Lakshmi writes.

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

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

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

You always called me “amma”.

~~~***~~~

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

~~~***~~~

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

~~~***~~~

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

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

~~~***~~~

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

~~~***~~~

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

~~~***~~~

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

The argument.

"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."

***Excerpt***

Chapter 1. The Retirement.

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!
***Excerpt***

O what a tangled web we weave!

"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.

***
***Excerpt***

Perception.

Oil splattering, the sound of the cool, slightly wet steel ladle touching scalding oil, three quick flips of the samosas, maybe four and they are carefully removed and placed on bright green leaves, maybe a bit yellowish at the sides. I try to see a family of four buying the samosas at the shop, inconveniently situated in the middle of the platform, maybe...

A toddler on the woman's hip, sleeping peacefully - I feel a strange communion with him, we see alike now - a little girl with two oily plats, red ribbons, no, yellow...she tugs at her mother's salwar kameez, her father has his nose buried in a magazine at a nearby book store.

Magic lies not in black and white, waste not your life in the illusion of the written word, open your eyes, take in the magic that colors create...take it in when you can, look at the contrast that the delicate purdah creates on your wife's creamy complexion, see how her earrings glitter even through the smoke, notice the mischief in your child's eyes...are they not perfect? Foolish man, throw the book and breathe in life!

A shrill whistle, quickening footstpes, excited shouts, a crescendo heralding the train's arrival. "Walk faster Latha, here, let me carry your bag...", a woman's gasp, the bag lands with a thud. I lift it and hold it for her to take. She smiles gratefully - don't they all? - and takes the bag from me, our hands touch for a moment and she shrinks away, I hear the rustle of her dress as she hurries away from me.

She has soft hands, I want to touch them again...Latha...Latha, lilting...her name reminds me of an old Hindi song...

I have company. "Aapko patha he, mumbai se delhi jane waali gaadi kab aayegi?" Do they still look at their gold-dialled wrist watches when they ask this question?

I answer him and he sighs and flips open his cell phone, "Suresh, stuck here man, bloody schedules...never on time, we have to reschedule the ops meeting, yes that sounds ok, Catch you later." The young man studies me with interest, I start coughing at the cigarette fumes that he exhales on my face. "Sorry...", he murmers and looks away.

"Quite alright, I should be used to it by now..."

He looks at me, surprised? "These trains are never on time, doesn't it bother you? And look at the decrepit state of this station, I am just waiting to get out of here..."

"I like this station, infact, this is my favourite spot, right here, on this bench, I get to meet interesting people, you know?", I wink at him.

"That would surprise me...favourite spot? as in, you are here by choice?!"

I smile. "Yes, I find peace here, in the midst of all this...", I spread my arms out, "Here, in this station, I see, I see everything...watch that little girl by the corner, in that torn red dress, see the way she eats the ganna (sugarcane)? I cannot see that when I am home..."

He looks around - I hear the crinkle of his expensive suit - "What girl?"

I smile some more - people amuse me - "You wouldn't see her son, such is the magic of this place...let your senses overtake you, close your eyes for a second and breathe, feel...see!"

He does not understand, some people cannot understand. His eyes cannot see what mine can and I cannot see what his eyes can...perhaps, it is he who is blind.

***Excerpt***

'tis the same ol' story!

The Showdown.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

More innuendos, forced laughs and small talk.

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

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

*****The Preparations.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*****The Event.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Gulmohar tree.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He cried.

*****

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

Caprice.

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

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

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

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

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

He threw up his hands in a gesture of resignation.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She dismissed Shankar within moments and then cried.

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

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

Home.

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

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

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

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

*****

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

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

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

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

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

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

The child stares back at her blankly.

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

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

***Excerpt***