Silambattam

I hate my father! He has grown so old and so blind that he cannot even recognize what he once felt for my mother. What is the point of lighting incense sticks and placing fresh marigolds in front of her photo when he has long forgotten what he once felt for her?!

What has come over me? I see myself in the full-length mirror that my father had gifted me several years ago - for "Kannamma, my dancing angel"- face bent down in shame, kohl-lined light eyes, my mother's eyes, with tears threatening to flow in angry currents, sharp nose tinged red, golden skin - isn't that what Parimal had said? And a dainty chain, my mother's gift to me. I caress the word it spells - "Kavitha" - my name; my life is anything but that. As always I turn to my mother for consolation. I wipe my tears and focus on the fading photo of my mother holding me the way only a mother can hold a child - comforting, safe, permanent...and I ask her if I have done wrong.

"Isn't three weeks enough to know when love opens its shy eye, mother? Our hearts beat as one and yet father doesn't seem to understand. His punishment is to make me stay with aaji! Oh, how I detest her house! And I'll be so far away from Parimal, for three whole weeks, stuck in Tiruchy while he pines for me here! Didn't father fall in love with you ma? Were you not from a different place, speaking a different language...why can't he understand now?"

I don't have time to bid Parimal good bye, father makes sure of that. I scribble a hasty note to Parimal declaring my love and resolve, and a day later, I sit in a musty train-compartment on my way from Bombay to Madras and from there to my aaji's house, my mother's birth place, Tiruchi.

***

"Kaapi tea, kaapi tea, kaapi tea", greets me as I step out of the train. For a moment I panic not seeing my aaji and a few seconds later hear her familiar voice, "Kavitha! Come, come, how you have grown!", she says this in Tamil. How long since I have heard my mother-tongue! Marathi will always be my preferred language but Tamil holds a special place in my heart, it reminds me of my mother. They have the same voice though my mother would say K-a-v-i-t-h-a as if it were a melody and my grandmother says it as if she is expressing her right over me. My grandmother seems not to have aged at all, clad in a maroon nine-yards saree and her trademark five-petaled diamond earrings, she peers at me through her thick-framed spectacles. Her nose ring catches the sunlight and winks at me. A quiet young girl hovers near grandmother as if her only wish in life is to fulfill grandmother's command.

We travel in an auto to grandmother's house. She keeps me occupied with a constant stream of questions and comments, "How many days will you be staying? At least for a few months, I hope! Has Abhay put on any weight? Your grandfather has gone out of town to attend his sister's grandson, Srikanth's upanayanam. Sangeetha always used to add a spoon of home-made ghee to his rice to make him fat...", and for the second time that day, thoughts of my mother carve a path through my own worries. I hide my tears from my grandmother.

We reach her house soon and I can't help but hide my disappointment, it seems old and oppressing, like my grandmother. I chide myself for these irreverent thoughts and grandmother gives a series of instructions to the maid, Shanthi - "Buy shikakai, the big box, my granddaughter's hair needs my hand's treatment, buy 1 kg of rava - she loves my kesari, have you cleaned out the guest bedroom, dusted the bed and the curtains?" Shanthi seems happy at the seemingly endless stream of tasks assigned to her.

My grandmother points to a bucket filled with water. Old customs die hard. I wash my feet and hands and follow grandmother. She appears with something in her hand and thrusts it in my mouth, jaggery! "Sweet for a sweet life ahead of you!" Ah! Finally, we broach the topic. I have already rehearsed my monologue; I am confident I will win-over grandmother and go back to Parimal. But she just fixes her disconcerting stare on me and says, "Your eyes are Sangeetha's eyes..." and as if embarrassed by her display of weakness, walks with quick, abrupt steps towards the kitchen. I let out a heavy sigh. My days of imprisonment have begun.

We sit in a small dining area facing the courtyard. The entire house is built around the courtyard - the kitchen, dining area, grandmother's room, several locked rooms and my guest bedroom. I gulp down the fluffy idlis, spicy drumstick sambhar and salty coconut chutney and feel more optimistic about my situation.

"Do you want to take some rest? You must be tired?"

Even before I shake my head, grandmother heads outside. "Come", she says and I follow meekly. We sit on the thinnai - the sitting area built around the front door, I look around self-consciously, unaccustomed to the rather public location of our personal chat.

"How old are you?"

"Eighteen..."

"And you think you are mature enough to decide whom to marry?"

"I..."

"Old enough to defy your father's wishes and side a boy you have known for all of two weeks?"

"Three weeks!" my squeaky voice is quite different from how I heard it in my head during the train journey.

"Three weeks!" she spat out the words, "What does the boy do?"

"BA, Economics...we study at the same college..."

"And you think by eloping with this boy, you will have the life of your dreams?"

My mouth fell open. "Elope? I don't plan to elope, aaji! Father saw me with him at an ice-cream shop and lost his temper...what made you think..."

"So why don't you?"

She caught me by surprise again, "Why don't I...?"

"Elope?"

"We...we want to finish our education first, get good jobs and then..."

"And what if you don't?"

"We will...that's why we need to wait..."

"I see...or is it because you want to hide under this convenient excuse of jobs and security while you weigh your options and ask yourself if you really want to spend all your life with him?"

"What? No! I love Parimal, I will marry him today if only...appa agrees and you give your blessings..."

"Yes, I am sure you would, Kavitha."

I lose my temper. Is grandmother questioning my love, love for which I am willing to sacrifice anything?! I raise my voice, "And what would you know Aaji, of young love? Of pining for him? Of aching hearts and sleepless nights? Do you even remember what it was to be young and in love?"

Aaji becomes silent and I wonder if I have crossed the line.

"Do I remember? Yes, my dear naive girl, I remember. Your old grandmother remembers what it is like to be eighteen! She remembers it as if it were yesterday!"

I shiver in the silence that follows, scared but curious about the story that is about to unfold...

"Come here Kavitha", aaji holds me my hand and pulls me towards her room. Even as a child, I had never ventured into aaji's room, it was off-limits for everyone except my mother. Perhaps, the two were privy to a secret that will explode out in the open today...

Aaji closes the door behind us and the room plunges in darkness. She switches on the light and a flickering bulb throws an expectant light in the room...aaji moves purposefully towards her cot and commands, "Bend down and pull the trunk from under the cot." I peer under the cot and sneeze at the cobwebs that greet me, I pull the trunk out with all the energy I can muster.

Grandma removes the spotlessly clean white handkerchief tucked at her waist and hands it to me. As I clear out the layer of dust, the iron trunk reveals a rich dark-brown texture. Aaji selects a key from her keyring and extends it to me.

The contents of the trunk surprise and delight me. Neatly organized in one corner are a few expensive-looking sarees and a sweater, a sheaf of papers and files separate it from the velvet-covered jewel boxes...before I can continue my visual journey further, aaji interrupts me, "Look below the sweater."

Under the sweater is a delicate keepsake box with a bright bluish-green peacock feather painted on it, I lift it carefully and hand it to aaji. She holds it in her hand adoringly and settles her heavy body on the cot. Her voice sounds soft, almost vulnerable as she says, "Sit next to me Kavitha...I will tell you a story that your mother would have told you if only...she hadn't become dearer to God...

You know Kavitha, as we grow older, some memories become so ingrained in our minds that they seem more real than ever, it's as if they have the ability to hurt, to please, just as the actual events did when they happened...and such is this story that I am about to tell you."

I steal a glance at the box in aaji's hands, I want to see what stories it hides even before aaji tells me hers...

"It was a day after my eighteenth birthday. I had always been a precocious child and my teenage years proved to be an even more trying time for my parents. I would go swimming with boys my age, pick fights with them, even come back with bruises some days - all of which shocked my parents, provided food for local gossip...and secretly I enjoyed the attention", aaji smiles and I notice perhaps for the first time, how her smile transforms her face, I see traces of the eighteen-year-old mischievous girl she describes...

"That day, I wore the new half-saree that my parents had given to me on my birthday, wore malli-poo on my hair and went to the market with my girl-friends. Your grandfather used to say, the smell of jasmine reminded him of me...anyway, that day, I had planned to buy matching bangles and other trinkets that would match my new half-saree. My friends teased me as we went to the market, a good thirty minute walk away from home.

"Raji, you look so beautiful in this peacock-blue half-saree, the whole market is going to follow your every step!"

Raji, that was how I was known before I became Rajalakshmi paati.

"Hush, and the moment a good man sets eyes on me, I bet you would want him for yourself!"

We laughed and walked towards the bangle shop called "Fancy Mart", the shop had so many varieties of bangles - plastic, glass, metal, in every color you could possibly want - copper suplhate blue, chestnut brown, Ramar color...we eagerly proceeded to try on the bangles. I had almost settled on the dozen bangles that matched my dress when I heard a loud applause nearby. A small crowd had collected in a circle and they seemed to be cheering someone.

I purchased the bangles and walked with my friends towards the commotion. I heard the words "Silambattam", "Sivan" several times and was about to ask an old man nearby when two men with long wooden sticks walked towards the center of the circle. The crowd fell silent almost instantaneously. A man walked in between the two men and counted to three. And the silambattam began.

One of the men, the larger of the two roared often, moved quickly and waved his stick often as if trying to control a large herd of cows, I turned my attention to the other man, he was about 5 feet 6 inches, well-built but much smaller than the other man. His movements were more controlled, he moved purposefully and used his silambu in carefully coordinated movements, either to block an attack or place a blow, he rarely missed, he was like a maestro controlling the flow of music...I watched his hands, mesmerized; slowly the noise around me seemed to fade and I could only hear the swoosh that his silambu made as he expertly matched his rival.

The game ended in fifteen minutes and I almost heaved a sigh of relief when my favourite contestant, Sivan, won. As the crowd dispersed, I stood rooted to the spot - I am not sure what I was thinking, perhaps that I would talk to Sivan or at least catch his glance. Just as I was about to leave, someone in the crowd asked him when the next trial run was before the silambattam festival. I pretended to pick at something stuck to my feet and waited to hear his voice. "Friday 5 PM". His deep, guttural voice seemed to echo several times in the house before I returned to the market place on Friday, alone this time.

On Friday, I dressed with care, washed my face with turmeric, even buffed some powder on my cheeks. I platted my unruly hair and adorned it with several strands of jasmine. I selected a green saree with a yellow border that looked flattering on me. All the while, I did not question myself. It was as if I knew exactly what I had to do. I was on a mission.

At the market place, Sivan was alone. He dipped a rag cloth in a bottle containing a clean solution and rubbed it on his silambu, gently. I pretended to browse at Fancy Mart, all the while stealing glances at Sivan. Finally, I made up my mind and sat on a rock a few feet away from Sivan. By then, a small crowd had begun to collect around him. He finished his task, held his silambu and rotated it effortlessly between the fingers of his hands. The orchestra had begun. I stared, unabashedly. He lowered his silambu, just as his opponent joined him and started flexing his muscles. I didn't blink an eye and then, he saw me. Standing majestic, like Paramasivan himself, with a stick in one hand and his other hand on his waist, he stared for a brief moment at me, his lips parted as if he had something grave to discuss, but soon he turned away and faced his opponent. I remember the steely, ink-black eyes that held mine in a hypnotic hold, I remember it today, Kavitha..."

I blink. It's as if I am transported to reality with a thud. "Sivan", I roll the name in my mouth unconsciously...I felt as if I were a part of that story too, witnessing Sivan and Raji. It was then that a thought struck me. "Aaji, grandpa's name is not Sivan!" A sad smile plays on aaji's lips and she continues,

"Sivan", she whispers his name, with reverence and fondness, "was not destined to be your grandfather. He was the first man I lost my heart too, your grandfather managed to heal most of my wounds...but the scars remain..."

Did she just blink away tears? She breathes heavily and continues,

"From that day, I regularly went to watch Sivan do his energetic dance. Several times, I felt his eyes on me, but the moment I looked up at him, he would be looking elsewhere. One day, after three or four months, I decided it was time we talked. I played the scenario in my head a thousand times. Finally, when the moment came after a particularly grueling silambattam practice, I waited for the crowd to thin out, walked to him and called out his name."

I drew in a sharp breath, my prim and proper grandmother had been even more daring than me in her days! Seeing my expression, aaji smiled and ruffled my hair.

"He turned towards me, startled.

"I am Raji..."

By now, a hint of a smile had begun to play on his lips, he said, "Silambattam is hardly the sport for a delicate girl such as you to be interested in."

"Well, then, you would be even more surprised to know that I seek you not just to discuss this sport but to learn it!"

I don't know why I said that. I spoke out the words that tumbled out of my mouth at that moment.

He seemed taken aback. "My dear rajakumari," he said teasingly, "this is a sport of sweat and struggles, blood and dirt, your delicate hands and jasmine scent would be lost in its embrace..."

He walked closer to me and I could smell the sweat and dirt that he talked about. I looked into his eyes and said, "And what if I welcome the embrace?"

He smiled and it was as if they drove away all my worries, I stood still, wanting the moment to last forever. He shook his head and walked away with his silambu."

Aaji stops here. She calls for Shanthi and asks her to prepare tea for us. "It is getting late, my child and we have dwelt enough in the past. It is time to move on...I shall not bore you further with this old woman's life-story."

"Aaji, I want to hear the rest of the story. Please...?"

Shanthi walks in with the tea and we both sip in silence. The sweet smell of cardamom and ginger elicits a pleasant smile from aaji.

"Kannamma, there is not much to tell, I am not even sure I should have told you this story...things don't always turn out the way we imagine..."

Kannamma, that's how mother used to call me; I have an urge to hug aaji, to wipe away the worry-lines on her forehead, to see her eyes twinkle in laughter...

"Aaji, please, please tell me. I really want to know..."

"...I continued to talk to Sivan whenever I could steal a moment with him and I maintained that I wanted to learn Silambattam. So, one day, he conceded and asked me to meet him early morning and to wear a man's clothes!

The next morning, I woke up at 3 AM, picked an old nightshirt and pant that my father did not wear often and I stitched it so that it would fit me. By 4.30, I was ready and sneaked out of my house. My poor parents, bless their soul, detected no foul play!" Aaji and I share a laugh at this escapade.

"Sivan waited for me, just as he had promised, but this time I could tell from his eyes that he was looking forward to seeing me too...

"Ah, so our brave girl returns in a man's attire!"

"Yes, and she wishes to learn the art from the master himself."

He handed a smaller silambu to me and our lessons started.

"You hold the silambu like this...", I watched him, trying not to be too distracted...

"...it becomes your other hand, your eyes only need to follow the opponent's silambu, your hand will function as you command...", and he twirls his silambu, first using his right and then his left hand.

I clapped gleefully, perhaps this embarrassed him, he blushed and soon announced that class was done.

Our lessons went on for a month and perhaps at the end of it, we both knew that we were not meeting to learn the art of silambattam. It was just a powerful excuse to bring us together...the last time we met, he seemed strangely silent.

"I have to visit my uncle in Chennai to borrow some money for my father."

His family earned their livelihood through agriculture and that year had not been good for them.

My heart fluttered at the prospect of leaving my Sivan and his ananda narthanam, his heavenly dance.

"I have something for you..."

He opened his palm to reveal a pair of shiny silver anklets.

"Something to remind you of me...Cilampu.[1]"

Ah, my poet, his clever word play at our last meeting only increased the ache in my heart.

And then aaji remains silent.

"And then? What happened?" I am not sure I want to hear how this tale ends...

"And then, people say, men belonging to rival teams from the neighbouring village attacked him so that they could earn the cash prize at the Silambattam festival...some say, he had a fatal accident in Chennai...I never heard from him again. Several years later, I saw the same spark in your grandfather that I saw in Sivan, he was ready to accept me with my past and I married him. He is not my Sivan but I would die happily for your grandfather. He is my savior..."

For a moment, I wonder if aaji's story is real. Was there a Sivan who danced like the wind? Was there a young and vulnerable Raji who waited for him to return? Perhaps, aaji reads my thoughts, she opens the keepsake box on her lap.

Inside lie a pair of anklets and two carefully preserved photos. The first photo shows a young girl in a pale-blue half-saree - aaji stands smiling coyly at the camera and almost hidden behind the bangle shop, I discern the profile of the man who stole aaji's heart. Sivan stands with his silambu, oblivious of everything around him but his art. The second photo shows a dancer in Bharathanatyam regalia, aaji at her Arangetram. Perhaps she learnt to dance because it reminded her of Sivan?

"I spent my entire life for others...for Sangeetha, for you, for your grandfather...but when I danced, I was Raji, Raji with Sivan."

The words sound incongruous, coming from aaji's mouth. I had failed to recognize the tenderness and passion that lurked beneath the surface; I only saw aaji as a strict, unforgiving grandmother...perhaps, that was her way of compromising with her past?

Her eyes seem to be searching for even a glimmer of understanding in mine. I nod. I understand, aaji. I do. I hug her and I am surprised to feel the tears that fall from my eyes on aaji's shoulders.

***

The remaining days pass so quickly, I can't believe I have spent three weeks away from my father and Parimal. Aaji hugs me tearfully at the railway station and I hug her back. She plans to come to Bombay to spend time with me.

As the train leaves the station, I think of the story my aaji told me. Why did she tell me her story? Did she think my love for Parimal would fade in comparison? Did she want to protect me from heart-break? Or was this her subtle way of testing my love and giving me the go-ahead sign? I don't know. I don't know why I broke-up with Parimal a few months after I reached Bombay. Somehow, it was different, the magic was lost. I tried in vain to feel what I felt before talking to aaji. And then I gave up. Perhaps I was searching for the intensity that shone in my grandmother's eyes several decades after she had lost her love, perhaps I wanted to wait for my own experience of Silambattam.

***

Key:
[1]: Cilampu, the origin of Cilampam (Silambattam) means either a mountain or an anklet or merely ‘to sound’ (as a verb)
[2]: More on Silambattam.


***Excerpt***

Shades of gray.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

Srikanth looks up, concerned.

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Am I growing senile, Srika?"

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

An incomplete story.

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

I was happy. That was the irony of it all. I was completely immersed in my life, in myself, complacent and satisfied with who I was and what I did in life. Although I had nothing that I could identify, nothing to call my identity, nothing to argue passionately about. I was still happy. And then he came and threw my world into chaos.

***
"Thayyum thath thath, thayyum thaha", she intones and we dance. Sometimes, I dance with my eyes closed. I feel the rhythm better, hear the melody within my head when I do that. I am Meenakshi teacher's favorite student. At kalakshetra, I am a different person - confident and capable. I excel and I am aware that I do. Perhaps it is this vanity that draws me to him in the first place. Not my vanity itself but the fact that I feel none of it, in his presence. He does not allow it and I submit to his wishes, unwillingly and completely.

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

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

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

"You missed a step."

"Am sorry?"

"Alaripu - as soon as you began."

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

***
The next class,

"I did not miss that step."

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

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

"Is there not a reason?"

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

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

"And why do you care?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

He laughs.

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

And as my eyes brim over, he replies,

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

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

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

But it does not.

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

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

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

Soundarya.

A mark. A stain. A disgrace!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Did you hear that, Soundarya?"

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

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

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

***

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

"Okay. We will work something out."

Vijay's indifferent tone annoys me.

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

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

"What do you want to do?"

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

"Soundarya, Soundarya, Soundarya..."

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

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

I laugh, hysterically.

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Adi..."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

My cell phone rings.

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

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

My heart skips a beat.

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

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

"Mom!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Does Soundarya hate me?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Gulmohar tree.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He cried.

*****

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

Caprice.

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

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

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

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

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

He threw up his hands in a gesture of resignation.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She dismissed Shankar within moments and then cried.

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

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