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***

Why I became Krishna.

The idea came to me just like that. I had spent a week skimming through literary magazines and e-zines on Google and was still drawing a blank on themes that I could write on, about "Women for Women". I didn’t think much of the magazine when I first sent them one of my manuscripts, "Woman Power – a magazine for women, by women". I mean, that was pretty lame, even by my feeble standards. But, after getting exactly fourteen rejects from various other literary magazines and no replies at all to the five emails that I sent to the Hindu Editor, I decided to lower my lofty standards and give Woman Power a shot. And that’s how this whole thing began. Theoretically, I had all day to think of what to write about, after all, it was summer vacation, but after a week of no results, when I began to wonder if I should watch "Penn" and "Manaivi" on Sun TV for ideas, it came to me just like that, my story. And my story begins like this...

On August 15th, 1980, as the whole country celebrated outside, as festoons and flowers flew up in the air, Shankar Narayanan walked head down to his bride of a few hours, Nalini, to tell her that they were no longer welcome at his house. She sat huddled in a corner of the taxi, the jasmine in her garland and hair still fresh, her hands nervously twirling the ends of her silk saree, her mother’s wedding gift. She looked out the window of the car, her eyes squinting on something that only she could see at a distance – a hope against hope for a happy future. He studied her for a few moments, trying to come up with the right words to tell her…the sight of her profile filled him with conflicting emotions, even without the diamond earrings that she should have worn, even without the traditional bridal jewelry that should have adorned her face, she still looked so delicate, so vulnerable, he knew he would not forget the scene that greeted him now, the way her silhouette stood out and everything around her merged into nothingness. He got into the taxi and quietly told the driver, “No 26, Parthasarathy street”. She looked at him questioningly even as her child’s eyes filled with tears, he held her hand and shook his head.

I knew the beginning for as long as I can remember, I don’t recall whether it was my dad or my mom that described their wedding day to me. All I knew was that they had married against my dad’s parent’s wishes and had reasoned, argued, cried, threatened but my grandparents had stood firm in their refusal. My mom’s dad had passed away earlier and her own mom was too weak to protest or support her daughter’s marriage, she merely attended the marriage and gave her blessings when asked to. What happened between then and now was a different story altogether, only parts of which I had gathered from conversations here and there. My parents were on cordial terms with my grandparents now, we visited them once in a few months and the women cooked together without speaking, while the men talked about cricket. It was always the same, my thatha, paatti loved me though, my paatti especially was very fond of me and often took me on long walks or just took me to her room – no one else was allowed entry, not even my mom and dad – and showed me old photos, told me stories from her past and at other times just let me talk about my school and friends. My mom and paatti never seemed to cross the border between cordial and friendly though.

So, I decided to write a story about the women in our family – my paatti, my mom and I. I decided “I” would play a small role and it would be a story between a strong-willed, toothless but still strikingly beautiful old woman and her soft-spoken, self-effacing though not weak daughter-in-law. The life of the two women that I adored most in my life. I just had to catch the right people and fill in the gaps in my story, or rather construct the rest of my story.

***
I started with the easiest target, my dad. He was a well-built, well-aging man, a professor of Arts at Madras Christian College, well-read, outspoken and easily provoked. His favorite topics were sports, the sad state of Arts and Sciences in our country and of course the cynosure of his eye, his only daughter, Krishna. That would be me. So, I picked a time when I knew he would be well-fed and relaxed, right after dinner and sat on the floor next to the easy cane chair on which he sat rocking and revising the sports section of the Hindu one last time before calling it a day.

“Appa…”

“Uh Uh”, he gave his standard response, his nose buried in the sports page, my mom threw him a withering look, which was of course lost on him, as she placed his last coffee-cup of the day on the table beside him.

“Appa, I want to write for a woman’s magazine…”

He finally broke away from the newspaper and corrected his old-fashioned brown-rimmed spectacles perched so far down on his nose that it looked like it might take a dip into the coffee tumbler anytime.

“Very good. Very good. Will you be writing a book review? Critical analysis of some literary piece? I can help you with that…”

“Illa appa, they are looking for works of fiction about women…”

“Oh, stories…”, he seemed to lose interest immediately and I interrupted lest he should get back to his newspaper,

“Yes appa, but this might be a break for me to get more articles and stories published in more recognized magazines and newspapers…this is my chance!”

He looked unconvinced but decided to indulge me anyway, “Ok, do you want me to talk to the editor and make sure he doesn’t give you a hard time?”

What is it with dads and shaking up people? I just couldn’t understand that.

“No appa. Ok, let me start from the beginning. I am writing a semi-autobiographical story and I need you to fill in the gaps…I want to know about paatti-thatha and you and mom and how you all finally made up, was it when I was born?”

“Krishna, I don’t approve of you shouting out aloud, stories of our family. Nalini, come here.”

My mom who had been over-hearing most of the conversation under the pretext of cleaning the table, came right in.

“Krishna, I agree with your dad. Why can’t you make up a story? Why should it be our story? And anyway, there is not much of a story to write…ask your friend, Shalini for her help, she scored 96 in English in the half-yearly exam, didn’t she?”

And that was the problem with having both your parents in the Teaching profession; mom was a Physics teacher who taught 10th and 12th classes at Padma Sheshadri and kept a hawk-eye on my marks.

I looked pleadingly at dad and he finally let out a long sigh that meant that I had gotten my way. I gleefully got out my notepad and my mom opened her mouth to object but finally just shook her head and walked back to the kitchen murmuring, “Father and daughter can figure this out, I am not getting into this”.

“Ok, so what happened after thatha-paatti sent you away after your marriage?”

“Krishna, I am not sure if this is the right age for you to know all these details…”, it looked like he will back out but he removed his spectacles and wiped them on his veshti which meant he had acquiesced to my wishes.

“From the beginning, your paatti took it much harder and blamed me for finding my own wife, that too of a different sub-caste. In those days – it might be hard for you to imagine – but these things were just taboo, even though my parents knew Nalini well, they came up with a hundred objections when I first told them that I was interested in her. I don’t think your paatti has forgiven me completely even now, but I guess you made helped her accept your mother more than you can imagine…”

My dad talked for almost an hour and my notepad and pen remained untouched. I listened to his words, as scenes from his past played through my head; that night I willed my mind to replay what my dad had said and I started writing the first part of my story…

The young couple slowly built their home, bit by bit. Since Shankar had to take an office loan for his marriage expenses, he couldn’ t buy everything that he wanted to buy for his wife, but still he tried. Some days they would go to the beach and he would buy kulfis for them and listen to his wife talk about her day – Mrs.Neela Balachandran next door is a nice woman, she allowed her maid servant, Malliga to work at their place, the milk man still mixes water with their milk but he has reduced it after she had complained once, she wants one of those strong nylon ropes that all the neighbours have for hanging the clothes, can he come back early the next day, she wants to go to the temple early in the evening with him? - and he would relax, watching his wife, half-listening to her chatter but enjoying the sound of her voice and humming of the waves and he thought life was almost perfect. The next week, when he came home earlier than usual, he found his wife staring at the blank television screen, her eyes red and still watery. What happened? Did she get hurt? Did he do something wrong? He had enquired worriedly. She wanted to have a family like everyone else, she did not want to be the reason why he didn’t talk to his parents. Will he take her again to his parent’s house? If they saw her one more time, especially his mother – only a woman knew another woman’s heart – she would definitely take them back into the family? Shankar did not sleep that night. He knew his mother, the strong-willed, almost childishly obstinate Lakshmi Narayanan well and he knew she would never give in so easily, but he also didn’t want Nalini to cry alone when he was at work and so he decided to take her to his house the next Saturday.

I wondered how to continue the story…should I write it down as a conversation between my grandparents and my parents or just write it in indirect speech? Should I alter the story that my dad had told me, make it more dramatic, make the women have characteristics that are more distinct or should I just write the story as it had happened, real and realistic?

For the next few days, I didn’t need to convince dad to tell me his version of the story. After dinner, while mom murmured something inaudible, he continued to tell me his story and I struggled to imagine a young Shankar Narayanan and Nalini Shankar and not let my current image of them taint the scenes that he painted for me. The next night, I wrote,

She dressed with care, not too gaudy, not too casual. He waited impatiently as she got ready. He had called a week earlier and Murugan, their driver had picked up the phone, he had asked for his parents and Murugan had told him that they had gone out. They hadn’t return his call, so what would greet him at his parent’s house was anybody’s guess. They arrived after a bumpy auto ride, they got off at the street corner and walked towards the house. The door was open and Mr.Narayanan was fiddling with his favourite transistor and talking to his wife at the same time, “Lakshmi, can you get out my fan, it is so hot here and the blasted electricity board people have cut our power again…also, bring me a glass of water.” Even after they crossed the verandah and entered his house, Mr.Narayanan didn’t raise his head from the transistor.

“Appa…”

He paused just for a second and looked up at his son. An heart-achingly sincere smile spread across his face and he said, “Shankar…” and choked on his words. Nalini immediately touched his feet and held her palms together in greeting. Just then Lakhmi walked out and froze immediately, she looked at her husband and said in a clear ringing voice, “Here is your water” and walked back inside without a second glance at her son and daughter-in-law.

Her husband took the tumbler with shaking hands and looked down, unable to say anything more to erase the invisible boundary that his wife had drawn around them. They stood like that, husband and wife, for what seemed like an eternity, facing the old man and then they silently walked out.

***
My dad’s version of the story had other details that I omitted from my story – how he returned home tired after work only to find his wife crying over what happened or requesting him to try to talk to his parents one more time. Without telling my mom, he did try to call back home but whenever he spoke, they (usually his mother since his father came back late from the LIC office) hung up after a pause. I tried to keep the story focused on my mother and my paatti and till now had not succeeded much. I was determined to make the next part of the story just about them and fortunately, that’s when my dad finished his version of the story and I got to bug my mom about a woman’s view (finally!) of the happenings. It didn’t take her long to agree, she had sulked just because I hadn’t come to her first to get help for my story. Now that she started her story, there was no stopping her.

That night, I wrote a woman’s view of the story.

Every night as Shankar slept after a hard day at work, a release from all the guilt and troubles of his mind, Nalini would sit next to the rusting bureau and look through the dozen or so photos that had been taken during their marriage. It had been a simple affair, a few close friends, her mother, some of his relatives, some of hers who were more curious than supportive, his sister, Jayasree in one of the photos (she had come to tell him that he had cheated his parents and he should go back and apologize) and she would cry all over again. Nalini’s mother was now with her uncle and his family in Delhi and would only return after a few months. She had no one to confide in, Shankar, though understanding and kind was often too tired after work to listen to her silly concerns.

After a year and a half, when the scorching rays of the sun gave way to rain and trees and flowers looked happier and greener everywhere, Nalini thought maybe that her life would take a turn towards the good. And as she had predicted and prayed everyday, their family doctor confirmed that she was pregnant. She was thrilled. Strangely, she had no nausea even in the dreaded first trimester and she cooked a storm for her husband everyday. That was the happiest time for both of them. One evening as he was buying her jasmine outside the Parthasarathy temple, she wondered if she should ask him one more time. She heard the temple bells declare their blessings and asked her husband, “Should we see your parents one more time? Now that we have some good news to give them, maybe they will change their minds if not for us at least for Krishna?” She had taken it in her head that it would be a boy and had already started calling her baby, Krishna. He frowned not wanting to do anything to upset the delicate balance in this happy phase of their lives…but the past few months, he had wondered more than once if he should ask his parents to help Nalini. His own mother-in-law although was eager to see her daughter, could not travel such a long distance due to health reasons, her concerned brother would not let her – “How can I send Pankajam, Shankar? She can hardly see and is often confused about the time of the day…let us do this, I will take a vacation in a few months time and drop Pankajam myself…ask Nalini to take care of her health.”

And so once again, they set out to his parent’s house. This time, when they walked towards the house, they saw his parents sitting on the verandah and playing with Jayasree’s seven year old son, Anand. She had come home with her son for his summer vacation, her husband would join after a month, spend some time there and then take mother and son back home. As soon as Anand saw his uncle, he came running towards him and hugged him. Lakshmi got up suddenly and was just about to go back in when Nalini took a bold decision to stop her mother-in-law, “Amma, please don’t go in. We have come to share some good news with you.” The silence was so overpowering, it seemed to Nalini that even everyone had forgotten to even breathe, Lakshmi stopped in her tracks immediately and turned around to face her daughter-in-law. She studied her carefully from head to toe and her eyes stopped at the visible bulge in her stomach. She waited. Mr.Narayanan immediately grabbed this moment of silence gratefully and ushered everyone inside. Father, son and daughter had a lot to catch up on as Anand went round them gleefully, happy that he had his freedom while the adults talked. Nalini assumed that she would be required in the kitchen and nervously joined her mother-in-law.

She stood silently as Lakshmi expertly poured filter coffee for the guests. When she had finished pouring, Nalini gathered all her courage and asked, “Amma, shall I take the tray outside?” Lakshmi was silent for a long time, then she gave Nalini one of her trademark looks and asked, “How many months?”

Nalini almost laughed in relief. “Four months. The doctor says the baby is healthy and is growing normally…I…”

“Is it a boy?”

“Amma, we don’t know. I think it is a boy, do you like the name Krishna? I …”

“It should be a boy.”

And with that, Lakshmi walked out with the tray of coffee tumblers.

It was like a drama unfolding in front of my eyes. So many people I thought I knew well had assumed so many different traits that I now looked at them again to make sure they were the same people. I could have asked my paatti to tell me the story but something told me that I shouldn’t mess with my family’s delicate balance and I resisted the impulse to ask her. As soon as my mom completed her version of the story, I almost began to pen it down and then wondered if I should also get a neutral person’s view of the story, someone who had seen enough of life and my parents’ lives to give me an objective narration of past events. Enter Periamma. Everyone called her that and I didn’t know what her real name was. She had worked for paatti ever since she was a little girl, she was almost my paatti’s age now but no longer worked with her. She stayed with us. After I was born, periamma came to live with my parents. She said it was because she had come to see my dad as her own son and she missed him terribly (she had no children and her husband had died when she was still a young woman), my dad however suspected that his mother had sent her over to help her son and his wife but was too proud to let them know that. My parents were glad to have her home. Periamma had become a surrogate mother to my mom after her own mother passed away a few years back. I wondered why I didn’t think of asking periamma before. My dad had mentioned that my paatti and periamma had been very close friends but I didn’t know anything more. That evening when my mom and periamma returned from the temple and mom started experimenting with yet another new recipe from her shining new cookbook, I cornered periamma.

***
“Periamma, do you remember the time when you stayed at paatti’s place?”

She looked up from her work, she had been cleaning the silver lamp in front of the God’s photos. She continued cleaning and said, “Those were different days and anyway there is no point talking about the past, tell me Krishna, do you want me to help you with your assignments?” Periamma loved to string the English alphabets together and ask me questions from my English non-detailed lessons, it took her quite sometime to ask the questions but I know she enjoyed it and so spent several evenings “preparing” for assignments with her. She prided herself on her English knowledge.

“Illa periamma. School doesn’t open for another month. You used to tell me you and paatti studied English together. Was paatti a good student?”

“Your paatti was a roudy at school. I used to study and she used to always run out with the village boys to pick mangoes from the neighbour’s tree with stones. Your paatti’s father received so many complaints about her but she was his favourite and youngest child, he never spoke a harsh word to her.”

She placed the lamp carefully in the cupboard, “And I was always better at English than your paatti. Now run along and let me do my work.”

But, I knew I could get my way, I pestered periamma for some more time and she gave in and continued her story, “But anyway, after 5th standard, your paatti got married and I was sent along with her to her in-laws’ house so she wouldn’t get homesick – she cried for two days when her father initially refused.”

For a second, I wondered how that life would have been, to be sent along to a new house just like that, your life dictated by the people who employed you but I had never seen periamma complain and we always treated her with respect, still…I listened as periamma continued, “Your paatti learnt very quickly. She was efficient and smart and earned a good name for herself at her in-laws’ place. Somehow, she still remained stubborn. She decided the financial handlings of the house, from the kitchen stove to the TV set, she was the home-maker. Your thatha,” and here she giggled, “ was always a bit scared of Lakshmi. I think he is, even now, otherwise, your parents wouldn’t have stayed away for so long…”, she had reverted back to calling my paatti Lakshmi and that was a good sign.
Slowly, the climax of my story unfolded in front of me and I listened mesmerized, the way a woman stands open-mouthed when the salesman finally reveals the pallu – layers and layers of intricate designs, the shimmer of silk and gossamer, the most intricate patterns embedded on vibrant colors…and finally they all fall back to form the saree as a whole, together.

Periamma continued, a glazed look in her eyes, “Lakshmi although angry with your father could not hold her anger against her own grandson.”

“Grandson?”

Periamma laughed and asked me, “Why do you think you are named Krishna?”

She ruffled my head and told me what paatti had told her many years back and Periamma's words found their way into my story.

”Krishna, that girl had said. She is not dark-complexioned you know, who can tell with these modern girls and their make-up, anyway my Shankar is quite a handsome young man, the child will be like Lord Krishna himself, you wait and see Charu!” And the two women, my paatti and her child-hood friend Charu, aka periamma, had discussed at length about arrangements for the new baby, the Seemantham (7th month function) and so on. Periamma was paatti’s childhood friend who had been with paatti since they were five years old.

“So Lakshmi, do you know if they have decided on a name if the child were a girl?”, Periamma asked.

“It will be a boy. I am not interested in a girl child.”

Periamma didn’t say anything for fear of sparking Lakshmi’s anger once again. The next few weeks, the milkman, the maid servant, the grocery delivery boy and almost everyone who happened to step near the Narayanan household got their hands stuffed with sweets. Lakshmi proudly declared to them that her heir was on his way home, Lord Krishna himself. Periamma worried sometimes about Lakshmi’s strong belief that her grandchild will be a boy but not wanting to dampen her spirits, convinced herself that that her friend would have a grandson indeed.

A few months later, Nalini gave birth to a beautiful baby girl at Ponnamaal nursing home. Nalini and Shankar cried for joy with the baby. The happy news was conveyed to the family that mother and baby were in good health. Lakshmi, Narayanan, Jayashree, Anand and Periamma rushed to the hospital.

“See, I told you, Charu? See, my Krishna has come!”, Lakshmi couldn’t stop smiling.

When they entered the hospital, Nalini was asleep and Shankar rocked a tiny bundle in his arms. Lakshmi led the crowd to her son and held her hands out. Shankar handed the the baby to his mother proudly.

Lakshmi looked at the baby for a few moments, she checked it’s hands, legs, toes, ears and finally moved the cloth aside to confirm that it was indeed a “he”. Everyone watched breathlessly. She drew in a sharp breath and stood still for a few moments, then, to everyone’s astonishment, she held the baby’s cheek to her’s and murmered happily, “My Krishna is here!”

Nalini seemed to smile in her sleep.

From that day on, my name became special to me. I knew why I was Krishna. I was meant to be Krishna, the one link between my mom and paatti, the one name that they had both agreed on.

“Was paatti angry that I was a girl?”, I asked periamma.

“No, she loved you more than her life. Why do you think she sent me over here to your father’s house? I had strict instructions to keep an eye out on you, her Krishna. She declared to everyone proudly that her heir had arrived, her Krishna had come home. Her ego wouldn’t let her take back her words, of course.”

I looked at periamma and saw traces of the Charu that my paatti had trusted all her life, Charu who could tolerate my paatti’s fearful temper and need to have things her way and yet remain who she was – a patient, faithful woman who would do anything for her friend. I hugged periamma impulsively. Later that night, I started furiously typing my final manuscript.

***
It didn’t matter that I got a letter from Woman Power a couple of weeks later regretting that they couldn’t publish the story because it wasn’t sufficiently woman-oriented. Whatever. I thought it was the best story I had heard in my life.

***
***Excerpt***

Dreams, Words and Secrets.

#1. Burdens on my Dream.

"I feel her, I feel her!" I cry excitedly to Sudeep. For a moment, in the bewildered and happy smile that we exchange, we are almost our old selves again. It's as if love sneaked in for a moment under his palm that touched my belly and my baby, snuggled there for a fraction before letting itself out, as suddenly as it had appeared. We regain our old selves back - my baby refuses to kick again, perhaps even she realizes that she is not strong enough to hold together the fraying bonds between us - his hands move away without hesitation and we freeze in our earlier positions, sitting close yet not close on the sofa, appearing to be yet not watching the meaningless images flit across the television screen, as if an invisible wall surrounds each of us and we cannot break out of it. Perhaps we don't want to.

"I need to get some work done, do you want something to drink? A glass of milk?"

Just the right amount of concern in his voice, the right expression on his face, yet the right amounts of everything seem to come not naturally, but with a strained effort. I shake my head and forget to thank him anyway.

He runs up the stairs two steps at a time, as if his new gained freedom - from me? - has given his legs an additional vigor. I sit for a long time staring at the television, wondering about us, how did we grow apart so soon? How can I smoothen the wrinkle that creases his brows? Will baby Sapna do what I have failed to so far? Sapna - that is what I have decided to call my baby, she will be the dream that brings us together. Oh Sapna, so young and so many burdens placed on your delicate shoulders already. Will you promise to try? I hug my baby and we fall asleep on the couch once again.

***
#2. Dosas for Breakfast.

The next morning I wake up with a purpose. I move with a lightness in my heart, for Sapna and I have a plan, our little secret. I make sure Sudeep is still asleep and walk down the stairs as soundlessly as possible. I search for the tea kettle in the cupboards, I know Sudeep likes strong ginger tea in the morning, my preference is a hot cup of coffee but today, I will do anything to make him smile, to make our marriage work. Sapna and I thought of this idea in our sleep last night. I bend down with some effort (after all Sapna is all of seven months old now) and find the tea kettle. I set the tea to boil and decide to make dosas for him. I look at the clock, fifteen minutes past eight. He will be down in another fifteen minutes. I make crisp, golden-brown dosas for us and freshen up. I carefully selected a night dress yesterday, a pale pink that he had mentioned (how long ago was that?) was flattering on me. I brush my hair with a few quick strokes and place a bindi on my forehead. I study my reflection in the mirror - not bad, I tell myself, I look almost cute and very pregnant, I decide.

I sit down at the dining table. I am already tired - this is enough exercise for me, no matter what Dr.Sheila tells me. He walks down - the same hurried steps, is it my imagination or is he in a hurry only to leave this house, to leave me? - I am surprised that he is already dressed and ready with his laptop to leave. Sometimes I can't tell if he is getting dressed for a picnic or for work. A programmer needs to be comfortable or all he is going to code are software bugs, he had told me long back. Today though, he is dressed with care, no sleepy stubble on his chin, a white full hand shirt and faded blue jeans. A shirt? He must have a presentation today, I tell myself. His hair is as unruly as ever, what was it that I found so attractive about it? I can't quite recall. He stops when he sees me and the table set, ready for him. For a second, he can't seem to decide what to do, he comes close to me and lightly pats my head. I feel like a dwarf sitting in front of him - at six feet, he towers over me by almost a foot but today I feel short, pudgy, ugly? I try to guess the look in his eyes, eyes that I knew so well not so long ago, now I seem to be guessing what they convey, all the time...

"I am sorry, I have to go for a meeting. Nancy called for a sudden meeting at nine..."

I nod, still trying to guess what he is thinking, the feeling that flits across his eyes so often nowadays. Minutes after he has gone, it hits me - pity! I am suddenly angry at myself, I should have been more careful, just a year in America, I don't even have a drivers license, the time when we should have gotten to know each other better, the time that I should have spent getting to know this country, all lost now...and then I think of Sapna and am overcome by a guilt-laced love, nevertheless, a love so strong, it makes me scared. What if she is not as beautiful as I imagine she would be? What if I die without seeing her? And the question that I always push away before it can haunt me further, what if she cannot bring in Sudeep the change that I myself struggle to bring forth? I nibble on the now cold bits of dosa and wonder if Nancy is pretty.

***
#3. Susheela Aunty Drops In for Tea.

My routine, bland to begin with has become more predictable nowadays. Earlier I used to call Sudeep during the day just to whisper sweet nothings to him. He would always respond in kind, he would always say "love you princess" before he hung up. I hear the words in my head and try to savor the feeling that it generates. I feel a bitter taste in my mouth and before I know it I am sick again - didn't Dr.Sheila say the nausea lasts only the first trimester? Maybe something else leaves this bitter taste in my mouth. Nowadays, I introspect too much, maybe I am reading too much into everything, maybe it's just my hormones driving me crazy, I tell myself unconvincingly.

After Sudeep leaves, I tidy the kitchen a bit if I can stand the food smells. I watch old reruns on TV - Full House is my favorite. Earlier Sudeep used to join me for lunch sometimes and we would laugh together watching the show. After lunch, I try out some calisthenics for about fifteen minutes. Then comes my favorite time - I snuggle into bed for some light afternoon reading and a nap. The reading is often not light though - today I have a penchant for pathos, nothing less than Wuthering Heights! I fall asleep with the book in my hands and dream that I am Catherine pining for Heathcliff, that there is a little girl by my side who cries along with me for her father, even as he gallops farther away on his horse, do I see a woman with him on the horse? I can't tell for I wake up wanting to use the restroom again.

Around 3 pm, Susheela aunty sometimes drops by for some afternoon tea and some "useful" advice for pregnant women - "After all, I haven't been a mother to four children for nothing!" She is a kindly old woman of about sixty who is desperate for any company, anyone who will listen to her talk, that is. Her only son – “my sonu beta” - and his wife, Amy both work full time and the old woman often gets lonely in the afternoons. She gives me strange recipes for dishes I can hardly name; to my credit, I did try out her recipe for soya upma, it reached the trash can even before I had swallowed my first spoonful. Today she is in a pleasant mood, she tells me, "You should drink a glass of juice every morning, in your America you get so many varieties of orange juice, why don't you buy one of those bottles?"

When she speaks, it's always "my America". I take an irrational pride in claiming kinship with a country that is still alien to me. I nod kindly and resist an impulse to tell her I can't stand orange juice in this country with its strong tangy taste, so unlike the sweet, frothy orange juice made in Indian fruit stalls.

"Savitha, you must avoid pickles and drink lots of milk with kesar in it. Your daughter will be so fair, a Rajakumar will fall for her pretty soon!", she laughs at her impractical little story and I join her, although it is too soon for me to think of the Rajakumar who will take my dream away. I need her with me for a long time to come. I shiver suddenly and Susheela aunty says, "Here, put this shawl around you, I will make you some chamomile tea today. The American bahu taught me to make it today."

When Susheela aunty talks about Amy, it's always "the daughter-in-law". Like the country, her daughter-in-law would also never become hers. Are we similar in this strange way? Bonded together by a strange country and stranger people (I see them all the time on People's court - who are these people)?

The afternoon passes by pleasantly enough and soon it is five in the evening, six...I stand by the window of our apartment and marvel once again at the colors I see - green, gold, rust, red, the colors of fall spread out in pristine glory while I sit cooped up inside my now suffocating apartment. I promise myself I will go out for a walk tomorrow but I am scared, scared that the rich and beautiful people of this strange country will laugh at me, brown skinned, in a strange costume (I just have a few pair of jeans and they don't fit me now), that I would lose my way and my identity on the way...

I don't hear the key in the lock and Sudeep startles me by kissing me on the cheek from behind. I blush (silly woman, old enough to be a mother and blushing still...), I turn around to hug him with relief and stop when I see his face - strangely flushed, an excited look in his eyes - I am suddenly worried, what causes my husband to be transformed thus?

Sudeep tells me, "I am going to Florida on a big assignment. If this thing works out, I am all set for my promotion!"

I smile because he expects me to, a hundred questions surround me like the sudden flock of birds that appear out of nowhere in these American skies, What will I do alone? What if I need to go to the hospital? Who is going with you to Florida?

He doesn't hear my thoughts, he continues, "Nancy is excited about this! She says..."

I feel as if I am sinking, down, down, until I can sink no further. Nancy is going too, his sexy and successful boss, Nancy, a witch with bewitching eyes. I am being silly, a little envy and it paints such wild images in my head...

He stops talking at my lack of enthusiasm and says, "Savitha, I really want this project to take off. If this works out, we can even think of buying a house, imagine...the baby will have a huge room to herself, we can paint it ourselves..."

So many dreams, one built on another, so fragile...I am scared they will dissolve if I dare to even sigh.

That night we both pretend to sleep as we immerse ourselves with thoughts that seem to be drifting farther apart from each other. Sapna seems to be the only one holding them together.

***
#4. Wuthering Heights meets Catcher in the Rye.

Another day, another resolve that daughter and mother have taken together. Today, I am not anxious when Sudeep leaves me alone at home, today we plan to step outside, to smell the refreshing air outside, to experiment, to set out on our own adventure. I dress in one of my nicer cotton sarees, select a smaller bindi than the one I usually wear, bright kohl lined eyes, a sharp nose, smooth cheeks and well-defined lips stare back at me. I feel confident as Sapna and I step out of the house.

We have decided to walk to the park today. If nothing, Kentucky boasts of several state parks, verdant and lush all around before nature decides to turn more colorful and don shocking shades – purple, gold, maroon, as she has today. I walk at a leisurely pace, Sudeep promised to get dinner from India palace, so I have the whole day to myself. I smile at passersby - mothers like me with their little ones, trotting beside them, in colorful strollers, waving air kisses from their shoulders...I can't wait to take Sapna out on these walks. One old American lady stops to tell me how beautiful my Indian "sahree" looks. Perhaps, I misjudged America...

Although the park is just a ten-minute walk away from the apartment, little beads of sweat line my forehead and I sit down on the park bench conveniently situated under a huge tree with golden arms. Little yellow leaves encircle the base of the tree like garlands on a young bride, I enjoy the rustling sounds they make as I walk on them...I sit down, lean back and close my eyes. My hands rest on the smooth black surface of the bench - even inanimate objects here appear so perfect, flawless...

I must have fallen asleep because I am surprised when I open my eyes to see a man sitting at the other end of the bench immersed in a novel. Curiosity gets the better of me and I lean forward discreetly to read the title on the cover.

"Wuthering Heights", he says with a smile and puts the novel away. I am pleasantly surprised and he says, "Quite a coincidence, isn't it?" he points to the book peeping out of my handbag and I smile some more.

"I was hoping you would wake up, actually..." he continues, "All the Catherines of this world were beginning to get to me!" I laugh imagining his world full of Catherines.

"You know we can continue to talk like this and share deep dark secrets with each other and say goodbye, the way one does with strangers during a trip...or we could call each other by our real names or at least the names that we will tell each other just about now..."

How long has it been since I indulged in a friendly banter with a stranger. In India, the land of no strangers, this conversation would mean little but here, I am thankful to be talking to someone from my country.

"Hi, I am Savitha, new to this place which you can probably tell. I am from Calcutta, newly married, my husband works at Airtel...where are you from?" I groan inwardly as I hear myself - I sound like a first-year student in college.

"I would like to say Kentucky but somehow think you are looking for something more familiar, so let me say, I am from Pune, my parents are, that is, and I was born there. I have lived most of my life in Kentucky though."

I want to ask if I am that obvious but decide not to sound too vulnerable. I smile and think I should be getting back, it's almost Susheela aunty's tea time when he says, "I come here whenever I get the chance, I love spending time in the open. Buildings, rooms, walls, they suffocate me. My parents think I am crazy."

Something about his frank, almost boyish confession makes me want to know more. I take a closer look at him, he is probably my age, a few years younger perhaps? Kind, almost bored eyes, a lean face with a boyish stubble - almost like a teenager, only his nicely combed hair gave him a semblance of maturity, I think he looks cute.

"I should probably be leaving now. Just thought I would get to know the community a bit..."

"And do you like it so far?" he grins as he talks and displays a broken tooth. I feel much older than him now but I nod anyway. I feel better than I have felt in days. I talked to someone other than Susheela aunty and Sudeep.

I get up slowly to leave and he says, "Do you know if it's a boy or a girl?"

I think his question is not one that should be asked in a first meeting but he has such an innocent inquisitiveness on his face, I say, "It's a girl. Sapna." Something about his expression made me share a little secret with him that even my husband does not know. I now share my dream with a stranger.

He gets up to leave too and I am amused to notice that he wears a long brown kurta and pyjama. "It gets people all the time..." he says and grins some more, a flash of the broken tooth again, "I just like kurtas".

I wave goodbye and start walking away and he says, "Oh I am Ashok and I was reading Catcher in the Rye for the third time but figured I would break the ice faster if I picked Wuthering Heights".

I could have sworn he winked at me as he left. A harmless wink. I smile to myself.

***
#5. Of Stories and Conversations.

A small addition to the routine, ever since Sudeep left - my walk to Jacobson park. Susheela aunty approves, she says the walk will help me have a smoother pregnancy. She even offers to accompany me once - "A brisk walk will probably do an old woman like me also some good..." - and I manage to say no to her without hurting her. It’s the only time when I feet comfortable, free, almost happy being alone, it’s the only time solitude is a blessing and not a curse, how can I explain this to Susheela aunty? So, I make up a more plausible excuse and she seems to buy that.

I take the same route everyday, my newly gained familiarity walks with me like an old friend, comfortable in silence. I take one of my fat novels with me usually and park myself at the now familiar bench and for an hour, Sapna and I are lost in a surprisingly life-like but definitely imaginary world of weeping heroines, handsome princes, majestic villains, glorious castles and lives very different from our own. Sometimes, I read out aloud to Sapna and I eagerly look forward to the time when my daughter will sit beside me on this very bench and discuss these stories with me, with a fire-like passion in her dark eyes, the delicate curls around her forehead dancing all around as she gestures animatedly...

And I am almost lost in one of those lazy day dreams when he pops up out of nowhere. "Caught you!" a flash of his crooked teeth brings a spontaneous smile to my face.

"What mischievous dreams are you hiding, madame? I can see all!"

"And you think I would confide them to a stranger so easily?"

He places his palm on his heart, in mock hurt. "Ah, how your words hurt me, fair woman!"

I am not sure when I started looking forward to these pleasant, meaningless conversations with Ashok. There is something nice about talking to a stranger, there is no pressure to say the right things, no expectations from him, just a smooth flow of words meeting their partners, no hidden meanings, no dark corners to worry about, just a well-lit, easy path where they can flow towards any destination they choose...

The next day I stay back in the park longer than I normally do, losing track of time as I tell Ashok about how I met Sudeep, how my parents were not happy with my decision, how my relationship with them had become more strained since I came here. I almost tell him about my worries about Nancy but then decide against it. Ashok insists on walking back with me that evening - "What?! Leave a beautiful mother-to-be alone in the dark? What kind of a man do you take me to be?!"

I step into my apartment and notice that I have a new voice message.

Sudeep's tinny voice floats into the apartment, "Savitha, I have been trying to get in touch with you for the past hour! - he sounds anxious, I smile at the empty room - "Call me back as soon as you reach home. I need to talk to you", a pause and, "Princess, I am worried, don't do this to me again..."

I almost hum to myself as I call his cell. He answers immediately, "Where have you been?! I have been trying to reach you forever!" I feel a small pang of guilt.

"Sorry...I just went for a walk to Jacobson park..."

"Anyway, I wanted to tell you that the project is going really well. Our customers loved what Nancy and I presented to them. If things go as planned, I should be back soon! We are going to celebrate today, dinner and drinks, the usual..."

I try to muster a bit of genuine happiness for my husband and fail. "That's great Sudeep. Come back soon, we are waiting for you."

"We? Oh...yes of course, my kisses for her. See you soon, gotta run!"

We? Did he forget Sapna so soon? My good humor deserts me and I stand alone once again. I look up the number of the nearest Chinese takeout place and order noodles and stir-fry vegetables. So what if she is paper-thin and sinewy, I will eat all I want. I throw away the fortune cookie without looking at it.

***
#6. A friend gained and another lost?

The next day, I wake up feeling not so good. I check the calendar again, almost a month left for my due date, I suddenly panic, what if my water breaks before Sudeep gets home? Whom should I call? I searched frantically for the small post-it that Susheela aunty had given me with her son's number scrawled on it. I find it lying below the telephone, I copy it down on the calendar, label it “Susheela aunty’s son”, circle it and feel better.

I lie in bed for almost an hour, even my novels do not entice me that day. I switch through all the twenty three channels on our television and stare blankly at the screen. I have a sudden urge to speak to my mother, I buy a calling card online and punch my home phone numbers. I don’t get a good connection, I hear my mother's feeble voice on the line, "Amma, can you hear me?" I am screaming into the phone now and she keeps saying "hello". Does she hear me and not want to talk to me? Finally, I hang up tired with the effort.

The day outside matches my mood - dark and gloomy, it rains whole day, the kind of rain that depresses you, not a full hearty downpour, not a gentle drizzle, rain that came in unruly patches, taking you by surprise, leaving you drenched and helpless. I watch from inside my apartment even more upset that I cannot take my daily walk, Sapna would miss that...

Days roll into each other, marked by nothing noticeable except their sameness. At least it didn't rain today and I can step outside the apartment. I pick my novel - Catcher in the Rye, I found it among Sudeep's collection of novels – lock the apartment and walk towards my bench. Perhaps I take the novel because I hope to run into Ashok, I hope that he would express his surprise (mixed with delight of course) that I had chosen to read it too...I don't see anything wrong in wanting to run into him, after all, he had become a good friend over the past few days and what is wrong in wanting to talk to a friend? Didn't Sudeep talk to Nancy all the time? Maybe they were friends too like Ashok and me...

"And how are we feeling today?"

He appears as if he had just jumped out of my thoughts in front of me and much to my embarrassment, I blush.

"And to what shall I ascribe her bright smile to? Perhaps dear husband is expected back soon with roses and gifts for his beloved?"

"Enough Ashok. Sudeep is not going to bring me roses or gifts. He is too busy with Nancy!"

I feel bad as soon as I say that and even before I can admonish myself for their unfairness, something else distracts me. Ashok. He looks preoccupied, despite his light-hearted questions, and almost restless...

"Are you ok? Did you have a rough day?"

And I suddenly realize, I know nothing of this young man sitting in front of me in his crumpled yet charming kurta, his hand distractedly smoothening out his hair, stray strands unusually out of place, gentle brown eyes studying me as if trying to reach a decision, almost melancholy without the constant twinkle that accompanies them...Is he? What if he...likes me…?

Even before I can complete my thoughts he says, "Things are not going so well between us."

"Us?", I blurt out spontaneously...

"My wife and me, that is..."

I let out an almost audible sigh and he looks at me curiously, "Yes, my wife Amy and me. Did you think? Oh come now, Savitha, you didn't think I was hitting on you!"

I blush again and look down not wanting to lie to him and to my surprise he laughs. "My dear dear Savitha, no, I would never have taken advantage of our relationship...I have grown too fond of you to spoil it by doing something silly like that..." He puts an arm around me and leans his head towards mine. I lean back on his shoulder gratefully because now I know that it cannot be misconstrued, acceptance won through innocence.

Relationships are like that, especially a young one, still finding its foothold, wavering this way and that, sometimes strained, sometimes delightful but growing all the same, taking tiny steps towards adulthood and along the way, like a child falls down and learns, we misjudge and fall too and grow up wiser, the bonds that hold us together, stronger by the very things that had threatened to break them apart. I begin to trust Ashok that day.

He tells me about the small fights that he had had with his wife, especially since his mother came to stay with them. His mother, an old-fashioned woman very different from his American wife. He talks for a long time and I share my own experiences with him, a woman's view of the world. He says he is going to try to have a heart-to-heart talk with his wife and his mother and see if he can help them sort out their differences. I begin to say that perhaps that is a good idea but stop myself. Maybe he is right, maybe being frank is the key to a strong marriage. I wish him good luck and he leans towards me and kisses me on my cheek, "Savitha, you are like the Indian sis I never had, I owe you one babe!" and he is gone taking with him the impression that he leaves behind on my cheek. "I owe you too, Ashok", I whisper and get up from the bench. A sudden thought strikes me, what did Susheela aunty say her daughter-in-law's name was?

But I don't have much time to ponder on this trail of thought.

There comes a time in a woman's life when she is made to feel guilty for no apparent reason. She is wrapped all around by a look so grave, so poignant in its loss, so jealous with indignation that she feels suffocated, as if she can breathe no more, as if she caused the pain...but why should she feel that when she has done no wrong?

I cannot answer that question. I just feel as if Sudeep's look will scorch me to cinders, to ash that the wind will scatter away heartlessly. He storms back to our apartment and I rush as fast as I can calling out his name over and over again.

***
#7. Words - his and mine.

"Sudeep, will you just stop and listen to me?" I am running, screaming, not at all relaxed, all a big no-no according to Dr.Sheila but I didn't care, I pray for Sapna to be asleep. I talk in a rush, I tell him that I was afraid, jealous of Nancy - I had seen her once, young, arrogant, confident, a head turner and here I was ugly, fat, so dependent, that I met Ashok during my walks, that we became friends and that's all we were...

I speak so fast I almost don't hear my own words. They jumble and fall twisted all around me, powerless and meaningless, words made more weak by huge tear drops that betray me, as if I am guilty, I cry for all my lonely days, for my insecurity, for my parents who no longer think of their daughter, for Sudeep who no longer loves his wife, for Ashok whose wife no longer understands him, I cry for all my problems and all problems that are not my own but have become mine that moment...

Sudeep remains silent through out and then speaks calmly, in measured tones. Words are funny, they are so short-lived and yet you hear them as if they are permanently etched in your self, and the funny thing with words is also that you learn how to use them - to hurt, to delight, to pacify, to cut, to heal - the more familiar a person, the more you are privy to their inner thoughts, the more they become vulnerable, you twist and turn words in your mouth, choose the right ones to use - words, daggers and doves, today they prick my heart leaving behind scars...

And suddenly I feel Sapna move in my stomach and a strong pain ripples through me, again and again...contractions! And then I feel myself drift away, away...

When I wake up, a man leans towards me, his brows lined with sweat, his breath hot on my face, breath smelling of fear, guilt, love? I shut my eyes tight and open them again, squinting in the bright light that fell all around his kind face, Sudeep's face. Did I die? Is that why I cannot hear what he says? I try once again.

"Savitha, I am sorry...I understand. You were right all along. I want to tell you so many things. I am sorry I hurt you. I love you my princess..."

I must surely be dead, when I was young and beautiful and alive, my husband used to speak sweet sounding words like these to me...Sudeep continues to talk, "I should probably wait longer but I have to tell you everything right now. No more secrets between us. Nancy...she said she was interested in me, she said Indian men fascinated her and I confess I found her attractive but I told her no. Savitha, do you hear me? I said no, I said I loved my wife..."

A pleasant feeling suffuses through me and I think perhaps that I am alive.

"And then when you held your stomach and fell down at home, I thought I had died, I thought I would never see you smile again, would never fight with you again...I died Savitha, those few moments, you took away my life..."

I taste salty tears on my lips. I am completely, happily alive. I try to speak but words, so many words that I have read and heard, they all swim around me just out of my reach and so I hold my husband's head in my hands and kiss him on his forehead. I touch my cheeks against his, both wet with tears, mine and his, each having appeared for a specific reason - love playing a part in each.

"Dr.Sheila said you were probably experiencing bracks and hicks, our little daughter is not ready to come out yet..." he pats my stomach and smiles at Sapna. My dream seems to be within my reach now. Is this also a dream?

I whisper, "I have to share a secret with you". For a second he looks startled and then smiles back, "The last secret that you have kept from me. No more secrets princess, no more secrets…"

***
#8. The Final Secret.

The next day I wake up in good spirits, I remember wisps of the dream that I had dreamt - a happy dream with sunlight and blue skies and smiling babies. Sudeep walks in with a cup of coffee for me, "Good morning princess, I have a surprise for you today! Get dressed soon and come down" and he kisses my questions away and walks out of the bedroom. I am fully awake now and wonder what my husband has in store for me. I dress up as much as Sapna would let me, she moves so often nowadays as if she can't wait to meet me.

I walk down feeling pretty and the table is set for me. For some reason the post-it note that I had stuck a few days back catches my eye...I try to recall what it was that I had overlooked? A stray thought left incomplete but the smell of ghee and spice ends my speculation. Sudeep has cooked hot rotis for me and panneer masala curry, the panneer slightly burnt but you only see that if you look closely, "Smells lovely, a nice little surprise Sudeep!" and he says, "This is not all" and as if on cue, the bell rings. I watch open-mouthed as Ashok walks in hand in hand with his wife, Amy - she is in a saree and not at all as I imagined she would be, behind them Susheela aunty walks looking resplendent in a silk saree, her nose ring glinting in the sunlight. Ah, that was it, it came back to me now - a circle of bonds, Susheela aunty, Amy, Ashok, Sudeep and I all connected in that circle, bound to each other by strange twists of the past. I am happy to be in the circle. It looks like my womanly words of wisdom and his own worked well with Ashok and his family.

"Surprise!", Sudeep whispers in my ears before welcoming our guests, our family...for once, I feel at home, away from home, I look around the table and each face smiles back at me with a familiarity that puts me at ease, even Amy who is just getting to know me, holds my hands as if she were a childhood girl friend. So many problems that had appeared so big seem to have just dissolved...tomorrow perhaps they will reappear, tomorrow they will seem larger-than-life, complex, confusing but today they don't exist and I hug Sapna and tell her in my thoughts, "Sapna, today is a dream come true just like you are...I can't wait to see you". She hears me, I know that.

I lean towards Sudeep, "My secret is not as big as yours but it's something that daughter and mother have been hiding from you for a few months now. We have decided on a name. Sapna."

***
***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***

A thief and a grandmother.

Disclaimer: Just a feel good story with no thought given to how (un)realistic it sounds because now, I feel like feeling good and it's almost Friday :) Vaguely based on a O'Henry story that my mom told me over phone.

"Shhh", he silently mouths to himself, for no apparent reason. He is after all alone in the hall, atleast for the time being. He lets himself down slowly, the rope grazing his callous fingers. He hangs from it for a moment, adjusting his eyes to the darkness before landing with a soft, almost soundless thump onto the floor.

His black overalls seems overkill - he did see the family leave that morning. A week of eavesdropping, a few adjustments made to the thatched roof, a pen light, the proverbial knife, a sturdy rope and he was all set.

A sudden growl and his muscles tense in anticipation. Backing himself against the wall, his ears strain to locate the source of the low growl. It seems closer now. He squints, searching for perhaps a feline movement and draws his breath in sharply. Lying down on a mat on the floor, is the old lady of the house, blissfully unaware in her sleep, of the stranger staring down at her.

Being somewhat of a novice, he reacts in haste and a slightly dirty flowervase falls on to the floor with as much noise as it can muster and breaks. The old lady sits up with a start. He gets his knife out ready to threaten, if not to harm. He is quite an innocuous thief and an amateur at that - this is only his third week - earning his livelihood without any bloodshed at all. A few ominous vague threats and he usually gets his job done.

After a few Godly invocations, she raises her voice,

"Who is there?"

He remains still and tries to ignore the slightly ticklish, irritating sensation in his nose. The fallen vase has produced a cloud of dust around it and he holds his nose closed with his thumb and index finger lest he should get one of his asthma attacks.

"Damned cat creating havoc...", she mutters to herself as she presses her palm against the floor in a slow attempt to get to her feet.

At the same instant, he breaks out into an unhelpful fit of coughs.

With a small scream, the old lady moves with surprising deftness and picks up a discarded broomstick from a corner and moves towards the noise.

He coughs continuously and his eyes begin to water and he starts to wheeze. Still, he holds his knife in front of him and between rasping breaths, he manages to say,

"Old woman. one move and..."

Another wave of coughs and he now gasps for breath.

The old lady cautiously edges towards the light switch and turns it on. She holds a hand on her chest and unconsciously murmers, "Krishna, Krishna" at the scene that greets her.

In the middle of the floor is a boy in black overalls, a knife loosely hanging from one hand and his other hand searching for something in his pockets, surrounding him on the floor are bits and pieces of the old vase. He finally drops his knife to the floor and searches with both hands - his shirt pocket, inside his shirt, his pant pockets and finally fishes out an inhaler - worth his mother's monthly salary. He takes five deep breaths through the inhaler's tube and collapses to the floor, still breathing deeply.

The old woman now comes near him, concern overtaking fear, she asks tentatively,
"Are you all right? Shall i get you some water?"

He cannot talk still and he declines with a quick wave of his right hand, "If, if you call the police..." and starts coughing again.

She sits next to him and says, "You, are in no position to steal and since you
havent stolen anything, i have little need to call the police.."

He sighs. Being a thief is hard work after all.

She brings a stainless steel tumbler with water.

"I have warmed the water a bit...drink it now."

He silently acquiesces, because he suddenly feels tired and can discern no immediate purpose to his life.

"It tastes weird", he makes a face.

"Pankajam's formula, it works wonders on my grand kids"

She pronounces formula, phaarmula and says it proudly. He thinks she is a strange old woman, probably senile.

"So, tell me, how long have you been doing..this?"

"I did not come here to exchange stories with you, now listen..."

"How dare you? You young upstart? Sit now and I will talk and you listen...and call me Pankajam patti like any respectable boy your age would!"

He sits down immediately, not accustomed to the tone and authority with which she commands.

"Now where was I...yes, first tell me, how old are you? 17..18? and what is your name?"

At this point, she looks for her thick spectacles and peers at him through them, interestedly.

"18...my name is Bhaskar..."

He is not used to being asked for his name, it's usually "Hey there!", "Do this!" - his name like his identity is of little interest to the people who live in his small world.

He is sullen now and resigns himself to fate in the form of Pankajam patti.

"Since when do you have asthma?"

Surprised at this line of questioning, he replies, "Since birth..."

"My grandson has wheezing, you know what you should do? You should boil water, mix some amrutanjan with it and inhale the vapours, wrap a towel around your face so that you get all the vapours, it always works for my Sujan...God bless the child."

This is an embarassing turn of events. Bhaskar did not have the heart to steal from the old lady any more, after all this. So, he looks around uneasily and tries to think of the fastest escape route.

"I must be leaving now, patti. My mother will be worried...I promised I would bring her some vegetables and rice..."

"Did you? You seem to be a responsible boy after all, wait here."

And he waits, once again unable to resist her command.

"This is for you and your mother. Buy vegetables and rice and give the rest to her...its not for gambling or spending on movies and kites, understand? Also, your mother, what did you say her name was?"

"Lakshmi..."

"Yes, yes, ask Lakshmi to come and see me tomorrow, an old woman's work is never done, she can help me out around the house."

He accepts the crisp currency note gratefully.

"Pankajam patti..."

"Yes thambi?"

"May I come to visit you some time?"

"Silly boy, once Lakshmi starts working here, of course you will have to come and visit, who do you think will buy us vegetables from the market and take clothes for isthri?"

Bhaskar smiles happily.

"Now run along, waking an old woman up at unearthly hours and asking silly questions...silly boy."

Bhaskar leaves and Pankajam patti locks the door and lies down on the mat again talking to herself, as she often does, "Nice boy, that Bhaskar...just needed a slight whack on his head to set him right..."

***Excerpt***

My dad and Me.

I am writing this down for posterity. It's kind of an auto-biography for me, so, if you can't relate to it, go right ahead, pick the next Dan Brown thriller and make yourself scarce. Now, where was I? Yes...if I should have an unruly teenage son one day (pity the chap), and if we happen to not see eye-to-eye (entirely hypothetical you see? I plan to be a cool dad) I promise to dig up my dusty diary and read what these yellowing pages would have to teach me about my own experiences with my dad.

Allow me to skip the early chapters of my life (really, life does not get interesting until adolescence - note: my dad does not agree) and skip to my teenage years. These years were of particular relevance to the subject at hand, because there were times when I could have killed my dad, times when I could have cried for him, times when I learnt the nuances of the overloaded "Generation Gap", first hand!

Let me make this clear. At 13, one of the best leg spin bowlers of my school, I only care about the inter-school finals. Cricket is my life. My dad is a big cricket enthusiast himself. What I could not understand is why he would stand in my way. I came home, drenched with sweat and on a natural high (cricket does that to me), after practice.

"What time is it, young man?"

He glared at me from behind his thick brown spectacles, the rest of his face hidden by the newspaper. He continued to rock slowly on his cane rocking chair but I knew "young man" meant that he was on the verge of an angry breakdown.

"Uhh...9.45 pa, I gotta finish my homework, so..."

"Come here, young man. We need to talk."

It was more like, he needed to talk and I needed to listen. So, what followed was a really long and boring lecture on responsibilities, academics, future, life and I really do not want to go into details here. When I entered my room, the clock showed 10.45 PM. I cursed and threw my school bag against the wall and hit the bed. Why couldn't he understand?

***
The next couple of weeks, I continued to come home late. He always sat on his chair and waited for me to return but somehow stopped the lectures. I took this to mean he understood my priorities.

Two events caused a sudden change in our relatively tenuous relationship - our team lost in the finals and I flunked my English paper.

"Did you get your exam results?"

I didn't reply. I didn't care - we lost and that's all that mattered. I gave him my papers.

He flung them with an intensity that took me by surprise.

"Disgrace! You are a disgrace, young man! Did you know your grandfather was an English professor? He would turn in his grave..." His angry voice boomed through the entire house. Suddenly, I just lost it.

"Dad, don't you care about what is important to me at all? We lost, our team lost today in the finals. I bowled miserably, OK? I don't care if I failed this exam, we lost!", I raised my voice over his - my first.

"Do not raise your voice!" and suddenly, "And tell me how you lost."

And that was that. A simple request. I talked for an hour, about the game, about the untimely rain, about my miserable bowling, about cricket and I forgot all else - even our loss. I talked passionately about the game and when I stumbled back to bed, I was not angry or upset. I actually smiled and I suspected my dad had something to do with it.

***Well, you know what comes next, pretty predictable - girls. At 17, girls began to take precedence over cricket, not all girls, one particular girl - Anusha. I was one smitten kid, trust me. She was pretty and delicate and actually pretty airheaded most times but I just could not stop thinking of her. I actually went from faded jeans to slightly wrinkled pants and from sleeveless tshirts with obnoxious wordings to what I considered pretty decent ones. And I shaved regularly now.

Dad being who he is, did not fail to notice the not-so-subtle changes in me.

"It's not like you to go to class on time, Srikanth?"

"Umm...just want to make sure my papers don't get flung again, dad!"
Did I imagine it or did he just wink at me?

It was all fun for a few months. But then, I started to get all serious about Anusha and it was not so much fun anymore. I mean we were friends and all and I had even introduced her to dad (who smiled amusedly - the wicked, wicked man) but we just remained that, good friends and I wanted to be much more than just a good friend to her and I suspected that she already was seeing someone. She had so many boy friends, I just could not tell for sure.

Anusha called me at 6 AM one Saturday. She was crying.

"I need to talk to you", she sniffed on the telephone and suddenly, I lost all my sleep - my heart went out to her. I hurriedly slipped into something suitable and ran down. Dad was boiling milk for his morning coffee.

"Srikanth! Good morning, good morning, what a..."
He seemed in great spirits.

"Dad, I gotta go, Anusha called up and she seems upset. I'll be back."

He was silent for a moment. Then, he placed his hand on my shoulder (which for me was the same as a hug, we were always averse to physical contact) and said, "Srikanth, I just don't want you to get hurt, OK?"

Something about the tone of his voice made me stop and listen. I placed my hand on his and said, "OK dad, I...thanks." (damn it, I just cannot tell him I love him and not snicker).

It turned out Anusha was seeing someone and the someone had decided to not see her anymore. I acted the role of a reassuring shoulder for her to lean on - all brotherly and nice (yeesh!).

A few months later, it was my turn to cry. Anusha came home all bubbly and giggling and hugged me. I assumed that meant a thumbs up for our relationship.

And then she said, "Srikanth, you wouldn't believe this, he came back to me! He said he had made a big mistake and we were always meant for each other, can you believe this?"

Can I believe this? No. I believe I can rip that guy's heart out and throw it down, next to my broken one.

She left soon and I just did not want to dampen her good mood with my own confessions. I did not go to college the next day and the next. I did not leave my room most of the time and I made as little conversation as possible and answered only in mono-syllables. Dad tried to talk to me many times and even asked about Anusha and I evaded him as best as I could.

That night, I sat in my room, staring blankly at the TV - muted cartoon characters ran about busily on screen, they seemed so happy. I almost did not hear the knock on my door.

"Srikanth..."

I did not respond. He sat next to me on the sofa and remained silent.

"I remember how I felt when I thought your mom would leave me...almost twenty five years and I remember that day..."

He did not need to say more. That day, I broke our unspoken rules of interaction and hugged my dad.

***
Well, what can I say? There were many times after that when I felt like hugging him but did not. We just don't do that here.

And, did I mention that I want to become my dad to my son some day?
***Excerpt***