Letting go of Ananda Nivas.

The house looks older. The A of Ananda Nivas, embossed on the wall by the side of the imposing, now rusting iron gates, has been scraped off. Nanda Nivas greets me, as an old lady would, having seen too much of life to be interested in it, existing rather than living, crumbling little by little, a pale shadow of a past vivacity, a glint here, a dazzle there, if you look closely, but sallow and spiritless for the most part.

The unctuous watchman, with his beetle-juice stained teeth, smiles ingratiatingly at me and scratches his head. The iron gates screech open grudgingly. I hand him a fifty rupee note to get rid of him. I am sweating already even in a sleeveless white t-shirt, I am still jet-lagged and tired of thinking. I stand for a few moments in front of the house, my house and for a moment, it flashes with life. Rows of meticulously maintained rose bushes, the fragrance of tulsi and jasmine, long corridors echoing the laughter of children, strains of old Urdu ghazals, diyas made of clay that are laid out in a pattern around the rangoli, the cool touch of my mother's silk saree; And suddenly the house settles back and all I see are crumbling walls with dried flakes of paint, overgrown bushes and a hollow feeling, a silence that surrounds it and anyone who enters it.

I take a deep breath and call out for Geeta Bai. Geeta Bai has grown older too, almost taking the eerie quality of the house upon herself - she looks frail and sad? "Sapna beta, you have come!" I step forward and hug her without hesitation. Ten years of American culture and I still find comfort in the smell of her home-made spices and her sweat. She is crying and to my surprise, I realize my eyes are wet too.

"We have missed you beta. My son, his wife and child live an hour away, the servant quarters is too small for a family of four na, beta? Have you met Champa? She is very fair and she takes good care of my son..."

I relax as her continuous stream of conversation replaces some of the emptiness in my heart.

"I try to take care of the house, but ever since memsaab passed away...", she quietly wipes the corner of her eye with her saree pallu. A familiar suffocating feeling threatens to overtake me, even after so many years...I swallow back my tears, now is not the time to grieve. It's five years since my mother passed away, that was the last time I saw my house. It had looked different then - bleak and gloomy.

I break out of my reverie as Geeta Bai unlocks the door for me, I step in and am momentarily blinded, the curtains are all drawn, a musty smell crawls around me, I am suddenly cold, the house is cold, I stop myself before I think of what it reminds me of. I shudder.

"I come once a week inside to clean but I am growing old and I am not doing justice to this house. Beta, are you really going to sell this house?"

"Yes, I am", I look away resolutely. I have made up my mind, after sleepless nights of struggling with guilt, after endless hours of discussing it with Ankit, I don't have the strength to be sentimentally foolish now.

"I should come with you Sapna. It's not easy selling a house. Those village folks are pretty cunning; they will take you for a ride."

"No, I need to do this alone. I want to let go, by myself..."

I open all the curtains, sunlight streams in to waken sleeping nooks and corners of the house. I turn to Geeta Bai.

"Geeta Bai, I am here on a short trip, I need to get the house clean and more presentable. I have already talked to a few people who are interested in buying the house. They will be coming next week and before that, we have a lot of work to do. Your daughter-in-law Champa, does she also do house-work?"

Geeta Bai listens carefully all the while, "Yes beta. She is very good at it too..."

"Ok good. Ask her to come at 7 am sharp tomorrow. We have work to do, Geeta Bai, to make this house, what it was."

A sad look crosses her face for an instant but she smiles and says, "Yes beta, we have to work hard...the house deserves it after all these years..."

She walks out slowly and I wonder if she meant to say, "…after all these years of your neglect"?

Ankit had insisted that I book a motel room nearby, "You can't stay alone in the house, Sapna."

"I am not scared Ankit! And Geeta Bai sleeps in the servant quarters anyway..."

"At least ask her to sleep in the house too...I am getting worried already!"

"Hey, I am not a little girl..." and then in a milder tone, I tell him, "I promise to be careful."

I don't feel that confident now. Night seems to have unveiled a different face of the house, I hear moaning sounds, I see ghosts in the dark and the whole house seems to creak. I have an urge to call Geeta Bai to sleep over or call Ankit. It's too early in the morning for him and he will unnecessarily worry for me. I turn the bedroom light on and try to sleep.

What did my mom say to put me to sleep, when I was a child? I try to recall forgotten words, hoping that their familiarity would calm me down. "So jaa Rajakumari...", sleep, my princess..."kal tera rajkumar aayega...dholi me bhitake tujhe leke jayega...", your prince will come tomorrow...to carry you in a palanquin...the sound of her voice comes rushing back to me and I hear it as if she whispers them to me now, I remember her as she was when she said the story to me, beautiful and kind, I almost smell the sandalwood paste that she used to smear on her face everyday, if I insisted too much, she would put a little bit on my palm and I would be thrilled, I see strings of jasmine flowers fluttering lightly against her long braid...and she puts me to sleep once again, after so many years.

***

The house is falling apart, brick by brick. Each thud seems to send a wave of pain through me. Thud, thud, thud...

"Sapna beta, are you ok? Sapna betaaa!", Geeta Bai's raspy voice wakes me up finally, what is she doing here at this ungodly hour, breaking the door down? And then all the previous day's events come rushing back to me. I stumble down to the door and am annoyed that she looks so bright and fresh early in the morning. Behind her, a small woman stands, head bent with her pallu covering her head.

Geeta Bai introduces her daughter-in-law with a flourish, "Sapna, this is Champa, you have met her before no?" Champa looks up and gives me a shy smile and as she steps forward, an even smaller figure huddles close to her, almost hidden by her saree.

"And this is my ladla-pyaara, Kishan", she lifts the child deftly and leans towards me, the child hugs his grandmother tightly and looks scared. With my disheveled hair and white night gown, I must have looked like a ghost to the kid.

I smile and welcome Champa in and am back to business, "Champa, glad you could come. Geeta Bai must have told you that am selling the house, we need to clean the house, dust and polish everything, that's a lot of work."

She nods and says nothing. I turn to Geeta Bai, "Geeta Bai, I need a cup of your strong filter coffee, my head is pounding..."

Geeta Bai gets started on the coffee while Champa and Kishan follow me.

"So, where shall we start? Let's start cleaning my father's office room first", I pick the room that will affect me the least. I lost my father when I was ten, I remember just that he used to be a tall, well-built man with big hands, but they were gentle when he hugged me, I didn't pick up any of his traits except his reading habit. Every night, he would pick a different book to read to me, I wouldn't understand much of it, but the fact that my busy, important father took the time to read for me, compelled me to sit patiently and listen to the way the words rolled out of his mouth. He wore a turban that he removed at nights and he had the biggest mustache that I had ever seen. And that's all I knew about my father. Years later, when I would ignore mom's calls, lost in a book, she would come into the library irritated, but the worry lines on her face would always crease into a smile when she saw me cuddled in dad's huge rocking chair. That's when I felt closest to my father, she probably sensed that, or perhaps she was reminded of her husband that she admired, maybe even dared to love and lost so early in life.

The bolt creaks open and I turn to Champa, "Tomorrow morning, get some oil and make sure these bolts become smooth."

Besides the dust that the room has accumulated, it looks just the same. I walk to the ornate rosewood table - it retains its distinctive smell, and pick the open book lying on the table, "Did I leave it there, leaving the story incomplete? How long has it been lying there - my precious childhood memory, left carelessly on the table?" I suddenly have an urge to get the table shipped to America. I can easily afford it – Ankit earns enough for both of us - and Ankit might end up loving such a well-made table and...I stop myself and turn to Champa who is studying me with a not-so-shy curiosity, "Umm...I'll dust the table, open the curtains and start dusting the bookshelves. Keep the kid away, all that dust is not good for him."

And to my surprise, the child starts dusting the lowermost shelf - that's all he can reach - Champa just smiles and starts cleaning the higher shelves.

I dawdle over my task, trying to concentrate as conflicting feelings fight for attention in my head, I want to let go while holding on as fast as I could…back at home, it had seemed foolish for me to hold on to this house, a waste of money and effort spent dealing with the maintenance people who I knew were charging us double the normal rate…

"Memsaab, the shelves are done. I am going to sweep and clean the floor with a wet cloth."

"Call me Sapna", I say it more rudely than I want to but I am not memsaab, my mother, sentimental and stubborn...

"You can't make me sell the house Sapna. I can sell my wedding jewellery and maintain it. I will not sell it", obstinate, like a child. When my mom got into these moods, there was no arguing with her.

"Ma, all am asking you to do is to think about it. You can come and live with us in America. Ankit will be more than happy...and who is here anyway?"

"This is my place, Sapna. I let you select your husband but I can't let you govern my life. This is the house my husband lived in and I will breathe my last here..."

And she did, my stubborn, beautiful mother...

"Sapna beta, your coffee...", Geeta Bai is about to place the steaming hot cup of coffee on the table when I say, "Careful, you might stain the finish!" and Geeta Bai asks, "Does it matter beta? Isn't it all going away anyway?"

I would probably not have put up with her insolence any other time but am already tired today and I take my coffee, wordlessly.

***

Three hours later, my father's office is ready for visitors, gleaming and proud, like my father was. Is that what happens to a house eventually, after decades? Does it don the qualities and quirks of the person who lived there the most and made it their own? I know I should probably call Ankit but the ISD phone booth is fifteen minutes away and I don't have the strength to go there, I tell myself I will call tomorrow. My stomach growls as I wonder which room I should take on next.

Geeta Bai calls for me, "Sapna beta, come down and have your lunch. Hai Ram, what will memsaab say if she finds you working like this?", why does she always talk in present-tense as if my mother were around watching us sell what is hers...

Onion Sambhar, rotis, crisp, roasted potatoes and rice and my irritation melts away, "Thank you, Geeta Bai..."

"Hush beta, eat first", I silently follow her command. There is something about her that makes me do that.

She has set a place for me at the dining table and today, of all days, I don't wish to eat alone. I carry my plate to the kitchen and settle down on the floor amidst loud protests from Geeta Bai.

"Sapna beta, the people buying this house, when are they coming beta?"

"Day after tomorrow. I think they said morning works for them."

"Ah ok. So...", she makes a round ball with rice and alu curry in it and plops it into her mouth and asks, "do you know what they plan to do with the house?"

"What do you mean 'plan to do'? They will live in it, like everyone else..."

"But, that's not what Sevanthi says..."

I am getting annoyed with all this circuitous talk, "Who is Sevanthi now?"

"She works for the memsaab that wants to buy this house..."

I gape at Geeta Bai, was she playing me all along? "If you knew who was going to buy the house, why did you ask me? You might as well tell me what you know since you seem to know much more than me!"

"What does this old woman know beta? All Sevanthi told me was that they were planning to remodel the house, they thought the current design will probably not work for them...they also thought the entrance was too...loud, maybe rebuild the entrance..."

"What? I love the entrance, its beautiful! I love the Ganesh and elephant carvings on the door...", I am angry at this memsaab who is already bad-mouthing my house.

"What to do beta? When we sell the house, we should not care about all this...it is difficult to maintain after all..."

"No, of course not, it's a wonderful house and ...", what am I saying? I look at Geeta Bai's face closely and her eyes seem to challenge me, "It's a wonderful house, isn't it beta?"

"Yes, but am sure we needn't worry about them. They will take good care of the house. Let's get back to work."

And through-out the day, that nagging thought stays behind - "Will they really bring down the entrance and remodel my house, the house that belonged to my parents?"

***

It's dusk and Champa and I sit down on make-shift chairs in the backyard - inverted plastic buckets. I realize she is quite beautiful, dusk has a way of adding beauty to everything that it embraces, I listen as Champa talks, once she became comfortable with me and I became aware that how efficient she was with her work, we warmed up to each other and she became quite talkative.

"He is also very attached to this house...", she doesn't call her husband by name and I think it's charming...

"Ok, enough about the house...tell me..."

"No Sapna didi...I can understand why...look how she stands...no wonder memsaab was proud of it..."

And we both look at the house. I wonder what it is about the house that has drawn my mother, Geeta Bai and now her son and daughter-in-law into its arms...and as I take in each feature of the house, I notice a delicate glow to the house and am almost proud. I begin to understand why Champa says, "She"...I close my eyes and pray that I am taking the right decision.


***

The next morning, Champa greets me with a "What next didi?"

"Let's take my room next..."

I walk in behind Champa and Kishan and Kishan immediately runs to a rocking horse, my rocking horse, and sits on it. Champa begins to chide him when I gesture that it's ok.

I open my old cupboard, the one that mother wouldn't sell or give away even after I left to America. A few salwar kameez and skirts, an old box of trinkets, I turn to Champa, "Here, take them."

"No Sapna didi..."

"Take them. I want you to have them. It will remind you of me later."

For a second I think she will hug me but she just nods happily.

An hour later, we are almost done with my room and I am surprised, almost disappointed that nothing in there brought back any memories at all, it was as if when I packed to leave to the US, I had packed away all my memories too...

By evening we have finished almost the entire house, except Mom's room. But hey, if I managed my room, mom's room would be easy too.

Kishan rushes into the room first and we follow him inside. I know she is there, my mother, I can smell her as soon as I walk in. Even Kishan seems to slow down and walk with us inside. Champa turns to me and says, "I will be right back memsaab, I want to check if ma needs my help to cut vegetables for dinner..." and she leaves me alone with the child. I smile reassuringly at him and walk towards my mother's cupboard. Her room is small, a small, neatly-made bed - has it been this way since she left me? - a cupboard with a few pictures of Gods and Goddesses and an old photo of my father on top of it and a night stand. Something catches in my throat when I look at the lone photo frame on the night stand - a picture taken years ago of our family leaning against our new car...Geeta Bai stands behind, deferentially, she seems younger, happier...we all do. And standing behind us, as if guarding us, with its arms around us, is Ananda Nivas.

I sit down on the bed and take a deep breath. Kishan stands next to me and I notice that he has his hand on mine - for support, for him or me?

Is this a sign? Is mom trying to tell me something? Why didn't I just let Champa clean this room...and I am suddenly angry with my mom for having played such a mean trick on me.

When Champa walks in a few minutes later, I have already dried my tears and have removed the photo from the frame.

"Start cleaning here, I will be right back", I instruct and rush out before she can say anything. I place the photo carefully in my file of house papers and decide to take a walk to the phone booth, Ankit can get up early once for me.

I get the connection almost immediately, the shop keeper offers me cool drinks twice and I decline politely twice.

"Ankit, Good morning..."

"Sapna....Sapna, is that you", I feel sorry for him as I listen to his groggy, sleep-filled voice, "Why didn't you call yesterday, I don't even have a number to reach you!"

I cut him off, "They are coming tomorrow..."

"They who?"

"The people who want to buy the house...Geeta Bai says they might want to remodel the house..."

"That's good, so they really intend to buy the house, if they are already making plans to remodel..."

"No, you don't understand. I don't want them to..."

"You don't want them to buy the house?"

"No, to remodel the house..."

"But you want them to buy it, don't you? You told me you wanted to let go and it was just a big maintenance hassle and..."

"I know all that...I found this old photo...of our family..."

"Sapna, are you ok? Listen, if you are not ready to sell the house, then don't."

"No!", I am angry that he thinks I will go back on my decision, "I want to sell the house, so wish me luck. Will call you tomorrow once they sign the deal."

"Ok...good luck and Sapna?"

"Uh Huh?"

"Take care of you for me."

I smile as I walk in the light rain towards my house. By night, I am running a temperature and Geeta Bai insists on sleeping on a mat, on the floor beside my bed, "What? Leave you alone with such a fever, memsaab will..."

By now, I have given up on her. Yes, memsaab will be angry. I know. As thunder rumbles in the distance, I am unable to sleep - excited, confused, anxious, feverish all at once. So, Geeta Bai and I talk through the night,

"Do you remember Sapna beta, you used to such a naughty little girl, never listening to memsaab. But she would never lay a hand on you...you would pull out all her roses, get your hands pricked with the thorns and bawl loudly and would demand a gift to sop crying...memsaab never got angry with you..."

And suddenly I remember mom's flashing eyes when she refused to sell the house. Had I finally made her angry? I hear the angry sound of thunder in response.

After a few more hours, after Geeta Bai has smeared Tiger balm all around my forehead and neck, I fall asleep as she talks in a soft voice about her past and mine.

***

The next morning, I try to be or at least appear cheerful, in spite of a stuffy nose and a dull headache.

Geeta Bai stands next to my bed and announces even more cheerfully, "The streets are all water-logged, it's difficult to even walk, leave alone drive anywhere...", and hands me a hot cup of coffee.

I groan. And now the next obstacle presents itself, is there no end?

The day passes by sluggishly, imitating the weather. Kishan is cranky, stuck inside the house all day long and even Champa appears frazzled.

By evening, I am about to run to the phone booth to call up the buyers - they are five hours late - when the bell rings. Geeta Bai appears not to have heard it from the kitchen and Champa is busy pacifying Kishan and so I walk down to greet the potential buyers.

I am not impressed. I expected a traditional aunty in a salwar kameez if not a saree, an uncle equally traditional and instead a lady barely my age, in jeans and a t-shirt and a nervous looking young man stand at my door step.

"Hi, How are you? You must be Sapna!" The accent tells all. This kind of faked, polite accent cannot be anything but an NRI accent. Geeta Bai has suddenly become cheerful, did she read my mind again? and is asking them whether they would like some coffee.

"So you see, I was like, chalo Rahul, why don't we buy this quaint house here? I love the place, it's charming and ancient...and Rahul loves it too."

Rahul nods unhappily and keeps looking around the house and I want his wife to shut up, so I stand up and say, "Feel free to look around. Geeta Bai will get your coffee here in a minute."

They walk upstairs, the woman looking lost and quite foolish, she keeps up her babble as her husband still looks around him nervously as if the house were going to attack him.

"What shall I do Kishan? Will you also turn against me?"

But Kishan just smiles back, clearly not understanding a word of what I said.

"Did you say something Sapna beta? Such nice people no? I am sure they will take good care of the house..."

No more games, Geeta Bai. I stand up, "I am not selling the house, Geeta Bai. Not to these people."

"I see..."

The lost couple saunters back in and start sipping their coffee.

"You have a lovely house", I hate, hate her accent, "it's quite sad in places, almost falling apart but I am sure we can fix that." I would like to fix your face now, lady.

"Err...how old did you say the house was?", Mr.Nervous wants to know.

"Atleast a hundren years old."

He draws in such a shaky breath, I am afraid he will have an attack of sorts. I wait for them to finish their coffee. They sounded so different on the phone and didn't they say they were from this place? Maybe I spoke to someone else? I need to find that crazy agent who convinced me they were "solid buyers". And now I realize the depth of my foolishness, coming here depending on this one proposal. No matter, I will find another buyer...I must.

"I thought you lived around here..."

"Oh mummy and pappa used to. They said they even talked to you about this house. We have been in American for God knows how long...", she laughs, "we just thought, it'd be cool to buy a house in my native village, memories and all, you know?"

I know. That's why I cannot sell this house to you. Aloud, I say, "I talked to my husband last night and he seems to be having second thoughts about selling the house. I might have to call you back."

"Oh...", she seems disappointed, the husband, relieved.

A few minutes later, they find themselves outside the house and I close the door behind them, mentally preparing myself for the confrontation.

"Geeta Bai. You can clear out the cups later, I want to talk to you."

"Sure beta. Shall I get you some coffee too?" Could this innocent woman be as crafty as I think she is? I don't know yet.

"What do you want Geeta Bai?"

"This old woman wants a million things beta..."

"No, I mean why did you not want me to sell this house? What could you possibly gain by it?"

I don't care if I hurt her feelings, I needed to know.

"I didn't say that beta and what could I possibly gain by it?"

"Don't turn around my questions back to me! I am going to find a buyer for this house before I leave, I have made up my mind, is that clear?"

"Of course beta, whatever you wish. I am sure memsaab would have agreed..."

"Don't drag my mother into this!" and then I lower my voice and ask her once again, "Geeta Bai, you are like a mother to me, please tell me what's on your mind...I know all along, you have been hinting that I should not sell this house...and I am having second thoughts now...maybe you are right, mom wouldn't approve...maybe I shouldn't sell this house...Geeta Bai, will you live in this house with your family if I did not sell this house?"

Maybe that's what the old woman wanted and I don't blame her. She has done enough for the family...

She straightens up suddenly and her voice changes abruptly, "I can never accept this offer Sapna beta. This house is where memsaab lived, I am here to provide service to her and now to you. I had no intentions of taking over the house..."

"No, I am sorry, that came out wrong...", did it really?

To my surprise, she says, "Yes, it did", and I notice her pride, hidden from my eyes till today, "You hurt an old lady beta by thinking you can bribe her with this house. Memsaab loved this house, every brick in it and you sitting in your America thought you could sell this house with a few phone calls? Did you find out if those people cared? What would happen to this house once they bought it? Don't you still hear memsaab's voice in these old walls? I hear them beta...I lost your mother, who was like a daughter to me, I can't afford to lose her again..."

And here she cries, but proudly, each tear drop falling for a precise reason, the right reason, unlike mine, falling down for my mistakes. I am not crying for my mother now, I am crying because I hurt a woman who was like a mother to me...I am crying for Geeta Bai, I am crying for my home that I almost lost...

***

It's as if everything happened in fast-forward, it's already time for me to leave and I don't want to leave. But this time, I know that Geeta Bai and Champa will take good care of the house ("No Sapna didi, that is too much, I can't accept that much money from you", Champa had said, but I insisted, she deserved it), I know I have taken the right decision, no doubts to haunt me during dark nights, no flashing eyes to remind me of attachment and heritage...just the comforting smell of chandan and jasmine; I have made peace with my mom. I have let go...

I wake him up, early in the morning again,

"Hey Ankit"

"Hey yourself. So, did it all work out as you planned?"

"No, my whole plan fell apart...thank God. I know I'll be annoyed with the huge maintenance bills we get and all but I know we can at least show our child where grandma lived and where grandpa told me his stories..."

"Sounds like something a wise man told you not long ago...", darn, I remember now, he did say that, didn't he?, "I guessed that you wouldn't sell the house, Sapna"

"Yes, I bet you read my mind...I don't buy your story Ankit and how do you know I didn't sell the house?"

"I know."

"Because....?"

"Because you are your mother's daughter."

And I walk back to my house, smiling in the rain again. I am still smiling as the flight takes off to take me home, away from my home.

***

***Excerpt***

Aunt Maria's love story.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You imp, shush!"

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

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

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

"Yes and No, Maria."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Do you also like Erich Seagal, Maria?"

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

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

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

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

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

"Professor. I teach English."

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

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

"You look remarkably like her."

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

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

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

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

and then suddenly,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I jumped in my chair and the book fell down.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Aunt Maria?"

She appears not to hear.

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

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

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

Again the almost imperceptible shake of the head.

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

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

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


"I asked him to marry me..."

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

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

***Excerpt***

Chapter 1. The Retirement.

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

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

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

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

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

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

***
"Did you have your dinner?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Can't this man talk except in circles?

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

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

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

Raghavan listened silently.

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

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

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

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

And Raghavan finally made peace with his retirement.

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

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***

Home.

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

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

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

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

*****

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

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

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

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

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

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

The child stares back at her blankly.

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

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

***Excerpt***