The Letter

The story of a middle class family told over a letter. I wrote a 'long story' after a very, very long time and the sense of relief when I finished it was awesome! A story that's very close to my heart too. I know I have been missing in action on this blog for a while - even more so from stories point of view. So, here's something to make up for that. Read the story here.

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I don’t know why I think of you so much even now when you have gone so far away, when fate had decided long back that we wouldn’t be together. I remember you with every song that I hear, every breath I take and every sight I see – I still think that it would have been so lovely if you had been by my side. I whisper your name every other instant, with no particular purpose; it escapes me unconsciously just like the breath I take. I write poems thinking of you. I even dance with you in the realms of my imagination. Remember that night when we had danced secretly in the dimly lit corner of the street we lived in? I still think of that. I think of your smile, your assuring voice, your gentle gaze and feel the warmth of your grasp as vividly as I had felt it the last time you ever held my hand. I still love you for the fact that you loved me beyond my famed eccentricities.

I am lost in the past. Do you even have a clue? The world would surely see me as a lunatic – a love-lost-lunatic steeped in a past that has withered away to obscurity - if not for the effectiveness with which I cloak this supposed insanity with my role as a writer. What do they know? I live on clutching the bag of priceless memories.

I try to imagine how you would look now. But my imagination fails me miserably. My imagination, it appears, only aids the birth of the written word but not the sight of your face. It’s only memory that roars like a ferocious lion, sending imagination whimpering into a dim corner. Try how much ever, I see your face every time the way I saw it last.

Let me tell you about the biggest paradox of my life. The last time I saw you – it’s been so long; so long that a child practising counting with fingers would grow tired of counting. 27 – that was all you were when you left me. Four years– that was all the time we had lived for as a married couple. And then, you just left – left me as simply as a tender dew that slips off a blade of grass just as it is meant to do in the large framework of destiny. Well, the paradox is that my dear, with every passing minute, the years have counted up, but you have only grown closer to me and have come so close that my words fail to describe.

The truth is perhaps that you have dissolved within me as pure, unadulterated thoughts.

And for no strange reason, I want to title this untitled piece ’80 and still in love’.

Gitanjali

It is one of those usual days. I stand in my balcony overlooking the children’s park in our complex. The coffee tastes fine and it seems the perfect moment to sip and reflect. The pastel shades on the porcelain cup, the warm winter sun and the little pink and white roses popping out of the brown pots that line the balcony’s boundary offer the perfect ambience.

Call me Gitanjali. I am bold and daring, that’s people around me say. Charming and secluded too, some say. Narcissistic, do I sound? Perhaps I do. But, the observant among you or those who know me, I guess will make out that I am not boasting. I am merely sharing what I hear.

If you are a young man, I am sure you are working out details in your head. Trying to draw up a picture of me in ways that your imagination wants me to look like. i wear a platinum nose ring, if that helps in any way. What age would you put on the ‘me of your imagination’? 18? 20? 25?

Well, the truth is I am 45 years, 3 months, 5 days, and 6 hours old.

Right now, as I stand in my balcony, sipping coffee and looking out, I feel strangely empty.

Would you walk with me down memory lane? I don’t think I will be able to escape this. The sudden gush of thoughts overpowering me now is scripting a path back to the past. Every human on this earth has a past – interesting or otherwise, that comes back to haunt him or her when a spark of an incident triggers the journey back in time. And now, it’s my turn, I suppose.

I am going to tell you a story -a story that began 28 years ago when I was seventeen and was waiting for my first ever class of ‘Physics I’ course, inside one of the biggest gallery classes of one of the most prestigious engineering institutions in the country. Delhi, the city was.

That day, a buzz of a noise had filled the class. The guys were chatting excitedly. And the girls, almost all of them were giggling in anticipation; yeah, anticipation. That moment somehow seems frozen in time, the moment he first entered the room; a sudden hush came over the entire crowd. What a moment it was! It was a silence that came from admiration, admiration for the overpowering presence and charisma of a person who truly owned it.

There he was, Professor, Arvind Krishnan, the most eligible bachelor on campus and the heartthrob of many a girl and the model of a perfect guy for every man. There he was, dressed in a pair of blue denims, a blue checked full-hand shirt, neatly tucked in. The most striking part about him was his black hair with modest streaks of gray and a finely chiseled face, a sharp chin; there was a glint in his pale blue eyes, surprising for an Indian, I mean the blue eyes.

Why he remained a bachelor, no one really knew but both the legal and illegal stories did the rounds. But at that moment, all that never mattered. I would have hated to admit it then but I stared for a moment too, perhaps a moment too long because his gaze quickly caught ‘the dazed first-bencher, me’ for a fleeting second. I think he was perhaps too used to it by then, these ‘stares’ or ‘gazes’, whatever you would wish to call them. It isn’t a big revelation if I told you that I had fallen in love with him by the end of that class. I am sure every girl in that fully-packed class did, only that they went on to find their own boyfriends a few months down the line. Going gaga about him now and then was typically ‘open flirting’, well knowing that it would amount to nothing because it was never going to materialize, (oh, come on we had at least twenty three years between each of us and him!) which later turned to be all but fleeting passions once new men entered their lives. Did I say ‘theirs’?

Yes, I have most conveniently excluded myself because I never found the right man for myself, so to speak. A few months into the first semester, night sessions at the hostel were filled with stories of love – ones that were sending out signals of beginning to bloom – indications of that feeling that it is a little over the usual liking; then there were ones that were almost at the stage of confession; and there were those that were fully-bloomed love stories. Love hung in the air, literally, apart from of course a zillion courses – ranging from Calculus to Optics to Inorganic Chemistry to Engineering Drawing!

For most men and women in my batch (I say men and women because experience was teaching us certain things and we were maturing in certain ways – making that transition from boys and girls to men and women), academics and fill-in meetings with their sweethearts during college hours, and post-evening dates filled the calendar. Where was I in between all this?

Now, I have to define my idea of men. I wouldn’t be surprised if you thought that I don’t like men, given that I have no personal romantic stories to boast of in the first semester. Frankly, I had many friends who were guys, and only a handful of ‘girl’ friends, none extremely close. In fact, barring a few, I found most girls to be silly and so full of farce and stupid dreams.

While my friends (both the boys and the girls I mean) grew busy with their dates, I would often choose the library or that calm spot near the faculty quarters. That large banyan tree that opened up like a big black umbrella into the vast expanse of the clear, star- studded black sky. I would sit under the tree and spend an hour or two looking at the night sky. I often spoke to the moon.



Like I said earlier, I had gone a wee-bit too crazy with Mr.Arvind Krishnan after the first class. But what’s interesting is that I had conveniently assumed that ‘it would pass.’ When the truth was, I sank more and more into my world of dreams that had only two inhabitants – me and my blue-eyed Professor!

I was appalled at first. But I let myself loose and be carried away. After all, finding a man who appeals to you doesn’t happen all the time, especially for someone like me. The result: A student falling in love with her professor! Truly. Madly. Deeply. I would attend all his lectures religiously and once even followed him on his way back home to figure out where he lived! While my friends would rave about the shirt he wore on a particular day or the way he explained a concept and gush over him, I would think how unfair they were being to their boyfriends! The logic of commitment was totally flawed in their cases, so I would think. Why the hell should I have bothered? But I did, because much to my dismay, I was indeed taking this whole thing too seriously!

Two semesters following that first one, we didn’t have a single course with him. That never changed anything. I stole glances at him as I walked through the college corridors. It kept me happy. My friends had no clue of what I had in mind. It didn’t matter whether they knew or not – I never had anything like a close friend to confide in. Friends, they were there, only for a few fun-filled memories.

You think I am one of those ‘leave me alone, don’t mess with me types’, withdrawn-into-a-shell kind of a woman, don’t you? Yeah, in a way, I was and at 45, I think I still am. Back then, the sort of love stories that I saw around me irritated me beyond a point. Yes, there’s all that fun of proposing, gifting, holding hands and sometimes secretly kissing. But, how many of you know that there’s such a beauty to love that isn't confessed but nurtured with pure devotion within? I knew it. Life taught that lesson when I ran into Arvind Krishnan.

I call him by his name now though I never dared to utter it in reality back then. In the third year, I did two courses under him for my specialization. And that evening, in my third year, when I had walked into his home under the pretext of asking doubts, I clumsily uttered as we poured over a book, ‘Sir, I love you!’ Yeah, you heard that right : Sir, is what I had said. And yes, I had confessed too out of sheer impulse.

The next moment I had expected a tight slap to land across my face. But then, he closed the book, looked at me and smiled. ‘Do you want a cup of tea?’
I nodded blankly.
One more reason for me to fall madly in love with him all over again – composure. That, in addition to his amazingly perfect body language, his quiet confidence and his flawless proficiency and expertise in his subjects.

In certain ways, he was all that I wasn’t. Calm, patient and well in control of himself.

I guess when you meet someone, especially from the opposite sex, who is in many ways what you want to be, and exhibits some rare qualities, you tend to kind of forget the world around you and get into a world of dreams and start living a life that borders on insanity, a sweet kind of insanity, though.

I waited praying that the glimmer of hope will break into brilliant radiance. But, he showed me the way to what I thought then was the darkest tunnel I had ever known.

So, when I idiotically blurted those three words that evening, this is what he told me.
‘You aren’t the first one to tell me this.’
I hated to hear that but I nodded.
‘Are you sure of what you are talking? This isn’t love,’ he explained. ‘I am sure you have heard enough of all this fare.’
I looked at him.
‘It isn’t what you think it is,’ he continued.
I shook a ‘no’. ‘I am sure of what it is and it isn’t what you think it is,’ I spoke.
‘Hmm..’ he seemed lost in thought. ‘You will know soon. Nothing of what I say will enter your head now,’ he said, ‘You have a long way to go, Gitanjali. You are an intelligent girl and your focus should be on your course now,’ he finished as he picked up a bunch of newspapers lying on the floor.
‘Promise me you will never think these things again,’ he put out his hand.
I cried like an adamant child. I coughed up a ‘No, I won’t promise. Please.’
He waited, his hand outstretched, his maddening gaze fixed on me. I looked up at him. ‘go on,’ he gestured with his eyes. I obeyed like a woman in trance.

I knew back then and even now that it wasn’t infatuation I had. Yet, I felt there was no point talking and explaining. I got his message loud and clear.

One of my friends, who had been observant enough came up and asked me. ‘Geetu, is everything alright?’
‘Yeah Sam, ‘ I told him, ‘it’s all fine.’
He wasn’t convinced but he decided he should leave me alone.
I struggled, after all, all my dreams of five semesters had gone down the drain. To hell with all the talk of practicality! Heck, why only me, I broke my head.
I scored poorly in some of my tests and then reality dawned on me. I had to realign my focus. Get back on track before the world took notice of what I had done to myself. My circle of friends started to notice (quite late actually) my withdrawn, sulking self. One even asked me if I had fallen in love and was walking around with a rejected proposal. How true it was – only that she didn’t know who that ‘he’ was.

It took me all the effort I could put to get myself back on track. I focused on my studies even as I tried hard to turn back my unrelenting mind from the path it was treading. I battled and hit many losing points and eventually I won; convinced myself that all this was taking me nowhere. Somewhere down the line, experience gave me the lesson that one should learn to let go. Go with the flow. Impermanence and all that philosophy made tremendous sense for the bereaved yet determined-to-make-my-way-out soul I was. What I didn't realize was soon my philosophy would begin to go down the drain again. Otherwise, I could have well become a saint - if all of it could be so easy!

Cinematic it all sounds, doesn’t it? After all, what’s cinema but a reflection of our lives?

Thanks to placements and projects, life rolled on in the final year. But when it reached a point where there was only a week left for me to leave campus, the memories and longing started getting back to me.

It was one of the last few days in the final semester. Gloom hung over the fourth year hostels. We were all going to say goodbye to the place that had been our second home for four years.
Five days before I was scheduled to leave, he caught me at the college canteen. Arvind Krishnan catching me at the canteen? It threw me off my balance. All the resolve that took months of building, it seemed, was melting away. I held on desperately to my new attitude like an insecure child clinging on to her blanket.

‘When are you leaving?’ he asked me.
‘Coming Monday, Sir.’ I replied.
‘Mind joining me for lunch on Sunday at home? I know it’s going to be tight with all the packing and winding up.’ He paused briefly.
I was floored. What more did I want? Lunch with him and that too at his home? This was more than what I could ask for when I was thinking I would be leaving without even seeing him.
‘Are you sure, Sir?’ I looked at him hesitantly.
He nodded.
‘Then, Ok Sir.’
‘Sunday, 1PM, then?’ he asked.
‘Yes.’

What a memorable Sunday that was! For the first time, I disclosed to Sam that I was going to Arvind Krishnan’s for lunch. Sam only smiled. He didn’t say anything.

At Arvind Krishnan’s home, much to my surprise, both of us were so much at ease. A simple self-cooked meal awaited me. It appeared as though nothing had really happened before and we were starting off on a clean slate. I figured out that day that he smoked. He confessed that he smoked once in a while, when he was really relaxed. I felt a little stir of joy within me from that indirect signal. He was relaxed now, in my company.

He asked me about my family. He told me that his mother lived in Bangalore and so did his sister, who was married. Dad was no more. He told me that they wanted him to come back; that they wanted him to get married.
‘Why haven’t you married, Sir?’ I asked him suddenly.
He looked right into my eyes.
‘Your eyes are blazing,’ he spoke. ‘Bold girl, Gitanjali,’ he said.
‘And cute too.’
Cute? That was something I was hearing from a man for the first time. I was beginning to feel strangely dizzy. God, hang on, Gitanjali, I remember telling myself. Remember you have to stay in control!

Then, he told me: ‘one night I saw you talking to the moon.’
God damn it! I blushed. How did he know? Perhaps he had looked, because his balcony overlooked my favourite banyan tree spot.

‘Thanks for the meal, Sir,’ I said, ‘trying to change the subject. You cook well,’ I continued as I looked away. I was really losing it.

He casually took my right hand into his and looked at me. I had tears stinging my eyes by then.
‘I am going to miss you and all your seeing-without-actually-seeing glances’ he said. ‘Geetu..’

‘Geetu,’ he called me for the first time ever. I sat there shocked and paralyzed with love. How did he know? That’s how my friends called me. How did he know? How did he know that I had been looking at him secretively all those years?

‘You know..’ he paused, ‘You are the first woman to have caught my attention in my life. Remember that first Physics class four years ago, when you looked at me for a moment longer? I knew you had the fire in you. And the day you told me that you loved me, I knew it wasn’t what I said it was. The determination in your eyes I saw that day told me so', he paused and sighed.

‘I wonder why I found you after all these years. The wait has been just too long.’
‘This can’t happen, Geetu..’ he said, pressing my fingers slightly. ‘The society wouldn’t take it well. And you have a big life ahead of you..’
I didn’t say anything. I suddenly felt unbelievably light as if I had just offloaded something mighty heavy. I felt that I had attained some sort of enlightenment. All my bitterness of rejection and the uncertainty that haunted me about the nature of this relationship seemed to vanish.
‘I don’t need marriage to define this relationship, Arvind,’ I thought to myself. In a transformational moment, I realized that just knowing the feeling was mutual was sufficient to keep me happy for a lifetime.

‘I must leave now,’ I said, looking at him. He nodded and led me out of his house. As he closed the door, I caught a glimpse of the face of the man I loved so much.

I wrote him a letter from Cochin once I went back home. Told him that I had settled down into my job and was enjoying it. We exchanged a few letters and then the communication kind of trailed off.

I disappointed my parents by saying I won’t marry. My mother was aghast but she couldn’t do anything to break my resolve.

It all may sound vague to you, this entire story of love. Yet, it is one of those rare stories where proximity, conversation, expectations and a definition do not matter at all. Just being in it is priceless gratification. Yes, this story did not begin the same way but experience and time shaped it thus.



Two years ago, I visited my college website. Arvind Krishnan was still there. He had an email ID. Oh, how far we have moved away from the age of handwritten letters! I wrote him an email. Told him I was in Bombay, still working. He wrote back. ‘Why didn’t you call me for your wedding?’, he asked.

I sent him a smiley (my nephew had taught me how to put one!). ‘Arvind, what made you think I would marry? I haven’t run into another soul mate.’ I sent him my number.

There was silence from his end. A few months later, he called on my mobile. I froze when I heard his voice. After 22 years.
‘How are you, Geetu? ‘
‘Fine. And you? ‘
‘Hmm..been OK..I am getting back to Bangalore, to my sister’s place. ‘
‘Finally!’ I said.
‘Yes. I thought I could spend my last few days with my nephew and niece.’
‘Last few days? Arvind, is everything alright?’

I shuddered. He told me he was diagnosed with a terminal illness.
I cried.
‘Come on, Geetu,’ he told me.’ I thought you were a bold girl!’ He laughed slightly.
I sobbed.
‘Geetu..’, he said. ‘Say something nice, won’t you?’
'What..How..?' I stammered.
'Come on now, girl..'
‘I am not a girl anymore,’ I said through sobs. ‘I am 45, you old hog.’ I sniffed.
He laughed. ‘Now, that’s more like it.’
‘Arvind, you will be fine.’
‘Hmm..yeah. I will talk to you from Bangalore.’

We hung up. I received one call from him after he reached his sister’s place. Then, silence. I tried calling back once in between but no one picked up.

I prayed. I didn’t have the courage to see Arvind when he was suffering. Yes, the bold Gitanjali became so vulnerable.

Today morning, I received a call. It was from Arvind’s sister. She informed me that Arvind Krishnan passed away the previous Sunday. She sobbed uncontrollably. He had given me your number last week and told me everything, she said.
Everything? I didn’t know what to say.
He was a great man, I consoled her.
‘Come home if you come to Bangalore,’ she invited once she calmed down.
Yes. I will.

I have been feeling numb since morning. And now, as I think, a bloody tear makes its way out.
I look up at the skies and mutter a prayer.
I think I feel him as the wind ruffles my hair;
Arvind, I call out softly.
I hear a loud thunder and it begins to pour.

The thing called love

Damn it, I used to say, whenever anyone spoke of love at first sight. That’s the most stupid thing anyone can talk of, I would sneer, much to the annoyance of my friends. At movies, I would wear an irritated expression when the hero would fall in love with the heroine the very first time he saw her and grow even more irritated when they would suddenly shift to unimaginably beautiful locations abroad to sing and dance like nobody’s business. I always would argue that one needed enough reasons to love somebody. How can you just decide that you would live with a person just by looking at him or her, I would sternly put my point. 'It’s impossible!', I would almost cry, until I saw her.

When I saw her for the first time, she was wearing an yellow salwar-kameez, brushing away that printed floral duppatta that partly covered her face as the 8:50 AM local stormed into the Dadar Station. She hurriedly sipped whatever was left of the espresso coffee inside that yellow cup and was caught in a moment of indecision whether to dump it into the tracks or take it with her into the train. And, she shook her head a little, took the cup in her hand, and hopped into the ladies coach. As for me, a few feet away, I stood, thought time had frozen for a moment, and missed the train.

Who was she? It was as if I had seen spring in a human form, an extremely beautiful form at that. For many days, I didn’t even realize that I had fallen in love, well, in a way that I had least expected, at first sight. All I knew was that my days following that one day, began with a sense of purpose – I had something to do other than going to work at an office located in the bustling area of Churchgate. Every morning, I was there at the station, ten minutes ahead of time to catch the 8:50 AM local and of course to catch a glimpse of her – that girl who caught my fancy and imagination. At first I wasn’t sure, if she saw me, and saw me seeing her. You know, on the third day, I treated myself to an icecream, when I caught her seeing me and turning away when she realized I caught her looking at me. Did she blush; I couldn’t see unfortunately. And soon, she turned out to be my dream girl with the yellow cup!

This thing called love – it dramatically alters you. My friends weren’t dumb enough to notice the change in me. They saw me stay quiet during lunch discussions of love, when they spoke of their girlfriends and of course, they didn’t fail to notice that I began to smile a little during those romantic scenes in movies. One of them even asked me, hey you, is everything all right?



I began to dream; of me and she together; of the children we would have - may be a boy and a girl. All logic and reasoning quietly left through the backdoor and dreams filled my home and being. I don’t know if someone who looked at her would call her utterly gorgeous. But, she appealed to me in a way that no other woman had till that point in my life. She was simple and that made her look all the more beautiful. It was as if she was made just the way a woman should be to fit the taste of a man like me.

A month and we were still exchanging glances. I didn’t know her name, where she belonged to, what she did and whether she even loved me! But, something inside me pushed me on to dream more, look forward to each day much more and love life even more. Music then became the food for love. Isn’t it something that takes the all-beautiful emotion to an entirely different level? I would listen to some of the most beautiful love songs with my eyes closed and I would see her with me, resting her head on my shoulder, intertwining her fingers with mine, not looking at me, but blushing all the same; for the first time, I would feel the pink colour of her blush as warmth against my face. And her silky black hair – strands of which would touch my cheek sending electric pulses through my body. I would shudder and open my eyes; was this just physical attraction– some sort of an infatuation?

The next few days, I didn’t realize, would serve up an answer for the question that rocked me. One fine morning, as I expectantly reached the station, for the first time after I had seen her, I saw she wasn’t there, standing and sipping coffee. She would always reach there before I did. That day, I hated lunch, lost my concentration at work, didn’t sleep. The devilish mind stirred up stories – perhaps she already loved someone, or maybe her wedding got fixed and she left for her hometown to get married; Damn, I thought I began to hate love the way I used to before. But, there was this something – a small yet miraculous feeling – one I would later realize as belief or still better put, faith. The sense that woke up in me after I saw her, made me believe that the love that survives is one that has faith at its core – faith in the people in the relationship and faith in love itself. It may sound filmy, but, when you are in love, the most unexpected does happen.

A restless ten days passed and every morning it was a frustrated me who would board the train – the same 8:50 AM local with the burden of a longing heart and desperate eyes seeking just one sight of her – my dream girl with the cup of coffee.

The day after, I stood at the same spot in the station that I usually did and turned towards where she would stand, a couple of feet away, least expecting to find her. And, there she was! In a pista green salwar-kameez, already looking at me! Even as I was trying to make sure I wasn’t dreaming, she almost came running to me and said:

‘Hi, I had been away, been to my hometown. My Grandpa was sick and I wanted to be by his side..” she gasped, looking directly into my eyes. And then, she calmed down.

“Harish,” I smiled, and extended my hand.

“Maya,” she said and blushed, as she put her hand into mine.

Mothers and daughters

#1

Her tears make their way out. Jhanavi doesn’t bother to hold herself. She is watching that movie for the hundredth time and still the tears during the interval are as fresh as the first time.
“Jhanavi, come on, you are such a cry baby!” sniggers Chacko.
“Oh Chacko, you idiot, just get lost!” Jhanavi retorts, sniffing into a tissue she pulls off from the holder on the center table.
“ok, ok, fine,” Chacko ruffles her hair and hangs on for a second longer. Jhanavi flushes, visibly. She is seated on the carpet, her left leg tucked in and right leg stretched out. He is sitting by her side.

Abhimanyu sits in the bean bag, nibbling a bowl of microwaved popcorn. He has been sitting there since half way through the movie, only to watch the songs and dance sequences. The story has never held his interest.

The bell rings. Chacko quickly takes his hand off Jhanavi’s head. Jhanavi gestures to Abhimanyu. Go, open the door. Abhimanyu struggles to get out of the pit he has worked himself into and drags himself to the door.

“Ma,” he cries joyously, as he opens the door and hugs the woman in a crisply starched lavender Bengal Cotton saree. Leela is on the mobile phone and as she speaks, pats Abhimanyu on his head. He walks on with her into the living room.
“That’s good news, Rajiv, the food retailer’s contract is a big win for us.” She smiles a half smile, speaking over the phone. “I think you should be flying to the U.K. in a month’s time to discuss the details.”

She cuts the call and looks Jhanavi and Chacko’s way. Jhanavi smiles. Chacko is up on his feet.
“Ma, Chacko; I mean Goutam Chakraborthy, I have told you about him,”
Chacko bows and waves, quite theatrically. Leela smiles. “Nice to meet you,” she says, “carry on with the movie” and walks in, her fourteen year old boy tagging along.

She heads to the dining room and as she does, looks into the bedroom to the left. Vaidehi is busy looking through rows of audio tapes. The ten year old two-in-one is playing something – to the best that it can for its age. Vaidehi quickly turns and finding Leela there, flashes a smile.
“Abhi, come here,” Vaidehi says looking at Abhimanyu. Abhimanyu runs into his granny’s room.

“Subadhra,” Leela calls out. “Is everything ready?”
“Almost done, Memsaab,” Subadhra emerges from the kitchen wiping her hands in her apron.
“Saab has not come still?” Leela asks.
“No memsaab.”
“hmm..ok, get me a cup of coffee,” she says, seating herself on one of the chairs in the dining room. Subadhra disappears into the kitchen again.
It is a quiet Sunday. Although Leela would have preferred to spend the evening alone, reading a book, especially after visiting office, there is a small get-together planned for the evening.

Fourteen years ago, this very day, her son had come into their world. But, instead of smiles and laughter and looking forward to happy times, there had been uncertainty, anxiety and gloom. The baby hadn’t cried when he was born. A month later Leela and her husband, Subramaniam, had learnt the bitter truth that they had been destined to bring up a Down’s syndrome child.

Abhimanyu hardly asked for anything. The birthday party scheduled for the day had been one of his rare requests. It had come up when the family was having dinner the previous Sunday.
“Abhi, you know it’s your birthday next Sunday, What do you want?” Jhanavi had asked him.
Abhimanyu had dropped his spoon and looked at his mom and dad.
“Appa, I want cake,” he had spoken one of his rare sentences.
“Amma, Bablu, Rahul, Ammu, Archu, …” he had recollected all his friends at the special school and said, “will come.”
“Akka, I want red pen.”

Leela sips her coffee and looks at her watch. It shows half past three. She calls Subramaniam and puts the phone on speaker mode.
“Mani,” she says after a while, “still at the academy?”
“Yes. I will be back in half an hour,” he says.
“We won the U.K. contract,” she smiles tiredly as she says.
“Oh, good news. I will be back soon.”

She hangs up. The dining table is a good vantage point. She can partly see her mother’s bedroom. Vaidehi is playing yet another tape. Abhimanyu is still in the room, leafing through his grandma’s bound long size notebook into which she often wrote something. Leela had always thought that Vaidehi was writing swarams for the keerthanais she listened to from the tapes.

In the living room, she catches Jhanavi and Chacko continuing with the movie. She finishes her coffee and walks towards them.
“Jhanu,” she calls, “have you folks had something to eat?”
Jhanavi turns, startled a bit, in being stirred out of the dream world she had slipped into.
“Yes ma, we finished lunch.”
“Hmm, so you are here for the party, aren’t you?” Leela asks Chacko politely.
“Ah well, am sorry aunty, I have promised my friends I will go out with them for a movie at 6. Am sorry I can’t join in.”

As Chacko talks, Leela doesn’t quite like his insouciance, not to mention those curls that rest carelessly on his shoulders. She sees her daughter’s eyes gleam with admiration and perhaps, what the twenty-year old thought as love. Whenever Jhanavi spoke of Chacko, one of the five finalists along with her in the extremely popular music talent hunt show on Q TV, Leela had, much to her distaste, always sensed a palpable attraction. In fact, the so-called chemistry between the two had been exploited enough by the TV channel to lift the TRP ratings of the show. It was all over the channel’s website too.

Leela suddenly realizes that she has been staring at Chacko for a while. She quickly touches her forehead and says, “Doesn’t matter, get some coffee, the two of you.”
“No, thanks, aunty, I am leaving right away,” says Chacko. “I gotta get going.”
“And Jhanu, you need to get ready fast. The guests will start coming in by 5.30.”
Leela then enters her mother’s room. As she had imagined, Abhimanyu is seated on his grandmother’s bed, looking into Vaidehi’s notebook.
“Amma,” Leela says, “I think we all need to get ready. Why don’t you wear that dark blue silk saree?”
Vaidehi nods.
“Abhi, come over, we need to hurry up!”
Vaidehi pats the boy and Abhimanyu obliges, walks out of the room with his mother.

#2

Vaidehi observes that the living room has been decorated, not overly, but cheerful enough for a birthday party. Her granddaughter, Jhanavi, had taken care to do that in the morning with some help from the security. There are colorful balloons, color papers and a happy birthday banner with Abhimanyu’s favourite cartoons in the background.

Vaidehi opens her cupboard, trying to look for that dark blue silk saree. That’s what she had worn on her last ever professional concert. That had been seven years back. Ever since her husband passed away, she had stopped giving concerts in public.

She locates the dark blue silk saree. She grasps it in her hands and sits down at the edge of her bed. She closes her eyes and for a moment, she hears the thunderous applause. She can see the standing ovation she had received on one of her December season concerts right in front of her eyes.

She clearly remembers that the crowd had stood up for her rendition of Govardhana Giridhara in Darbaari Kaanada. She smiles at the thought of even the toughest of critics praising her as the queen of Darbaari Kaanada and Dwijavanthi.

Vaidehi Raman. Fifty three years back, as a girl of sixteen, when she had given her first public Carnatic recital at the local temple in Trichy, she had hardly known what path her musical journey would take. Vaidehi had never failed to thank the Gods and her stars – for giving her a gifted voice and of course, a very supportive husband. Raman, who hailed from Thiruvayaru, had love for music stamped in every cell of his body. After all, he belonged to the place where Saint Thyagaraja, who forms the Trinity of Carnatic music along with Syama Shastry and Muthuswami Dikshithar, composed some of his best compositions.

Surprisingly, Raman had not taken to music as was expected of him. He had been happier with his textile business that he ran in Madras and happiest supporting his wife’s musical career. What more did Vaidehi need? With Raman by her side and lady luck smiling down on her, fame had come rushing to her and opportunities had embraced her like their twin sister. Vaidehi’s hands had always stayed full. She had had enough concerts and music classes to attend to.

As she recalls the good old days - her golden period, Vaidehi also thinks of Leela. Her only daughter, who in colorful silk skirts and long plaits used to run about their house, had given her enough reason to worry. The girl, Vaidehi sighs, as she thinks of how much she had worried back then about her daughter not showing feasible interest in Carnatic music.

Those days, even as she had every reason to smile, Vaidehi had often been troubled by one question - didn’t Leela inherit at least a fraction of her genes? The girl had been a rebel, truly, for she had flatly refused to learn the art that the world praised her mother for. After two years of futile training, Vaidehi had given up mentoring her daughter. The little girl, on the other hand, was happiest pulling out books from her father’s library. She had decided her path would be different. And it hadn’t stopped with that. Vaidehi recalls how Leela went without food to win her parents’ approval for studying in the U.K.

But Raman had not been for it. Vaidehi, obviously, had not been for it as well. Marriage had been the best option they could think of. And that’s when destiny had sent them a wonderful solution. Subramaniam, as a young, charming man of 27, had come down from Bombay to play the violin for Vaidehi for some of her December season concerts that year. The fellow had everything Leela’s parents had wanted in their prospective son-in-law. What’s more, Subramaniam had liked Leela too. As for Vaidehi, she had been only too happy to bring music into her family through her son-in-law if not her daughter. The young man had just begun but he was full of promise.

A totally frustrated Leela had married Subramaniam in a grand wedding with business magnets and eminent Carnatic musicians attending the event. Then, she had left for Bombay, feeling bitter and angry.

#3

The clock shows it is exactly half past four. Leela is looking through her wardrobe deciding on what to wear for the evening. She chooses a peach color chicken work saree.

“Nice saree, that. I have always liked it,” Leela turns to see Subramaniam standing near the entrance to their bedroom. He is leaning against the door, hands folded.

Leela smiles and says, “And sir, I am sure you have decided on that cream kurta, haven’t you?”
“Smart,” says Subramaniam nodding, “not surprising coming from a successful businesswoman like you.” He winks. Leela pinches him gently as he settles down on the bed.

“So, is Rajiv going over to the U.K. for finalizing the project details?” he asks.
“Hmm, yes..” Leela mutters as she combs her hair.

Leela had hardly any clue on what her life would be when she had landed in Bombay as a newly-wed wife, even as her head was brimming with ideas on what all she wanted to do. Subramaniam’s mother had passed away two years before their marriage and she had joined her husband and father-in-law as the third member of the family. She had felt so angry towards her mother for she thought Vaidehi had achieved what she had wanted to through her daughter. She had felt so furious that she had vowed she would not travel to Madras again. The fury so typical of the young; it had raged in her like a fire that could never be doused. Add to that, an orthodox father-in-law, she hardly had any idea where her future was going.

And yet, she had remained a dutiful wife and daughter-in-law, cooking and serving food religiously, performing pujas regularly, and running the household dutifully, all the while, writing, erasing, and re-writing career plans within her head. She was not the one to give up that easily. Subramaniam had quite a few things to do – concerts now and then, violin classes, and a job at a nationalized bank.

One night, a year into their marriage, she had told Subramaniam, “You know I came into this city with lot of dreams. And, I don’t want them to go down the drain.”
The next day, Subramaniam had spoken to his father and Leela had followed it up, explaining very politely to her father-in-law that she did not want her talents to go waste.

Soon, she was teaching history and geography at a school in Matunga, where they lived. Two years later, Jhanavi had arrived into their world. Leela was no doubt, overjoyed. She had felt that Jhanavi was the most beautiful living being in the entire planet. She had vowed she would do anything for her. Raman and Vaidehi had come down too to see their little one’s little one.

Leela had not been sure of how to react to her parents’ arrival, particularly her mother. Although Subramaniam had gone to Madras twice in the last three years, Leela had refused to accompany him. Her parents, busy with their own chores, had not come to Bombay either. Leela had only been too happy to be at Bombay – away from all the limelight of being Vaidehi’s daughter, away from irritating questions like, why haven’t you pursued music as a career. The thought of managers (some balding) from various sabhas who bothered her with meaningless questions when coming down to their home for dates, had irked her beyond description. She had somehow always felt that her mother had not been there for her, when she had needed her most – a thought that Vaidehi had never really thought for Leela- a thought that had left her feeling extremely melancholic. In Bombay, she had a life, how much ever insignificant, a life that she had carved for herself.

After Jhanavi’s birth, Leela had readily quit her job. She had wanted to give her child the attention she needed. All the same, she had worked out a plan to keep her career going. She had begun taking tuitions at home. To begin with, she had only two students from the neighbourhood. The number hadn’t deterred her. Leela had spent her spare time writing notes for her two students. Much to her delight, the notes had become hugely popular a few months later and soon she was busy, circulating copies of those and of course making money out of it.

And somewhere in between, a little after her father-in-law’s death, the year Jhanavi had turned four, Subramaniam had come back from work one day and told Leela about his bank’s 50th anniversary celebrations. The bank had planned to announce various deposit and lending schemes and not to mention, lucky dips, and was contemplating on popularizing the same. Leela had quietly managed to work out a handmade brochure for the same out of sheer interest, and one fine morning, had shown it to her husband.

Subramaniam had been pleasantly surprised. He had taken it with him to office the next day and had shown it to his immediate boss. How true it is that life flows. Sometimes, things that seem most insignificant at a particular point in time, lead one to the most significant changes in one’s life. The same way, what had appeared very significant some time, may by all means turn out to be very trivial at a later point. For Leela, the brochure had been one such insignificant point in her life that turned out to draw out the businesswoman in her. Call it luck or destiny, or both, the brochure had made its way to the boards of all branches of the bank and Leela had even earned a commission for the job.

Six years after Jhanavi’s birth, Leela had set up a small office in their house, with five people to assist her. She had done brochure assignments for another bank and a local departmental store. Not just that, she had also involved herself in publicizing campaigns for two non-profit organizations. Those were perhaps the most crucial years of her business building exercise. She had taken seriously to building contacts, spreading the word about the things her small company could do. She had decided to go slow but steady. After all, she had to juggle the work at hand, the family, and also devise new strategies. The same time, Subramaniam was busy drawing up his plans to set up an academy dedicated to conducting violin classes, workshops, and discussion forums. The couple had saved money religiously, least hesitating to be frugal and being very sure that they would not take monetary help from any relatives or friends.

From then on, they had walked closer to their individual dreams, faltering occasionally, but never giving up. It is the kind of story that would read as a fairy tale on paper – the “and they lived happily ever after” sorts. Subramaniam’s academy and Leela’s firm did come up. But, hard work and persistence were the virtues that had seen them through. For Leela, Abhimanyu’s birth had particularly been a challenge. Dealing with a mentally challenged child had been a true test to her both physically and mentally. Her business plans had taken a backseat for the initial two years after his birth, when the couple had been trying to come to terms with what they had to do about their son. Yet, she had persevered and bounced back, never wasting a moment. She had stayed at home, doing an MBA in marketing through distance learning and had also attended computer classes. Much against her own wishes, she had hired a full-time caretaker to take care of her children, while she tried to find her feet.

The rest as they say, had been history. Leela had grown to become the founder and director of The Right Word Content Providers, employing about eighty people with two offices – one in Bombay and the other in Bangalore. Her team of MBAs, software engineers, literature graduates and web designers designed brochures, websites, corporate newsletters, annual reports and email-based marketing appeals to a diverse client base including non-profit organizations.
After all, Leela had carefully chosen the tagline “Tell us your dreams. We will give them wings with our words.” to promote her company.

#4

It is about 8 by the time the last of the guests move out. The family is exhausted. Subadhra is busy cleaning up the post-party mess. Leela calls out to Jhanavi to help the maid. Jhanavi obliges. Abhimanyu seems extremely happy. Leela tells him to run up to his room.
“We will open the gifts tomorrow. You should change and sleep now,” she tells him. The boy hesitates, nevertheless walks slowly to his room. Jhanavi is on the phone even as she is cleaning up the dining room.
“Yeah, it all went fine,” Leela hears her speaking. Must be that Chacko fellow, she thinks.
“Leela,” it is Vaidehi, who calls her, from the entrance to her room. “Can you come over for a few minutes?”
Leela is surprised. Such requests from her mother were rare. She walks into the room.
“Come here, sit down,” Vaidehi says.
“What happened Amma?”
“Nothing, I just felt like talking to you today,” she says. “You know you look very nice today. This saree suits you so well,” she continues to Leela who is sitting next to her on her bed.
“I am glad you wore the dark blue saree I told you to.”
Vaidehi smiles and nods.
“You are worried, aren’t you?” she asks Leela. Leela is surprised. A puzzled look crosses her face.
“Worried, why should I be? I am fine Amma.”
“Dear, I am your mother and I know.”
Leela falls silent.
“Don’t worry about the children. They will be fine,” she says.
Leela sits quietly.
“I saw you when the special children sang Happy Birthday to Abhimanyu. I saw your tears.”
Leela looks up. Her eyes are moist. Vaidehi presses her hand gently.

"I understand Leela. It is a mother’s fear. I will also tell you this. I know you are old enough to know how life works. But sometimes, we become immature beings in that we fail to see our lives in practical light. We worry unnecessarily about things that we have absolutely no control of. I do know Abhi worries you beyond words. But, Leela, you need to face his future as it is. Don’t worry. Life will offer its own solutions at every stage.”
Leela smiles. “Thanks Amma, I feel so much better.”
“Amma, can I ask you something?”
“Hmm?”
“Have you been angry with me that Mani and I had not even bothered to ask you and appa to come and stay with us? I mean, we got you here only after appa’s death.”
Vaidehi presses Leela’s hand a little more.
“Not at all. We had our own things to attend to in Madras. You know it didn’t even occur to us that we should perhaps come and stay with you. We were happier off coming and seeing you now and then. In fact, I agreed to come and stay with you after your father’s death only because you insisted.”
Leela nods. "You couldn’t have managed alone, Amma. I knew it.”
“Perhaps.”
“Can I ask you something?” Vaidehi asks.
“Hmm?”
“Did you hate me for what I did to you when you wanted to go to the U.K.?”
Leela looks at her mother.
“I don’t know if I would call it hate. But, I felt bitter towards you and I am ashamed now that I thought like that back then. What a rebel, I had been.”
Vaidehi continues looking at Leela and speaks again.
“You know sometimes, especially in the years that I have come to stay with you, I have often thought that I had perhaps been quite imposing when you were young. Trying to get you to agree to my ways. Got you married when you didn’t want it at all. I am not sure if I had been selfish. I left you with your grandmother when you were small, while I was busy with concerts.”
Leela is surprised at this dialogue with her mother. Why were they suddenly talking these things? Maybe the most wonderful, satisfying, and revealing of conversations are those that are unplanned - those that happen just like that.

“Amma,” she says, “Much of what you had done did not seem too correct to me at that time. But, when I became a mother, life gently lifted the veil. I saw what it meant to be a mother and how our perceptions change once one becomes a mother. I remember I used to long for some moments with you, but I landed up hiring a caretaker for my children to attend to my career. I wouldn’t be surprised if my daughter thought I had been selfish. But, I was desperate to not let go of the chances I had and what I was capable of. I did my best to be with my children, just as you did. It is just that for children what parents think as enough may actually not be enough.”

“The other thing I have learnt is that,” she continues, “knowingly or unknowingly mothers do things that end up as being good for their children. Here’s something I had wanted to tell you all these years. You asked me whether I was angry that you got me married off. Yes, I was fuming, to say the least. But by doing what you did, you gave me a new lease of life. The new place did so much good to me that it has led me to where I am today. So much so that worries such as whether you had been selfish or I had been angry mean very little now.”

Leela then gets off the bed and rests her head on her mother’s lap. Vaidehi pats her.
“Amma, I know you still wish I had taken to Carnatic music. I am sorry I didn’t live up to your dreams.”
“Silly girl,” Vaidehi says, “I thought you just said these things didn’t matter anymore. I have seen you grow to what you are now, dear, and it fills me with pride. I am proud that I am a mother of a self-made businesswoman. You have taken after your father. And don’t worry, my granddaughter has my genes,” she laughs gently, “Jhanu is a wonderful singer and it doesn’t matter she lost in the finals of that show. She will go places. I can see it.”

Leela laughs. “Oh, she has some of my genes as well. That girl, what plans she has! She works part time in a bookstore, just to read up books. She wants to become a singer, wants to open her own bookstore, and also plans to write novels!”
Vaidehi laughs. “I suppose all of us carry a part of our mothers within us. Don’t we?” she asks.
“Yes, maybe. I think my hard work and perseverance that people often praise me for are what I have taken from you. But, I am also worried that Jhanavi has the rebel side of me in her. I mean..”she stops.
“Hmm..” Vaidehi pauses, “don’t worry about her Leela. The girl will come out of what she is into. She will learn things soon. She is a good girl. This is just a passing phase.”
Leela smiles and lifts her head. Her face looks relaxed. “I think you need to sleep. It’s late. Have you had your medicines?”
“Oh yes, I will now,” Vaidehi says, “tomorrow I need to rearrange these cassettes.” She waves her hand in the air, pointing towards the rows and rows of cassettes.
“Goodnight,” Leela says as she leaves the room.
“Goodnight. Sleep well.”

#5

Leela switches on the bed lamp as she enters her bedroom.
“Long conversation with mama, eh?” asks Subramaniam.
“Mani,” Leela almost jumps, “you are still awake?”
“Yes, I was waiting for you to come over.”
“Hmm..yes, a fulfilling conversation with her,” she says and turns off the light.

The next morning Leela wakes up to realize that her mother never woke up after she went to sleep in the night. She is startled at the triviality of life. Just last night, her mother had spoken so well. Leela feels giddy. Yet, thinking about it, she feels her mother had a good death. She strongly believes that it is the bhakthi that Vaidehi had unfailingly fused into her music that had blessed her with a good end. The newspapers down south carry tributes for the renowned Vaidehi Raman. Two national news channels feature a one minute documentary on her. Leela decides that their own house in Madras where she and her parents had lived should be converted to a memorial for her parents.

#6

April 18, 2008, 11:30 PM. It is a month since Vaidhehi’s death and it is one of those days when life has slowly begun to resume its usual pace in the Subramaniam household.

Leela sits in the living room and has a worried expression on her face. Subramaniam is telling her to calm down.
“Mani, I am really worried. The girl’s phone is switched off. I have tried speaking to three of her friends. She isn’t there in any of their places. She usually leaves the bookstore by seven. Should we call the police?”
“No, Leela. Let’s not hurry this up. We will invite unnecessary attention if we go to the police. Let’s keep trying her number.”
Leela starts walking up and down the living room. She stops mid-way once.
God, Mani. Has someone kidnapped her? I am really tensed.”
Subramaniam tries to stay calm even as his insides are churning because of tension. He doesn’t answer Leela and keeps looking at the telephone. What if some crook calls to tell them about their daughter.

Subhadra is standing by the kitchen door looking worried. “Memsaab, can I ask my husband to go around and see if he can spot her somewhere?”
Leela considers the maid’s suggestion. Mani intervenes. “Let’s give it another twenty minutes.”

About ten minutes later, the door bell rings. Leela rushes to the door and opens it.

Jhanavi walks in, looking tired but resolute. There are beads of sweat on her forehead. Even before Leela can say anything, Jhanavi dumps her bag on the sofa and walks straight to her room and shuts the door.

Leela and Subramaniam exchange glances. Leela slumps into the bean bag.

#7

Jhanavi leans against the shut door of her bedroom, slides and sits down hugging her knees. Tears begin streaming down her face. She examines her perfectly manicured fingers – those ten fingers that Chacko had kissed incessantly at his flat just two hours ago. Jhanavi had felt giddy with fear and excitement when he had taken each of them to his lips. He had run his long fingers through her hair as they sat on the sofa looking through a magazine.

And that’s when he had reached down to her pink shirt, trying to unbutton it. And it was precisely that moment Jhanavi had felt that she was really standing at the edge of a cliff. She had felt a sudden shiver. Suddenly, she had thought of her mother and the fight they had about Chacko a week back. In a totally unexpected move, she had pushed aside Chacko’s hand and slapped him on his face. Being the man that he was, Chacko had quickly and firmly grabbed Jhanavi by her hands and pinned her down to the sofa. The fellow had drunk quite heavily and Jhanavi had kicked him on his stomach. As he fell, she had jumped off the sofa, opened the main door and run out, not stopping till she reached the taxi stand outside.

Jhanavi looks down on the bruises in her hands. She walks up to the rest room, washes her face and combs her hair. Then, she opens her bedroom door and looks out. Leela and Subramaniam are still in the living room – both appearing frantically worried. Jhanavi walks up to Leela.
“Amma,” she says, sitting down next to her near the bean bag, “don’t worry, everything is fine. I am not going to see that fellow again.” She rests her head on her mother’s lap.

Leela sighs and pats her daughter’s head and looks at Subramaniam. Subramaniam nods and smiles. Leela knows what her husband means.
“Don’t worry. Everything is going to be just fine.”
"Yes," she thinks, "everything is going to be fine."

Jasmine memories

It is a quiet Friday morning. Sitting by the window in his bedroom, Sankaran watches the street bustling with activity. Men hurrying to work, children walking to school, and women, busy with their daily chores – some sending off their husbands and children, a few rushing to work themselves, some getting back from the temple. He also sees the old men and women warming up their feet for the day. Even as the world goes on with its life at a hectic pace, Sankaran has very little to do, at least that morning.

“Vasu..” he calls out, “Get me coffee.”

A retired man, sitting in a house that he has proudly called his own in the last 30 years, Sankaran lets his memories take charge – a sort of planned indulgence for the morning.

He recollects the story that saw its beginning almost four decades back.

The year was 1970. The start to Sankaran’s married life had been somewhat reel-life like. He had spotted Vasundhara in his family friend Swami’s wedding. The bride, Neela, was Swami’s classmate. Swami was about eight years younger to him and Sankaran’s mother hadn’t failed to remind him then that it was high time he got married as well. As was his practice in those days, Sankaran had simply kept mum. Marriage had never interested him, till of course he had landed his eyes on that young girl, who had fluttered around in Swami’s wedding.

When Sankaran saw Vasu, he had realized that he desperately wanted to live with the girl, only with her. It was as if some divine hand had pulled the strings of the so-long dormant bell inside his heart. Vasu was dressed in a mango-yellow, green-border silk saree that day. She had worn her thick black hair in a single plait that ran well below her waist, and had decorated it with dense strings of jasmine. Sankaran’s eyes had followed her wherever she went, as she laughed around with a bunch of people – whom he had presumed to be cousins or friends.

Within a week from the wedding, Sankaran had discovered that her name was Vasundara and that she was the daughter of a retired teacher in Triplicane. He had also found out that she was Swami and Neela’s classmate at the Presidency College, Chennai. Exactly a week from the day he had seen her, Sankaran’s mother had met Vasu’s parents, exchanged horoscopes and soon, he had visited her place, for the official girl-seeing.

Vasu’s dad had been exceptionally impressed with Sankaran. After all, he held a masters degree in Physics, a big thing in those days. Add to that, a cozy government job, and who wouldn’t have been impressed?

Sankaran could still remember how his mother had beamed, proud of her son’s choice, when Vasu came around with coffee and snacks. It seemed like she was quietly celebrating the fact that Sankaran’s refusal to marry all those days had indeed been for a good ending.

He had married his dream girl exactly a month from that day. During their first night together, he had been visibly nervous. When Vasu had stepped in, he had felt a strange feeling surge through his body. Her beauty had had that narcotic effect on him. Sankaran had slowly and hesitantly moved his hand to hold hers, but she had quickly withdrawn, looked at him straight and said, “I need time.”

All he had said in reply was, “ok, I understand.”

A voice interrupts Sankaran’s train of thoughts. It is Varshini, his first daughter. “Appa, Coffee.” Sankaran nods. Varshini looks around the room, glances her father’s way and quickly leaves.

Sankaran places the cup of coffee on the wooden table next to the bed. It is his wife’s writing desk – been one for years. A scratch pad is left open and pens and pencils lie scattered around. There is a picture of Vasu and him, smiling gently, feeling totally at ease, framed and placed at the right corner. There are few of Vasu’s books – books of her favorite authors – in the small rack above. He had got that designed for her for their twenty-fifth wedding anniversary. The desk looks a typical writer’s desk. A reflection of his wife’s deepest love, her nature at the very core that she had tried to preserve over the years. After all, she had been a literature student.

Sankaran runs his fingers over the table, they tremble slightly and he breaks into a sweat. The house is quiet. The radio is not on. This is the time Vasu usually visits the temple. But, not that day.

Two weeks back, before leaving for the temple, Vasu had, as was the routine, placed the filter coffee for him in a duvrah tumbler on the table and turned. The next thing Sankaran had heard was a thud and she was on the floor. He had rushed to her side – and grabbed her into his arms. But, the life in her eyes had ebbed out and a glazed look had taken over, as he held her helplessly. Her lips had worn a vague smile and were slightly parted. Perhaps she had wanted to utter Shanka, for one last time.

It was a massive heart attack – the second one in six months.

Slowly, Sankaran gathers himself and walks back to the window.

His wife’s death was the biggest challenge that life had thrown at him. What was he to do - He still had not stopped calling her for coffee. The last few days had indeed been difficult. Her absence had been painful and he had found it almost impossible to cope.

As he absent mindedly sips the coffee, Sankaran recollects how women had always played a crucial role in his life. His dad had passed away when he was too young to even comprehend death; forget that, even distinguish between presence and absence. His mother had been his world, till he had seen Vasu. With his mother still alive and Vasu gone, he had come face to face with the harsh reality of the death of a dear one – try how much ever he could not accept it gracefully.

Sankaran recalls how Vasu was different. She had always enjoyed the company of men. Vasu’s best world had always featured them. In fact, she had agreed to their marriage for the sole reason that her father, her role model, was thoroughly impressed with Sankaran. What’s more – Swami had been her best friend. He had always visited the Sankarans at least twice a week, for their homes were just two streets apart.

Not just that, while Sankaran felt the proudest father after Varshini and Haasini’s birth, Vasu had insisted that she wanted a third child. “I need a son to prank around with,” she had said and her belief had come true. With Sashank, their lives, more importantly hers, had come a full circle.

Sankaran had always felt that his wife’s beauty had a particular boldness and her character, a certain firmness – one that would attract men. Her sharp eyes along with her graceful appearance had always remained a deadly combination.

It was that very boldness that had given her character a defiant touch – the woman who had said a no to his approach in the beginning.



Yet, Sankaran could never forget that one particular night, when they had sat in the balcony, gazing at stars, while Haasini and Varshini slept inside. It was that time he had popped a question.
“Vasu, I had wanted to ask you this when I came to see you at your house for the first time, but we never had the chance to speak.”

She had turned around, a little surprised,
“hmm..what is it?”

“What do you think about marriage?” he had asked matter-of-factly.

Vasu had taken his hand into hers, a rare gesture – and had told him – marriage was about boundless love, unquestioning faith, and accepting each other’s eccentricities as much as their lovable traits. “Marriage is you and me,” she had said.

Sankaran had found her soft nature so wonderful, so refreshingly different from her often bold self. He had even wished she stayed like that always. But, he had quickly dismissed that idea for it was these rare displays of her demure side that had made her real personality all the more beautiful.

Yet, she had transformed, through all those years of their being together. The reason, he had never been sure of. But, Sankaran could remember a few instances, when she had been as tender as she could get. The change had happened slowly in those in-between years of listening to Binaca Geet Mala huddled together(Khilte Hain Gul Yahaan had been their favourite, one that had sparked the first act of love between them), of secretly dancing together for “Unnidam Mayangugiren”(Vasu had taught the shy Sankaran to shake his leg), of becoming parents and feeling responsible for the lives of their children – and till her last day, Sankaran’s sweet gesture of buying jasmine strings for her almost every other day. (Jasmine and her husband’s move used to melt her each time and she had never failed to reveal that to Sankaran by looking straight into his eyes and beaming a divine smile.)



“Sankara..”, someone calls out. It is Swami. He gently puts a hand on Sankaran’s shoulder.
“How are you?”
Sankaran smiles and sighs. Nods.
“When are the kids leaving?”
“Varshini is going to be here for a week with her sons. Haasini is leaving tomorrow for Bangalore. Sashank has to get back to work on Monday. He is flying to Bombay on Sunday. Both of them have told me that they would visit me soon.”

Swami presses Sankaran’s hand.
“I have something for you.”

Swami hands over a white envelope with the words “For Mr.Sankaran” written in bright green ink. “It is from Karthi,” Swami informs him. “He left for the U.S. today morning.”

Sankaran is surprised.
Swami turns to leave. He stops near the door. “Sankara,” he hesitates, “any help please ask me.”

Sankaran raises his hand to acknowledge. He looks at the envelope. Karthikeyan had visited their house three days after Vasu’s death. Swami had introduced him as their – his and Vasu’s classmate at college.

He opens the envelope and finds a few pages clipped together. He immediately recognizes the handwriting. It is Vasu’s.

*****
30th March 2008
Mylapore, Chennai

Karthi,

It’s been 38 years. Yes, I have broken the promise. I asked Swami about you yesterday. I know you didn’t, all these years, which is why I have always been proud of you. You kept your word and that is one of the many reasons why I love the man you are. Wait a while till I tell you why am finally writing to you.

Don’t ironies rule our lives? Remember what our dear friend Swami had said on the day he had wedded our darling Neela? He was so sure that the next wedding would be ours – you and me – Karthikeyan weds Vasundara. Ah, those remained just words. The other irony – the poor fellow had said he would come to the marriage with his son. Those beautiful souls have been so unlucky. They haven’t had a kid and continue to be each other’s child. And the third irony, I have two men in my life – one who did not marry because of me and the other who married because of me.

Life is such a weird experience, you know, Karthi. It wants to keep us on our toes, keep guessing what’s going to come up next. It often tests our ability to stay balanced through happiness and sorrow. Of course, it is an altogether different point that happiness or sorrow is the creation of our mind – essentially a perspective. But, we being what we are, plain human beings, have evolved a boring pattern of seeing things. Something as simple as –when things go our way, we are happy, and when they don’t, we are just that- plain sad. So much so that, we don’t even take an effort look beyond a point and see what we can do to go ahead. But, I have learnt to change myself.

I gather from Swami that you teach Journalism in the U.S. You have lived your dream, haven’t you? But, why didn’t you marry, Karthi? I have to tell you what a beautiful experience it has been – to have a caring husband, to have lovely children. A family can make even the worst of challenges seem conquerable. I really wish you had married. But, knowing you, I understand you made up your mind. I remember the last conversation we had before my marriage. I am indeed delighted you have found your happiness in your profession.

I am sure you think – if you call me the man who doesn’t budge after he makes up his mind, what is she? You are right. After all, I was the one who adamantly made you promise that you wouldn’t ask a word about me to Swami. Looking back, I wonder today, if what I did was right. I mean, I did not breathe a word about this to Shanka. Have I betrayed him by holding back the ghosts of my past? But, what do I do? I was worried that it would lead to unrest in all our lives. Perhaps, I have been selfish too.

I should admit that there have been many times when I had wanted to share it all with him. But, I was afraid, very much, that I would lose the affection of a loving husband. Shanka is a gem, Karthi. He made me realize that you can definitely rediscover love in a new person. I don’t have an iota of regret that I agreed to this marriage. My life indeed feels so complete. We have two daughters and a son, who fill our lives with delight. And then, there are the grandchildren too. But, you never know how certain matters can turn the flow of life.

I am sure you will be happy for me, aren’t you? I am often plagued by guilt that I dramatically altered the course of your life. Pulled you into something that finally never materialized. I perhaps didn’t understand the workings of the society back then. I should have put as much heart into that as I had done in loving you – truly, madly, deeply. I never really understood back then what it meant to belong to an orthodox family, to be a daughter who never went against her father’s words, but still out of a stupid boldness chose to fall in love with a man of another caste.

But, what was I to do? During our days together, I didn’t even know when I fell in love. It just happened and when my dad objected, it was as if my whole world had come to an end. What an irony again, that the same marriage in which we spoke of our wedding, my husband decided that I would be his life partner. What strange patterns fate creates!

But as they say, all is for good. Of late, Shanka seems very worried and I am deeply troubled. Why? Because I have a weak heart – quite ironically, not mentally, but physically. I suffered my first attack (a mild one) a few months back and ever since Shanka has been broken. I know he is smiling for my sake, to keep me happy. I smile too, to make him happy. I am worried Karthi, as to what he would do after the eventual thing happens. No, I am not being pessimistic. It may happen anytime, that’s what the doctors say. But, I am insistent (adamant?) that I will carry out certain aspects of my daily routine even now – like my temple visits and some cooking.

Why I am writing to you is for this. I have a responsibility to complete. I need to tell Shanka everything, before it is too late, but in your presence. I want you to meet him, and I want to tell all that I have told you now to him, while you are there. I know I am asking for a costly help – an unreasonable thing to expect – asking you to come down all the way. But, if you can do it, I will be really happy. It’s been so long, Karthi. I want to see you.

You can write to me or call me or if you still don’t want to do these, at least keep Swami posted of your plans. My house address and phone no. are enclosed.

Love,
Vasu

****

Dear Mr.Sankaran,
Here’s what all that your wife wanted to tell you. I wish we had had a happier get together. I am terribly sorry for what happened to you and it was unfortunate that I had to meet you under these circumstances. I considered it an absolutely wrong time to reveal what Vasu wanted to share, when we met.

The truth is that I received her letter a day before I was scheduled to leave for India for a seminar. But, by the time I had landed in Chennai and tried your number, someone answered the call to give me the bad news. Destiny’s designs, they are so fuzzy. Aren’t they?

Sankaran, I really don’t know what’s running in your mind now. But, I need to tell you this – you are a nice man with a good heart. I gather Vasu was really happy being with you. You made her life truly beautiful.

I wish the days ahead are filled with peace for you, ones in which you go back again and again to those evergreen memories of your days together; ones that make you smile.

And here’s something that would unlock the gates to those memories. It belongs to you.

Regards,
Karthikeyan

****


Sankaran turns the paper and to it is clipped a rare colour photograph of Vasu – in the mango- yellow and green-border saree – taken during Swami’s wedding.

He holds the picture and as he watches, a tear trickles down and wets the photograph. He is perplexed. Should he feel guilty that he snatched Vasu away from the man she had loved? Or should he think why she considered him a stranger to not tell him something from her past? Was he that stiff? He did not know. But, all he knew was that Vasu had grown to love him, through the years.

He walks towards her photograph hanging on the wall and touches the jasmine string adorning it. “Vasu,” he mutters and breaks down, inconsolably.

Meenakshi

18th July 1990. Meenakshi pressed her forefinger hard into the daily sheet calendar. As she did, she closed her eyes to recall how she had pressed the calling bell at the “Khushi Villa” exactly fifteen years ago. Fifteen years it was, since the day she had first touched down on this bungalow tucked away peacefully in a remote corner of Maharashtra. It was a rickety bus journey that had preceded her arrival.

Fifteen years ago, as a charming thirteen year old, Meenakshi had felt deeply thrilled at the prospect of spending her life in the villa. Back then, she had observed with wide eyes, the wild tuskers and stags that jutted out from the walls and the large paintings that accompanied them. She had wondered why the tuskers and stags had only heads and had found it quite weird. She had imagined the animals to wake up and walk around the house in the nights.

Totally fascinated, Meenakshi had felt her stay in the villa would be a launch pad to realize her dream – that of becoming a great Bharatnatyam dancer. Struggling hard to control her overwhelming joy, her eyes had fallen on Ramaa Chechi for the first time. Oh, what a treat it had been to watch her! Looking at her from behind the grilles of a window near the backyard, Meenakshi had thought she could fall at her feet. Draped in a crisply starched cotton sari, Ramaa Chechi was going around the Tulasi Maadam in small circles, with a lamp in her hand.

Rajan who had accompanied Meenakshi on her journey to the place had made a passing reference to a teacher, while sitting in the bus. May be this divine looking lady was that teacher, Meenakshi had pondered. Meanwhile, Rajan had beckoned her to the backyard.

“What is your name?” Ramaa Chechi had asked.
“Meenakshi”
“What do you want to be when you grow up?” she had questioned, patting Meenakshi’s cheek.
“I love to dance,” Meenakshi had replied and had stuck out her frail legs and hands, while also rolling her visibly, big eyes.
Ramaa Chechi had smiled, patted her again.
“Lovely, we will make you do that too.”
“Can I too look beautiful like you?” Meenakshi had asked eagerly.
“Of course, yes, why not?”

Standing before the calendar, Meenakshi recalled how much she had believed in that deceptively divine woman. Ramaa Chechi was a professional. She had pushed the little girl into her role so effortlessly. She had gently led the teenager into a room that presented an illusion of happiness, of a heaven free of all troubles – full of flowers and incense that choked her breath.

Meenakshi was reminded of how she had succumbed without protest, the first time. The surrender did not come out of acceptance of her doomed fate or as a move towards starting a new way of life. It was more a means of seeking solace and affection from a complete stranger for the grief that engulfed her broken heart; to blow away the misery and weariness of a young soul that was cheated by her own father.

And as far as she could think, the first time was the only instance she had exuded passion in her profession and never again after that. Meenakshi looked at the silver ring in her hand, thoughtfully. This was the ring that the first man had left behind for her, as a gesture of what Meenakshi imagined to be genuine love. He would have been in his early twenties then. She could say he had liked her. Loved her? She didn’t know. But she preferred to assume it that way. It at least gave her the comfort of having something substantial to dream and ponder about; something to make up for the void that so dominated her life.

Meenakshi looked dreamily at the withered rose that she had preserved in between the pages of her only notebook. Tears welled up in her eyes. Despite the many years of seeing the different men that she had seen, love was not a lost feeling as far as she was concerned. It was lost, yes, in a partial sense, but only deep within her. She had vainly searched for her first man in every man she had met after him. She had stayed hoping that he would come and take her away someday. The ring would be her only proof of identity then. She had imagined he would come while she played on the swing. He would then fall at her feet and tell her how much he needed her in his life.

Alas, but what did she know of him, except for a faint memory of his face and the wetness of his long parting kiss on her cheek years ago? For all she knew, he would be happily married off to some pretty woman who would have borne him his children. Worse still, would he even recognize her if she were to come face to face with him when walking down some street? Even so, she carried on, despite being fully aware of the futility of her dream.

What a life had she lived! She had seen all sorts of men. There were the nervous first timers. Then, there were those men who fed their egos with an air of nonchalance, a kind of despicable carelessness. Well then, animal behavior also found its place. She had dressed and undressed to please and impress them all; acts that defined the very essence of her existence. And after everything, Meenakshi felt the whole place stank of dumped feelings and a nauseating eeriness that sometimes drove her to the point of contemplating death as the soothing alternative. The only relief probably had remained her friends in the villa – Nupur, Selvi and Rekha. They would laugh and hoot together while discussing men – their subject of expertise, and remain thoughtful as they spoke about the fading memories of their lackluster childhood.

And now, after fifteen years of a life in skirts that paradoxically shouted happiness through large, bright flowers, she was waiting with her little box to leave. Meenakshi sighed, as she turned to face the villa for one last time. She was going back, back into the world that brought her into the villa. She had nothing particularly pleasant to take back and nothing particularly exciting to look forward to. As policemen swarmed around the place, Meenakshi walked towards the van with a blank look on her face.

Ironically, it was the deathly infection that had won her the prized ticket to her freedom.

Story Clip #1: Raman

Raman, everyone is so proud of him, except himself. His mother tells relatives he earns plenty that he could buy a house within another year. His father tells friends that his son is ‘settled comfortably' in a rewarding job. House, car, marriage – plans, plans, and plans they made for him. But, Raman is tired even to feel proud anymore. The attraction has withered away. It is yet another Tuesday in Raman's life, a year after he wore the illusorily shining badge called 'software engineer'. He writes ten lines in the morning and stares at it all of the evening. And still he cannot break through. The brain that topped the class in the final exams doesn't help find that one bug that refuses to let the program run. The boss sends a stinker of an email demanding an explanation and accusing him of being slow. Not again, he broods. The confidence curve falls flat and enthusiasm levels dip. Do I have to do and see this all my life? Can't I ever make mistakes? he thinks. Raman shuts the application and walks out of the office, past the manager who summoned him for an explanation. Indifference for a day, to make up for the peace of mind and smile lost for a while now.

Letters to Dad - 15th March 2004

Dear Pops,

I loved pouring over your letter that came in a little late. Never mind, it was worth the wait for those five pages of your still undecipherable handwriting. Dad, you really are getting old. :), and your slants are getting slightly shaky.

You know how busy life is here Pops that I had to postpone this letter by a week. It is ironic that the topic that I choose to write today is about the lives of people who are at the other extreme of those we discussed in the last letter. Yes dad, I am indeed referring to my visit to the old age home, on my birthday. While I marvel at what my son teaches me through his ways, all that was left of me after that visit was silence and a vacuum.

Many of them, Dad - a sea of faces. They were about thirty couples at Karunalaya, each and every one of them, unique. Mr.Prakasam, the one who was so particular about his fitness was the first one that we met. Clad in his starched white kurta and dhoti, he was taking his morning walk in the garden. Full of warmth, that’s how he was. Mr.Prakasam shook hands with Akash, placed his palm on my head and then on Aryan’s and mumbled a blessing. Welcome, he said, we are all expecting you. We could only smile back, gratefully.

The woman behind my success, he introduced us to his wife, who had just emerged from the puja room. Come beti, she invited me, and then it was ‘ey chotu’ to a visibly nervous Aryan. She indeed looked divine in a simple chungudi saree. How could her children leave her here? How could they do away with such sweet parents?

Dad, each of them had stories to say; some happy, some sad, some heart-wrenching, some really brave. The Subramanians have shared sixty four years of marriage between them. And the love hasn’t diminished one bit, Dad. Mrs. Subramanian could hardly hear and said a different thing while her husband spoke something else. But her better half was patient, always smiling and trying to raise his already feeble voice to as high a decibel as possible, to convey the intent. We are old, he said, and our sons are away in a foreign land. We speak to them once in six months when they call up after sending us some money, he explained, while his wife just brooded and nodded. And suddenly, she looked up and smiled, as if there was no trouble in her world. Is that the slow insanity that old age breeds into one?

Seethamma was different. She was loud, frank and full of disbelief. Her husband was timid, unobtrusive and deep into the day’s newspapers. Seethamma seethed in anger. All you children, you don’t care about your parents. Why have you come here today? You distribute sweets or serve us lunch and go away. Does our misery change after that? She glared at me. The man, lifted his head up, threw a glance our way and then a feeble smile. Commotion, it seemed, was a parcel of his life. But dad, her question fascinated me, quite.

What are we to them, other than being people merely sharing a day’s joy with them (ironically, we hardly know whether what’s happiness for us, is happiness for them as well.) and doing the disappearing act after that? But Dad, I think the solace and the answer is that, we attempt, genuinely at that, to try and bring a smile on to their faces at least for a day; to make them believe that there are people in the world who still care; to massage out the numbness of a lack of love that has clung on to their souls.

Mrs. Parvati insisted she would sit next to Aryan. He reminded her of her grandson, she said. She insisted she would feed him. I let her do it. Aryan didn’t understand, Dad. Confusion was written large on his face. His eyes brimmed with fear. That night, he was quiet and finally asked me, Mama, who are those old people? I told him. I told him, they were like his grandparents, but they stayed there because their children could not take care of them. Why, he asked me, that’s really bad. I nodded and patted his head. Mama, I will take care of you and Papa, when you grow old, he said. I cried silently. After all that claim of ‘we will stay independent in our old age’ that I and Akash so often reiterate to each other, I still seek reassurances. And damn that, from my three year old son, who is yet to see the world, in all its beauty and devilishness.

And what’s with this Indian tradition, Pa? Parents would stay with their sons, but never with their daughters. Isn’t it unjust of the society to have moulded such a strange ideology? We grow old, and children are channels through which we remain assured. At twenty nine, I am already seeking it. I wonder how it would be for you. Don’t you wish you could stay with us, but you still deny yourself the pleasure, just because we all live the Indian way?

Papa, I am serious. I really wish you and mom would consider staying with us, for some days at least. I know how it feels Dad, to be old and staying away. Mrs. Srinivasan words still ring in my ears. She is old, frail and dying. When I turned to leave that day, she held my hands and asked me when I would come back again. Do keep coming, she said, it’s not for the sweets or the food, our tongues have long last that desire to taste. It’s only love and company that we yearn for. I look beyond the gates, everyday, seeing as far as my poor vision can let me see. I imagine I see my son and his family. But they never come.

Love to you and mom,
Sumi

P.S: Keep writing.

Amritavarshini

Amritavarshini. You would hardly hear anybody calling me by my full name. The last time I think I heard that myself was when my class teachers took our daily attendance back in school. I am Varshini to my dad, Amrita to my neighbours, Varshee to some of my friends, Amy to few others, Varshu to my cousins, and Ammu to my mom. Ammu – would Siddarth have called me that way?

Siddarth – all I know of him is what I have heard from my parents and my aunts and uncles. Are you surprised when I tell you that I didn’t know of him till I was ten years old? He was like a little box of chocolates hidden away from me; a treasure that remained oblivious till I was deemed fit to be told about it.

It was on December 19 1996, when mom pulled me into the dining room, as I returned from school and threw my bags carelessly on the sofa. I still remember that day so vividly, in all its detail, as if it had happened yesterday. There was a cake with a single, lonely candle, glowing serenely. And my, what did I catch in the light of that candle? It was the photograph of a sweet, chubby face, with such innocent eyes, the photograph of a boy with lovely curls.

I saw Siddarth for the first time in my life, heard of him for the first time during his 20th birthday, 20th if he had been around, with mom, dad, with me. My mom spoke of a brother that I had, a child they had till five years before I was born, a precious child they lost in an accident when they sent him with his grandparents for a vacation.

Somehow, I didn’t pester my mom for details. But I burned with curiosity to know more about my brother, who had drifted away like a beautiful feather, back to God, who wanted him back so badly. How would he have looked? How would he have handled his little sister when she got all the attention that he had received by all means, earlier, exclusively for himself? Would he have flung her new doll to the corner, scribbled with a sketch pen all over its face? Or would he have kissed her gently, stealthily, when mom put her to sleep and disappeared into the kitchen? Would he have run away to grab his share of mom’s lap when the princess slept in her cradle?

What are these questions that remain answered even today? Tormenting figments of imagination, that’s what they are – when one remains clueless about what would have happened, if what happened hadn’t happened.

Siddarth was all but five when he left my parents. I think of my mom now. How many times I would have nagged her as to why I didn’t have a sibling! Why should I be the only one? Oh, how many times I have bothered her! Where would she have buried her face and cried then? My heart feels heavy, like a rock tied to the end of a thread; so heavy with guilt. Don’t give me reasons – you were afterall a kid and anyway, you didn’t know what happened. I tell you, this feeling is beyond any human reasoning.

My brother I hear, was so naughty, that his eyes forever sparkled with innocent mischief – like those of khannaiyah. My aunts tell me that he was one among them, more than belonging to his generation. He used to claim to be Lord Krishna himself and talked all sorts of things, like what big men do, for he declared that he was a big boy when he was four! Another of my aunts fondly recollects that he said he would marry her, when he finished college. The many beautiful facets of a small child that never saw light.

These are like pieces of a puzzle for me. I gather them all together to get the bigger picture, of a brother whom I have grown to love more with every passing day, a brother with whom I wish I could spend at least one day. Sometimes, I sit by the sea, smiling to myself as I let my imagination run loose. How we would have built a castle out of sand, together; how we would have taken sides with mom and dad, and laughed a great deal in the end, together; how we would have shared secrets and sealed our mouths and fooled her, together; together, together, together. I am a lonely dreamer who dreams of us being together. I am Ammu, who became Amritavarshini because Siddarth once said his baby sister would be called Amritavarshini, years before I was born. He lives no more to see it, and I live as an impression of what my brother once uttered – as a fragment of memory called Siddarth.