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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’.

Pride

This is something I have been thinking about for a few days now. I feel that motherhood reveals its true, beautiful self only with passing time. Kailash and I have this whole range of moments and experiences that we have shared over the last three years (Yeah, he just turned three.).

Yes, he throws all the tantrums and we have the worst of fights. I scream, he screams back and as an incentive he also pulls my hair or throws my glasses. And then there are the loud cries and plenty of tears from those innocent eyes. Yes, there are those moments too. Yet, do you know what follows that? It’s that instance of realization inside him – of having done something wrong; that instance he mumbles a weak sorry through those valuable tears and climbs on to my lap and gives me a hug and says, ‘Sorry amma, I won’t do it again.’ And when he says that, I feel such pride at that trait that my loved one possesses – of being able to realize his folly and repent for it. It’s a different thing that he would throw the same tantrum after a while, but for me, that instinct to tell good behavior from bad and regretting it is a sign of good things to come.

It’s been six months since he started going to school. I remember how he would cry in those initial days. The first one month used to be a nightmare. I used to pray every other day that he should settle down soon. Every day that I used to go to pick him up, his teacher would come back to say the same thing – he cried all the time, he cried for an hour today, he refused to go to the loo without mama. I so vividly remember how I used to get back a red-eyed, runny-nosed little darling home, telling him the same story each day – see, amma doesn’t go anywhere; she just stands outside your school gate till the bell goes. And, other such stories.

And somewhere in between, the transition slowly slipped in. He began walking up to his class on his own, began picking up small words in English, began telling me stories each day, began revealing his capable side just the way I wanted to see. What all I told him to help him settle down in school – one thing I distinctly remember. I used to take his little hands into mine and tell him that his fingers had grown so much longer, his hands bigger and boys with such long fingers and big hands never cried when they went to school.

I am not sure if it is a great idea to ascertain progress at this stage. When the teacher sent in a circular saying that they would be giving a progress report, I had mixed feelings. But I was curious all the same, to learn how he did at school, because that remains the only time he is away from me and moves in a totally different environment. The day my husband and I went to collect the card, the teacher beamed. When I read the last line, ‘Excellent Kailash’, which summarized all the other wonderful things she had written about him, I shivered with pride. It was Kailash’s true self, stripped of all the initial inconsistencies, that I was well aware of and that I had hoped all through would be revealed at school.

Since when did I start getting sentimental? Of late Kailash keeps asking me when he will grow up or in his words ‘become big’ that in most cases, sounds like a desperate plea. Please do something, wave a magic wand or something, so that I grow up – you know, like that! Today he asked me the same thing again. Why do you want to grow up, I asked him. 'Because', he began, in English, just like he does when a question beginning with ‘why’ is shot, and then switched to Tamil : I want to go to college and then hostel, take my scooty and come back; you sit with me on the scooty and I will take you.

Ah, that pride resurfaced!

It reminded me of one of those old Complan ads; in which a boy grows up and takes his mom ‘doubles’ on his cycle. Silly sentiments? Who cares? I love feeling that pride.

The truth that remains at the end of it all is that the pride I have felt in each of the instances has sent a rare tickle down the spine, and believe me, that tickle is priceless and incomparable.

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.

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.

To each one, a tale..

Sai was clutching his tummy and almost rolling over the floor. Well, laughing. Anybody who didn’t see his face would easily assume that he was having a fit of spasms. His hehehes and hahahas reminded me of a monstrous but cute creature like Shrek, guffawing at a joke that may be only he found utterly amusing.

“Sai,” I called. He was too busy laughing to pay any attention to me.
“Saaaaaaaai,” I screamed, “Now what the hell is up?”

“Oh, here comes our Ms. Moody Memsaab,” he spurted out between giggles, “hehehe..hahahaa”

“hahahahaha”
“hahahahaha”

His whole body shook without any hassles, like ‘laugh laugh, no trouble buddy, am there with you to see through it all.” I stood there with my hands folded, waiting for the uproar to die down. As I did, the jumbo- bimbo’s laughter that spiked and slowed alternately, finally sloped down to a much desired silence.

“Now, could you for heaven’s sake share the joke?” I scorned.

Puffing and panting, Sai lifted his left hand and pointed at Ashok, who sat at his desk, facing his computer.

“Well?”

“Ashok,” he paused gulping down a piece of unavoidable laughter, “our dear handsome man seems to have had a great day.”

Sai shot a glance my way to see if I was responding. “Hmm“I nodded. “Whatever happened?”

“Arrey yaar Purnima, tu itna tube light be nahi ho sakthi hai!”

“Yeah right, you talk everything else other than what you are supposed to. “

“Aww..K, “he said and cleared his throat, as if on the verge of making a crucial announcement, “let me get serious,” he paused, “and not laugh, err and be precise..”

“Our romantic hunter went chasing his favourite bird with rosy dreams and the bird hopped away saying it already had a mate,” he grinned. “Our man proposed with all the romance of a love stricken heart and she told him, Can I ask my fiancé and let you know?” “hahaha, kya slap maara!!” and laughed again.

“Sai, that’s hardly funny!” I said sternly. “Why waste moments laughing?”
“Waste? Naah my dear lady,” he said, “it definitely made me feel better,”

“How unjust Sai,” I retorted, “you feel happy at someone’s expense!”

“That’s not the way you see it, Purnima,” he said meditatively. “I am just lightening up the heavy mood.”

I looked at him and sighed and moved to Ashok’s place.

“Hi Ashok,” I called out softly, “been a bad day, has it?”

“Well, yeah, didn’t expect things to turn out this way,” he spoke, words dribbling out like drops from a soaked sponge. Sadness oozed out from his voice, grief was smeared all over his face.

“Am not going to say it’s alright,” I spoke, “it takes time to get over but I know you will, someday.”

That assurance came readily from me until later when I wondered whatever made me say that. Can you get over something like that with time? Can I even make a claim to have been successful about it? Jesus, no! It’s tough and a struggle, and it hurts, hell of a lot.

“Thanks Purnima,” I heard Ashok say, “It felt good to hear that,”

“Now let me strike a blow to the gloom that’s settling in this work area,” Sai came announcing. “Let go guys, just learn to let things go.”

I smiled, hopelessly.

This man, Sai, Sairam was my immediate boss but to an outsider I suppose it would least seem that way. His heart was as big as he was. You could seek emotional refuge in him and be assured that your tears aren’t wasted. Feeling good? Go to Sai. Feeling utterly dismal? Speak to him. He always had the heart to listen, an unmatched ability to heal. I ought to be grateful to Sai. He tore open the cocoon of silence that I had spun around myself after what happened to me a year back. I suffered from what I may call a ‘loss of love.’

Do you know how it feels to be in love? I am not launching into one of those obsessed, heart wrenching, and utopian discourses on it. Love, I think, is plain, simple and beautiful. It fills one with awe, happiness and fulfillment. But, isn’t there always two sides to a coin? Haven’t we all heard of how love hurts? Few friends have told me that this perspective is farce. It depends on the way one sees it. Losing one’s love, however immature it may sound, hurts. It is like a thousand pins shooting down your heart leaving it bleed in agony.

When I met Shyam for the first time, I never knew love had come knocking. We met at a common friend’s party, started going around and things began to take shape. It reached the climax when he proposed to me on my birthday last year.

You know how it is when you have found the person of your life. You start weaving dreams, literally, thread by thread. And finally, one fine day, someone walks through the door and shreds your fabric to a million pieces and your heart lies shattered like shards of glass strewn devastatingly over the floor. That’s precisely what happened with me. As much easily as he breezed into my life, he slipped out, only that this time, he left a big emotional scar.

You can’t brush away the man just like that, can you? He left me because he couldn’t face familial pressures and finally yielded to it, married some other woman, leaving me alone.

I refused to show any signs of interest in marriage following that and much to the despair of my parents, moved away from Pune to Bangalore. Fussy I sound, don’t I? But I believed that change was a big healer.

The ad agency that I work with and the people around me sprinkled hope back into an emotionally deserted terrain, my heart. And suddenly, at some point in time, I felt I was standing like a fool, trying to leap from one cliff onto another, fully aware of a deadly chasm in between. Sounds cryptic? For all that seriousness in that statement, there is a dose of humour in it too. Laugh it off, horrors and horrors, I realized I was falling in love again -in love, with the man who had just then lost his love.

Ashok joined me over tea the next afternoon.
“Feeling better?” I asked.
“Hmm, just alright,” he said, flatly.
“Guess what Purnima,” he continued, “I truly felt like an idiot yesterday. I mean, it was bizarre. I actually felt burnt up, it that sounds any close to how I felt.”
I nodded, blandly.
Ashok looked into my eyes and I searched in those misery plagued ones, helplessly for love, for me.

Later that day, Sai walked into my cube to inform me of a client meeting.
“Sai, what would you do if you loved a girl like nobody’s business?” I asked him when he was turning to leave.
Shocked, dark silence, broken by a sheepish grin.
“I wouldn’t even tell her!”
“Come on Sai, stop kidding,” I screeched.
“Can we catch up on this during a late evening walk?” he requested. Suddenly, I felt like the boss. (Grin!)

Sai had grabbed a handful of popcorn from God knows where, when we left for a walk. After a string of useless talk, I desperately tried to drive him back to the point.
“Answer my question,” I said.
He nibbled away the single popcorn thoughtfully.
“Well, tell you what Purni, I would really tell her some day. When, I have no clue, I would do it just when it seems right!”
I smiled; Sai and his pretence of orderliness and problem-solution crystallization; Clever, quickwitted, funny and yet, thoughtful and immeasurably kind.

"But, I will tell you another thing," he continued, "I wouldn't care if she liked me or not and wouldn't sink even if she said a no!"

"To me, it's the feeling that matters, and it's just that! which is what I have always told you, ever since we met."

I kept quiet. What he said was true. This is a lesson he had always preached to me for months now.

"So," he startled me, "Let's come to the point. What's running in your head?"

For a moment, I felt like I had a transparent head; as if he could see through everything.

I sighed.
"Sai, I think I am pathetic."
"I think I am falling in love, all over again! With a man, whom you would least imagine."
"Ashok?" he asked me plainly while I looked on, dumbstruck!
"Sai, What the hell! How could you? I mean how did you..for heaven's sake, I tell you.." "Holy shit, you are too much!!" I spoke, broken sentences.
Sai laughed.

"Now tell me, how did you ever come to know?"
"Magic, magic.." he smiled and walked ahead.
I pulled him by his sleeve.
"Tell me Sai," I persisted.
"At the risk of sounding cliched, but definitely to tell you the truth, I could see it in your eyes."
And I thought I had cleverly avoided leaving any evidence.
"Do what your heart tells you to," he said and walked off.

Ashok. How was I going to tell him? Wouldn't he think I am a moron, who just advised him big time a few days before and now comes to him with a silly proposal? How stupid!

After two horrifying days and restless nights, I went up to him.
"Tea?" I proposed.
"Sure."
Over tea. The usual exchange.
And then,
"Ashok, I got to share something with you."
"Hmm..You like someone, don't you?"
"Mighty God, how did you know?"
"And I also know who it is.."
I blushed.
"Well?" I paused.
"Sai, isn't it?", "He loves you man, he told me that once!"



I just felt like a loose end, yet again.

Love nuggets

Nugget#1
For all the four years that I had known him, we spoke most when our eyes locked. But I couldn’t decipher its implications. Where was all this heading to? What did it mean when I saw a sparkle in his eyes? Was it love or an imagined, self conceived attraction? It could be love, I guessed, for, the pristine beauty of the feeling meant that there was indeed something special.


But, we weren’t talking. Don’t ask me why. I simply don’t know. Sometimes, the language of silence is far too soothing than any spoken word. We didn’t want to confess something we innately knew. That’s stereotypical, archaic, clichéd. The belief that he loved me, could sustain a parade of dreams for all those years and that was exceptionally sufficient to keep my soul happy.

Someday, I would get a sign, a positive one at that, and I would know the answer, I believed. The sign finally did come, when his eyes beckoned me to his arms, on a beautiful night.

Nugget#2
One glance my way and I blushed like those docile touch-me-nots that shrink unto themselves at the touch of a finger. It was a moment pregnant with the joys of newly found love – not a word exchanged, yet it felt like I had known him for eons.

The instant was a perfect confluence of a woman’s femininity, fragility, fluidity – that the warmth of his gaze enveloped my feminine wraps. I surrendered; I melted away like drifting ice. Did he even know about it?



Nugget#3
Rishi and I had shared wonderful moments in the three years we spent together at college. It’s hard to find a true friend, someone who can sense your mood, act accordingly, lend a shoulder to lean on and cry, ruffle your hair and let your tears have a beautiful meaning.

Rishi was all that to me, but I was always left groping with a sense of doubt – Why should he do it all for me, a girl who had nothing extraordinary about herself?

I loved taking long walks with him round the campus. This won’t last forever, I told him one day. Isn’t it unkind of fate that all good things had to come to an end? Who said this would end, he asked. How could it end, if we decided to go together forever? I stood still, feeling dizzy and as I can recollect, feeling extremely confused. What ever do you mean? Why me, Rishi? There are so many pretty and interesting women, who dote on you. Why me?

Because you are not extraordinary, he told me. Because I adore the sweet child in you who cries for a Mills n Boon story, who smacks her lips after a dose of ice cream and who without hesitation, truly hugs me and sobs for a badly done test. You are simple and hence, truly beautiful, he said and pressed his lips on my cheek leaving a solemn and tender kiss, for the first time ever.


“You are the music of my life, Maya. Won’t you be my girl?”

Nugget#4
Sanjay couldn’t understand what went wrong. Veena’s send off hadn’t been very pleasant in the morning.
“Good bye, honey,” he had said, while leaving for office and was met with cold silence in return.
“What could be wrong?” he wondered all day long.

Back from work in the evening, he tried the hug and pacify formula. It always had fetched good results. But that day it had a different effect. Veena thrust a cup of his favourite badam kheer into his hands and was speaking to herself.

“I am a fool,” she said, “a silly wife who does all that her husband likes and he, he doesn’t care to even speak to her! All he can do is to waste away the morning, talking to a female colleague who he finds much more interesting than his own wife!”

“Ahh, pangs of jealousy. Now, I know!” he thought and grabbed a bunch of roses from the vase, knelt down and said out loud,
“Veena, my true love, come hug me now, right away!” and ran around her following her all over the house.
“I should tell my mom that I have married a monkey,” she said.
“Really, but it so happens that the monkey’s wife is curiously jealous!”
“Nobody is jealous, here, now go away!”
“Ah really, then somebody is trying to suppress a smile, isn’t it? Now come on, don’t lie!”
“Get lost, you meanie!”


“No, no way,” he laughed, and seized her by her waist, pulling her close to him.
“You silly, stupid, leave me now, I hate you, I hate you, I hate you, I hate to hate you, you bum!”

Nugget#5
They had been married for over fifty years now. But things were slowly moving away from what it used to be. Lakshmi was distancing herself from their beautiful past, quite without her knowledge. Swaminathan was trying his best to pull her out of the deadly abyss she was plunging into. Her memories were falling prey to Alzheimer’s disease.

“Do you remember this painting?” he asked her one day, pointing at one. She looked at it and drew a blank look. “You gifted me that on our 25th wedding anniversary!” How could he hold her back, she, the essence of all that life had been to him in the last 50 years? A big part of him was nearing annihilation. What was he to do?

One of those nights, he sat, massaging her foot and telling her how the blue in her eyes still remained beautiful, even after so many years. He told her how the warmth of her grasp still communicated a thread of togetherness even that day. He told her, how he missed her voice, their early morning talks sitting in the balcony. He told her of how they had shied away during their first night and how he carried her all over the house, when she confessed her motherhood to him. He told her how he still loved her silver grey curls and her small feet.


He took a deep breath and looked at her face. He saw a tear slipping down her cheek and rushed to hold it in his palm. He believed she heard him.

What shall I give thee?

For the security in your embrace,
For the strength in your grasp,
For the warmth in your touch,
For the care in your eyes,
For the bliss in your kiss,
For the kindness in your words,
For the affection in your actions,
For the selflessness in your thoughts,
For the completeness in your love,

What do I have, to give in return?


Than this:
I love you, I love you, I love you beyond words, sweetheart.

Ballerina

Move. To the back, To the front, Inward, Outward..

I sway and dance,
As if in trance..
Rainbows inside my soul,
Ah, fresh love out for a stroll..

Pause. Jump, Turn, Pull in, Pull apart..

This joy so pristine,
me, the new queen..
Serene and tender,
Isn’t love a wonder?

Rise. Swing, Stretch, Bend, Twirl..

The eyes converse,
Languages disperse..
For, it’s silence that steals,
The beauty, off words..

Sway, Pull in, Touch, Hold. Pause.

In his eyes, am lost..
Pragmatic, is this thought?
Or is it all trouble,
Like a dream inside a bubble?

Duality

When her radiant black hair looked wild like the deadly night,
When her face grew pale like the ghostly moon,
When hot tears stung her eyes like a thousand bees,
When nails dug into her skin, letting it bleed in agony,
When every pore in her body cried out in desolation,
When a fierce fury wrenched her heart,
When pangs of jealousy seized her being,
When her heart lay shattered into a million pieces,
When her soul burnt like a raging fire,
When that fierce, passionate possessiveness overtook her,
And..

When her lips quivered with love so sublime and pure,
When she knew for sure they would never leave behind a kiss,
When she learnt that this love could never be consumed,
When in missing him she missed a part of herself,
When she saw her love grow truer with every confession,
When even the pain of separation seemed a sweet trial,
When the heart that was filled with love, still felt hollow,
When they seemed like the dove’s wings that never met,
When she accepted in peace that their paths couldn’t cross,
When that calm and serenity of a cool blue sky overtook her..

I saw the devil and the Master coexist and sustain their beauties together, this duality in Love – an insanity in whose core lay the seed of profundity –The same love that evoked a devilish possessiveness, was the one that let him go, without holding back; anything.

Little Manu's promise

“Ei Ramamurthyyyyyy!”

There she goes again! Not a day of my study holidays has passed without me hearing a shriek from that girl. That’s Manu for you, the little brat next door. Hardly six years old, she would easily give you the impression that it was she who was born before you.

Back to what I was talking about, this person who is being yelled at, is her poor grandfather. Given that even her grandfather, Mr.Ramamurthy, who retired from the railways, is acknowledged only by his first name, how can I, a mere 20 year old neighbour doing her graduation, even dream of being spared? Manu calls me Sundari, right royally, as if she had given me the name.

Let’s return to the story of our little princess. The shrieks are not uncommon on a weekday morning. The battle is for the remote control. While Ramamurthy Sir would want to watch the news bulletin at 8, Manu would want to watch Scooby Doo in Cartoon Network. “What thatha, today Scooby will drive that ghost away and you don’t want me to watch it?”

Obviously, thatha understands nothing of the world of cartoons and would beg, “Five minutes, Manu, I will just look at the headlines.”

Manu, however would have none of it. “Thatha, you don’t know anything. Do you know what detectives do? You don’t understand anything,” Of course it goes without saying that our daring princess wins the ensuing battle. The ‘Ei Ramamurthy,” comes at an instant when she would grab the remote.

And mind you, she doesn’t stop with that. The intelligent girl would thrust the daily newspaper in her grandfather’s hands and settle down before the idiot box with her plate of tiffin.

Ramamurthy Sir is an epitome of patience. He is the ideal picture of a retired man, living his life in peaceful resignation. Always dressed in a white shirt and dhoti, his freshness is only enhanced by the fragrant sacred ash that runs generously across his forehead. He would never fail to wish a brisk good morning to my dad, his neighbour, while both of them are busy picking flowers for the morning puja in their respective homes. Once in a while, he would dutifully enquire about how my studies were progressing and would mumble a sincere blessing when we parted.

“Someday, even Manu would grow up to be like you,” he would smile and continue, “for all you know, she would grow so quiet then. I really don’t know whether I can bear to see her quiet.”

At about quarter to four in the afternoon, he would finish his coffee and walk up to Manu’s school which is ten minutes distance from where we stay. Manu would come rushing out of the gate towards thatha, tell him stories of all that happened in school that day, in one excited breath that would calm down only when they reached the gate of their house, with thatha paying rapt attention, all the way. It’s such a pleasure to watch the old man walking slowly along side a small kid, two people at two extreme ends of life’s spectrum, bound together by a tender understanding called love. The calm and maturity of the aged and the excitement and frivolity of a kid, to me would seem, as one of the rarest pairs of opposites that glows with an exquisitely subtle beauty.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------

Today’s morning has been unusually quiet. I saw Manu leaving with her Dad for school. No fuss, no noise. Something ought to be wrong. While am wondering, Dad informs me that Ramamurthy Sir has been down with high fever since last evening.

In the evening, I tell Manu’s mother that I would go and pick her up from school. “Don’t bother Sundari, I will manage,” she says. “No, no aunty, absolutely no problem. You take care of Ramamurthy Sir. I am anyway bored, I will get her back from school,” I convince her.

Manu comes running, in an expectant mood but I can read the disappointment in her face when she sees it isn’t thatha but I, who has come to pick her up.

I take the lunch bag from her and we begin walking.
“Sundari, Why hasn’t thatha come? What’s wrong?”
“Nothing Manu, thatha needs some rest, that is all. Tomorrow he will be fit as a fiddle,” I tell her. She isn’t convinced. We walk back home quietly.

Back at home, she dumps her bag, washes her feet and runs towards her grandfather’s room. She stands close to him, as he lies on his bed, his hands resting on his stomach. “Thatha,” she calls out softly and pauses, unsure whether she was disturbing him. “Thatha,” she calls out once again, a little louder this time.

As I stand in a corner, I turn a passive observer. I see Manu’s little fingers holding as much as she can of thatha’s fingers. Slowly, she places her head on his chest and I see tears running down her cheeks. “Thatha,” she says amidst sobs, “You watch whatever news you want on TV, I won’t ask for the remote,” and she gently strokes his chest as she gets up. Thatha holds her hand and then ruffles her hair, “Manu Kanna, I will be alright soon,”

“Really?” she questions sobbing, “When?”
“Tomorrow,” he replies. She hugs him and runs out of the room, while the overwhelmed grandfather lets out a small laugh. I stand here, stupefied, struck by the purest form of love and innocence - a small face with large eyes, an almost unnoticeable nose, a soft, round mouth, and two small pony tails behind those tiny ears, the sweet innocence called Manu that jumped and ran out of the room now.

---------------------------------------------------------------------
It’s been a week since I witnessed that touching moment. Within two days from then, I saw grandfather and granddaughter back in action and Manu does seem to be keeping up her promise. No more s-h-r-i-e

“Ei Ramamurthyyyyyy!”

Now, wait, what’s that? Did I say no more shrieks? I am afraid not, for it seems, the battle has begun yet again!

Sarah

Ms. Sarah Parker. Yes, that is me. It’s been a day since I have moved into our lovely cottage in Yorkshire and right now, am sitting by the window watching the light drizzle outside. Dad is fabulous. When I tell you that I find my residence so amazingly beautiful, I owe it to him. The smell of fresh paint still hangs in the air. Mr. Parker knows his daughter’s tastes too well and I must admit he has made sure that I have had all of it around me. Dad has made sure he would give it all, when he has the chance, may be his last one.

Martha is busy pulling out a fresh bed sheet and spreading it over my bed. She is busy dashing in and out of the room. This time, she is carrying one of my paintings, struggling rather. Meet Ms. Martha Harper, the tall English girl with beautiful curls and dark, piercing eyes and yes, my childhood friend, and my maid’s daughter.

“Martha, need some help?” I ask her, while she tries to hang on the wall, a landscape painting that I had done about four years back.
“Nope dear, I can manage. Give yourself all your time to watch that,” she smiles and points at the glass shutter of the window by my side.

Drip, drip, drag, drop.
Drip, drip, drag, drop.
Drop, drop..Drop where?



What are these drops teaching me? That nothing could stay on forever? That someday you have to descend and drop down into chasms unknown? That someday you dissolve into oblivion?

Dated 23rd September 1968

My dear diary,

I realize my last entry has been about three months back where I have complained of a bad, bad headache. It seems like ages between that day and today, and there is a lot that happened in these days. Lots. That these ninety days seemed longer than the twenty four years that I have lived on this planet.

Within a week following that headache, I was diagnosed with a brain tumor in its advanced stage. My hands refuse to move, dear Diary. Tears are already welling up in my eyes and I feel a lump in my throat. A chill runs down my spine. Why am I falling into this mode of self pity?

I am proud to tell you that I have come to terms with it after the initial shock. It was almost like the entire world has closed in on me, when Dad told me this three months back. Dad has handled it equally well too. We just know we have to go ahead. But, tell me, am I not human too? Sometimes I can’t escape the gravity of self pity. It sucks me in, especially when you know your best times are yet to come and you may not be around to see and live it. Diary, it is even worse when you realize that you are in love..

Good night,
Sarah

It’s around seven in the morning. I decide to take a stroll in the garden for I am not able to sleep anymore. Dad left for London last night, to collect my latest test reports. There is a great possibility that Edward might drop in along with Dad, when Dad returns this weekend.

“Good morning,” Martha’s brisk voice greets me. “Isn’t the place so beautiful now?” she questions. For a moment, she is lost in her own thoughts, though she quickly realizes that and turns to me, “I will be right back with a glass of milk for you.”

I smile and turn around. Yes, like Martha mentions, the place is utopian. Lush green everywhere and the rain’s freshness sits atop that I earnestly wish I could soak myself in it.

After lunch, I insist that Martha read some poetry out to me. Frost and Longfellow today, I tell her. It is such a strain to read for ten minutes together these days. I am glad Dad agreed to my request to get Martha to be with me. It’s through her that I am living my life now, doing what I would have loved to do all by myself.

Dated 25th September 1968

Hi Diary,

I hadn’t intended to come back this early to you. I get so easily exhausted writing these days, that I take breaks and write. I can’t get Martha to write this for me. These are deepest feelings that I can convey through no one else but myself.

Just now I got to listen to some poetry. It’s so relaxing and brings me back memories of graduation days at London. Literature is awesome. No one would know that better than you, for that’s when I had gotten into this habit of writing to you.

20:00

Sorry, I had to stop that in the afternoon. I am excited, for tomorrow, Edward is here. Dad sent word that Edward is joining in. Now, aren’t you wondering who this is? Well, to give you the briefest introduction, he is Dr. Edward Johnson, the one who has been treating me, about 18 years elder to me and the man I am in love with..

Shall write more tomorrow.

Love,
Sarah

Edward is already at the table by the time I am dressed and out. Dad throws a warm smile and waves his hand. I wave back and look at Edward, who is deeply engrossed in the newspaper.

“Morning, Edward..”
“Oh,” his head pops out of the newspaper. “Sarah..”
I pour out tea for both of them.
“Martha, could you fetch that pack of cookies? I shall get the milk ready for the two of us. ”
“In a minute sweetheart.” And Martha disappears behind the curtains.

Edward is dressed in a light blue casual shirt and a pair of deep blue jeans. I take a moment to look into his eyes. What do I see? Love or am I imagining it?

I tell Edward we could take a walk round the garden.
“Sure,” he smiles and reassures Dad who fears that I am straining myself.

“How do you feel?” he asks me.
“Never better,” I smile. I can see it in Edward’s eyes – that he has read the sorrow behind the smile.

I tell him I really wished I could get back to picking up Spanish and reading some more on Latin American cultures.
Edward promises to send along books. “Or why don’t you pick them up from me, when you come for your treatment in ten days?” he suggests. “I shall collect them from the library for you.”

”Thank you Edward, you really are a big help.”
“My pleasure,” he says so sweetly.

Dated 26th September 1968

My dear Diary,

As you might have guessed, I feel elated and relaxed today. I got to spend considerable time with Edward. We spoke of nearly everything – poetry, music and he filled me in with the latest theater fest in the capital. I wish I could be around to watch it.

And guess what Edward shyly confessed today? His wife Rachel is carrying their second child. I really wish they have a pretty, pretty daughter this time, after a son. Little Dave is so cute. Edward had gotten him to the hospital when I was undergoing my first level treatment in London.

I am sure it is obvious to you now that I am in love with a married man, leading a blissfully peaceful life with a beautiful wife and an adorable family. And I am in love with him, without him even having the slightest hint about it.

Have you ever thought how it feels to be this way? I pause because of the paucity of words. It’s like holding all your dreams in a bunch, trying really hard to hold them from drifting away, but in vain; For, they do, they do drift away like weightless wisps into thin air.



Edward leaves early morning tomorrow.

See you soon,
Sarah

P.S: There is something that I want to share with you. I attach the piece of paper to this page.


Meeting Dr.Johnson

11th August 1968

I met Dr. Edward Johnson under the worst of circumstances, definitely not in the way I would have liked to. Yeah, it was at the Cancer Research Hospital when he disclosed what I know and have slowly got myself to digest, today.

I don’t wish to get into the details but I would like to recall one incident in particular which brought about this ironical turn of events. It was when Edward told me that I suffered from an incurable brain tumor and gently pressed my hand when I sat motionless. When I looked up, I was already in tears and that passing instant, when I looked into his eyes, I fell for the calm in his eyes.

I fell into his arms, that of a complete stranger and sobbed, as my Dad watched. I loved the security of his embrace as he stroked my hair and patted me. I cried I don’t know for how long and I didn’t care for his time and nor did Edward resist. He let things flow freely and didn’t give false promises. He never said that everything would be alright. Had he said that, I would have called him a blatant liar!

I owe it to Edward for transforming the experience of my treatment from being dull and lifeless to a courageous battle that ought to be fought. Every time that I had gone there, Edward made it a refreshing experience for me. He revealed great interest for music (the piano especially), for Keats and performing arts.

I grew to like him for the synchrony he brought to our conversations. I never felt like I was talking to someone different from me and yet he was different. A vibrant personality, I found him to be an extrovert, unlike me. I saw in him all that I had wanted to be myself.

And suddenly one day, I really wished I could swim in the oceanic blues of his eyes and lose myself completely, leaving the present behind. That day I knew I was in love and I felt blood rush up my veins in what seemed to be an otherwise lifeless existence.

So much for Edward Johnson. Should I regret that he walked into my life only now or feel happy that he came in at least now?

Sarah

While Edward leaves, he promises me my books again. I can read fear in Dad’s eyes and even in Martha’s. I am sure Edward has told them what he told me during our walk.

It’s a dizzy feeling to think of a moment when everything comes to a grinding halt. It’s true that mortality is the inevitable truth but even rock hard determination can’t stop some questions from popping up – what would Dad do after I am gone? Even Mom isn’t around. Isn’t it a worse punishment for him to suppress his feelings just because he wants his daughter to be happy?

I feel like running up to God and asking him another chance. Trust me, Life is so beautiful and many of us don’t realize it till an end to it, is at sight. Once that is near, the fear returns through the dark, when the world sleeps. It’s tough. It really is.

“Sarah..” Edward shakes me up. He pats my cheek and says that he hopes to see me soon. I smile and I feel I could take a plunge into the sea. I take Dad’s hand into mine and lean on his shoulder.
”Dad, I love you..”


Dated 27th September, 1968

Dearest Diary,

I feel like a child today, a child chasing fresh bubbles, each bubble a simple wish – to wake up and watch the gentle morning sun, to chase butterflies, to hug dad, to joke with Martha, to read, to write, to explore, to love Edward forever.

I hope the bubbles don’t burst….. Or.. will they?

Sarah Parker.

The gift

Deep crimson, streaks of gold; a bulging cloud coddling the orange ball..Two dozen birds, miniature marvels, gliding across, with messages from heaven..

"Slowly, steadily, you descend and drop,
next to me, you go hip-hop..
Fragile bird, with a pallid wing,
what message do you bring?"

I hear a grumble; What is it? Is it you, my stomach? Nope, nope..it can't be, for I just fed you..this glass, a proof..

Ah, serene, sensual, surreal; succour, I succumb to thee; Bach and Mozart, Masters of the art! Will you forgive me, this son of thee?? - Sinful, sinning, sinner..



"And there sings a distant lark,
thro' the frills of dark..
O'ye lark in mad mood,
what d'ya sing - The Art of Fugue?"

"Ah yet another bereaved lover..," mutters the man in guard, walking by..

"O' dear sir, I ain't lost a lover,
but a lovely, beautiful daughter..
She was born this day,
but fate snatched her away.."

"I raise my violin, play her tune,
gathering memories, that are strewn..
Heavenward wind, carry with you,
this father's tune, to her, my due.."

Dil Se..

Sometimes life could give you nothing but pain; it couldn't hurt worse..

For he suddenly landed from nowhere, giving all that somebody could ever give, in unbounded measures; countless smiles, sweet nothings aplenty, a warm presence all time, even without being around, leaving her utterly pampered, letting her be the lucky star, his sweet little kid..



And as the days rolled by, the sweet addiction went on a high, till a drop slowly came upfront; and when every previous day felt better than the present, when silence, emptiness and uneasiness hung over conversations, when what came without asking, now promised to come, but after a demand, she knew things were never the same again..

And what was it but her own ego, that yearned for his attention, but still refused to accept that he was being missed, with all that being left behind to hug were those warm memories, a defeated feeling and the silence that came with it all; and she, who would never blame him but herself for getting so involved, waited and waited, with all her hope, for she still liked him, immensely..

Moments to grasp

Shades of change unwound sequentially as I walked down that path, that familiar path that I had paced up and down with unmistakable precision as an eight year old. New shops, some new houses. But amongst them, stood those houses that have endured the test of time. It is a pleasure to watch things that have been stamped with an archaism that would never be victimized by the forces of modernity.

The 2nd cross street of ThiruVika Nagar, in Thirucharapalli, was more than a street to me. It had nurtured my dreams as a child. It demonstrated a freshness about it that had lasted years and beat the gap of 17 years in between. It felt like just yesterday that I had belonged to this place but I had still missed 'its presence and my presence in it' and the unique charm that came with it.

“New door no. 24, old number 72,” I quickly checked that small bit of crumpled paper that was almost yielding to the moisture of my palm. Appa had insisted that I should go and meet them this time.

“Black gates,” I smiled to myself. “They used to be hmm…green.”
I pushed the gate inward and it creaked open. As I set my foot on the stone pavement that had weathered everything in the years that went by, I looked up to that balcony right above, the thatched roof over it still intact. My entire body shook. God! Sometimes nostalgia can just offset you.

For a moment I just closed my eyes. It was the same balcony where I had stood years ago, waving good bye to my father when he left for office. It was the same balcony where I had stood, hot tears pouring down my cheeks, when they got my baby bro home, for the first time. I was no longer ‘the one’ then.

“And Aditya now..” I smiled to myself.

The veranda at the end of the footpath welcomed me with the same warmth with which it had borne my pranks as a mischievous kid. I would tirelessly climb on it and jump off it, in a loop that would end only with a tight slap from my mother.

I thought I would collapse out of excitement when I rang the doorbell.
“Vandhutten (Coming)”, the familiar lady voice came from behind the door. It hadn’t changed much, the voice, just traces of ageing.

As the door opened, I caught myself staring at this lady, who wore her sari in a ‘madisar kattu’. The vermilion, the glittering nose ring, the traditional hairdo with a string of jasmine encircling it; Lakshmi Amma, there she was and..She had aged so gracefully.

“Yaaru. Yaar venum?” (Who is this? Who do you want?)
“Ahh..Hmm..Lakshmi Amma..” I spoke in between gasps of excitement. “Do you recognize me?”
She stared with confusion written all over her face.
“Lakshmi Amma, Shailaja..,” I placed my right palm on my chest. “Shailu kutty..” I paused. “Enakku Lakshmi Amma rasam thaan venum..” ( I want only Lakshmi Amma’s rasam..)

And her face broke into a smile.
“Shailu Kutty, is this you?” She almost jumped and held my hand immediately. “How grown up you look. I couldn’t even make out,” she exclaimed.

I smiled. I was at loss for words.
“Inga parungo” (see here), she called out to her husband. “Come here, see who has come”
“Come in, come in,” she took me in hurriedly.
“Yaaru?” (Who?) a man in a white dhoti and a white cotton half slack shirt and thick rimmed glasses emerged from one of the inside rooms.

Sambu thatha adjusted his glasses, trying to register the image of a woman who suddenly landed in his abode from nowhere.

“Can you make out who she is?” Lakshmi Amma questioned, impatience marking every word. Sambu thatha just shook a no. I watched his lean frame seeking immense support from the wooden walking stick, an addition to the 84 year old man’s personality.

“Shailu kutty idhu, nenavirukko?” (This is Shailu kutty, remember?) “State Bank Ramachandran who stayed upstairs.. from Coimbatore..his daughter..”



“Oh amaam..adi vaalu..” (Oh yes, you mischievous girl!)
“Va..Va..” (Come, come). The warmth in his voice made me melt. How much I had missed it all these years. Though we had stayed upstairs, Sambu thatha’s house was literally where my existence had been. I would play, run around the house, nobody to question, most of the times eat there and fall asleep in Lakshmi Amma’s lap.

The affection that I had held for that house, for the two was special and unbounded. It was marked by innocence so typical of a child and there was no other reason to it. I loved them because I loved them.

“So, what made Shailu kutty suddenly remember these two old hags?” went on Sambu thatha with his characteristic laugh.
“Oh come on, enough of your silly jokes,” Lakshmi Amma cut him short as I deposited the sweet packets into her hands.
“Are you working?” she asked me.
“Hmm..yes, I am working for a software concern in Delhi,” I replied.
“Ohh..soft..” she stopped halfway. “That thing Raju keeps talking about..”

“Tell me how are amma and appa”
“They are good. They keep talking about you,” I paused. “Oh, Appa has retired.”
“Really? Even Chandru joins the old hag list,” burst out Sambu thatha.
I giggled. I really did. Lakshmi Amma wasn’t bothered. She almost sprang her next question at me.
“How is your brother..ahmm..what is his name?”
“Aditya,” I helped in.
“Ahnn..Adi, how is he?”
“He is studying, 2nd year engineering in Madras. He has been pestering Appa for a bike.”
“Really? Has he grown that big?” Sambu thatha questioned the very essence of mankind - growth.

It is funny the way I addressed them. Sambu thatha was thatha because when I saw him for the first time, he had grey (or as I used to call it, “white”) hair. I used to jump at my mom when she called him maama. “He has white hair. How can you call him maama. Call him thatha,” I would order.

Sambu thatha was 67 then. Lakshmi Amma was Lakshmi Amma because everyone around used to call her that way and somehow she never used to look that old then, that I would have to call her ‘patti’. Moreover, Radha akka, her daughter, used to call her Lakshmi Amma. I had liked it, felt it suited her best and let it stick on.

“So, when are you getting married?” Lakshmi Amma continued with her questions as she handed over steaming filter coffee in a “duvrah tumbler” to me and one to Sambu thatha. I had cosily seated myself on the mat alongside Sambu thatha who was resting in an easy chair. A copy of the day’s newspaper and that old transistor was lying next to him. Lakshmi Amma sat down beside me.

“I actually came to tell you some good news,” I said.
Sambu thatha who was busy tuning into odd stations, desperately in search of the “renu mani kutcheri” (the concert at 2), stopped suddenly.

In a minute, both of them were staring at me with all eagerness. “Marriage fascinates old people beyond any scale,” I thought to myself.
“Ah, well, I am getting married this September,” I concluded abruptly.
Sambu thatha leaned forward.
“Who is the boy?” he asked with brimming eagerness.
“He is my colleague at office, in Delhi.”
Lakshmi Amma’s happy look transformed into a resigned one.
“So, it is not an arranged marriage?” she asked quickly.
“Well, it is..” I paused, “Yes, I did choose him but he is like one of us,” I put it forward politely to her. I didn’t know why I was telling her that but I thought I should and hence I did.
“But..” she shook her head. “There is nothing like your parents seeing somebody for you.”
“Did you match horoscopes?” she shot out.
“Oh.ah..hmm..yes, we did, everything is fine,” I mumbled out owing to lack of preparation.
“But still..”
“Lakshmi, these days kids are very mature. They can handle things very well. I am sure Shailu kutty’s choice must be good,” Sambu thatha spoke reassuringly, patting my head.
“Love marriages are fun in their own way,” he added with a wink.
Lakshmi Amma cast a sharp look that almost silenced him.
“Ennavo ma, pathukko” (Whatever, take care), she said, turning her face towards me. Anxiety was written all over it.
“Lakshmi Amma, everything is fine,” I assured her, gently pressing her hand.
“What is his name?” Sambu thatha’s excitement hadn’t subsided.
“Vasanth, Vasant Chandrashekar”


“So, tell me, how has life been for you all these years?” I asked them.
“just going on. We have only few more years left, all I am praying for is that we should pass away peacefully without troubling anybody,” Lakshmi Amma’s voice was low.
“Enna Lakshmi, you don’t know what to talk,” Sambu thatha intervened.
“Thatha please, let her talk”
“Illai Shailu kut..,” I looked up at Sambu thatha. “Shhh..”
“Lakshmi Amma, what happened?”
Suddenly Lakshmi Amma’s voice mellowed down.
“Nothing. Sometimes it is so tough to live when you grow old,” she looked up and blew her nose.
I took her hand into mine and looked intently at her.”Ennachu?” (what happened?)
“Nothing is particularly wrong Shailu kutty. We have everything that we want. We have this house, we have thatha’s pension as a steady income and we do our pujas and prayers regularly.”
“Hmm…”
“But..” she paused, “Sometimes there is loneliness, a lack of direction in life when you turn around to see that there is no one around to share your happiness. When we fall ill, we have nobody to fall back on. It is true that we have each other to confide things in but I am missing the joy of living together,” By that time, her first tear had already made its way out.

I let her cry. I didn’t assure her, say things would be fine. Sometimes silence and the mere act of listening could heal wounds much more than words of consolation, so did I believe.

“Sambhu thatha, what about Raju anna and Kumar anna? Where are they?”
“They are both in America, all well settled,” he paused. “Raju has two daughters and Kumar has a son. They come to India with their families once in two years.”
“Hmm..”
“Radha is in the U.K. Seeing her has become a rarity too,” continued Lakshmi Amma.
“Sambhu thatha, don’t mind me asking, but didn’t you want to stay with your sons?”
“No,” his voice was fierce this time. “No,” he repeated, relaxing a little bit.
“Kumar didn’t even talk about it, Raju just made a mention. He told us that we could come along if we felt like.” His voice choked.
“What is this, a formality? Why should parents suddenly become strangers and be treated this way?” the question shot out from him, with all the heaviness of a deeply pained heart.
“I refused. I really can’t spend my life in a country that I don’t know. I am too rooted to this place, to leave it behind. Probably, I can’t blame them too. Their lives have taken that course and I can’t stop it. Once Raju had a chance to come back to India for good. I asked him, but..” Silence.
“I think I just have to accept this,” he spoke his heart out. I knew it was frustration that made them talk and not the hate for what their children did.

Lakshmi Amma was silent. “I think when things become unmanageable, we would go to an old age home. I am praying ambaal she doesn’t take us that far.”

That moment, I understood what emotional torture the two went through. Two people, whose love meant so much to me, were caught in the clutches of emotional insecurity and my heart swelled with pity. I cried; cried within.

In the meantime, Lakshmi Amma had moved into the kitchen and come back with a plate of rasam saadham. (Rice with rasam).
“Have this,” she handed the plate to me. I couldn’t remember how many times I had smiled but I did, yet again.

The rasam had not lost its taste and its aroma one bit. It was just the same. Have you ever experienced a sense of travelling back in time, that the five senses can give you? It happened to me this time. I was back to have Lakshmi Amma’s rasam.

“You know, my grandchildren are so naughty,” she said, sounding chirpy again.

“Kumar’s son is so mischievous. Last time that they were here, he suddenly disappeared out of the house. We had such a tough task locating him. He was hiding behind the well, in our neighbour’s backyard,” Sambhu thatha added with great excitement. “These kids, naughty, very naughty.”

And then they spoke about Kumar anna’s wife and how Raju anna’s wife could drive a car. “It seems they don’t wash vessels, nor does a servant maid do it. Looks like there is a machine for all that. Times have changed so much,” she sighed.

I burst out laughing and Sambhu thatha was giggling quietly. The innocence was too sweet, and I knew their hearts were lighter. No qualms, except for those momentary ones, their love and concern for their children and grandchildren was unbiased and absolutely selfless.

By the time we had finished talking about my childhood pranks and everything else, the birds were getting back to their nests and the sky had turned a reddish orange, signaling the arrival of twilight. It was time for me to leave.

“I don’t feel like letting you go, it was so nice talking to you. I didn’t feel the time pass” Lakshmi Amma said looking at me earnestly.
I stood silently.
“You won’t forget us no, after you get married?,” she asked with grave concern in her voice.
“Ayyo, enna idhu Lakshmi Amma, how can I do that?”

“Shailu, forget her, she is like that only,” Sambu thatha chipped in his comment, “May God bless you with a happy and peaceful married life,” he said, placing his hand on my head.
“You should bring Vasanth here, after your marriage,” Lakshmi Amma said. Sambu thatha turned around, taken by surprise with that mocking smile on his face.
“You both should definitely come for the wedding,” I urged. “Please, I will be very happy.”
Lakshmi Amma pressed my hand. “We will try our best, but our blessings are always there.”

As I reached the gate, I turned around, took a look at the aged couple for whom the best gift I had left behind was the smiles on their faces, which they seemed to have forgotten for days together. For me, it was a feeling of satisfaction that I had made a very small difference to the lives of two people, at least for a day. But the bigger loss was, the helpless feeling at not being able to lend a hand further. I waved at them, walked away carrying beautiful memories and also an aching heart.