Lakshmi writes.

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

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

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

You always called me “amma”.

~~~***~~~

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

~~~***~~~

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

~~~***~~~

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

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

~~~***~~~

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

~~~***~~~

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

~~~***~~~

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

The 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***