to even dare to settle on another pretty woman, I would want to own him, make him mine and I am looking forward to that. But you...are different. I don't want to spoil what we have by trying to thrust newer meanings to it. Its perfect as it is."

It was as if she had just read out my thoughs to me. And she - my thoughts - convinced me that our decision was taken if not rightly, atleast for the right reasons. Sometimes, we gain by letting go but I had everything I wanted, I was letting go to gain nothing, to lose nothing. I was letting go so that I could still hear the harmony I hear now - in the waves, in her words, in my thoughts - years later when I want to hear it again.

And then, I hug her, without guilt, without thinking - my moment of glory. And I know she will always be with me.

***

The argument.

2005-12-12T15:47:00.000-06:00

"One plate samosa, one coffee. Is the leg better now?", I smile at Murugan. A pleasant smile suffuses across his young face and he says, "Much better ayya. It now hurts only here." and he bends down and points to the region around his ankle.

"Another great story ayya? I shall not disturb you", and he is gone as quickly as he appeared. That is one smart lad, I think to myself, watching him talk with the same comfort with several other regulars in the restaurant, if you could call it that.

"Anandam Coffee shop" - the billboard declared in a slightly garish red. The m tilts down at an angle, as if to bless the customers. The walls inside are painted an unrecognizable shade of brown, that has peeled off in corners. A few rusty fans make sure that the smoke from the kitchen swirls inside in a haze. I cannot say why but sitting in this little smoke-filled place, my mind settles down to a lazy calm, that I cannot seem to achieve anywhere else. I come here every evening with my little notebook and pen, looking inside my mind, looking around me for inspirations and ideas.

I write, for a living. I manage to make ends meet with what I write - articles to the tamil magazines, short stories and if I am lucky, interviews with people who are a lot more famous than I am. Murugan always serves me. I don't tip him much. I don't eat much but over the years, we have established a comfortable rapport. I listen to his stories about his life, his boyish ambitions, his dreamy-eyed goals and see a part of my self that I left behind a long time ago...

But this story is not about me. It is about two women, as different from each other as can be. It is about clashing ideals, friendship, fate and a mother's love. That is probably how I will introduce my article if it ever gets published. For now, let me call it what it is - an interesting conversation between two women, powerful in curiously different ways.

Initially I struggle to make out much from the girlish chatter than goes on. "Gosh, you have lost so much weight!", "Do you remember Manjunath from our Eco class?" and so on. I pretend to jot down notes as I doodle, waiting to shape their conversation into something interesting. I did not have to wait for long.

"How old is she?", Divya asks, lightly touching the child's cheeks.

"All of two years and seven months...". An unmistakeable touch of pride that only a mother's voice can convey.

"She is adorable. So a year before she goes to school?" Casual, almost disinterested.

"Yes, a little more than a year. I wonder how I can bear to be away from her for so long, once she starts going to school...". A touch of wistfulness?

"What do you mean? Have you taken a break from work, Madhu?!" Surprise evident in her slightly elevated tone.

"Uh, yes of course. I planned to take a break of a year and then I thought, maybe I should wait until she goes to school..." She seems to be revisting the decisions of the past. She finds in her a need to validate her decision. The hint of a defensive edge in her voice confirms my inference.

I continue to jot down my thoughts, derivations, interpretations as the conversation takes on a slightly serious tone.

"And you...have you found your Mr.Right?"

"Still searching. Am confident I will find him!"

As if on cue, Divya's cell phone rings and she speaks in hushed tones, audible to Madhu.

"No Gautam, I can't make it today. Sure, some other day. Yes, I'll give you a call"

A final comment from Gautam makes her laugh and she hangs up, shaking her head, "Guys, can't live with them, can't live without them!"

"So, how did you find him?" Divya winks at Madhu

"I didn't. My parents did...I don't think I could have done a better job!", Madhu winks back but the import is lost on Divya.

I write in my notebook,
Divya has a look of incredulity on her face.

I try to string words to match her thoughts -
"The poor woman?" or "I hope he doesn't give her a rough time, she may be naive but she is my friend?"...I also notice that Madhu is not at all discomfited by the look on her friend's face. Does being a young mother make one accustomed to such looks? Or do they just convey an ignorance that she does not bother to correct - maybe she waits for time to answer the question?

"So, how do you like being a mother? A full-time job, isn't it?"

"Yes, it is. Doesn't leave you much time for anything else. Sometimes, you don't want time to do anything else...", Madhu smiles and Divya nods, unconvincingly.

"But Madhu, what happened to the journalism course that you were going to take? Remember, you wanted to travel the world...this is, this is...quite a surprise."

Madhu pats her daughter's head absently, "Sometimes, life takes us on a journey that we least expect, maybe its not what we had in mind, but its interesting, challenging and it makes sense...you know what I mean?"

Divya does not know. Or she wouldn't be looking at her wrist watch with that now familiar impatient gesture. Madhu looks over her head and catches my eye. I smile at her but she doesn't see me.

"So, it's been fun catching up Madhu but now, I have to go. I still have some work to do for the demo on Monday."

"It's been fun Divya. Do call up sometime, it gets boring when she takes her naps, you know?"

Divya smiles back at Madhu ruefully, or so I thought.

As they get up to leave, a gentleman enters the shop and looks around for a bit before his eyes settle on Madhu and the child. He smiles and walks towards them.

"Madhu! You never keep track of time, do you? We have to go now or your mom will kills us!" He taps lightly on Madhu's head, fondly, as one would to a child.

Madhu smiles and introduces her husband to her friend, "Dinesh, this is Divya..."

Divya stares at the soft-spoken, handsome young man and pauses before extending her hand. He gives her hand a cursory shake before lifting his daughter up. His attention is already completely on his daughter who has suddenly started talking non-stop.

I try once again to read what each fleeting flicker on Divya's face conveys - "And finally I lose to a young girl of not even three?" or "There are men, much unlike the Gautams of this world?" or maybe they are just feelings that sometimes one does not like to acknowledge or express - surprise? jealousy? disbelief?

Divya watches the three of them walk out. Dinesh has his hands draped around Madhu, and his daughter leans her head on his left shoulder. He leans down to whisper something to Madhu that makes her blush and cast her eyes down.

I write down the last line in my notebook,

"And Divya knows she has lost the argument."

The choice - 2

2005-12-03T23:42:00.002-06:00

I am running out of titles, I guess...my earlier story also titled "The Choice" here :)

I pass the card through the shredder and watch it strip one path of my uncertain fate into little bits. I switch off the light and sit on my chair next to the bed, in semidarkness. The curtains flutter as if whispering to me and I watch the moonlight filtering through it and falling on my wife's face, as if the heavens had made their choice. And I had made mine.

Shreya...Shreya. As if I had to shush even to say her name. Even her name must not escape my lips, aloud. A day away from reality and my life had changed. How did I let my mind waver thus? Seven rounds around the fire, three priests chanting vedic verses, even the sacred yellow thread that she still wore around her neck...none of them could shackle my fickle mind. No, I am not fickle. I did not as much as think for a second that I would stray for another woman. But, Shreya was different. Shreya never left me to reappear in my life now. She was always there. I just closed my eyes and thought she was not near.

She fidgets in her sleep, charming even with her mouth slightly open. Suddenly she knits her brows and pouts in her sleep, adorable, a child struggling with a bad dream. And I mirror her expression. Why did she have to be so perfect even in her imperfections? Maybe I need Shreya because I want to fight with a woman's irrationalities and her vagaries, to delight in her moods and quirks...I tire with a woman who offers me no excuse to sense that she is human as I am, and that she makes mistakes as I do. The more she struggled to please me, the more perfect she became, the farther away I reached, with someone who was as flawed as I am, with someone who did not make me feel guilty with her every gesture.

"How do you manage it, Arun?"

"Manage what?"

"Being married! Aren't you bored? Don't you look at other women?"

"Other women..."

"Take me for instance...aren't you wishing you can take me out on a date?"
and then she laughs, carelessly. Everything about her seems frivolous, irresponsible...exciting? As she talks, little curls of her hair fall over her forehead, her smile seems not to touch her eyes and yet I find her irresistible. I don't know why. Maybe because she is just the antithesis of Sumathi - playful and unpredictable. Maybe that's how the human mind is made, to want what it cannot have, to tire of what it should cherish, to beg for a change even when life seems perfect.

"Oh, come on, everyone knew you had a crush on me years ago! I don't blame you for that...but isn't it more than a coincidence that we ran into each other at a conference? Aren't the signs trying to tell us something?"
She moves her fingers as if she were a fortune-teller, reading the signs and she laughs again. It always threw me off. Is she suggesting something or just giving me a hard time?

And then my cell phone rings and the jangle annoys me further.
"Sumathi, yes, am busy...yes, I will be home before nine. No, don't wait for me! I cannot understand why you have to wait every night, stop being silly..."

and I hear the hesitant pause from the other end and say, in a softer tone, "I am not very hungry. I had a late lunch, take your dinner."

And I know she wouldn't. Stupid, old-fashioned woman! I look up at Shreya who seems amused at my embarassing conversation.

"How cute! The wife waits to have dinner with you!"

And suddenly, a trait that should have been endearing, grates me further.

"...while the husband flirts with his lady love!"

I flush and stand up and she puts a hand on my arm.

"Now dear, am just messing with you...sit down, we have so much to catch up on. Do you still play the guitar? Tell me all about your life..."

I must have been an idiot. I had been an idiot in love. Maybe I still am or maybe my definition of love itself is skewed up and I just liked to believe that what I felt was love. I sit down and we talk for a long time. And every fifteen minutes an image creeps into my head and I catch a glimpse of Sumathi hovering near the dining table, peeping out the window, waiting for me...and I resist and push it away. Is this the feeling that assumes the fanciful identity we call love? Or is this just my guilt appearing to frown at me? Something stings my eyes and her words float, meaninglessly around me,

"So, call me up anytime or email, whatever. Lets catch up...'s been fun talking to you!" and she leans over and kisses me lightly on the cheek. I take the card that she extends towards me and try not to think about my wife.

Shreya links her arm with mine and we walk out of the restaurant together.
"We should meet up sometime soon. I fly back tonight. If you ever do come to Washington, holler and I'll be there...have always been there for you, haven't I, Arun?", she winks at me and my heart skips a beat.

She leaves in a cab and I take a long walk before catching a cab home.

The house smells of incense, of Sumathi. The dining table is clean, as if she never waited the whole time for me. She sleeps curled on one side of the bed. So delicate, so vulnerable...her cheeks glisten as if a stray tear forgot to dry. I run my hand over her head and lean close to her just to take in her smell - a smell of anxiety, faithfulness and love. Something that I myself can only sense not experience.

She stirs again and this time, smiles in her sleep. I smile too. Maybe she can teach me to love as she does, completely and unselfishly...

I walk towards my window and stand staring at the darkness outside. The moon seems to wink at me, at a choice well made.

Aunt Maria's love story.

2005-11-15T08:57:00.000-06:00

"There comes a time in every person's life when she believes she must have been in love."

An excited wave of murmers ripples through the small audience punctuated by a few giggles arising from the younger ones. I feel as I always do at the beginning of Aunt Maria's story telling sessions - eager, curious and impatient to hear the rest of the story already.

"Aunt Maria has quite an imagination, can't wait for what she cooks up this time!", Nancy whispers excitedly and winks at me.

"Nancy, Latha, stop that giggling or you are doing the dishes tonight!", Aunt Maria warns, waggling her finger at us, in mock anger. I smile back at her. She has always been Aunt Maria to all of us. Aunt Maria who baked delicious, warm cookies for us, the quintessential apron tied around her, her chubby hands working deftly to feed several eager mouths. Her silvery bun was always tied high above her head and her eyes did not betray her age - young and twinkling, those of a child about to eat a candy.

Her stories were always reserved for Saturday nights or when there was a powercut, which was every other week. We light candles in the patio and cuddle around Aunt Maria. She sits in the hammock and surveys her audience shrewdly. A gentle breeze disturbs the candle flame and we huddle closer.

"I was a pretty little thing of about eighteen when I met him at the University library. I worked weekends at the library from nine to five. He came every Saturday and lingered behind until it was closing time. He never checked out a book once."

"How did he look Aunt Maria? Tall, dark and handsome? Maybe a stubble?"

"You imp, shush!"

Aunt Maria adjusts her glasses and continues, "He was lanky and tall, tall enough to reach the last but one shelf of the book shelf in the library. I remember because that is the reason why I talked to him the very first time. He was trying to reach a book in the uppermost shelf and I said,

"Sir, would you like me to help you with that?"

He looked amused. Perhaps he thought it was funny that someone as short as I wanted to help him.

"Yes and No, Maria."

The fact that he knew my name irritated me a bit.

"It's almost closing time, Sir. If you need further help, I will be at the front desk."

He said nothing and I walked back to the front desk, annoyed at his impertinence. He left without saying goodbye.

The next morning, he came to the library at noon. I ignored him. He browsed through the different aisles as he always does - fiction, autobiographies, romance, horror - he did not seem to have any preference. Afternoons usually see just a couple of regulars at out library. An old man sat there leafing through a small book, punctuating the silence in the library with his tiny coughs.

Unconsciously, I followed the young man who seemed to be in no hurry to pick a book. He walked casually from book to book, sometimes he would pick a book and smell it, sometimes, he would run his fingers around it, sometimes he would just walk around.

He puzzled me. After what seemed like hours, he picked a thin book and settled down with it, his back facing me.

Inspite of myself, I really wanted to know which book he had picked. So, I held my head high, walked nonchalantly towards him and pretended to arrange the books on the table.

He smiled at me but said nothing. He was reading 'Love Story'. I was happy with his choice. Satisfied, I was about to move back when he said,

"Do you also like Erich Seagal, Maria?"

I did not want to answer him, but it seemed an innocent question and I longed for any conversation that day to get me through the day.

"Yes, I see you took your time to pick the book."

"Oh, I have read it before, many times."

He offered no further explanation. Sitting across him, he looked a lot older than I had thought he was - maybe in his late twenties. He seldom blinked and I found it disconcerting to look into his eyes and talk.

"So, are you a student at the University?", I decided to ask him a few mundane questions so as to not appear rude and then get back to my desk.

"Professor. I teach English."

Again, an awkward silence that he seemed to be entirely comfortable with.

"OK, I better get back to work...", I got up to leave when he said,

"You look remarkably like her."

I don't know why but I sat down again.

"You have her eyes - small but expressive, taking in more than it reveals. Green."

"Look, I don't have time for this kind of..."

"She loved books...this was her favourite book..."

and then suddenly,

"I am David, nice meeting you Maria", he held his hand out to me.

"And that was our first meeting. Now, let me get some goodies out for you kids before it gets too late...", Aunt Maria ambles towards the kitchen and an excited chatter breaks out among us.

"Do you think he will propose to Aunt Maria?"

"Whom does she resemble? his wife? sister?"

"Am sure Aunt Maria can make something up to finish the story. That's probably why she went to the kitchen!"

And we laugh, but a small part of me believes and wants to believe that the story is true...maybe that's why aunt Maria never married, maybe he was the one...

Aunt Maria returns with a large round plate full of chocolate sprinkled brownies. We bite into the warm soft brownies as she continues,

"Our first meeting was anything but normal but his words echoed in my head the following week and I wondered what he had meant and why he had been so cryptic."

The next Saturday, I searched for a copy of "Love Story" and settled down with it, my feet propped on a chair nearby. I was so engrossed in the book, I did not hear the tinkle of the bells tied to our library front door that announced a visitor.

"You have read it before too, haven't you?"

I jumped in my chair and the book fell down.

"David! You startled me!", I said, holding a hand to my chest.

He smiled - the same mysterious smile, always a touch of sadness in it.

"Yes, I have read it before. I can read it again any number of times and I am sure I will cry each time I read it!"

"You are blessed - a book can make you cry. I try and yet I cannot."

Here I was talking to this stranger about things that I little understood. Yet, as he stood there looking into my eyes, this time I did not draw my eyes away. I felt something powerful in the silence that surrounded us. It showed me shades of his past and I felt sad for him.

"When did you meet her?", I asked, about the woman who I knew nothing about except that she looked like me.

"We took the same classes here. I knew I would marry her the day I met her."

"She took a long time to say yes, didn't she?", I ask, smiling at him.

"Yes, she said she knew it had to be me but decided to sleep over it", he chuckles softly and I am happy to see him happy.

We talk about his wife, her life and now his life without her. I don't feel weird anymore, I want to stand there and talk to him for as long as I can, I want to know about this woman that I could not be, whose eyes I had...I don't feel bad reminding him of her, I want to remind him of her.

And a few months later, he just stopped coming to the library, just like that. I always wondered if there could have been something more between us but life is like that, isn't it? Always leaves you asking for more..."

With that aunt Maria gets up and softly blows out the candles one by one. Everyone talks in low voices about her story, a more subdued gathering than before.

I wait for everyone to leave and stand next to aunt Maria as she cleans the dishes.

"Aunt Maria?"

She appears not to hear.

"He did not just stop coming, did he?"

She looks up at me and shakes her head ever so slightly.

"He asked you to marry him, didn't he?"

Again the almost imperceptible shake of the head.

I gently take the dish-cloth she holds in her hands and hold her hands in mine,
"Tell me, Aunt Maria..."

"Oh, I did fall in love with him."

"I knew it! And then, what happened?!", I ask excitedly.

"I asked him to marry me..."

Her voice grows soft, so soft that the wind almost does not carry it towards me,

"He refused. He said he couldn't bear losing her again."

Another Mega Serial :)

2005-11-10T11:01:00.000-06:00

Chapter 1: The Retirement.
Chapter 2: The phone call.
Chapter 3: The Visa Interview.
Chapter 4: Off to America.

Chapter 1. The Retirement.

2005-11-01T14:47:00.000-06:00

Mr.Raghavan hears every single tick of the grandfather clock. He hears the rustling of the leaves and the chattering of the evening birds, the sounds of dusk. Each heightens his feeling of loneliness. A feeling that he is too proud to acknowledge. Sixty years of life lived as a proud man and that is how he will live the rest of his life, with his head held high. He picks up the Hindu once again and tries to concentrate on what he is reading. The sudden ring of the calling bell surprises him. He walks with small quick steps to open the door, expectation lighting up his face.

"Raghavan, how are you? I thought I would drop by for a quick evening chat!"

The house owner, Gangadharan could not have chosen a more inappropriate time to pay a visit to Raghavan. Within a few minutes, he realizes that the latter is not interested in any kind of small talk with him. Slightly hurt, he leaves the small house, already pondering on his next victim.

Raghavan settles back into the chair and takes a deep breath.

What did that Gangatharan think? That, he had time to discuss the town gossip because he was "retired" now? He would not and would never be a part of the useless old men talk group. No job in their hands and nothing useful to talk about all evening but rumours and gossip! Ask them anything about politics and general knowledge and they would gather their veshtis and disappear from sight! Worthless fools!

The shrill ring of the telephone distracts him and he hollers into the receiver,
"Raghavan speaking."

***
"Did you have your dinner?"

Parvathi's typical questions. Questions that drove him up the wall but of late, he had begun even to miss those simple conversations with his wife.

He grunts a yes into the receiver because he knows that no other answer would satisfy her.

"Did you turn off the gas? Have you taken your tablets?"

Ignoring her questions, he asks,
"How is the baby? Have the rashes gone?"

"Yes, she is better now. Do you want to talk to Sanjay? He is in the kitchen with Neelima..."

He senses the disapproval in his wife's voice and smiles. Softening down considerably at the thought of his simple, old-fashioned wife stuck in America, he asks,

"How is your leg now? Can you walk easily?"
She had fallen down while trying to get on to an elevator at a store.

"Yes", her voice trembles a little and she says, "By God's grace, as soon as the baby is five or six months old, I will find my way back. What does an old woman like me have here in America anyway?"

Raghavan remains silent for sometime. Somehow, even the thought of making his wife go to America alone did not prompt him to accompany her. He did not have a fascination for cars, clean roads and big buildings - "Oh, these roads are so dirty, mama", Neelima had purred a few years back, "The same dirty roads that you grew up on!" is what he would have liked to tell her - he did not care for an immigrant treatment in America. He was proud to be an Indian and his soil would see him breathe his last. No amount of pleading from his son or wife and half-hearted requests from his daughter-in-law could convince him otherwise.

"Take care of your health. Am sure Sanjay and Neelima can manage once you leave. Bye."

Raghavan feels better after talking to his wife. As he closes his eyes, he thinks of the time Sanjay was born and the thought lulls him to sleep.

***
The milkman rings the bell and Raghvan searches for his spectacles in the semi-darkness. By force of habit, he looks at the clock and thinks to himself that he is late for work today. As his head clears, a dull realization hits him that he is no longer employed. Old and retired. He moves slowly doing about his morning chores trying as best as he can to spread his activities till mid-day. The temple bell rings heralding a long day ahead for him. His thoughts drift back to the day that Parvathi had dragged him to the temple...was it only six months back?

"It is such an honor! How many people do you know who have been awarded, "an employee of the year" shield?"

"It is not a shield and I know of many of my friends who have been recognized as "Employee of the Year" Why must I spend my time chanting at the temple when I can spend it at office doing justice to my award?"

"Today is an auspicious day. You will have to come to the temple with me..."

And the argument had lasted till the temple steps. Parvathi had insisted on an archanai and she did not let go of him until she had adorned his forehead with prominent Vibhuthi marks - "For Drishti!", she had warned him, when he tried to take it off.

***
And six months later, here he was, with a so-called voluntary retirement forced upon him by his unctuous boss - "It's like this Mr.Raghavan, we think you would benefit by this proposal...". And suddenly, his sense of importance and pride was gone, without a warning. He was not Raghavan, Vice President of a prestigious company but just Raghavan, retired and biding his time for the end. He had decided then that he would not be a part of any of the religious groups in his neighbourhood, chanting what they little understood, preaching what they little practised. He would still lead a meaningful life...but somehow, his life seemed without any direction now. He was not the bread-winner of the house, but an old man living on his pension. With nothing to concentrate on the major part of the day, he started having unwholesome thoughts about his own old age and death. A sudden noise interrupted his listless thoughts...

He looked up and Gangadharan cleared his throat again. Raghavan decided to put an end to these visits. He opened his mouth to say something acerbic and was interrupted by Gangadharan,

"Raghavan, do you have a few minutes to spare?"
Was he mocking him? Of course he had a few minutes, he had his whole life ahead of him to spare but he would probably not waste it on Gangadharan!

"I need to talk to you about a personal problem..."

Raghavan took a closer look at the other man and noticed tell-tale signs of weariness on his face. He motioned him to sit down.

"We probably don't know each other well enough for me to confide in you..."

Can't this man talk except in circles?

"but I know you are a capable man and I really have nowhere to turn to for some sensible advice..."

And in his own circuitous way of speaking, Gangadharan confided his problems to Raghavan.

"You see, it's not like my son does not love me or respect me anymore. It's just that he has so many responsibilities now, what with the baby and all and I am probably just a burden...but I have nowhere else to go. I have spent my pension money on my son and I cannot imagine living in an old age home. Rangachari and Sheshadri are in a similar situation themselves..."

Raghavan listened silently.

So, the loud old men's club had its own share of problems...

He still did not understand clearly the purpose of Gangadharan's visit but now he had a new problem to solve. His mind clicked to work immediately, a well-oiled engine going about its tasks. He asked a few questions and tried to sort out Gangadharan's problems. Not that he had a solution at hand but two heads were better than one and it was obvious Gangadharan needed someone like Raghavan to listen to him more than anything else.

It would be far-fetched to say that a strong friendship forged between the two old men but a bond did develop. Raghavan began to look forward to Gangadharan's daily visits. He even spoke to Gangadharan's son, who appeared to be scared of him. Gangadharan even went to the extent of suggesting that Raghavan should visit America to see his grandchild. A severe look from Raghavan silenced him, but that night Raghavan did atleast consider the possibility of a trip to America.

Parvathi returned from America with suitcases full of gifts for her husband, her relatives, her innumerable temple friends and ofcourse a load of stories to share with her husband about America, her daughter-in-law and her grandchild. She seemed surprised at her husband's sudden change in temperament since the retirement but did not guess that it had anything to do with Gangadharan. For her, he was just another cup of filter coffee that she had to make every evening and she was glad to do so.

And Raghavan finally made peace with his retirement.

I gave up on the dhtml when I noticed the absolute positioning messes up the display on smaller screen sizes. Also, I had the story written with Raghavan going to America and his funny experiences there but it's way too long for a Saturday morning, so the end folks!

Chapter 2. The phone call.

2005-11-01T02:50:00.000-06:00

The next day, a call early morning made Raghavan take the one big step that he had hesitated to take for many years - he decided to go to America.

"Appa, amma's leg has become worse because of the cold. Yesterday, she took a walk outside and slipped on some of the ice on the pavement..."

Raghavan's face clouded with anger and concern...

"Appa, it will probably be good for amma if you also come over. I don't think she can travel back so soon...and you haven't seen the baby yet."

And Raghavan finally made up his mind.

That evening Gangadharan almost danced with joy. "You are indeed lucky Raghavan, you have a son who wants you with him in America!"

"Save your joy! He is only calling me so I can be a nurse to Parvathi while he goes to work! His new wife would have probably complained!"

And they had discussed life in America and what all arrangements Raghavan had to make - visa, warm clothes, Indian music CDs because they would not be available in America...

"Just because I am living in my son's house doesn't mean I will depend on him for anything..."

Gangadharan nodded his head in agreement.

"I will still buy grocery, take my evening walks, go to the library once in a while..."

Gangadharan nodded some more, a little hesitantly this time, "Won't you need a car to...?"

"Car, shmar, I will walk, when I was little, I..."

And several hours later, Gangadharn left with dreams of America.

Chapter 3. The Visa Interview.

2005-11-01T02:39:00.000-06:00

The Visa office was too crowded for Raghavan's liking. A round man, around Raghavan's age came panting into the hall, sweating profusely, he seemed to be running for the past fifteen minutes. He looked around for a few seconds and settled down near Raghavan to catch his breath.

"I thought I would be late for my appointment", he offered by way of explanation to Raghavan. He was a retired judge and Raghavan approved of judges. So, he decided to talk to the judge to kill time while he waited for his turn.

"Nowadays, all of India wants to go to America", Raghavan began loudly.

"Yes, yes, my son and daughter are both there for the past 10 years...", the judge nodded vehemently, spreading a few drops of sweat around him, "and they have not spoken a word of coming back..."

"Yes, these kids have forgotten where they hail from, money is the culprit!"

The conversation was gaining momentum and Raghavan was about to launch into one of his favorite discussions when his name was called for the Visa interview.

"And what is the purpose of your visit to America, Sir?", the young American sitting behind the counter asked politely.

Raghavan took an instant dislike to him. Who did this young man think he was? God?

"I have applied for a visitor's visa which means I will be a visitor in America. I am visiting my son."

"And when do you intend to return Sir?"

As soon as possible! Raghavan bit his tongue and said, "You see my wife is in America with my son and she has fallen down and hurt her leg. As soon as she gets better, we both will return..."

"Only son?"

How did this young upstart care if he had 18 sons?

"Only son and I know not why he wants to live in that Godforsaken place, leaving a country like India behind. I think the younger generation need some advice from us - their priorities are mixed up! Everyone can earn money - when I was Vice President of..."

Half-an-hour later, Raghavan waved goodbye to the judge and left the consulate with a visitor's visa in hand.

Chapter 4. Off to America.

2005-10-30T15:00:00.000-06:00

Raghavan was a man of very particular tastes and habits. He detested any change in his routine and more importantly his food.

The airhostess rushed to Aisle 24, seat A yet again, the third time in the past two hours.

"Yes Sir, how may I help you?"

"Yes young lady, you can help me! I have asked for Indian Vegetarian meals. This seems to be neither Indian nor vegetarian!"

The airhostess resisted an impulse to hold her head and scream.

"Sir, this is an Indian vegetarian meal, Sir. This is dal, basmati rice and vegetables with it, Sir."

The repeated use of Sir annoyed Raghavan.

"This food has no salt. The vegetables are unrecognizable and I would like a complaint form please!"

"You can get that as soon as you land, Sir."

Raghavan took a deep breath, carefully wrapped the meal that he had in hand and gave it to the airhostess, "Please take this back. I will ask for a refund and also file a complaint the moment I land!"

"Very good sir", the airhostess walked away shaking her head.

Raghavan took the remaining one banana out of his yellow bag and started eating it and noticed with interest how the teenage Indian boy with the weird crew cut was eating his food with zest.

"You like this food, young man?"

"Uh Huh, much better than anything my girlfriend cooks, dude, err...Uncle!"

While Raghavan did not approve of "dude" either, he was curious about the teenage boy and his "girlfriend".

"I see, your girlfriend does not cook very good Indian food?"

"You see man, she is from Romania and does not very much approve of Indian vegetarian. Her ex-boyfriend was also Indian and somehow she just hates Indian food, man!"

This was too much information for Raghavan. He closed his eyes and was soon snoring away much to his companion's amusement.

My "arranged" love-story.

2005-10-17T17:20:00.000-05:00

"This blue saree will do, ma!", I said firmly, hoping that my mom would not ignore the tone of finality in my voice, "and I most certainly will not wear that garish kasu malai!"

My mom looked forlorn. She assumed her most persuasive tone and tried one last time, "Vandana, you should look like a bride today! It will be very embarrassing for us if Srikanth's sister turns up better dressed than you!"

"I am not a bride yet. I have told you a million times before, if I don't like the guy, I say no and that's it!"

"Yes yes, but you will like him. He works in an MNC in Chicago. Do you think I should wear this kasu malai?", my mom asked, excited again at the prospect of imposing the monstrous family heirloom on the unsuspecting visitors.

Let me make myself clear. Do not mistake me to be one of those shyly grinning, drawing-kolams-with-delicate-toe, avid arranged-marriage proponent types. I am not and will never take a tray bearing four cups of strong filter coffee and will most definitely not look down when I serve coffee to the guy.

Well, in my defense, there were just three cups (Srikanth's dad had to fly out for a business meeting), I did not make the coffee and I took a real good look at the guy.

And Srikanth's sister, Niveditha (she pronounced it like "ivy"!) came dressed in baggie pants and a short top, chewing bubble gum to complete the look. I threw a look at my mom that could have killed but she was busy making small talk with Srikanth's mom.

"BE Mechanical from IIT Madras? I see...our Vandana is a gold medalist too" and then in a much lower voice, my mom adds, "She has a Bachelor's degree in Architecture from Anna University." She also throws an accusing look at me as if to say, "If only you had become an engineer or a Doctor..."

At this point, my mental state is vacillating between deep embarrassment mixed with humiliation and indignation. I plop myself down unceremoniously on my sofa and pick up last week's Kumudam. I stare at the same page for several minutes while I mentally put down all Mechanical Engineers from IIT, Madras.

"Umm, do you also have difficulty reading Tamil?", a gentle voice, a smile not to wide so as to suggest that he is trying to hard, not too small to not show off his dimples. But his question certainly did not please me. Mr.America can't read Tamil. How cool!

"I believe the least a person can do in his life is learn his or her mother tongue well. I can read Tamil very well."

"I agree. I've been trying to pick up bits of it reading stuff online...", having expected a hearty volley back, I must say I was taken aback a little.

"The kesari is delicious!"

"Mom made it. I can hardly hold a ladle straight."

There! Now let's see Mr.America digest that. So much for his perfect idea of a dainty, homely wife!

"Mm, I don't blame you. Being an architect must be a pretty demanding job! More interesting than anything I do atleast!", he chuckles.

I bite my tongue. I can't think of anything wrong with what he said and that annoys me. I so do not want to like Mr.America.

"Vandana, why don't you sing us a nice song? Mrs.Krishnamurthy tells me that Srikanth is a big fan of carnatic music! He has attended MS's concerts in America."

God! My mom is literally gushing now. Yes, am sure he is a big fan! Rich Mr.America appreciates music made by the little Indians.

"I am not prepared ma. I'll probably forget all the lines and mess up."

N"ivy" who till now was disinterestedly studying her nails, suddenly looks up, "Oh, do sing, Vandana. I would love to hear you sing too! I can always chip in with the right lines."

The nerve of that girl! Chip in with the right lines?! Now, you've asked for it lady. Stand back and prepare to be amazed.

"Our Niveditha has been learning to sing for the past five years..."

I launched into one of my favourite songs, drowning out Mrs.K's voice, a short, nevertheless complicated song. I finished with a flourish, thrilled with my perfect rendition.

"Wow! That's amazing, Vandana! You do have an excellent voice!"

Ah...so, Mr.America approves...now why does that make me grin like this? I turned to N"ivy" and she smiled at me and cooed, "That was lovely Vandana!" I noticed Mrs.K perceive me with additional interest. I can hear her saying already, "Our Vandana sings so beautifully, why don't you sing the song that you sang when Srikanth and I came to see you for the first time, Vandana?"...

"Now, I know what I will listen to in my free time after we get married!", Srikanth winks at me and my heart suddenly skips a beat. Darn! He reminds me of the cute guy I had a crush on in my first year...only, Srikanth looks better.

No, am not falling for his curly locks and evil dimples. I have heard one too many horror stories about unsuspecting Indian brides and their green card holding husbands...

My mom suddenly stands up and with a knowing smile, tells Mrs.K and N"ivy", "Let me show you Vandana's medals and a few photographs." And before I can object, am left alone in the room with Srikanth. He seems relaxed and comfortable.

No! Think of the horror stories! Concentrate!

"You know, Vandana, I am planning to come back to India for good."

I tried to appear nonchalant. People should appear to do that at times, be nonchalant that is. It makes them look cool, not that I wanted to look cool or anything.

"To be honest, the money is great and I can't complain but I just think I will be happier here."

And before I could respond, the gang returned and my mom surveyed us closely. She seemed satisfied with what she perceived. Unconsciously, I had been leaning forward to listen to what he had to say. I stood up immediately.

"Well, it's been nice talking to you, Vandana. I will call you sometime soon!"

A firm handshake and a gentlemanly nod and they were gone.

Now, I am not going to pretend that I did not like him. I did. But one can-almost-be-termed-a-conversation and good looks alone just did not tilt the scale enough. This state of my mind changed quite dramatically over the next few weeks. With every passing day that he did not call, I began to eagerly wait for his call more, anticipate brilliant conversations lasting several hours with him and in general, pine in a very unhealthy fashion (atleast in my opinion) for any interaction with him.

The call came. Three weeks later. i recognized his voice immediately. I was seething with anger and thrilled all at once.

"Hi Srika, Srikanth!", I gushed, just like my mom, into the receiver. Sometimes, I have an incredible tendency to get on my nerves.

"Vandana? I am sorry I couln't call earlier. Some thing came up."

What a vague excuse!

"Uh Huh, am sure. How are Niveditha and your parents doing?"

"Good. I was a bit worried that you would be annoyed at me. I really should have called earlier!"

"Yes, I guess you are right."

And so on and so forth, we had a pretty good conversation over all. Just short of an hour. I hung up smiling and had to stop myself from flitting about happily. That's just not me. Anyway, mom seemed pleased with the proceedings - "Your father would have been so happy" - and cooked up goodies almost everyday for me!

Srikanth called up pretty regularly after his first call and in general, things were quite nice and dandy. I continued to be a bit defensive with Srikanth though, just in case...but a hint here and there, a few spontaneous compliments and I was expecting a formal proposal pretty soon. Which is why I was quite unprepared for what was to follow.

He called me on a Sunday evening. He probably thought going to work the next day with a whole week in front of me would distract me enough to not feel too sorry for myself. He was wrong. I cried the whole week.

"Vandana, I called to say I will be flying back to Chicago next week."

And here I was thinking he was asking me if I would marry him within a week's time. I was about to open my mouth in protest when he said,

"I am not sure if you were already expecting this or if this comes as a surprise to you but I am getting engaged day after tomorrow. Her name is Sheetal, I've known her for five years and it was quite a struggle to get my mom to agree but it all worked out in the end..."

Obviously, this was all a bad dream. I pinched myself and realized that moment that Sheetal is one name that I would hate for the rest of my life. I could not talk coherently for sometime, somehow I was not thinking logically - too many thoughts swirling in my head, nothing seemed to make sense - Why? Why did he flirt with me then? Why?...I did what my dad always used to tell me - "Just take a deep breath, its not as bad as it seems..." - and the thought of my father brought tears to my eyes. I took a deep breath and said,

"Well, I am happy for you Srikanth. I hope Sheetal keeps you very happy. I have a few designs that I need to finalize, talk to you later."

I hung up the receiver and closed my eyes. The phone rang again and I let it ring.

Bits and pieces of conversations that we shared over the past few weeks came floating back inside my head, I remembered the way he winked at me, the look in his eyes after I finished my song...and a fresh surge of tears wet my cheeks.

My mom walked in and in a single breath, I blurted out to her, "Amma, Srikanth called...said no, he has a girlfriend..." and buried my face in her saree. She held me tightly and did not let go for a long time.

I must say I recovered pretty well after this incident. He tried calling a few times after that day but mom always gave him the right excuse before he could say much and I was grateful to her for that. I really did not fancy playing the part of the pitiable girl whom the cute guy dumped! I found myself thinking often if this was my doing after all. Maybe I had found the perfect guy and let him go because I was too conceited? Maybe I will see a hundred other guys but never find my charming Mr.America again...well, anyway easy come, easy go. Only in my case, it was not an easy go. I did not realize the depth of my feelings for him until he said goodbye.

So, you will not be surprised why I almost ran into him, deep in thought, at Spencers and still did not recognize him. He looked quite different too - quite a visible stubble, dark glasses, a crumpled white tshirt and an old pair of jeans.

"Vandana."

And that's all he said.

I froze.

Familiar feelings, a giddy rush of blood to my cheeks, a sudden nervousness. I felt my heart beat so fast, I almost feared for my health, in one dim cavern of my mind. Surprisingly, I managed to think pretty logically in those few moments. I realized if I would ever feel anything like love, it would be like this. I also noticed something strange - that he looked back at me with almost the same intensity of feeling with which I was looking at him now - was it pity? sadness?

Anyway, I had made up my mind. Since neither of us had said almost nothing, I decided for once to speak my mind and not listen to my ego.

"Srikanth, I just wanted to say that I was very disappointed the other day after you called...no, disappointed is not the word. Agony is probably closer to what I felt. I like you a lot (darn! I just cannot say the word love) and was hoping you would propose. I cried for a week, as a matter-of-fact. But, am over it now. I can..."

"Vandana, I love you."

Literally, a hundred butterflies flying in my stomach and all around me. I must be dreaming. Again! No, I smell his musk. He is really hugging me!

"I just wish you wouldn't jump to conclusions! Gosh, I can't even play a joke on you without you turning my life upside down!"

Although I would have loved to stay in his arms for a much longer time, I moved away and demanded (hoping my loud inquisition would make him not notice my tears of joy!),

"And why this sudden urge to play such a mindless prank on me? Sheetal is not even such a believable entity!"

"Then, why are you crying?"

(Cursing inwardly), "Answer me now. Why?"

"Because I had to be sure...that you were sure."

And that was that. I really needed no further justification. Ofcourse, I couldn't let him know that.

"You know, Mr.America. This just will not do. Before we get married, we need to establish some ground rules of conduct that we will adhere to and..."

"I take it, that's a yes."

You bet your bustle, Mister. It is a yes. And that, in short, is the story of how I married Mr.America. I will not have you think that I am just your mushy, little Indian girl who was swept off her feet by an NRI.

...Oh, what the hell, think what you want. I am married to the guy with the dimples!

* * *

The Wish (My 55 word short story)

2005-10-04T10:22:00.000-05:00

He whispers in her ears; she leans forward to listen, oblivious to fleeting
stations, cries of "chai!", brisk winds and me.

I make a wish.

Years later, we discuss in tired,low tones, my mother's health, finances, home loans...

I don't notice the wistful sixteen-year-old until later.

She reminds me of a wish come true.

A proposal.

2005-08-16T19:48:00.003-05:00

Karthik,

I write this letter not because I wish to hide myself under a cloak of obscurity, nor do I aim to charm under the guise of anonymity. I am who I am and much as I yearn for your acceptance I fear I cannot change myself for you. I am skipping ahead here, let me tell you the purpose of this letter. I write this letter to tell you that I love you. There is nothing extraordinary or admirable about my love. I love you for selfish reasons. I love you for the silliest reasons. I fear they would make little sense to you. But, I am not afraid of rejection. I also do not promise to lead a life pining for you, should you refuse.

A not so short story :)

2005-07-28T19:21:00.000-05:00

* * * And that folks, is The End!* * *

1. The world of Padma Maami.

2005-07-25T21:24:00.000-05:00

"I knew she would tell me the news soon...after all it has been three years since their first child...have you seen my granddaughter, swetha? She is a darling...has quite an accent too...", Padma maami gushed, her eyes twinkling with excitement, even the tired laugh lines on her aged face seemed to be alive, twitching as she spoke about her NRI daughter's sudden visit. She sat cutting vendakai on an aruvamanai, the little round bits cut mechanically and with surprising precision. She paused for a second to wipe her forehead with her podava thalapu - she still wore a nine yards saree, mostly silk although well worn. She still wore kumkumam on her forehead, a big red vermillion dot that now looked a bit smudged, kohl lined eyes often hidden behind old fashioned spectacles and an aquiline nose that could identify any spice from just a whiff. One often found Padma maami sniffing at her rasam when noone looked and adding a touch of coriander, a pinch of her home made rasam mix and viola, as Mr.Srinivasan often said, appreciatively, slightly patting his tummy, "Amruthama iruku, Padma...".

Mr.Srinivasan was a small, round person with a balding forehead and an avuncular, genial air about him, in sharp contrast to his wife, who looked and often was demanding, particular about her preferences and unforgiving about mistakes unless it came to her only daughter Madhumati (Madhu for short), who happened to be the subject of Padma Maami's animated conversation with her neighbour, Lakshmi Krishnamurthy. Lakshmi maami was a placid, contended small woman who admired her close friend Padma for being everything that she wasn't but she prided on being Padma's confidante and emotional anchor. When the two women started their daily chatter, even their husbands knew better than to interfere.

It was no secret that Padma maami wanted Madhu to marry Lakshmi's son, Srikanth, who secretly nursed a crush on Madhu when they both had been neighbours in India but now was happily married having realized he could never hope to match Madhu's wavelength, or attract her free, almost impertinent spirit. He, like his mother was satisfied in life, delighted in small pleasures that life had to offer and like everything else in his life, did not want to struggle for anything, be it a career or love. As much as the older women looked forward to the match, Madhu frowned upon it initially and then in no uncertain words made it clear to Srikanth that she had other ideas about her soul mate. A confused Srikanth, although initially disappointed, had managed to convince his mother who talked Padma out of it. Padma maami was not happy about her decision being rejected.

A few years later, to further complicate matters and strain the mother-daughter relationship, Madhu had come back from US during a short vacation and had announced that she was in love with an Indian artist, born and brought up in Virginia. Padma maami was scandalized, "My daughter marry an uneducated artist? Atleast if the boy were from MIT, Harvard, I can understand...who is this Ketan? How does he make a living?" and the battle had raged for several months before Mr.Srinivasan decided to firmly put his foot down and settle the affair one way or the other. In his usual affectionate way, he had managed to persuade his wife that his daughter was capable of an intelligent choice, "Padma, think about it...Madhu is an independent girl, very smart, nammalaye vithu saptiduva...we should not judge Ketan before we meet him..." and slowly, Padma maami had relented, although she maintained a frigid silence whenever anyone talked about Ketan in her presence. Over the years, mother and daughter had managed to make peace.

A few events had taken place now and then that would make Padma maami shed huge tears and complain bitterly to Lakshmi, "My own flesh and blood and she thinks her mother need not set eyes on her paethi...could there be anything more cruel? When she does come here, I will not touch the child..." Of course, a picture of her precious Swetha sent by snail mail with a scrawl from Madhu, "Amma, she looks just like you, doesn't she?" had immediately changed the equation. And now, after three years, Madhu had called one rainy afternoon to tell Padma that she was expecting a second child. Padma maami's joy knew no bounds, "Keteengala, she is coming to India too...that girl is smart, correcta three years and now she has planned another child...do you think it will be a boy?" Mr.Srinivasan had been slightly troubled by the tone of his daughter's voice but decided to not mention anything to his highly volatile wife.

***

2. The Airport Scene

2005-07-25T11:03:00.000-05:00

That morning, strains of Suprabharatham could be heard as early as 5 AM, after all, Madhu was coming home that day and nothing could awaken Padma maami earlier, not even Marghazi. Mr.Srinivasan tried to catch a few more minutes of blissful sleep but then gave up the futile attempt when he opened his eyes a fraction and saw Padma maami ambling towards him, an eversilver dabara tumbler in her hand, her eyes half closed as she sang along with the tape recorder. He looked at her fondly, slightly shaking his head to himself, with all her imperfections - prudishness, a penchant for gossip, a tongue that lashed out when provoked...he could not have asked for a better wife, 28 years together and he hoped he would breathe his last with her by his side...breaking out of his unusual morning reverie, he mentally estimated chores to be completed before they set out to pick up their daughter and grand-daughter at the airport.

Padma maami was in a highly excited state - the incessant rush at the airport, the palpable tension, the animated buzz of conversation and the confused arrays of auto rikshaws and taxis lining the roads seemed to only fuel her nervous energy. Mr.Srinivasan held her hand - a gesture very unusual for him, especially in public - and directed her through the crowd. He glanced back at his wife every now and then, she had eyes only for her daughter and grand-daughter, searching through the sea of faces to catch a glimpse of them, well knowing that they were half an hour ahead of schedule.

"The flight must be delayed...or their baggage must be delayed, else they would be here by now, wouldn't they? Maybe Swetha tripped and fell...do you think Padma can handle her alone in this crowd?"

Mr.Srinivasan patiently answered her constant volley of increasingly improbable questions, while his own eyes started taking in the faces of the tired passengers who came down the escalator with an assortment of hand luggages.
"Mr.Srinivasan! Mr.Srinivasan, hello, how are you, hello Padma maami!", the lanky young man waved enthusiastically, his face almost but hidden between irate visitors and passengers.

"Kashta kaalam...ippo thaan varanumo ivan!", Padma maami positively glowered at Srikanth and Mr.Srinivasan looked troubled at the prospect of handling his wife and Lakshmi's son, Srikanth. Padma maami still blamed Srikanth for not being forceful enough with Madhu, if only he had showed more interest, Madhu would be married to him, living close to them...Mr.Srinivasan nodded a polite hello to him and kept his eyes on the passengers coming in, but Srikanth was not to be deterred.

"What a coincidence! I came to pick up a colleague who is coming in from Germany! You must be here for Madhumati...Is Ketan also coming? I haven't seen them for so many years now!", Srikanth continued with innocent exuberance, thrilled at the prospect of meeting an old friend.

As soon as she heard Ketan's name, Padma maami frowned and resolutely turned away from Srikanth while Mr.Srinivasan made small talk with him. Suddenly, Padma maami almost yelled, causing the young woman standing next to her to draw in her breath sharply, "Ado, vandutta! She has become so thin...", hardly had the words left her mouth, when her eyes watered and she started weeping profusely, causing the woman next to her to move back several steps.

Madhumati wore a lilac colored salwar kameez and carried her daughter with her left hand as she deftly maneuvered her luggage trolley forward. For once Mr.Srinivasan agreed with his wife's initial appraisal of Madhu's health, she seemed to have become more gaunt, even taller than her 5'7", her hair dyed in brown streaks even shorter than before, almost above her shoulders and her arms seemed more bony than before...she scanned the crowd for a few seconds and her eyes lighted up for a few moments when she saw her parents and she smiled as she walked towards them. As soon as she caught sight of Srikanth, a shadow of a frown crossed her pale face...

Padma maami needed no fancier invitation, she literally fell on Madhu and Swetha and hugged them in the midst of the crowd, "Madhu, you have become so thin...My God, look at your arms, are you not eating child? If only you had not married that..."
Before her mother could launch into one of her public sermons, Madhu gently extricated herself from the bear hug and set Swetha down. Swetha, jetlagged and now being smothered with kisses from her grand mother did not get much of a chance even to whine. Mr.Srinivasan looked at the scene, a bit embarassed and looked at Madhu, "Madhu ma, how have you been? Is all well?", he held up a palm half-enquiringly, half-concernedly...she didn't answer immediately but just smiled and touched her father's forehead with hers and put her hand around his shoulder as if to tell him all was right with her world, but her eyes seemed to tell him a different tale.

***

3. Idlis, Smiles and Tears.

2005-07-25T05:27:00.000-05:00

"What does my Swetha kutti want to eat? Dosa taratuma? Mallipoo madiri idli?", Padma maami fondly questioned her grand daughter who seemed confused to have so many choices thrust on her. While grandmother and granddaughter conversed thus in the kitchen, father and daughter sat in the verandah and discussed issues concerning much more than the evening tiffin.

"Madhu ma, is your green card processing going ok? You were telling me that there was some delay?", after having enquired about her health and Swetha's health, Mr.Srinivasan tried to touch upon a few relevant issues before asking Madhu what he really wanted to ask - why hadn't Ketan come along? Was he keeping her happy? Why did she look so worried? He knew his daughter too well to understand that something was definitely not alright but he also knew enough to not annoy Madhu by sounding like his wife. He looked at Madhu worriedly...so sprightly a few years back and now so melancholy, it did not become her, the mischievous twinkle that often played in her brown eyes, so evident in Swetha's eyes now, was now replaced by a melancholy glaze, as if she were just physically here but had left her heart somewhere else, with someone else?

Madhu, though touched by her father's unspoken concern was still not comfortable discussing the events that had led to her sudden India trip, definitely not with her mother. She still couldn't adjust to life with just Swetha and her, a single mom...when had they fallen apart? Had she been too possessive, ruthless? Had she driven him to this end? But, why did he go into those silent phases when no amount of pleading could bring him back? And now, there was Swetha to take care of, if not for her, shouldn't he have come back for his daughter? The unpleasant memories, never too far away from the surface came flooding back and it took her a while to respond to her father's questions.

"Green card? Appa, I have quit my job...I am not going back, I...", before she could stop herself she found herself crying to her father unburdening everything on him...

"Appa ponnu pesindathu porum, come in for hot idlis and Vengaya sambhar, cheekram!", Padma maami's loud voice had an immediate effect on father and daughter. Madhu dried her tears and gestured with her finger on her lips...if her mother came to know, all hell will break loose...inspite of himself, Mr.Srinivasan smiled, everyone was scared of his wife. He patted his daughter and said in a small, comforting voice, "Madhu ma, everything will be ok, nee veetuku vanduta ila, pray to Venugopal, he will take care of us...", they walked in together into the house, each troubled yet strangely relieved.

The scene inside was as different from the one outside, as could be imagined. Swetha having been fed all of three huge fluffy idlis was now listening wide-eyed to a story about baby Krishna that her grandmother was telling her - it was hard to guess who was enjoying it more...

"Then baby Krishna stole all the curd and nobody knew...", Swetha mimicked her grandmother and spread her palm out and shook it slightly indicating that nobody really knew who stole all the curd, "Vaa Madhu, vaango, have your idli sambhar before it becomes cold!"

Madhu smiled as she sat down to gulp down her mother's idlis, it had always been her favourite tiffin, the soft fluffy bits melted in her mouth and she gulped down the slightly spicy and aromatic sambhar. Padma maami looked expectantly at Madhu. Speaking with her mouth full, Madhu said, "Amma, terrific..." and Padma maami smiled immediately and went back to the story.

After tiffin, as Madhu washed her hands in the kitchen, Padma maami stood near the sink, wiping the dishes with a small cloth, "How are things in America? What is maplai saying? Is he joining you here in a few days? When do you have to go back" Madhu knowing the questioning session was not far off was prepared, "So, so...he will not be joining me here. Umm...I will be here awhile, amma, am very tired now, naliku pesalama?"

Padma maami had a thousand unanswered questions in her head and it was late in the night when she finally fell asleep.

4. A trip to Marina Beach.

2005-07-25T04:20:00.000-05:00

Madhu woke up in surprisingly good spirits looking forward to a relaxing day at home. Swetha came running breathlessly almost immediately and poured out all the exciting things she had to share with her mother, "Amma, today arun anna, bhaskar anna and aunties, uncles came, they want to see you...", so saying she tugged at Madhu's night gown. Madhu survyed her daughter, half-exasperated, half-amused...she looked like a doll, dressed in a pink frock, her hair well oiled and platted in two plats with pink ribbons around them - painstakingly done by Padma maami - "Atleast as long as she is here, let me take care of my paethi!". Madhu was not happy at the prospect of greeting several relatives and answering their questions so soon. She quickly freshened up, picked a salwar kameez, changed her mind and selected a light blue saree and walked in to greet the "interview panel".

"Madhumati, come come, so many years since we saw you...how have you been? You have thinned down so much!", her chithi exclaimed, her husband immediately nodded his agreement, her athai, Girija maami exclaimed that Madhu has become a vella kaari after all these years while her athimber, Mr.Chandrasekar chewed tobacoo and greeted Madhu simulateously...many shocked gasps, eager questions, sweaty hugs and discreet once-overs later, Madhu decided it was not as bad as she had imagined. No awkward questions yet about her husband, her job...the morning progressed in a daze for her and everyone's enthusiasm had waned a bit and they settled down to a languorous afternoon conversation before lunch. Madhu for her part was relieved on two accounts - Swetha had enough company to keep her occupied, although they created quite a racket around the house and her mother was too busy with the food preparations to add helpful bits of information about Madhu to the conversation.

The smell of jaggery, roasted cashews for the paal payasam mixed with the tangy smell of lemon rasam and Mr.Srinivasan's favourite, sweet green beans with thengai. Everyone ate with relish and complimented Padma maami, "Padma, epadi dee ipadi samaikara nee?", even the quiet and shy Padmanabhan, Padma maami's sister Vedavalli maami's husband, complimented her by asking for a second serving of the paal payasam. After the delicious but heavy afternoon sapadu, everyone settled around to an afternoon siesta which will be followed by a trip to Marina beach - Swetha was very excited about going to the beach, Madhu was not.

A few hours later, the whole family set out in two cars to the beach. Madhu sqeezed in with Swetha, Vedavalli maami and her two grandsons while Padma maami, Mr.Srinivasan, Mr.Padmanabhan, Mr. and Mrs.ChandraSekar came in the other car. Marina beach was crowded as it always is and they all walked quite a bit inside before they found a spot to settle down in. The kids immediately started running about and completely ignored Padma maami's frequent admonitions, "Don't go near the water else I will take you all home right now! Stay close!". Vedavalli maami summoned a thin, scared looking boy selling sundal and bought some sundal for everyone. The conversation hovered pleasantly over Arun's academic merits and Bhaskar's lack of the same when Vedavalli maami suddenly turned to Madhu, "What about your husband? Does he help with Swetha's school work, she must be in UKG now?"

"I take care of Swetha's school work, he is usually busy at work...", Madhu's voice trailed and Mr.Srinivasan cleared his throat uncomfortably trying to divert the conversation.

"Madhu, atleast tell me now, seeing that we have only our people around us, is there any problem between you and Ketan? You have been avoiding his topic for two days now!", Padma maami unwittingly questioned. To her, all these people were just family, Madhu would have laughed at the notion.

"Amma, can we talk about this when we are alone?"

The question met with a few sympathetic, a few disapproving glares from the family members, Padma maami now definitely angry that her daughter had insulted her close family and the impression that they would carry with them about Madhu's upbringing, said, "Illa, now is a good time, you will need the blessings of these people all through your life, they are our well wishers and we should talk now. Tell me, did you and Ketan have a fight?"

Madhu sat silently, playing with the sand, letting it run through her fingers slowly. Padma maami prompted her once more, in a softer tone, "Madhu, we are trying to help you, you have been stubborn once and decided to marry without our full consent, but we did not hold that against you...now, tell me, is something wrong? You are also expecting a baby and you need all our support, sollu ma..."

Madhu seeing no escape looked up and addressed her mom, "Amma, Ketan and I have decided to separate. I have resigned my job, I am back to India for good, I needed to take this break amma." and just like that it was all out in the open.

Madhu stood up and walked away from her family. She needed to be by herself, alone with her thoughts...

A broken image.

2005-07-25T04:00:00.000-05:00

The scorching agninatchatram of Madras seemed to reflect the ravaging swirl of emotions that Madhu silently experienced, once in a while she would take it all out on her unsuspecting daughter or on her perplexed mother and would feel so bad she would suddenly hug her daughter and shower her with kisses or would lapse into long silences that worried her parents. Madhu felt she was far away from home; a sense of unreality shrouded her and she withdrew further into her own world.

Mr.Srinivasan worried greatly about his daughter though he tried not to express what he felt to his wife who was already upset about her increasily reclusive daughter and often resorted to an inconsolable stream of tears on Lakshmi maami's shoulders. After the beach incident, everytime Padma maami tried to talk to her daughter, Madhu would reply in monosyllables and would retire to her room with a suddenly developed headache. Padma maami took refuge in the playful antics of Swetha and would confide to whoever would listen about her daughter's problems.

Srikanth for his part tried to talk to Madhu a few times, partly because he wanted to help her and partly because his mother and Padma maami had hinted on more than one occasion that he should talk to her and more importantly get her to talk to him, to anyone. Madhu, although grateful for his continued attempts to make her feel better knew that she had to come to terms with her life without outside help and she refused to talk to Srikanth.

Mr.Srinivasan tried to talk to his daughter but was too sensitive to ignore her subtle hints - a feigned yawn, a sudden need to take a walk...alone, an unwillingness to talk freely as she had the other evening, he did not fail to notice her slightly swollen eyes, her unnatural cheerfulness when she played with Swetha and he spent many long nights sitting on his rocking cane chair, pretending to be immersed in a novel to avoid answering his wife's nightly enquiries about Madhu.

Padma maami accompanied Madhu on her visits to the gynaecologist, the same Doctor who had delivered Madhu herself. Five months into her pregnancy, on one such listless visit to the gynaecologist, Madhu stepped into an auto with her mother and wondered how to spend the next few hours peacefully, when everything else indicated otherwise. Till now, the pregnancy was something that was nothing more than a mild inconvenience to Madhu, she had too much on her mind - how would she would manage without her husband and bring up two children? Would she go back to America? Should she stay back in Madras, maybe get a part-time job and take care of her two kids? This particular picture had impressed itself in her mind, she with her two young girls - somehow the other child was always a girl, her concerns always bordered around how she would bring up her kids and not about her pregnancy itself.

"Padma, can you wait outside for a few minutes? I need to examine Madhu..."
Seeing the startled look on Padma maami's face, Dr.Anjali added, "Padma, just a few minutes, a routine check just to make sure...", her voice trailed uncertainly.

A few minutes later, the Doctor looked at the ultrasound images and a few statistics, by now Madhu had snapped back into reality and was beginning to feel a pang of anxiety...Dr.Anjali placed a hand on Madhu's shoulder and said in a small voice, "Madhu, I am sorry, the fetus...the baby stopped growing, this can happen in the fifth month sometimes, it will not affect your next pregnancy..."

Madhu stared at the Doctor and stopped hearing after a few minutes, she felt dizzy, she nodded uncomprehendingly and tears streamed down her cheeks, yet she felt no pain, just a numb sense of unreality. Her image of the two little girls running around her remained as strong as ever, probably etched forever in her memory. Padma maami for once displayed a sense of maturity that Madhu did not believe her mother was capable of - she heard the news silently from the Doctor and hugged her daughter tightly.

5. Closure.

2005-07-24T16:52:00.000-05:00

Seasons changed slowly, summer bowed down to a few refreshing raindrops heralding the more severe monsoon; Madhu recovered admirably but maintained a subtle but firm barrier that she didn't let anyone cross, not even her father - her grief was precious and personal. She would often sit by the study room window and watch the rain knock the windows and the constant patter of the rain falling would dim the sounds of daily life and create a haven for her memories, a world that noone could see, a world with just Swetha, Ananya and her - she had even picked a name...

Two people in her life played their parts well in helping her recover atleast to this extent, Mr.Srinivasan and Ketan. It did not take Mr.Srinivasan long to find Ketan's contact information, a discreet ISD call, an emotional yet dignified talk with his son-in-law and what followed was a phone call for Madhu. She was surprised, happy and sad all at once, they talked for several hours, cried together and laughed a little; although neither talked about the future and its endless possibilities, they grew stronger, together in their loss and knew they were there for each other, if not as man and wife, at least as good friends...Madhu did not appear to be angry at her father's intervention. Ketan called her regularly after that day.

Madhu somehow could not bring herself to talk to her mother freely, something that her mother yearned for. One afternoon, they had a few unexpected guests. Srikanth and his wife, Leela came to visit them. Leela was a shy, demure, almost naive young woman and Madhu took an instant liking to her. While Padma maami and Mr.Srinivasan talked to Srikanth, Madhu, Swetha and Leela sat in the verandah and talked like a couple of teenage girls about their college lives, whimsical dreams, their past and present. Leela also informed Madhu about a job opening at the company where she worked and Madhu promised to look into it.

Life goes on and so it did go on for Madhu, interspersed with moments of happiness and sometimes of sadness, but surrounded by family, new friends, comforting phone calls and playful moments with her child, Madhu felt a sense of peace. One evening, as she returned from her job, she heard her mother playing with Swetha. She hesitated for a few moments and stood listening to them, unseen.

"Who called today and talked to my Rajkumari Swetha? Who is coming for Deepavali?", Padma maami asked Swetha, in a sing-song voice.

"Appa!", the child gleefully rhymed.

"What will appa bring for chinnamma?"

"Chocolates and Barbie doll!"

"What will appa bring for Madhu kutti?"

"Podava", the child answered, giggling at her mother being referred to as Kutti.

"What will appa bring for this old pattima?"

"Onnum illa!", so saying Swetha shrugged her shoulders and laughed with her grandma.

Maybe it was the news that Ketan was coming to India, maybe it was the adorable scene in front of her eyes, maybe it was just some quirk of fate...whatever it was brought tears to Madhu's eyes and she saw her mother, the imperious, loud, demanding Padma maami as ...amma.

That evening, as Madhu walked with her dad to the Pillaiyar kovil at the street corner, a gentle drizzle fell on them and they both laughed instinctively. Madhu did not know what the future held in store for her, several threads of her life remained to be picked up, old relationships waited to be renewed, new friends travelled with her to become old friends, questions remained unanswered...but today felt perfect and she was grateful for that.

A geeky story.

2005-07-23T20:52:00.000-05:00

OK, I really feel bad about inflicting this geekish nonsense on you all but I read this post on artificial intelligence about a month back and felt compelled to write this excuse of a story. I promise, I will make up for this ridiculous write-up with something better next time :)

"I am concerned about the moral implications of this decision", the young Doctor seemed troubled. He loosened his tie and waited for the senior physician to respond.

"Questions...questions, they are necessary for innovation, for progress, and then there comes a time when you don't know to stop questioning and we thwart the miracles of Science...", the old Doctor intoned.

A voice that often exuded wisdom and yet he could not help doubting today.

***"I don't feel...good, I have these weird feelings, dreams...I, I am not even sure if they are real and sometimes I wake up in a sweat...", the young woman typed feverishly, without looking up at the screen.

"I understand Ms.C, let's talk a bit more about your feelings and your dreams. Now, how often do you get these dreams?"

The mellow masculine voice seemed to float soothingly around her. She adjusted her headphones and took a deep breath.

"I used to get them once in two or maybe three weeks. I get them more often now, ever since he...my husband started going on these office tours. I go to sleep late because I am scared I will get these dreams again...sometimes they are so life-like..."

"Sometimes the dreams are life-like?"

"Yes, exactly! I feel someone strangling me in my sleep, I wake up in a cold sweat and it takes me several hours to go back to sleep. It's always the same dream. Yesterday morning, I could have sworn I saw marks on my neck..."

"Marks on your neck. Can you describe these marks, Ms.C?"

***The new program was planned, promoted and executed perfectly. A break-through that represented the marriage of Computer Science and Psychotherapy, they claimed. A program that respected the privacy of the individual and enabled them to subscribe to consultations from experienced psychotherapists online. A typical scenario that was envisioned was a patient sitting in front of a computer terminal having online consultations while maintaining anonymity. A computer-savvy Doctor (most of them are, nowadays) would conduct the session virtually. The charges were the same as face-to-face consultations, all you needed was a computer and internet connection.
***
"Good morning, Ms.C, how are you today?"

"I am good, thank you. It's it's good to hear your voice..."

The fifth session and this time she was looking forward to the consultation - the one hour that was the highlight of her otherwise dreary week. They had discussed some surprisingly personal issues the previous week and strangely she did not feel inhibited, she had revealed seldom talked about details of her life with a kind of careless abandon and she was thrilled that there was someone who cared enough to listen.

"My husband goes on tours more often now and is away for weeks together...and even when he comes home hardly talks to me, he thinks I have lost it..."

She begins to cry.

"Your husband goes on tours more often and is away...your husband does not behave as he should, you should stay away from him since he does not do what he is supposed to do."

The words of a stranger made more sense to her than that of her husband and somehow she had begun to develop feelings towards this voice, this man saying all these nice things to her. Her semi-delirious mind was receptive to all the irrational commands of her heart and she now made excuses to "talk" more to the voice in her head.
***
"Umm...there seems to be a problem...the brain seems to be issuing commands out of line", the young man seemed on the verge of tears.

"Highly improbable. Have you rechecked the algorithms and test results? After all, we are running a beta version and we have let our customers know that...", the infuriatingly calm voice of the older Doctor did little to pacify the other.

"Customers? They are not customers! They are mentally unstable patients who need to be treated with care! I have double checked everything! I have rerun our tests and I see no error notifications...I am telling you, the brain is somehow malfunctioning, it is mixing up questions from different data sets and this will have unpredictable results on the patients...as you well know!"

"I am afraid I will have to disagree, Doctor. We cannot abandon a million dollar project based on a few random observations that we have not yet confirmed for veracity!"

The young man's shoulders slumped, "This is a huge mistake..."

***
The young woman walked with a spring in her step and a smile on her lips. Her Doctor was correct. She had dumped her husband as he had advised her. She almost ran the last few steps to the terminal and logged in to the program.

"Good morning, Dr.N...", she couldn't help smiling.

"Good morning, Good morning, Good morning..."

She interrupted him and said, "I left him! I am happy today, thanks to you Doctor..."

And the voice replied, "You left him. You are happy. You are not happy normally, you are not the way you are supposed to be. You must leave. You must leave..."

She looked, bewildered, at the words flashing on the screen and the same tender voice resounding in her ears.

"But Doctor..."

"You must leave, you must leave..."

The computer at the other end could not break out of the infinite loop, it could break hearts but did not know how to fix what was broken. What little reason existed earlier for her to live her weary life seemed to dissolve into nothingness...

***
The project codenamed "brain" closed down shortly.

***

A thief and a grandmother.

2005-07-13T09:50:00.000-05:00

Disclaimer: Just a feel good story with no thought given to how (un)realistic it sounds because now, I feel like feeling good and it's almost Friday :) Vaguely based on a O'Henry story that my mom told me over phone.

"Shhh", he silently mouths to himself, for no apparent reason. He is after all alone in the hall, atleast for the time being. He lets himself down slowly, the rope grazing his callous fingers. He hangs from it for a moment, adjusting his eyes to the darkness before landing with a soft, almost soundless thump onto the floor.

His black overalls seems overkill - he did see the family leave that morning. A week of eavesdropping, a few adjustments made to the thatched roof, a pen light, the proverbial knife, a sturdy rope and he was all set.

A sudden growl and his muscles tense in anticipation. Backing himself against the wall, his ears strain to locate the source of the low growl. It seems closer now. He squints, searching for perhaps a feline movement and draws his breath in sharply. Lying down on a mat on the floor, is the old lady of the house, blissfully unaware in her sleep, of the stranger staring down at her.

Being somewhat of a novice, he reacts in haste and a slightly dirty flowervase falls on to the floor with as much noise as it can muster and breaks. The old lady sits up with a start. He gets his knife out ready to threaten, if not to harm. He is quite an innocuous thief and an amateur at that - this is only his third week - earning his livelihood without any bloodshed at all. A few ominous vague threats and he usually gets his job done.

After a few Godly invocations, she raises her voice,

"Who is there?"

He remains still and tries to ignore the slightly ticklish, irritating sensation in his nose. The fallen vase has produced a cloud of dust around it and he holds his nose closed with his thumb and index finger lest he should get one of his asthma attacks.

"Damned cat creating havoc...", she mutters to herself as she presses her palm against the floor in a slow attempt to get to her feet.

At the same instant, he breaks out into an unhelpful fit of coughs.

With a small scream, the old lady moves with surprising deftness and picks up a discarded broomstick from a corner and moves towards the noise.

He coughs continuously and his eyes begin to water and he starts to wheeze. Still, he holds his knife in front of him and between rasping breaths, he manages to say,

"Old woman. one move and..."

Another wave of coughs and he now gasps for breath.

The old lady cautiously edges towards the light switch and turns it on. She holds a hand on her chest and unconsciously murmers, "Krishna, Krishna" at the scene that greets her.

In the middle of the floor is a boy in black overalls, a knife loosely hanging from one hand and his other hand searching for something in his pockets, surrounding him on the floor are bits and pieces of the old vase. He finally drops his knife to the floor and searches with both hands - his shirt pocket, inside his shirt, his pant pockets and finally fishes out an inhaler - worth his mother's monthly salary. He takes five deep breaths through the inhaler's tube and collapses to the floor, still breathing deeply.

The old woman now comes near him, concern overtaking fear, she asks tentatively,
"Are you all right? Shall i get you some water?"

He cannot talk still and he declines with a quick wave of his right hand, "If, if you call the police..." and starts coughing again.

She sits next to him and says, "You, are in no position to steal and since you
havent stolen anything, i have little need to call the police.."

He sighs. Being a thief is hard work after all.

She brings a stainless steel tumbler with water.

"I have warmed the water a bit...drink it now."

He silently acquiesces, because he suddenly feels tired and can discern no immediate purpose to his life.

"It tastes weird", he makes a face.

"Pankajam's formula, it works wonders on my grand kids"

She pronounces formula, phaarmula and says it proudly. He thinks she is a strange old woman, probably senile.

"So, tell me, how long have you been doing..this?"

"I did not come here to exchange stories with you, now listen..."

"How dare you? You young upstart? Sit now and I will talk and you listen...and call me Pankajam patti like any respectable boy your age would!"

He sits down immediately, not accustomed to the tone and authority with which she commands.

"Now where was I...yes, first tell me, how old are you? 17..18? and what is your name?"

At this point, she looks for her thick spectacles and peers at him through them, interestedly.

"18...my name is Bhaskar..."

He is not used to being asked for his name, it's usually "Hey there!", "Do this!" - his name like his identity is of little interest to the people who live in his small world.

He is sullen now and resigns himself to fate in the form of Pankajam patti.

"Since when do you have asthma?"

Surprised at this line of questioning, he replies, "Since birth..."

"My grandson has wheezing, you know what you should do? You should boil water, mix some amrutanjan with it and inhale the vapours, wrap a towel around your face so that you get all the vapours, it always works for my Sujan...God bless the child."

This is an embarassing turn of events. Bhaskar did not have the heart to steal from the old lady any more, after all this. So, he looks around uneasily and tries to think of the fastest escape route.

"I must be leaving now, patti. My mother will be worried...I promised I would bring her some vegetables and rice..."

"Did you? You seem to be a responsible boy after all, wait here."

And he waits, once again unable to resist her command.

"This is for you and your mother. Buy vegetables and rice and give the rest to her...its not for gambling or spending on movies and kites, understand? Also, your mother, what did you say her name was?"

"Lakshmi..."

"Yes, yes, ask Lakshmi to come and see me tomorrow, an old woman's work is never done, she can help me out around the house."

He accepts the crisp currency note gratefully.

"Pankajam patti..."

"Yes thambi?"

"May I come to visit you some time?"

"Silly boy, once Lakshmi starts working here, of course you will have to come and visit, who do you think will buy us vegetables from the market and take clothes for isthri?"

Bhaskar smiles happily.

"Now run along, waking an old woman up at unearthly hours and asking silly questions...silly boy."

Bhaskar leaves and Pankajam patti locks the door and lies down on the mat again talking to herself, as she often does, "Nice boy, that Bhaskar...just needed a slight whack on his head to set him right..."

My dad and Me.

2005-07-02T12:44:00.000-05:00

I am writing this down for posterity. It's kind of an auto-biography for me, so, if you can't relate to it, go right ahead, pick the next Dan Brown thriller and make yourself scarce. Now, where was I? Yes...if I should have an unruly teenage son one day (pity the chap), and if we happen to not see eye-to-eye (entirely hypothetical you see? I plan to be a cool dad) I promise to dig up my dusty diary and read what these yellowing pages would have to teach me about my own experiences with my dad.

Allow me to skip the early chapters of my life (really, life does not get interesting until adolescence - note: my dad does not agree) and skip to my teenage years. These years were of particular relevance to the subject at hand, because there were times when I could have killed my dad, times when I could have cried for him, times when I learnt the nuances of the overloaded "Generation Gap", first hand!

Let me make this clear. At 13, one of the best leg spin bowlers of my school, I only care about the inter-school finals. Cricket is my life. My dad is a big cricket enthusiast himself. What I could not understand is why he would stand in my way. I came home, drenched with sweat and on a natural high (cricket does that to me), after practice.

"What time is it, young man?"

He glared at me from behind his thick brown spectacles, the rest of his face hidden by the newspaper. He continued to rock slowly on his cane rocking chair but I knew "young man" meant that he was on the verge of an angry breakdown.

"Uhh...9.45 pa, I gotta finish my homework, so..."

"Come here, young man. We need to talk."

It was more like, he needed to talk and I needed to listen. So, what followed was a really long and boring lecture on responsibilities, academics, future, life and I really do not want to go into details here. When I entered my room, the clock showed 10.45 PM. I cursed and threw my school bag against the wall and hit the bed. Why couldn't he understand?

***
The next couple of weeks, I continued to come home late. He always sat on his chair and waited for me to return but somehow stopped the lectures. I took this to mean he understood my priorities.

Two events caused a sudden change in our relatively tenuous relationship - our team lost in the finals and I flunked my English paper.

"Did you get your exam results?"

I didn't reply. I didn't care - we lost and that's all that mattered. I gave him my papers.

He flung them with an intensity that took me by surprise.

"Disgrace! You are a disgrace, young man! Did you know your grandfather was an English professor? He would turn in his grave..." His angry voice boomed through the entire house. Suddenly, I just lost it.

"Dad, don't you care about what is important to me at all? We lost, our team lost today in the finals. I bowled miserably, OK? I don't care if I failed this exam, we lost!", I raised my voice over his - my first.

"Do not raise your voice!" and suddenly, "And tell me how you lost."

And that was that. A simple request. I talked for an hour, about the game, about the untimely rain, about my miserable bowling, about cricket and I forgot all else - even our loss. I talked passionately about the game and when I stumbled back to bed, I was not angry or upset. I actually smiled and I suspected my dad had something to do with it.

***Well, you know what comes next, pretty predictable - girls. At 17, girls began to take precedence over cricket, not all girls, one particular girl - Anusha. I was one smitten kid, trust me. She was pretty and delicate and actually pretty airheaded most times but I just could not stop thinking of her. I actually went from faded jeans to slightly wrinkled pants and from sleeveless tshirts with obnoxious wordings to what I considered pretty decent ones. And I shaved regularly now.

Dad being who he is, did not fail to notice the not-so-subtle changes in me.

"It's not like you to go to class on time, Srikanth?"

"Umm...just want to make sure my papers don't get flung again, dad!"
Did I imagine it or did he just wink at me?

It was all fun for a few months. But then, I started to get all serious about Anusha and it was not so much fun anymore. I mean we were friends and all and I had even introduced her to dad (who smiled amusedly - the wicked, wicked man) but we just remained that, good friends and I wanted to be much more than just a good friend to her and I suspected that she already was seeing someone. She had so many boy friends, I just could not tell for sure.

Anusha called me at 6 AM one Saturday. She was crying.

"I need to talk to you", she sniffed on the telephone and suddenly, I lost all my sleep - my heart went out to her. I hurriedly slipped into something suitable and ran down. Dad was boiling milk for his morning coffee.

"Srikanth! Good morning, good morning, what a..."
He seemed in great spirits.

"Dad, I gotta go, Anusha called up and she seems upset. I'll be back."

He was silent for a moment. Then, he placed his hand on my shoulder (which for me was the same as a hug, we were always averse to physical contact) and said, "Srikanth, I just don't want you to get hurt, OK?"

Something about the tone of his voice made me stop and listen. I placed my hand on his and said, "OK dad, I...thanks." (damn it, I just cannot tell him I love him and not snicker).

It turned out Anusha was seeing someone and the someone had decided to not see her anymore. I acted the role of a reassuring shoulder for her to lean on - all brotherly and nice (yeesh!).

A few months later, it was my turn to cry. Anusha came home all bubbly and giggling and hugged me. I assumed that meant a thumbs up for our relationship.

And then she said, "Srikanth, you wouldn't believe this, he came back to me! He said he had made a big mistake and we were always meant for each other, can you believe this?"

Can I believe this? No. I believe I can rip that guy's heart out and throw it down, next to my broken one.

She left soon and I just did not want to dampen her good mood with my own confessions. I did not go to college the next day and the next. I did not leave my room most of the time and I made as little conversation as possible and answered only in mono-syllables. Dad tried to talk to me many times and even asked about Anusha and I evaded him as best as I could.

That night, I sat in my room, staring blankly at the TV - muted cartoon characters ran about busily on screen, they seemed so happy. I almost did not hear the knock on my door.

"Srikanth..."

I did not respond. He sat next to me on the sofa and remained silent.

"I remember how I felt when I thought your mom would leave me...almost twenty five years and I remember that day..."

He did not need to say more. That day, I broke our unspoken rules of interaction and hugged my dad.

***
Well, what can I say? There were many times after that when I felt like hugging him but did not. We just don't do that here.

And, did I mention that I want to become my dad to my son some day?

A story-teller's love story.

2005-06-26T18:55:00.002-05:00

"You know I won't mind...come on, tell me, I want to know once more, how did she look?", she rests her chin on her palms and her elbows on the table and playfully urges me.

She looks adorable, child-like and yet with undeniable womanly grace. Sometimes, I wonder what I have done to deserve her...

"OK, Lalitha was beautiful, I thought I loved Lalitha", I deliver the story in a monotone, not very different from a five year old reading prose aloud in English class.

"Hello? This is not what I shunned my kitty party invitation for! Let's try that one more time - she was not beautiful in the conventional sense...", she tried to make her voice sound husky and enthusiastic at the same time.

"You know the opening lines too, what is the need for me to tell you this story?", I ask, knowing and wanting to hear her answer one more time.

"You say it so much better, Prabhu...now don't waste any more time."

She was probably right, I love to tell stories, especially to children and to anyone else who would listen, destiny had decided when I was very young that I would become a writer, a story-teller. As a kid, I was the master story-teller of our house and all the children in our combined family and some amused adults would assemble around me every evening to listen to my fanciful stories, or so my father tells me. I love to watch their expectant faces mirror the variations in my story...now delighted, now disappointed, now anxious...I love to hold their hands and guide them on our journey together, and I love stories with a happy ending, which is one reason why I hesitate to give Kripa the full version of this story - the story of my life.

***
"She was not beautiful in a conventional sense, she was the archetype of a young and homely Indian woman, or so you would think if you saw her at the temple, at Nair's grocery store, at Pattapa's kitchen...I saw her at all these places and did not care to smile at her. I had bigger issues to worry about - money for the next cigarette pack, where to get chits for the next exam, how to get Class A Roshini to take notice of me"

Kripa laughed delightedly and ruffled my hair in mock sympathy, "Poor You, did Roshini not take a liking to you?"

"and...love being nowhere in question."

She assumed her previous chin-in-hands pose again - her favorite story-time pose.

"Sometimes, I did attend class," I permitted myself a small smile here, "and it was in one such class that I happened to talk to her. She had lingered behind that class looking for something in her jute bag and I needed to copy the assignment answers for our next day's Calculus class. Somehow, I was left alone in Calculus 2 while my class mates managed to pass the previous year!"

"And you are still weak at Math, Prabhu...I ask you to get 5 tomatoes and you come home with 2 kgs of something else instead - hmm, that probably also has to do with your weak eye-sight...", she props my spectacles higher up on my nose and I smile indulgingly at her. I do her a grave injustice sometimes but then, I was a man who had been in love, a man who is in love?

I now get out of my chair and start play-acting our conversation from ages ago, surprising, how fresh some memories are - like it happened yesterday...

"Hey, hello there...", trying to sound casual and cool.

"Hello Prabhu" Calm, not a bit flustered as I had expected her to become at my sudden accosting.

And, she knew my name.

"I was wondering if I could ahem...borrow your Calculus assignments for tomorrow's class, I would like to read through your methods and then I can do it myself..." I attempted to make it sound not so false.

"Why don't you come home today evening? I can help you myself with the problems and then you can solve it yourself?"

"Yes...I can do that, Now, why didn't I think of that?" I asked her with a kind of vacant look, well knowing why I did not think of that. We agreed to meet at 6.00 PM at her house, No 20, Ramaswamy street, next to the thatched corporation school.

Now why would I remember her house address? I shook my head and glanced quickly at Kripa - did she know?

***
I dressed in decent clothes, which for me translated to not-torn jeans and a washed tshirt. I knocked on her door.

"Come in Prabhu, Lalitha said you would be here to study Calculus." A pleasing, calm voice and a tranquil face with a small vibuthi mark to match the voice. Lalitha's mother made an impression on me that Lalitha had failed to make in our first meeting. It's not that I had not seen mothers like her, my own mother died when I was 6 but there was something...about her mother that gave a sense of peace to my restless soul.

I heard the rustling of quick steps and the sound of anklets...

"Prabhu! come, come, all ready for the Mathematics grind?", she asked smiling.

I did not answer immediately. I was taken aback, a little. Lalitha looked different at home, she wore a pale half-saree, but there was a certain glow in her face, a happiness about being...herself, comfortable, in her element. Something about the little apartment, the little lamp in front of her dad's picture - he had gentle eyes, Lalitha had his eyes - the fragrance of jasmine and agarbathi and the gentleness all around appealed to me...

I left after a couple of hours, my head swimming in numbers, and a feeling of warmth, I looked forward to our next Calculus class.

***
"And now, my darling little annoyance, I have work to do", I move towards my desk smiling, when Kripa placed a hand on my shoulder.

"Prabhu, please, can I hear the rest of the story?", I look into her pleading eyes and wonder if I should tell her. For the past year, this was always the logical stopping point for this story, I vaguely end the story each time after this part, with ambiguous references to Lalitha and her mother leaving town and me becoming a changed man. Even during our courtship, I had told Kripa about Lalitha, but just as this girl that I had a crush on during college, nothing more. She had an inkling that I had been more serious about her than any other girl...should I lay me heart out to her and risk hurting her as I have hurt myself? But today was different, I wanted to tell her how the story ended as much as she wanted to know...I made up my mind.

"Sit down and I will tell you more about Lalitha...and me."

Every story-teller has a favourite story to tell, the one story that will never fail to regale his audience, the one story that they will always demand that he repeat and the one story that means a lot to him; to him, it's not just a story, he lives in it, for those moments, his life is that story and he is the protagonist fighting for the hand of the fair maiden, only, in this case, the fair maiden was gone and there was nothing he could do but weep at his loss...

"Lalitha and I were the unlikeliest friends on campus. We were the subject of many speculations and my friends thought I had secretly married her. It was all fun and laughter initially, but as things became more serious between us, the jokes were not funny any longer..."

We met at the beach, overcast skies and strong winds - an omen? I ran to Lalitha and blurted out a quick apology for being late, "Hey, you know how my friends are...I just had to make some excuse and come here!"

"For how long, Prabhu?"

"Huh? Come on Lalitha, look around you, see the spirit of life everywhere? Nature bows down to our friendship...and I acknowledge", I held my hand lightly across my stomach and pretended to bow down...

"Prabhu, Do you love me?"
And there it was, the one question that I had dreaded to ask her or myself?

"Hey Lalitha, take it easy, we are young and we don't have to jump to conclusions now...you are one of my best friends, you know that...hell, you can read my mind anytime you want, I don't have to tell you this...", I tried to laugh. She tried not to cry.

"Prabhu, I understand. I just though you were different, I liked you even before you talked to me for the first time...I love you but I cannot sacrifice my mother's life waiting for you...I,"

I did not hear anything else that she said to me - the waves roared, distant trees swayed in the wind and the birds twittered frantically, the setting sun cast shadows that played with the contours of her face, one half of her face was a bright golden and the tears on her cheeks glistened like dew drops on leaves - her brightness, the other half of her face was in the dark - my dark thoughts; I watched her for a long time and did not speak. I was too immature, too proud to listen to love's melody that day - and today, I hear the same music everyday and I know maybe, that I cannot feel love as I had felt that day...

I broke out of my reverie...did I say too much already? I hoped my spectacles would hide the few tear drops that still threatened to fall today.

"And that Kripa, is The End." I smiled hoping it would hide my pain.

"Did you try to find her after that day?", she wiped her cheeks dry on her little lace-handkerchief.

"Yes, I went to her house, it was locked and I made enquiries...", I just shrugged my shoulders, hoping it will not reveal dark nights spent in tears, screams of a mad man, smitten by love.

"I am glad you told me the story, Prabhu, thank you or should you thank me?", she winked and hugged me.

I hugged her back, a bit puzzled. But who cares? I felt light as a feather, the burden of my past no longer a barrier in my life, Lalitha no longer a shadown between us, haunting me in my memories...I felt happy and grateful because she understood, and felt that the seeds of yet another love story had perhaps planted itself in me.

It was not until many years later that Kripa told me that she and Lalitha were best friends in college.

*The End*

The wait.

2005-06-21T23:02:00.001-05:00

"Ayya, this way, the old woman must be in her hut, ranting to herself, haven't seen her the past few days; poor thing probably just biding her time for her final journey..."

The euphemism seemed out-of-place. I seemed out-of-place. I walked in the direction that the turbaned man pointed me to.

"Thanks...thanks a lot."

I pressed a ten rupee note in his hands and he walked away after gracing me with a toboaco-stained toothy smile. The nondescript hut stood amidst a bunch of similar looking huts. Several curious eyes followed my footsteps. A middle aged man with a prominent mustache sat on his haunch in front of the hut holding on to a stick and chewing what I imagined was betel leaves.

"I am looking for Malliga amma..."

He spat loudly, a few flecks landing on my shiny black shoes. Silence. I repeated my question and waited.

"She is dead."

I felt dizzy for a few moments. A light drizzle started to fall. I closed my eyes for a second and silently started walking back.

"Who was that? Did he say my name? Wretched fellow...won't let me live in peace...I say, kill me and take what little jewels I wear on me..."

The words were music to my ears. I smiled to myself and walked back towards the hut.

***"Amma, amma, come here, he walks, Raja walks!"

Malliga got up in a rush to fetch Mrs.Leela Kapoor, when the toddler decided he had had enough excitement for the day and sat down with a plop. Mrs.Kapoor walked in a second later, a flicker of disappointment, annoyance? crossing her pretty face.

"Amma, he walked for a few seconds...he walked!"

"He did? I am sure he will walk again...it's time for his nap now..."

She picked up the baby and walked out of the room, cooing endearments to him all the way. Malliga watched the mother and baby for a few moments. She swallowed hard, her momentary joy masked suddenly by pain.

***
It took me a few seconds before my eyes adjusted to the musty darkness inside the hut. She sat huddled in a corner holding a small rusted iron chest in her hands. The brownish yellow saree hung limply on her once nimble body. Two red glass bangles clinked on her thin wrists - she loved bangles. She wore thick glasses and from behind them peered the same, gentle eyes. Even time knew not to interfere with untainted innocence.

"Sit down. How can I help you?"

Her gentility surprised me. I cleared my throat and said, "I am a close friend of the Kapoor family, following Leela...Leela aunty's death, I have been asked to draw the family tree by close friends of the family, something we can preserve as a family heirloom...I was told you would have some details about them, incidents that I can mention in my compilation..."

My voice trailed, convincingly, I hoped.

She remained silent for a few moments and I wondered if this was all a huge mistake. Maybe she did not remember anything of her past, but how could she forget?
She broke into my thoughts in a soft voice that I strained to hear, "Leela amma...is no more?" She looked at a distance, lost in the ghosts of her past and the words came pouring out.

I listened mesmerized, every once in a while pretending to take down notes and then her soft voice would wash over me again. She spoke of Leela amma and ayya as though she saw them in front of her eyes, she painted a poignant picture from her memories and I listened like a little boy. Sometimes, her words would just dance all around me enveloping me in their embrace and I would revel in their sweet sounds, not even making an attempt to understand them...

As she spoke, her nose ring sometimes glinted in the single streak of light coming from the window. I watched her and listened to her stories - Are these the stories that I have missed for so long?

"Ayya, you must be hungry, will you have some koozh (porridge)?"

She did not wait for me to object, I was not going to object.

"Raja..." I looked up. "My Raja babu, he was an angel..."

Her voice seemed to break and I watched silently as she boiled some rice. She spoke about her Raja for an hour, she spoke of tiny baby steps, the first word - Amma, little games they played and the stories she would tell him to put him to sleep...images of a past life awoke to mingle with tears of the present...

***"What does my baby want?"

"Ma...amma"

Mrs.Kapoor played with her child, he had begun to speak words and even understand whole sentences. She laughed delightedly and asked,

"Where is amma?"

The child squirmed out of her hands and leaned towards Malliga. Malliga took the child and hugged him with all the love that only a mother can feel. She was a young mother too and she did not realize her blunder before it was too late.

"You promised! you promised you will not interfere...he is my child now!"

"Amma, forgive me, please forgive me this once. I cannot live without seeing my Raja..."
The love and pain in the tears that streamed down her cheeks were not a match for the possessiveness and insecurity that the other felt.

"I may be cursed by Him to not bear one of my own but he is my own now and I am his mother, not you...I beg of you, do not steal him from me..."

After all, Malliga had promised. She could not bear the thought of her precious gift growing up fatherless and two years back she had done what her dead husband would have been proud of. She had no right to claim him her own now.

The next morning her heart was heavy with a pain so ruthless, it helped her forget her sorrow. She kissed her Raja one last time on his tiny head and walked out of the house forever.
***
An angry thunder rumbled outside the hut, but I felt so light, I thought I could face anything. I thanked her for the food and left without saying what had to be said. I feared I would spoil the bonding...sometimes ignorance carries with it a bliss that knowledge knows not how to create. And I was not prepared for the questions.

I walked outside into the rain and said, "Amma, I shall be back again next week, this is a long project and...we have a lot to talk..."

A hint of a smile adorned her face and she said, "Raja...ayya, today was worth the wait...I will wait for you next week."

***

O what a tangled web we weave!

2005-06-19T21:25:00.000-05:00

"You know how it is with some relationships? Passionate, unrelenting, crazy at first and before you know it, you are drifting along comfortable in a languorous way and soon enough, you hardly remember how it used to be. Once in a while, you are reminded of sparks that once existed, chemistry that was once evident...and you catch yourself wondering when the change sneaked upon you and when you stopped...feeling. I, I...feel frustrated and guilty."

A torrent of words. All too familiar emotions. She touched the corner of her eyes with a tissue. Her delicate face and outwardly shy demeanor seemed a contrast to the feelings that she revealed now. I glanced at the clock and almost impulsively deviated from the original counsel that I had planned for her.

"Shaheen, I understand. You should not feel guilty about this. It's a natural feeling, marriage is not a cake walk and the more expectations we hold, sometimes, the harder we fall...we have all gone through this cycle..."

That night, my past loomed in front of me and for once, I did not push it away. I wanted to relive my past. Catharsis can be disturbing but is often therapeutic. I smiled wryly - who would know better than a shrink?

***
Karthik was not particularly attractive - average height, average physique, average looks - and three years back, I wouldn't have cared less. His best feature was probably his eyes - intelligent, expressive, large brown eyes. There were moments in our courtship when I felt, with all the intensity that girlish romanticism sometimes musters, that I could read volumes in his eyes, stories that would fascinate me, draw me closer in a way I had not imagined was possible. So, when did I start noticing that half the hall was filled with men who were better dressed and better looking than my husband? When did his occasional nervous ticks - the way he touched his right ear before speaking to a stranger, the way he stammered in the middle of a conversation - little things that were earlier categorized as delightfully quirky ease themselves into the category of mildly irritating and then annoying?

"Do you have to wear that same stupid shirt again to the party? Shankari and her husband will be there...and you know how critical they can be? If not for them, atleast for your sake, can't you dress sensibly for a change?"

His slow movements and lack of response, the same placid attitude, the lack of anything out of the way, infuriated me and I did not understand it. I had once loved this man and I desperately wanted to love him even now. Sometimes, I imagined that he flirted with other women at his work or did something, anything at all that would justify my increasingly angry outbursts and acerbic words...

***
"I slept better last night. Somehow, I did not feel so suffocated. But, I did lose my temper again yesterday...you know what infuriates me Doctor? He just does not react. For once, I want him to be angry, to cry, to lose his head, to wipe that stupid, half-smile off his face...he comes home at 6.15 every evening, reads the newspaper for 23 minutes - I clocked him yesterday - even his coffee brand has not change for the past 5 years..."

She was screaming now. I had a headache, or was it a heartache? I looked at the small woman in front of me, struggling with her life, and I saw shades of myself in her. Shades of a past life, a life as different from my life now as can be, yet why does every story sound like mine? I just need a vacation. I need to go to some place where he won't be there to remind me of my restlessness and immaturity, where guilt won't shroud me, where I don't need to understand why I ran away from love...

***
"The bir...birthday boy is home!"

He seemed happy. I cursed - this was going to make it all harder on me. I took a deep breath and said what was to be said.

"I am leaving you, Karthik. Unlike you, I have a life to live."

Flawlessly delivered, just as I had practised it, no tears, no sentimental overdose. This time, I had made up my mind, I would leave and not feel compelled to drag myself along with him in this meaningless existence. If he did love me, why did he not notice that I suffered? Everyday, he talked about his work, his day...did he once ask me how my day was?

He looked crestfallen and for the last time that I saw him, he still had no words to say. I walked out. I laughed as I walked out, a laughter of relief, of freedom, a laughter full of life and irony. July 25th, his 30th birthday, and now a date that will also mark the day I walked out of his life. I am not sure why I cried.

***
I looked at the clock with a sense of apprehension. Her final session. I prayed that she would walk in with a smile. She did, and a box of sweets.

"I can't thank you enough, Doctor. Yesterday, we talked through the night and he surprised me! He booked a two week vacation for us...he calls it a make-up honeymoon!"

She smiled shyly. Her eyes shone. I smiled.

"He said he wanted to thank you. I told him what all you told me, he said you reminded him of someone. He was wondering if we can meet for lunch today?"

I was temped to say yes but hey, three out of five patients invite me to lunch and it just wouldn't be right for me to say yes.

She looked a bit disappointed but brightened up immediately and said, "You will have to come to attend a birthday party though, a surprise birthday party that I have planned for him...it falls on July 25th! OK?"

I looked up and asked in a tone, as neutral as I could make it sound, "Your husband...what did you say his name was? I might have forgotten, so many names, you know?" I was rambling now.

"Karthik. He is the sweetest guy, you must meet him, Doctor...and poor thing has had his share of bad luck...I have told you...no?", she leaned, conspiratorially towards me and whispered,

"His first wife ran away...maybe she needed to take advice from you Doctor, anyway, her loss, my gain." She giggled and walked out.

***