A story-teller's love story.

"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*
***Excerpt***

The wait.

"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."

***
***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***

A house, an NRI and all that jazz.

"Satish has recently bought a town house, his mother tells me...did he tell you?"

In spite of the intermittent static and bad connection, the implication of the seemingly innocent question was clear. I sighed, the weary, futile sigh of a middle-aged NRI forced to do things quite outside his capacity, like buying a boat, for instance, oh alright, it's a house...apples, oranges, whatever.

"Ma, I am not planning to buy a house anytime soon! Not until Kalpana goes back to work and she cannot until Kapil becomes more manageable..."

As if on cue, our two year old starts to bawl loudly. Kalpana makes half-hearted attempts to pacify him. She asks loudly - I am not sure if that is for my benefit for the benefit of the curious ears listening on the phone - "I think it's about time we settle down too, Sheku..."

Disgusting abbreviation, Sheku, really, does she do that just to get me to agree to her demands? Shekar, such a respectable name, has a ring to it. As I revel in my onymous glory,

"What is that? Is that Kalpana? What is she saying?"

I am definitely in no mood for this game. I use the faithful NRI long-distance-call tactic - "Ma, I can't hear you clearly, I will talk to you later!"

***
The stage: Friend's place with the requisite number of people, a pre-planned and deviously schemed get-together, I am sure!

The protagonist: Our friendly pot-bellied, obnoxious "friend", Dr.Sahi.

The Director: My very own better half (hah!), my very own Brutus, Kalpana-the-plot-planner.

Dr.Sahi moves his considerable bulk towards my direction with a champagne glass in his hand, an unpleasant grin extending all the way from one cavity-filled set of molars to another. "What, Shekar?"

Really, what kind of a self-respecting, decent man begins a converation with "What, Shekar?" How is one supposed to respond to this anyway?

I avert my eyes from his rather large yellowish teeth, and try to look non-chalant, "How do you do, Dr.Sahi?" I decide to play it real safe. "Tough weather out there, isn't it?" and fall headlong into the trap.

"Yes, yes, indeed..." - like a tiger with bad teeth pouncing on an innocent over-worked lamb - "Those apartments you live in, they seem so fragile, one tornado and the construction will just crumble" He makes little annoying gestures with his fingers to show me how they will crumble. I have a bad feeling where this conversation is leading me to and I try desperately to steer clear...

"Oh, Shhhekhar Bhai", an equally imposing figure makes its way towards me. I squint to get a better glance at kalpana, talking animatedly to another guest at the end of the hall, trying to discern an evil-Kalpana lurking behind her innocent, almost angelic visage. She catches my eye for a moment and I see an almost malicious grin mask her face. I have got to stop watching Sci-Fi movies.

I turn towards the second opponent that my wife has strategically sent to impose her far-fetched, crazy ideas on me. I will stand as a rock, steady in my decision.

"Hello Mrs.Sahi, nice to run into you here..."

"Indeed, Shhhekar Bhai, Kalpana tells me you are planning to buy a small house nearby? Sahi he, aapne bataya hi nahi? Shmart decision hah..."

I look for a nice little spot where I can start digging a hole and then disappear in it away from the Sahis of the world.

"Mrs.Sahi, we were just casually discussing it and of course, we are not planning to buy a house anytime soon..."

***
Striped, three-piece suit, yellow tie with small black dots on it, gold-framed spectacles, with an unusually long wire hanging from the supports on either ear, branded I am sure, the kind that will tint a questionable shade of brownish-black as soon as the sun hits the eyes. A black leather carry bag and a sheaf of papers. Seriously, did they make real estate agents like these any more?

We, or rather Kalpana, laid out a clear set of requirements for Keith Barone, our buyers agent.

"A ranch style house, yes...our parents may come to stay, you know? High ceiling? Well, I am more particular about the school district the house is in..., 2 bedroom and 2 baths, yes, I think that will help with the resale value also."

I stood looking at the creature that had taken over my demure, unsophisticated, naive Kalpana. I also noticed that I had been subtly excluded from the conversation between my wife and our agent. I decided to put my foot down.

"Ahem...the budget?" They both laughed. I had a good mind to relieve Mr.Barone off his three-piece suit and invite him for a one-on-one.

"Really, Mr.Khanna, you are one funny man...", the three-piece-suit (TPS) said, laughing.

***
A tiny but perfectly manicured front lawn with a pleasant landscape. A loud FSBO sign stood in the center of the lawn. TPS confidently led the way into the house. The house was perfectly maintained - the carpet, the walls, the kitchen floor flawless. A waft of vanilla mixed chocolate added to my troubles. Kalpana was already grinning like a woman possessed. I casually picked up the info sheet from the kitchen counter.

Perfect home, silent neighbourhood, good school...bla..bla...
- followed by the numbers that will haunt me till today - $195000!!!

I made up my mind and decided to use my imagination to extricate me from this sticky situation, after all, I am a writer! I walked slowly towards the decently sized, what-was-once-an-office-room.

Kalpana's eagle eyes caught my movement and she pounced immediately, "Sheku, isn't this room lovely, this can be your quite office area and you can write nice little novels in here and earn a lot of money..."

This time, I was not unprepared. "Well, I assumed this would be the game room, you know, the guys can come over and we can hang out every Friday night! Have never been able to do that in our apartment...now even weekends, I can picture it right now..."

I must say I did act that out pretty well. I held up both arms, palm facing outwards, a director's pose, and said, in a slightly high-pitched voice,

"I see it now, Shankar, Prakash, Sujan and the rest of the gang, around the poker table, beer and cigarettes and gambling all night long! I can't wait!"

***
According to me, the first house-searching stint was a success! I had hardly finished revelling in my first mentionable triumph, when TPS called the next morning; as was the norm, Kalpana and TPS decided when and where to meet and details about the next house we were going to see. My writer-brain almost complacent after its first victory, woke up again.

Yet another picture-perfect house. I walked in with some trepidation, my wallet already seemed lighter.

"Mr.Barone, we were expecting you and you must be Kalpana...", something about the lilting voice made me look up. Our seller, a young American lady, Nancy, had a personality that did complete justice to her voice - charming! I was almost tempted to ask her more about the house, just as an excuse to talk to her...

"$201000, that's correct, the house is just 2 years old and we added a sun room right here..."

Now completely awake and far away from my sudden misplaced inclination, I proceeded to show some interest in the house and it's seller. Fifteen minutes, cups of tea later, I was still deep in conversation with Nancy, when Kalpana cleared her throat for the second time. I had successfully ignored her initial curious glances, then more pointed attempts to join our conversation. She finally resorted to pouting in a corner.

"I am sorry to hear that you are separated, it must be difficult for you to manage your work and the house and all...", I tutted sympathetically and this time, Kalpana tapped me on the shoulder, not so lightly.

"Shouldn't we be leaving now Shekar? Anyway the price range is probably a bit too high for us, isn't it? Thanks for your time and it was nice meeting you, Nancy."

Kalpana linked her hands in mine and gently nudged me towards the door. Me? I was just glad I was not the recipient of the frosty glare that she presented to Nancy. I whistled an old song as we headed back home.

***
Let me save you the trouble of reading through more such accounts. Just suffice to say, I left it all to Kalpana to decide, helping the process a bit, here and there. A few weeks passed, TPS sulked and left our house for good, Kalpana told me that a house could always wait - "We have each other and Kapil, don't we, let's take it slowly" and I was back to being a happy writer.

That night when the India call came, I heard Kalpana talking to my mom, "Ma, we looked at four or five houses, yes, not good at all, they say this is not the season to buy houses, maybe next year..."

Well...atleast I have until next year!

***
***Excerpt***

The Last Laugh.

The ceremony was small, unpretentious, heart-wrenching. No loud bawls, just tears silently shed. No stories exchanged that sung his praise, just a collective silence that recalled special moments that were shared with him, special because he made them special. The crowd soon dispersed, close friends stayed back to clean his apartment. A forty year old bachelor cannot expect to have a family to cry for him. His life and now death were no different.

A small apartment, neatly maintained – a living room, kitchen and a bedroom with two closets. Silently, methodically, they started collecting his possessions, each small object – an old football with their names scrawled on it, a faded photograph from their college days, his favourite T-shirt - only your wife will change you, they had claimed – summoning a fresh surge of tears, until they could cry no more. The frail woman clad in a black saree looked the most devastated, she often took deep trembling breaths and hung on to anything she could place her hands on, for support, her lips quivered but made no sound. The two men in the apartment were lost in their own memories, trapped in their own mental turbulence to help her. Friends for life, they had proclaimed proudly and happily. He had broken his promise, unexpectedly, unfairly – or so it seemed to them.

The woman walked, unseeingly, towards the bedroom and slowly started collecting his belongings; each movement seemed to take forever, her brain refused to respond, her heart, still in denial. She picked up the neatly stacked novels gently and placed them in a cardboard box. She stared at the picture on the cover of a novel for several moments – a happy picture, a man and a woman laughing, holding hands and walking down the street – she blinked a few times to look at the picture through her tears and traced her index finger along the man's face, life seemed to have come to a halt. The simple picture drew several powerful images from her past and painted them in front of her eyes; she closed her eyes and sank down - an absolute surrender to her emotions.

She was introduced to him by a mutual friend, she had nursed a crush for him, for quite some time. The first few years, she even thought that their relationship might lead to something romantic eventually; she did not realize when the definition changed. Suddenly, they were friends, and suddenly the bond had grown stronger than it ever was. He was always there for her, until today…

She dusted invisible cobwebs from the cupboard and started placing the old greeting cards, audio cassettes and trinkets into the box. Several cards were from her, proudly displaying years of careful maintenance…a small notebook fell down and she picked it from the floor – a heart was drawn on the cover, broken and over it his familiar scrawl, "Broken…still beating, for you". She had never seen him as a romantic, and she knew there was nothing about him that she did not know…yet the writing was definitely his. In spite of herself, curiosity prompted her to open the diary.

Today, yellow is her color…and mine! She is dressed in a yellow half-sari, blue pavadai…her hair is still wet, little curls bounce off her forehead, no anklets today but when there is music all around, I little need the sound of her anklets to make me dance…she is late again to zoology class, every second I panic – what if she does not come today? But there she is, my one indulgence, my one love…

Her eyes automatically looked down at the next entry dated the next day, again a few lines but just as mesmerizing and heartfelt...

Splitting headache, maybe because I dreamed that she would not be mine? If she will be by my side only in my dreams, I can desire nothing but eternal sleep…but even my dreams betray me!

She read, skimmed frantically, perplexed, not wanting to understand...

She cried on my shoulder today; I wanted the moment to last forever. I want her to lean on me throughout her life and I want to cry with her and care for her, forever…am I selfish? No, how can I be selfish? Every bit of happiness within me quells with her every tear drop…I ask not for her to cry. I plead for her to let me trail by, like her shadow, so that my heart knows what to feel, looking into her eyes…I feel because she does. I am because of her.

As if in a trance, she turned a few pages over, scared to comprehend what she feared it would convey…

Yesterday, we held hands…she did not let go of them the whole evening. I still feel her hands in mine – they are so soft, I am scared I will hurt her if I hold them tightly. We walked on wet grass, every little thing delights her – a butterfly, a rose, sunrise, my silly jokes. I want to talk to her till I can talk no more. Should I tell her what I feel? I am scared she will flit away like the butterfly…but her hands seem so right in mine, does she not feel the same?

More limericks, thoughts and doodles later, his past swirled in front of her, memories that they shared intervened and the pieces of the puzzle seemed to assemble themselves, new meanings extended their hands to her and she caught a reflection of herself in every precious line in front of her. Forgotten phrases made a quick appearance...

"Of course, I love you, you do know you are the one woman who can tolerate me, don't you?"

"Stay with me forever...I might just die laughing!"

"I can ask myself the question or you, it's all the same to me..."

She had lost count of the number of times he had made her play the guessing game with her, "Name the girl in my dreams and I am your slave for today!" She had laughed and indulged his innocent game, five, six names later, she would always give up and they would forget about it until the next time they played the same game. She had never been able to name her and had assumed there was no her.

A thousand "What ifs" surrounded her - what if they were meant to be together? Had he died of loneliness because she had been blind? Did she not recognize love that was so evident in the words that spoke to her today? He had been the perfect friend...maybe he was destined to be more and she had turned her back to her own destiny.

Inexplicable emotions gripped her and unconsciously, her eyes moved to the source of her uncertainty, despair, sadness, love...she resolutely turned to the last page of the diary.

Anjali, Anjali, Anjali...

She held her breath. She could almost hear him whisper her name...

Caught you? Didn't I? You were right after all, there was no girl. But, I did get you thinking there, for a while, didn't I ;)? If this book is in your hands, it only means one thing and I know for sure I will miss you, wherever I am. Ever yours.

The two men who came rushing into the room looked at each other in confusion. They had no idea. He had managed to make her laugh, one last time.

***Excerpt***

The Husband.

Meenakshi...the keeper of my soul, my angel come to rescue me, my Meenakshi...what worries you so? What is causing those beautiful eyes to brim up so? Pray tell me, my Meenakshi...I will slay the demons that distress you, pray tell me, every crease in your forehead, every tear that falls from your eyes mars my being, I live for you, Meenakshi...do not kill me so...

She was crying again. He had done all he could to make her stop. He did not know why she cried. What reason should a young bride have to cry? A month after their marriage, he still believed she cried because she was homesick. Eleven months later, he could no longer attribute her tears to homesickness. When he left to work in the morning, she stood in a corner, sniffling. When he came home after work, she would be standing at the verandah, listelessly looking at a distance, eyes red and tired and still wet.

"Every night, the same old story...", she sighs and yells, "Shantha, come here, give patient 26 the injection, he is going to sing his death knell throughout the night, otherwise..."

*****
Meenakshi, see what I have bought home for you...close your eyes, feel the softness? Do you like mani? That's what I have named him, look how he wags his tail, here, hold him...Meenakshi, why do you still cry, woman? (Tone raised) What should a man do? I cook in the morning before I leave to work, I take care of you...(subdued again) oh, do not cry, my life, my Meenakshi...

He returned from work that evening to find the puppy standing at the gate, it jumped delightfully when it saw him, he smiled, as if acknowledging the ironies that life doled out to him, he bent down to lift the puppy and walked into the house. She sat in a corner of the house, huddled and trembling, he rushed to hug her and she shrank back...

"How are you feeling today, Sir?", the monotonous tone evokes no response. It has not in the past month, and the doctor did not expect anything new today; he did what he considered his duty, checked his pulse and his vitals, shouted a few instructions to the nurses and moved on to the next patient. It was difficult enough trying to save lives that wanted to be saved...

*****
Where are you? I know I should not have screamed at you, my darling, my beautiful angel, do not leave me now...is that you I see in the distance? Is the rain blurring my vision or are these my tears? Oh Lord...protect my Meenakshi, she is the child that you bestowed on me, help me keep her safe...Are my eyes tricking me? Is that...no! take my life away but she should live...

That night, he came home a bit late, he had spent the evening worrying about how to handle her once he got back home. He had screamed at her in the morning and had left her crying. When he had woken up in the morning and seen her as she had been every other day, no hint of improvement, no shadow of a smile on her face, something had triggered his pent-up anxiety and worries to burst out; the words escaping his mouth sounded alien to him, but days and days of hopelessness and disappointments had numbed his patience and his cognition. That night, he did not find her home. He ran outside into the pouring rain, screaming her name like a mad man...he saw her walking unseeingly in the middle of the road, the car careened wildly as the terrified driver tried to avoid her, he had thrown himself at the car, a final attempt to save her from herself, he felt the impact and then darkness shrouded him, unable to bear his pain?

"6.30 PM, time of death", the doctor moved on, the nurses hustled behind him, they had been through this too many times to be affected by it. "Poor man, they say his wife was mad, he looked after her for a year, could not take it anymore and killed her and threw himself in front of the car...", Shantha said, "The driver saw him pushing her in front of the car, tsk...men like these, God knows what his wife had done to deserve a husband like him..."

*****
***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***

Impulse, Irony & I

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Retake - Quest for a Brahmin Boy!

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

---

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

'tis the same ol' story!

The Showdown.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

More innuendos, forced laughs and small talk.

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

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

*****The Preparations.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*****The Event.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Gulmohar tree.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He cried.

*****

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

The Choice.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The rest of his words were lost on Sunitha.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Caprice.

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

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

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

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

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

He threw up his hands in a gesture of resignation.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She dismissed Shankar within moments and then cried.

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

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

The Communication.

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

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

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

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

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


The excited voice seemed to evoke little emotion in him.

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

*****

Rough Translation:

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

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

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

paethi - granddaughter
pappa - baby
perumal - God

***Excerpt***

மனம் ஒரு குரங்கு

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

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

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

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

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

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

***Excerpt***