Radhika's Ramble

Pause - (Short story)

2005-08-03T04:39:00.000-07:00

I am here to sell my house. My mother's house, that is. And no, this is not a piece of sentimental crap where I write about warm fluffy memories of me twirling in slow motion in that house as a little girl. I couldn't care less about selling it. Don't get me wrong. I mean, it was a nice house and I do have some fond memories and all, but I hardly visit the house or even Madurai, the town where I grew up. I haven't seen it in the last ten, twelve years. So the chances of me breaking down crying and kissing the earth are extremely unlikely.

I just want to finish the whole thing. I had that feeling even before spending a sleepless night in the train.

I had postponed it long enough. My brother last week after having gotten to the end of his dither, asked me in his most accusatory tone – “Are you holding out? Do you want a share, Priya?” Of course, I couldn't postpone it any further, after he had impugned me thus. He is in the US and he wasn't amused. I couldn't possibly go off to Madurai in the middle of the week. I know Murphy’s Law, don't I? But after having said that for the past six months, he wasn't willing to buy it any longer.

I get down from the train, my eyes bloodshot, drop my laptop and backpack on the platform and stand there for a moment, my mind going blank.

We hadn't had a single major crisis this week, no deadlines, no upgrades, nothing. This was probably as good as it would get. So there I was, rushing down the steps of the underground platform in Bangalore station, on a Thursday evening. I couldn't believe the awful stink and cracks and trash lining the platform and stupid men who couldn't walk without brushing or hitting me. I had to close my nose with my tissue the whole time. This platform is surprisingly much cleaner. I hadn't expected it.

I didn't get much sleep Wednesday night either. I wanted to make sure things were squared away before I left. The buyer wouldn't sign the papers on a Saturday. Otherwise I could have waited till tomorrow.

I sigh and look at the time. Seven thirty. I could dial Rakesh. Though I doubt they'd have done anything in the last two hours.

It had to happen yesterday. I shudder to think what would have happened if I hadn't called Rakesh before I left yesterday. He wouldn't have checked his mail till later in the night and all hell would have broken loose. Not that it hasn't. I wearily rub my eyes.

I don’t know why my brother couldn't come himself and finish this off. It is his house. I suppose he doesn't really feel like spending 10K dollars on a trip to India now. The house is fetching him 50K dollars. Not bad, considering. I am surprised people are willing to pay that much money to our small house. After mom died a couple of years ago, no one has been in the house. I can't remember if he tried renting it out. He did mention something about clearing off whatever is left there. I’ll probably not have time. I will only have time to go sign the papers, have lunch, pack everything into a giant bin and leave. He said our old maid stays nearby and will know the details. I hope things go smooth.

I try to figure out what my next move is. There are a couple of chauffeurs with placards. My name isn't there.

Someone comes and stands near me. I turn to look at a young man smiling at me. “Yes?” I raise my brows. He is wearing khaki uniform – an auto driver I suppose.

He steps near. “I am Valliamma’s son. Shall we go?” he says in chaste Tamil, bending to pick up my backpack and laptop.

I nod absent mindedly, fiddling with my phone. I could call Naveen instead. Sometimes Raksh is slow, he doesn't understand the urgency. If he had called back in time, I might not have gotten into that train. Wasted precious minutes. System had crashed late yesterday night. We couldn't reproduce the problem. No logs. No workarounds. And this was one of our top clients, likely to bring more projects. That client has always been difficult. And this - right when we are negotiating another project. Last month when I was there, I had been quite aggressive in my claims.

Valliamma’s son asks me to wait near the entrance, and walks off to bring his auto.

I woke up people, asked them to roll back stuff, asked them to relink stuff. Nothing worked. God I spent half the night in various phone calls standing near the door of the compartment yelling on my phone, over the sound of the train on the tracks. There were bins and crates and horrible stench near the door. My mobile connection kept dropping. In the middle of my conference call with our New York client, my phone died. I have two chargers, but there was no connection. I sat there staring intently at the little line on the left. This is my worst nightmare. And I am nowhere near waking up.

“So you please call my son Madam.” I nod hastily, at the man stopping near me, pretending to be busy. This man cornered me between the bathroom and the door in the middle of the night. He had started off sounding sympathetic about me and then proceeded to tell me how his son is looking for a change in his job. It was unnerving to have him stand there watching me while I rattled off on the phone.

I call up Manish. No good news. Still debugging. Only good news is Ravi is now in client site. Stroke of luck he was in the vicinity. He is good.

A car glides near me and come to a gentle stop. The driver gets down and opens the door for me. Thank god, its a car. My laptop and backpack are neatly stowed in the back.

My head is pounding. We ease into the traffic. Gentle breeze flows from the half unrolled front windows. This car has a nice, fresh smell, unlike those cheap perfumes that taxis seem to stock. I recline a bit.

Kattabomman is still standing in the same place. Yellow auto rickshaws still defy traffic rules. Huge hoardings still line the main street. This town hasn't changed at all. Everything seems to be immersed in layers of dust. I watch the ubiquitous men in folded white dhotis, with a strange feeling of time travel. How provincial.

“Sir didn't come?” the driver asks, jerking me out of my reverie. I crease my brows trying to get the context. “Huh?”

“I was asking if your husband didn't accompany you?” he repeats slightly turning.

Oh great. I am expected to hold a conversation with him. Cant he see I am alone? Of course my husband didn't accompany me. “No, he didn't.”

Mercifully, Valliamma’s son decides to leave me alone. I knead my forehead. I am expecting a raise and a promotion. This couldn't have come in a bad time. There is no way I could have predicted it. It maybe a good idea to call my boss. The man didn't remember I was going on vacation today. I had been telling him about it for weeks.

“Would you like some coffee?” the driver asks me, slowing down near a wayside coffee shop. I shudder at the filth and say, “No, let us go home.”

I call up my boss. I can't believe he is asking me to send a detailed mail. “Priya a mail from you detailing what we are doing, how we are approaching the problem would go a long way.”

“Is there a browsing center near by?” I ask the driver.

“Yes, but they wont be open now,” he responds. The car stops. I notice with surprise that we are home. The house looks so dilapidated.

“I have to go to a browsing center,” I repeat, sitting still in the car.

“Yes, I’ll take you. But it wont be open now,” he says slowly. He makes his tone sound reasonable as though he is talking to a petulant child. I glare at him. I should ask him to get back and drive. I get down anyway. He must be right. At least they have something called Internet.

“How are you dear?”, an old lady opens the door and comes running towards me. I realize its Valliamma, our maid. A stray dog wags its tail standing next to her son.

“Valliamma!”, I exclaim. “How are you?” She holds my hand grinning so happily, I am slightly embarrassed. Her son gives her an indulgent look and grins at me stupidly. What's with them?

“Come in, come in,” she pulls me inside. “Do you stay here?” I ask her, eyeing the hut in the back.

“Yes. We have been here for the past seven years. You never came here after going off for studies abroad,” she says, her tone accusing. I shrug and mumble something about time. Well it is true! I hardly have time for courtesy visits. I value my time too much. Mom and my brother visited often enough anyway.

The rooms are empty. It has the stuffy smell of closed spaces, still lingering a bit despite the open windows. “Kumar cleaned this room yesterday, for you,” she says. It's clean but bare. I realize belatedly the mistake of not booking a room in a good hotel.

I look at everything doubtfully. Valliamma is chattering away. I hardly catch a word or two. She is saying now that she would go and get me a cup of coffee. My head is pounding. I blindly nod. Kumar is nowhere in sight. I walk up to the backyard and sit on the steps with my hands on my head. I have to check my mail. This is nuts. I get up to see Kumar crouching and coming out of their hut.

He looks at me and then says – “Our neighbor has internet. Shall I ask him?”

I am torn. Can I just walk into a stranger’s house and ask to use their Internet? I just need to send that one mail. I am wrestling with the idea when the said neighbor appears as if on cue across the compound wall.

“Kumar, aunty wants to go for a wedding at one. Can you come?”

“I cant but I will have someone come and pick her up, Sir” he responds.

“Why?”

“Madam has come,” responds Kumar. The neighbor looks at me and gives me a full toothed artificial grin. “Heheheh. I didn't notice you. I heard that you were coming. How long are you staying?”

“Just today”

“Oh, very short trip,” he grins again. “If you need anything please ask,” he says.

I look at Kumar. He is looking at me calmly as if to tell me it’s my decision. I almost make up my mind to ask him, when he says, “My daughter is also studying computer science.”

I get up immediately, not wanting another resume thrust on me, with a polite ‘thank you.’ I turn to ask Kumar when we should go to the registration office and find him watching me. I can’t place the expression on his face – except that it disturbs me.

I lay on my back on the bare floor my mind abuzz with worries. Oh I could call Arvind I realize. I call my husband ask him to log into my email system and have him send an email. I dictate to him what needs to be sent and who to send it to. He grudgingly does it. Apparently he had an equally bad night. When I asked him to start reading more emails, he refuses. I put the phone down in a huff.

Valliamma walks in with a cup in her hand. “Kumar got coffee for you,” she says.

Strong, soothing. I take a few sips in silence. Valliamma looks old. She must be in her forties or early fifties. “How old is Kumar? Is he the last?” I ask her.

“Yes. Kumar is twenty one. Neela, Saroja and Savithri are all married and they have children,” she says.

It can’t have crashed. I took every step according to the book. I couldn’t possibly have failed. What did I not do? Ben would have a field day with this. He has been gunning for me for a really long time. I vaguely register Valliamma is chattering. She is talking about Kumar – something about what a great son he is. I vaguely smile at her.

“I better take bath,” I get up. Bathrooms are outside in these old fashioned houses. I pick up my backpack and walk out. Thankfully it’s clean.

“Pipes won’t work. We don’t have the motor to pump water,” Kumar says carrying huge buckets of water. He deposits them on the bathroom floor.

“Isn’t there hot water?” I ask. He looks at me surprised. “I have a bad back. I need hot water,” I respond coolly. Who is he to judge me? Hot water is not a luxury. He nods his head. Just says “Five minutes,” and then leaves me standing there.

I watch him resentfully, as he gathers some logs piled up in a corner and brings it to a brick stove. He whistles softly as he prepares to boil the water. He is tall and lanky and looks his age. Except when he looks straight at you. He has this expression that belies his age, I realize. He continues his humming and sets about his task in a relaxed manner. He doesn’t seem to care that I am waiting.

“You didn’t study?” I ask him curiously.

He turns, smiles and says, “I didn’t go to college,” I wonder if his rephrasing was intentional.

“Why not?”

“I didn’t think there was anything there for me to learn”

“What crap,” I say bluntly. “Don’t get carried away by those trade union talks. I went to a good college. See where I am,” I feel compelled to point out.

He laughs. “Trade unions don’t advise that. Anyway I do agree in general.” I don’t usually get into such arguments. I think his condescension is rattling me. I should be the one who should feel superior. He must be either foolish or lazy or both and just pretending to talk things he doesn’t understand. I flip my head to stare at the walls.

He stands there for a few moments calmly, “I think you misunderstand me. I didn’t say anything about college education in general. For my circumstances I felt this choice was better,” he said his voice placating. I nod my head, depite my intention to make it gracious, I am afraid it came off curt.

Not that he is perturbed by it. His whistling resumes. He feeds more logs and watches to keep a steady flame going. He plays with the stray dog in between, letting it climb on him.

Valliamma brings a basket of flowers. “You have cut off your hair, otherwise I could have made you a nice string of flowers,” she says. I shrug.

When the water finishes boiling, he deposits that too inside the bathroom. “I have my regular trips for the morning. I’ll be back in twenty minutes. Shall I bring you breakfast,” he asks. I nod my head.

He walks off, his hands in his pocket, a spring to his feet.

The hot water is so soothing. I take a leisurely bath and then get ready. My headache is much better. My eyes are puffy, begging to sleep.

Valliamma is sitting there stringing the flowers still. I sit on the stone we used for washing clothes.

I hear the whistle before he comes in.

“Breakfast is ready,” he announces. He proceeds to get a clean plate from inside the hut, arranges the idlis and the chutney artfully and hands it to me.

“How about you?” I ask as the warm food glides into my throat. “We have had our koozh. Would you like some coconut juice?” he asks, picking up the green coconuts heaped near the compound wall. I nod my acquiescence.

“From your own tree,” he says waving his hand at the row of coconuts and proceeds to cut it deftly. He pours it in a glass and keeps it near a short bench.

He then waits for me. The air of relaxed atmosphere around him is unmistakable. He gathers the coconut pieces, drops it in a bin and then sits in a coir cot, swinging his foot. He must have got something for the dog. It’s eating in a corner, leaving me alone.

“Do you still work? What do you do?” I ask Valliamma.

“No dear, I haven’t been working since Kumar started his driving. I make the koozh, then string some flowers and take it to the temple. I spend some time there, and then come back. Kumar comes around mid-day, helps me cook some simple lunch. We eat and then after he leaves I sleep for sometime. I go to the temple again in the evening, and then he comes there in the night and brings me home. He buys some food for us outside. He reads me some stories from the paper in the night,” she elaborates.

“Looks like you fool around all day,” I tell Kumar trying to make it a joke. He doesn’t seem offended. He just smiles. Valliamma protests. “Oh no, he works very hard. He has repaid the loan and owns his auto,” she says proudly.

“Why don’t you get another loan and buy a second auto then? You can expand, rent it out,” I ask him.

He shrugs. “I am not in any hurry,” he says, smiling. His smiles are disturbing. It is a superior smile, I think resentfully. And he has no business smiling that smile.

“Shall we go?” I ask, getting down abruptly. I don’t have time to chat with him all day. I have things to do. He nods, gets the empty plate from me, carefully washes it and stows it, while I wait impatiently.

We start off to the registrar office. I debate whether to call Ravi or not. I decide to call him. He answers brightly enough, considering it is one o clock in the night for him. Gives me some confidence. He says he has sent me some stack trace he could obtain. He also tells me his theory. It sounds promising. I give him some alternative ideas.

I call Rakesh and ask him to be ready to take over in case Ravi wants to take a break. I look out, my mind busy. I try to think of possible things that could have gone wrong, possible things to look for. The car stops. We are there.

The man who is buying the house has come by with a bunch of people. I confirm my power of attorney, and show him the documents I had brought along. We wait in a dreary room with high ceiling, old-fashioned fans and tube lights. There are so many people around. It’s stuffy. They all stare at me.

My boss calls. Apparently they want more details. Please take care of it Priya. Bah! Arvind is not at home. I sit worried and impatient about the email.

We finish the registration and then start off.

The car stops within five minutes near a hotel. I look up annoyed. Kumar smiles and points out. An Internet browsing center.

I rush in, grinning. I had to waste some time in setup, but within a half hour, I am happily connected. I get lost amidst my debug window, email software and my IM windows. Its frustratingly slow but atleast I have a feeling of control. I can see whats going on.

I am surprised when I hear Kumar’s voice. “Madam, its time for your train.”

I get up, atleast we now know what the problem is. We have a few possible fixes too. I sigh, pay the man money and walk over to the car.

“You didn’t have lunch, so I got you something. You could maybe have it in the train,” He hands me a plastic bag. “I can work without food or sleep for hours together,” I tell him proudly.

He looks up, nods his head and gets in. “Were you waiting the whole afternoon?” I ask surveying the packet.

“No, I waited till you said you were finally connected. I didn’t think you were going to come out soon,” he grins cheekily. “I called the owner from time to time, that’s it.”

Not a bad day after all. The streetlights are not on yet. We reach the station in silence.

“Whats the coach number?”, he asks. “It was in waitlist, so I dont know,” I shrug.

Kumar stops. “Waiting list?” he asks in surprise.

“Yeah. But this is Friday; no one travels from Madurai to Bangalore. My onward was also waitlist 20 or something. This is 10. I am sure I got RAC,” I tell him.

“There is a political conference in Erode tomorrow. We’ll see,” he says non-comittally.

I begin to panic. “Wait a second, I have to be there tomorrow. We will have conf-calls for analyzing the issue,” my voice reverberates.

“I thought Saturday was a holiday?” Kumar queries casually..

“Yes, but I work on Saturdays if I have to. Listen, this is important, I have to be there, okay?” I tell him impatiently.

He nods his head but I am sure he doesn’t understand. How would he? I wait tapping my foot. He comes back, shaking his head. “No its still waitlist ten,” he says.

I spend the next one-hour trying to talk to the Ticket collector about the emergency. Nothing works. Kumar isn’t helping. He just trails me, carrying my luggage without a word. He just stands there watching everything around him like its all a big circus.

“Get me a seat in the unreserved compartment,” I hiss angrily at him.

He looks at me surprised. He walks off obediently. I don’t have much hope. He comes back empty handed. Train leaves and we go back to the car. I insist against his advice that we check the buses. Bus stand is horrible. Its windy and the recent rains had left a big mess on its wake. I don’t want to get down. He goes inquiring. I don’t think he tries hard, so I get down. But nothing works.

He starts the car, “Shall we try the lorries?” he asks, laughter lining his words.

I glare at him. “You wouldn’t know what it means to have big responsibility. I take things seriously and I want to make a mark, not fool around,” I respond nastily, taking my frustration out on him, immediately regretting my words. I don’t know why I am so angry with him. I look at his face, biting my lips.

He turns and says calmly, “I am sorry, I didn’t mean to offend you,” I feel bad that he said sorry, before me.

“Shall we go home?”, he asks. I nod to assuage the situation and I curse myself for agreeing. But I feel awkward to insist I want to check into a hotel. Besides I have to pack the stuff, I remember. The keys will have to be handed off in two days. We go home.

We spend the next couple of hours packing whatever is left.

He packs, whistling. I just sit, watching.

He insists that I should eat. He stacks the books neatly, saying he can give it to someone. He collects all the photos and offers to mail it to my brother. I shrug. I am not too sentimental about such things. I don’t want a picture of my uncle twice removed. He collects the odds and ends, and within a couple of hours we are done.

It’s dark. An incandescent bulb tries to chase away the darkness.

He brings in his coir cot, some blankets and pillow. He smiles and holds it up. “Clean!” I smile gratefully. He sets it up, neat and precise. He positions a table fan. He surveys what he has done. “Go to sleep madam, you have had a long day. I will go and pick up amma,” he says picking up the trash. I feel like a slob. I insist on cleaning up. He smiles, wishes me good night and leaves.

I lie down, unable to sleep. It’s just eight. I call up Rakesh. Ravi has left to take a much deserved break. Looks like the fix may work. I pull up my ipod and decide to listen to some long pending meeting recordings.

I finish up my water bottle. I get up and stare outside the window. It’s dark and quiet. It’s about eleven. They must have returned. I am thirsty. I try to sleep. I cant as usual. I usually read till one or so. But I hadnt brought any books with me. I toss and turn worrying about what the Vice-President would say in tomorrow’s meeting. I work so hard, but sometimes the politics is too much. I’d have to butter up to Ben. Mobile beeps. SMS. Ravi says he is back at work. And that they are ready to apply the fix. I get up.

I walk out to the bathroom, taking care not to make any noise. Everything is drenched in soft moonlight. The hut is silent. The dog looks up and then goes back to sleep. They must be sleeping. I return hoping he would be awake. I could ask him for water. I can see someone sleeping in the front, near the stone. It’s him. Can I wake him? I am feeling very thirsty. I whisper his name. He is sound asleep. I walk noisily near him. No movement. Is he pretending? I bend down and call a little bit louder. Absolutely no reaction. I shake his shoulders, forcefully. He raises his head from the pillow and asks groggily, “Ennakka?” He thinks I am one of his sisters.

“Kumar!” I insist.

He is awake now. He drags his hand on his eyes. “You need something Madam?”

“Water,” I tell him. “Shops won’t be open,” he remarks. “Give me the water from home,” I ask him.

He nods his head and brings a jug of water. I drink greedily. “It’s boiled,” he reassures me, smiling.

His eyes are so luminous. His smile is so serene. I finish drinking. I want to sit and talk to him. I want to tell him how I work so hard, 13-14 hours a day to get where I want to go, how I want to be a Vice president before I am thirty, how I want to be rated outstanding, about my impending promotion.

“You sleep like the dead,” I say instead in an accusatory voice.

“Yes. I do,” he responds proudly.

The breeze from the trees ruffles our hair.

“Look at the moon,” I point wistfully. “It is so bright”

“Yeah, just a day after full moon,” he says, looking up. I stand there not saying anything. He too stands, calm and quiet.

I whisper good night and walk back. He nods and goes back to sleep. I go back, message Ravi to keep me informed and lie down on my bed.

I must have gone to sleep very late. When I woke up sunlight was streaming through the windows.

Valliamma is stringing her flowers. I go and sit on the stone wiping the water off my face. She hands off a mug of coffee. “Kumar got it in a flask and asked me to give you when you woke up. He has gone for his morning regular pickups,” she says. “He leaves at 7:30 and comes back by 9:00 to drink his koozh”.

I sip my coffee. The breeze is so balming. There are coconut trees, a drumstick tree, guava trees, and even a badam tree. They stand in a neat row, water paths set around them. Fallen coconut leaves are stacked in a corner. They probably use it for logs. There are tulsi and curry plants. Maybe some vegetables too. I see the hot water for my bath, simmering on the stove.

I finish my bath and collect all my things. I have a few messages on my mobile. The system is back up. The meeting is at four in the afternoon. I note down some points that I should bring up.

I hear the whistle before he appears. He saunters in, a happy smile in his face, hands in his pocket. He wishes me good morning. “Breakfast,” he announces brightly. Sets it up and serves. They drink their koozh while I eat.

“Why didn’t you get this for yourself too?” I ask.

“I like koozh,” he says simply.

“I have to book my tickets and then go to the browsing center,” I tell him. He nods his head; “I can book the ticket for you. But can you wait I have to water the plants, It will take only 15 minutes,” he says.

I agree. He pumps water from the old fashioned hand pump, his hands working vigorously on the handle. Then he starts watering. He does this repeatedly. He moves on next to the side of the house. I follow him and my breath catches. The flowering plants - Hibiscus, Jasmine, Pavalamalli, Nandiyavattai, so many. I don’t remember these plants. They must have planted it.

“You want to help?” He asks. I nod my head. We work in companiable silence. The flowers sway in the gentle breeze giving a happy impression. The perfume is intoxicating. “Valliamma doesn’t pluck all the flowers?” I ask.

“No, She makes a small garland for the deity. Sometimes the neighbor’s daughters come and pluck. Otherwise I just let it be”

“Now I know why you are so devoted,” I smile impishly.

He grins, wiggling his brows dramatically. Pavalamalli flowers have dropped on the ground making a pretty carpet. “It is nice to lie down here and watch the flowers fall,” he says.

“Maybe the new owner will let you stay”

“No, he is leasing it to a grocery chain,” he says, matter of fact. I stare at him, watering the plants, still whistling.

“They will cut off these,” I say tortuously.

“Yes,” he pauses.

“I am sorry”, I say in a small voice.

He turns and looks, seeming somewhat surprised.

“We had to sell. We hardly come here,” I say defensively.

“Ofcourse” he nods his head.

“Where will you go?”

“I have found a place. It’s a little far. It’s an empty plot; the owner wants a caretaker for sometime. It suits me,” he says.

I pick up the Pavalamalli flowers on the ground. “This is your routine?”

“Yes. I go to a stand and wait after this for rides. I come back home for lunch and then go to the station. There are a few afternoon trains. Regular pickups again after that. There is an old professor who worked in shanthiniketan. He is retired now. I attend to him later in the afternoon.”

“Attend to him?”

“Take him wherever he wants to. I read books for him. His eyesight is failing. Then go back to the stand again. He influences me a lot”

Misguiding him more like it.

“How much money you make?” I ask him.

“I make between four to five thousand rupees a month. I have regular services that gets me two thousand and the rest is variable,” he says.

“Lot of school children dumped together, that sort of thing?” I ask him.

“Ofcourse not. I don’t take more than four small kids at a time,” he responds seriously.

“You seem smart. Why don’t you do something?” I ask him. He shrugs, “I am doing something. I own my auto. I can take care of my mom, get her good medicine”

“But these are very small. What are your plans? I mean where do you want to be? Tomorrow, five years from now? Don’t you want to stop driving ”

He laughs, “You are too smart and educated and you ask tough questions for an ordinary man like me to answer”

I hesitate. Somehow I get the feeling that he is saying it to shut my mouth. “Let us go,” he says, shrugging the excess water off his hands.

“Whose car is this?” I ask settling down. “I borrowed it for the weekend, for you,” he responds. His auto stands near the gate clean and shining under the morning rays.

“I’ll wait while you book the tickets” I tell him. He parks the car near a shady tree, urges me to keep my door open for air. Starts off and then comes back smiling, “I’ll play some music,” he says starts a tape and walks off with sure strides, hands in his pockets. Violins play soft music. I just sit there. The breeze from the banyan tree is soothing.

I call Arvind. He is busy. He asks me to take care. I send a text message to Ravi to keep me informed.

Kumar is back waving my ticket like a trophy. “RAC 3, but it will get confirmed,” he says.

“Kumar, will the temple be open?” I ask him. He nods his head, checking the time. I ask him to go there. He stops his vehicle for me to get down near the main gopuram. “Don’t go off like yesterday. Wait here,” I chide him jokingly.

He nods his head smiling. I wander inside the temple. Its dusty, no one seems to care. The huge buildings near it spoil the beauty, I realize. I quickly finish the sanctum and dwell on the artha mandapam. The sculptures are beautiful. How can stone be so expressive? The lips, the eyes, even the nails. Such attention to perfection and detail. How long would it take to master an art like this? I remember the paths better than I expected.

I am hungry. It’s already one, I note with surprise. There are no messages. I come out and spot the car. Kumar is sitting inside reading some book. “What book is it?” I ask. “It’s a book by La.sa.ra,” he says. I nod my head absent-mindedly.

“I am hungry,” I say.

“There is a good hotel nearby,” he starts the car. “Would you give me company?” I ask. He hesitates. “People would stare,” he points out.

“Never mind, just pack some lunch, let’s go home,” I respond.

If he is surprised, he doesn’t show. We get food and go home. I ask Valliamma and Kumar to join me, ashamed I hadn’t insisted before. We sit beneath the badam tree. Kumar spreads some newspapers and sets everything up. We eat slowly. They eat off a makeshift plate of badam leaves stitched together. Valliamma chats happlily about her family, her daughters, and the old neighbours. She praises Kumar ofcourse, what a wonderful boy he is. How he is so responsible, helpful etc. etc. He grins unabashed. She says how she is planning to marry off Kumar to one of her grand daughters. A very pretty girl who is going to school. He smiles at me, his eyes twinkling.

I sigh deeply, my stomach heavy with a full meal. Its time for my call. Since it was quiet enough, I join the call sitting on the washing stone.

Dan starts off demanding reasons. I am strangely not too perturbed. I explain the reasons, how we are planning to tackle it etc. It must be the full stomach and the breeze and the afternoon sun brightening the backyard. I don’t respond to his jibes and provocations. The call finishes quicker than expected. Valliamma is reclining. Kumar must have gone off for his afternoon shift. I lie down in the cot that is out now. I close my eyes.

I wake up to Valliamma calling my name. It’s almost six, I should get ready for my train. I wash my face. My things are packed anyway.

Kumar comes in shortly. He has brought coffee. He hands me a neat packet for my dinner. Picking up my stuff, he strolls off to the car, whistling as usual.

I sit in the front, watching him drive.

“No one I know whistle constantly like you do”

“So sad,” he grins.

“Don’t you have any ambition? Don’t you want to be somebody, do something?”

He is quiet, as though weighing my question. He shrugs, “Its not a driving need for me”

“Ambition isnt a bad thing you know,” I tell him.

“Contentment isnt a bad thing you know,” he mimics me. His smile takes the bite out of his imitation.

We get down. I thrust some money into his hands, “I might forget in my hurry,” I say lamely.

“Its thrice what you owe me,” he points out.

“I am very aware of your righteousness, dammit. Take the money,” I growl.

He smiles his same serene smile and pockets it in.

“What are you the buddha?” I ask.

“You are too difficult to please,” he laughs.

We wait in the platform. It’s relatively clean and quiet. They have announcement displays for each platform I notice.

“You should go to to Kutrallam for the season with your husband,” he remarks.

“What are you now, a marriage counsellor?” I snap, then shift uneasily at my outburst. He doesn’t. “I hardly have time,” I mumble.

“On weekends?”

“I have classes. Sometimes I have to work. Its ages since I took holidays,” I say.

“There is a fundamental problem then,” he observes.

“Okay Marx, you think about how to fix it”

“I didn’t mean the system. I meant you,” he says. And then apologizes. It is a very bold statement coming from him. He must have realized it. “I didn’t mean to sound like that. You seemed like you would like a vacation but have not been able to do so,” he explains.

I shrug. “Vacations are over-rated,” I gaze at him. “You know you are smart. You should be more of a go-getter. I think you are a waste”

“But you don’t think I am a fool,” he smiles. “Not anymore,” he observes. I stare at him. He looks at me directly, without any hesitation. I sigh.

I stare aimelessly at the roof, at the quickly changing displays, the parcels. I’ll probably not have any reason to visit Madurai anymore. Valiammal, her son, her daughters. I vaguely remember her daughters, about my age coming to our house. Her son..

“I remember you,” I exclaim. He looks confused.

“I remember you, you used to come to our house with your mom. When you were little. You used to suck your thumb constantly. You wouldn’t speak much.” His smile is brilliant. “You still don’t speak much”

He seems very happy.

“You used to call me akka and used to follow me around,” I say remembering the little boy, playing quietly while his mom did the dishes. The little boy who would stare at me wide-eyed, following me while I played with my friends.

“And you used to share all your treats – fruits, chocolates, snacks with me,” he says, his voice soft. I feel gratefull for his words.

“You must have been angry I didn’t remember you”

“Not at all”

“Hurt and disappointed?”

“No..no.. ," he says gallantly.

“I am sorry,” I say in a small voice.

“Its okay,” he says. His voice is gentle. He seems wise beyond his years.

Train rolls in. He deposits my bags under the seat. I give him my card. I don’t think he will ever call me. He says bye, says that it was nice meeting me and gets off.

The windows are dark, I can’t see him. He must be walking back, a spring to his feet, his hands thrust deep in his pockets, whistling a tune.

I sit back, close my eyes and let the sounds of the train wash over me.

Maid Saga

2005-07-14T05:40:00.000-07:00

I am quite sure that you, good reader, have no other job but to read about my travails with maid-servants. After much deliberation, finally subscribing to the school of thought that there is nothing really wrong with employing a maid as long as one treats her with dignity, and that by doing so I am instrumental in one more woman financially independent, after moving to my apartment in Bangalore, I made the monumental decision to employ a maid.

As soon as I landed, probably prompted by what I call the idealistic halo and what they call the circle of gullibility around my face, my friends warned me to be careful with maids, and how if I dont they will clean me out. My zeal fueled and fed by all the books and papers I have read about lofty things like human rights, treatment of the poor, not lessened by these lectures, I promptly employed a maid, gave her work assignments and outlined compensation plans with the enthusiasm and vigor only a first time employer would and could have.

A well dressed young mother of one, she was quite all right. I was satisfied with the work she did and we even began to enjoy a little bit of chat about this and that during the coffee and an occasional breakfast we shared. And I was about ready to open my laptop and blast off a blog or two about my success.

Thats when she got work at another house. Now she had to juggle the two and probably realizing I would be more easy to manage, she was repeatedly late and couldnt finish before I left for work. She couldnt come in the evening of course, since it became dark and her husband, that drunken good for nothing fellow, didnt like it. Then there were incidents she told me about how her mother in law abuses her and how her husband beats her. My neighbor kindly informed me how I was being fooled and despite an uneasy feeling that maybe I was being conned, I couldnt bring myself to fire her, for the fear of what if it were all true.

After she played truant for many more days, having had enough of the piled up dishes and dust, egged on by the uniform theme on the advises I got, I gave her an ultimatum. Show up on time or stop coming altogether.

She promptly stated that she was going on a pilgrimage the next day but not to worry, her sister will be coming to work for me. This was delivered with such smoothness that would shame Mark Antony that I found myself nodding my head quite dumbly.

The fun really started now. The sister, came accompanied with her mother-in-law, who sat in the hall like a matriarch you see in those over-acted movies, drinking the cup of coffee I offered with relish and commenting on this an that. For a few days there, it became hazy whose mother in law she was. She also had this peculiar habit of standing in front of the mirror, preening. I had to tell her everday, that yes she had to clean every room, every dish. And, oh, I forget, they both had this habit of ringing the bell continuously, first thing in the morning till I opened the door.

Dear reader , I am sure you would agree that that was enough to show what a tolerant and gentle human being Iam. Anyway, I fired her when after a week, I found heropening the closet.

So there I was dejected by these encounters with maids, starting to do the few dishes and dusting myself, chanting all the time, it was a wonderfull exercise after all.

A few days later another lady, having realized that I didnt have a maid, came by to ask me if she could render her services. I agreed, quite reluctantly I must say. But there was something about the wisdom in her face that I liked. What a difference! she and her daughter share the work. They are thorough professionals - they dont waste time, nor do they make me repeat any request.

One day last week, she cleaned a particularly dirty patio, without me having asked for it. Here was the devotion, dedication that I was looking for. Here was the meaning of the phrase your work is your god. Overjoyed, I gave her a decent extra sweater I had.

The next day morning, she handed me a strand of kanakambaram flowers that one puts on ones hair, that she must have bought, stopping a few moments in her haste, probably even walking a bit more than usual, remembering me that morning despite the physically tiring day she must have had before. Touched by this simple, sensitive gesture of thanks, I wore those cheap looking, drab flowers as what they really were - a prized trophy - the rest of the day.

There may be days when we may get angry or unhappy or unsatisfied with each other, but those flowers will always be tucked away in my memory.

Temple Again

2005-07-14T05:37:00.000-07:00

No doubt due to the corrosion caused by the western influence, as someone I know would say, only after having met with all my friends and relatives did I realize that I ought to pay a visit to goddess Meenakshi, when I visited Madurai last. There I was, enjoying my morning coffee without a care in the world, when one of the countless acquaintances, with the liberty of having seen me since I was a kid, pointed out in the most accusatory and incredulous tone that I hadn't yet gone to the temple.

So, that auspicious day, though I didn't know that at the time and would have postponed it otherwise, with two toddlers in tow, we set off to the temple. We crossed the grand threshold happily enough, joining all the people milling about, chanting and chatting - me pointing out the wonderful sculptures, the kids getting a thump on their heads by the cute little elephant, oh it was all very merry. The first sign of things to come was the wedding parties around the holy pool, but I missed it completely. I was still smiling happily as I turned around, stood in a queue, another sign I missed, and got the tickets, and only when we entered the sanctum and encountered a mass of heads, did it dawn upon me what it meant to visit Goddess Meenakshi on an auspicious day.

Mind you, I am not new to crowds, but this was the mother of all crowds. There was absolutely no space and the sanctum was filled with people. One moment we were standing there mouth agape and the next we were going with the flow, so to speak, strange elbows nudging us, strange voices booming all around us. With enormous effort I broke away from the general direction the crowd was moving and came to the special queue for the ticket holders. My uncle murmured in a low voice that if I was willing to grease some palms, we could move ahead through the wicket gate. I, though not promptly, disagreed and declined to this blatant, though wise in retrospect, idea and joined the long queue. This was a hot day and the fans mounted on the walls were of little use. We fashioned some hand fans out of the odds and ends we had and tried to keep the kids busy as we waited.

We stood and stood as the queue inched at asnail's pace, all the while watching the wicket gate being opened with dexterity allowing herds of people into the sanctum sanctorium. The noise, a meaningless jumble of a thousand words, echoing on the dark stone walls, the draining heat and the dim light bulbs were all getting to us now. The kids were beginning to get uneasy, we were sweating at a rate of fast approaching dehydration, beginning to get hungry and thoroughly disgruntled and our tolerance was fast evaporating. The fates of those who hadn't bought the special tickets were even worse. Farther away from the special queue, this other crowd was getting bigger and more unforgiving by the minute and they were being pushed and pulled as they struggled to get a glimpse of Her. By the time we crossed the gate and entered the inner sanctum, I was beginning to seriously doubt the purpose of my presence there. Where was the peace and serenity that I was expecting?

The inner sanctum was another story. Some wise guy had deemed that those with the special tickets deserved to sit in the small chamber in front of the deity for a few minutes. Now there was already enormous traffic, those entering into the chamber, the priests and the assorted staff regulating the flow. To top it, the good people in the chamber hardly seemed satisfied with the opportunity given to them and were sitting rooted to their spots or worse, upon entreated to leave, were standing right there, blocking the view of the less unfortunate ticket less mass of people, who could hardly stand let alone sit, passing by beyond the chamber straining to see the deity. The priests vying to get our attention, the incessant monotonous chanting with no depth to it, the police woman desperately cursing to get the attention of the blockers, the faceless crowd with a thousand folded hands moving like an automaton, crying for help.. I felt suffocated, even guilty and need to run away from there arose from the middle of my being, constricting my throat. With barely a glimpse at the deity I rushed out at the first opportunity gasping for breath and as soon as my family joined me, we all trudged out without a word. I knew I couldn't really blame anybody there but I felt like bursting into tears.

As I walked around a huge pillar, disillusioned, a strange despair filling my heart, a wave of fresh air wrapped around me in a gentle caress. And I noticed him. An old man, doing his hereditary job, shirtless, his bones sticking out of his bare chest was swaying his fan , fashioned of peacock feathers, seemingly heavier than his thin frame, with all his might, unmindful of the heat and the sweat and the waves of uncaring devotees walking past him, with a certain soul shaking single minded devotion. With a muffled sob, I pressed some money into his rough, ancient hands. Without a word, he swept the fan of feathers and for a few brief moments let it touch my head and fill my parched heart, in a gesture of tranquility and benediction.

Temple

2005-07-14T05:36:00.001-07:00

Went to the Concord Murugan temple past weekend. Murugan was having one of his grand showers with milk, buttermilk and honey and albeit a little itch in my heart about the waste it was a pretty sight as films of whites, yellows and browns cascaded on the luminous black stone. There was a thin crowd, a few seemingly regular visitors sitting mesmerised watching and listening to the intonations of the nasal chanting . The priest did an elaborate abhishekam, then had the screen for an interminably long time for the alankaram and then did more puja before he finally showed the arathi - reasons I can think of a) he took his job very seriously, b) he didnt want to let go of the precious weekend crowd, c) My degeneration is complete with the expectation of a fast food version of pujas. It was very soothing to hear a tamil song and the bespectacled gentleman did carry the tune well. I idly wondered if the priest was thinking about that temple back home, with people thronging in the weekends and on special days, with the fragrance of fresh flowers and the noise and of course the paltry pay.

Someone I know, just returned from Israel. So I braced myself to the mandatory photo viewing session. But she is a different kind of person, not one of those who completely loose perspective and go berserk whenever they are behind a lens, and so I knew this was not going to be one of those ordeals - this is me in front of the best cafe in town, this is my husband in front of the same cafe, this is the two of us in front of the cafe... And I was in for a pleasent surprise. She had a whole collection of pictures of doors. I know some of you are shaking your heads - 'and you call that a pleasent surprise?'. But believe me, these doors were exquisite, vibrant, so colorful with so much character. These were doors from ordinary houses all over old jerusalem. I was telling her about the intricate, sculpted wooden doors in our temples. I was so door conscious for a week.

A very hot monday morning, really bad traffic, drivers honking away madly, and then everyone stops even though it is green for a few silent inward moments as three serene ducks in the right order of height saunters across the road. Then yet another day of bugs and endless meetings and the mad rush for the release and then among the dismal emails is an email from a friend with a link to a favourite song of the forgotten days. Thank God for those timely reminders.

Friends

2005-07-14T05:36:00.000-07:00

I still remember seeing her for the first time, beyond the glass panes, on a lazy afternoon, gazing wonderingly at us. A school girl barely into her teens, with two long braids, looking very conscious, she immediately caught my attention. I was very much surprised when after browsing for a little while she chose to go home with me. So, she thought she could understand me. I found out later that day that she already had a small but interesting collection. We were all clumped together, in a wooden shelf and since I never had any interest in playing with my mates, I was content in observing her and her family and friends.

It was pretty obvious she loved us all, well some perhaps a little more than the others. She would make a beeline for us as soon as she came back from school, and having flung her bag in some corner, pick up a couple of us and retire into that oversized chair that was her favourite, and stay in the patio till the late afternoon faded into dusk and till her mother came back from work, and forcefully made her get up and eat something. I have seen that dreamy look in her eyes so often that I have wondered if she was seeing the words or some miniature figures enacting something for her on the white pages. The summer holidays were both happy and tiresome times for us. She would cover us and re-cover us, sometime with brown paper, sometime with a color paper according to the subject and then we would get numbers stuck to us according to authors. She would torture us to so much of disorganizing in those early days. She would throw us all down from the shelf, clean the shelf and start picking us up one after the other. Then after putting back about a third she would decide to give in to the temptation of reading just one book. And soon it will be late evening and upon hearing her father's return she would shove us under the cot and leave us there through the night. Sometimes she would read us with a torch light in the night with her blanket covering us.

We were proud of our influence on her thoughts and deeds and we loved her so much. Then came the time when she got into lots of fights with her mom over us. As soon as she came back from school, she would pick one of us and carry with her all the time. Her grandma's endearments would go into deaf ears. Where do you think I got that stain on my back from? From drops of rasam she spilled on me while eating. Her habits really annoyed and worried her mother, oh I remember the day her mom pulled a sujatha from her hands and flung him across the room. The poor chap still has a dislodged back. And the Ee.Pa her teacher confiscated. And the day her grandma hid the keys from her. Thrilling times indeed.

Pretty soon she had her own tastes and individuality. She would wear those glasses and a long shoulder bag and talk of her opinion on this and that. But to me she was always that little girl. I remember the times she started bringing the psychology books. Freud was beginning to make us all nervous, thankfully she didnt fall much for him. She couldnt fit us in a couple of shelves anymore. And what a varied lot we were now. There are some scintillating poetries (I dont like them, they made her cry), some boring historic accounts, those mythical guys who talked about ancient greece and egypt and india,some religious folks, oh the whole nine yards. I remember the day she brought in those new french guys, old barathi who was by now in a really worn condition with marks all over him and clinging on to his pages, jumped up as much as his weak physique would allow, and went on in his booming voice about the french revolution. The two new guys blinked and muttered something charmingly in french, turns out they were just some fashion guys and had no idea about the revolution.

Then when she went off to work in another town, after losing a few of us, she decided to lock us up in a big old wooden box. It was safer but I missed the ability to observe the people who walk by me. Atleast then she would come home every weekend and spend long hours with us. She told us one day she was getting married. We all sat proudly on display the day the groom came to see us. As they inspected us, she pointed to 'Love Story', in response to which he pointed at 'The Future shock' with a twinkle in his eyes. We all liked him. The next day came the shocking news that she was going to go to that far away land. I remember that day. It was a gray autumn day. And we were waiting for her to open the box that weekend. Unlike the other times she didnt open us till much later and when she did she just stood gazing at us with a strange look on her eyes. There was a long silence in the box that day, in spite of the crowd. Our fears came true when she told us she couldnt take us all with her. I could see the tears in her eyes. Except for a few of us who she took for sentimental reasons I am sure, the rest of us were banished into this cold dreary box.

We just sit here day after day, surrounded by the stuffy smell of wood, moth balls, with faint light, untouched, waiting to hear the creaking of the box opening...

Coffeebreak

2003-04-11T01:23:00.000-07:00

Had coffee as usual in the '300 market'. The number, for those curious souls, is actually the building name. Buildings in my office just have numbers - 100, 200 etc., quite modest and doesnt live up to the actual buildings. (I remember at another place I used to work, even the conference rooms had names, not numbers. So you would meet in 'Led Zeppelin' or in 'The Beatles'). This coffee break is a nice ritual I and Paul follow to break the monotony of myriad emails, builds and bugs. Instead of lunch break, we take a coffee break. We walk along the lake, with a sometime chilly nipping air, past the ducks, away from the smokers, leaving way to the folks hurrying to some meetings, to our market. 3 o clock is the right time to go for coffee, 2 is a little early, there are still unsold large pizzas in the counter with their aroma filling the air. 4 is a little late, it gets colder and the walk to that cafeteria becomes literally an uphill task what with tunnel effect and all between the buildings. Yes Sir, 3 is the right time.

I'd get my coffee, lazily gaze at the counter and somedays take Wilde's (Or was it Shaw? I forget) advice and yield to the temptation of a rich cake. Paul is more specific. He would ask for a 'lowfat no-foam double latte'. Then one day there was this new energetic looking stewerdess, and Paul was at his best asking for his coffee, adding a smile and a 'por favor' and she very swiftly prepared for him a 'decaf double latte with foam'. The nice guy decided not to make a big fuss and accepted it. Next day there was another waitress. He goes again double latte, low fat - no foam as clearly as possible. So she makes something that looks like it and as she gets ready to hand it over, the other waitress comes running and snatches it and tells this waitress sternly, 'he gets decaf and you made regular', smiles at us, pours it and proceeds to make him another! It was one of those rare situations when we were speechless in the coffee shop.

My favourite corner was empty today. I invariably pick up the chair facing the fountain.. I am greatly disappointed those days when it is turned off. They play good music and in some rare situations some talented soul would be playing the piano in the building lobby and mellifluous music floats in.. Hot coffee, ambience and conversation.. And the conversation is the best part it ranges from death penalty in india, roams in vietnam forests, touches the free trade and economic balance, tamil language... and we reluctantly trudge back to our cubes as the time slips away.

Bookshops..

2003-04-10T02:28:00.000-07:00

These days Barnes and Noble has become one of my favourite hang-outs. As I walk into this grand bookshop, serenity, contentment and a sense of well being engulf me. It brings to my mind images of a cold winter evening, crackling wood in the fireplace, a warm rug and a great book. I feel this even in the height of summer, perhaps because the first time I went to Barnes and Noble was one such evening.

I take a quick look at the bestseller section, then pause at the fictions, linger on at the classics, browse the magazines, wander around the specialities section, listen to the books on tape and finally settle with a dozen books on a cozy corner. Sometimes I indulge in a coffee and biscotti. I love the ability to assess the books undisturbed to see if they qualify to be on my shelf before I buy it. The crowd too has a lot of variety - students busy taking notes, dashing guys browsing automobile magazines, mothers dragging their children..

Every visit invariably reminds me of a bookshop back in Madurai. Until the modern bookstalls tookover with their posh looking interiors, Sarvodhaya Ilakkiya Pannai with its appealing name was the biggest bookshop there. It was a crammy little, not so bright place, that housed thousands of books. The books were rarely ordered and you dont have space to sit, let alone read. Back in the late eighties in madurai, the book buying crowd was predominantly students, intellectual or pseudo intellectual types with a beard and a shoulder bag or those who buy one of those practical 'eppadi' books. I'd feel highly conscious in that crowd and will have a hard time trying to decide which book to buy out of the pocket money, my benevolent father bestowed upon me. But, it had its attractions. The bespectacled middle aged man in the cash counter, after your nth visit and engages in small talk. If you are quite consistent in visiting the shop, sometimes you get information about which book is on print, which got sold out, which is really good, and directions to another crammier book shop where you are guaranteed to get that book you are searching. And after more visits you get a 10% discount and a smile of recognition. Perhaps he is still in that counter, I wonder if he remembers me. When I sit in a corner at B&N with soothing music filling the air, I miss the drone of the cieling fans in a bookshop in another world, another era...

Random thoughts...

2003-04-10T02:08:00.000-07:00

What is with vairamuthu and strawberry. When I first heard the lines 'strawberry kannanadho' in mukkala muquabla I was puzzled. Strawberry? That red, heart shaped, mildly thorny and sour fruit? Blue berry, black berry I could accept as possible, passable allusions to a fine pair of eyes..but strawberry? Perhaps he is stretching its shape, along with his imagination, to fit a damsel's eyes. Or could it be angry or sleepless eyes? When I finally learnt to live with this as another one of those nagging nuggets, he has done it again in 'Strawberry kanne'!

Drove to L.A for the long weekend. The summer morning was gorgeous, there were rows of dancing sunflowers lining the highway, and with fast music to suit the mood, It was exhilarating to feel the wind on my face, as I hit the gas pedal (En kaladi chatham kettu pookal alari kondu malarkindrana - the same vairamuthu). The cars moving over for me to the slower right lane as I blasted past on 80, 90 and occasionaly even a 100 Mph, did wonders to my ego. I5 was intoxicating even for me. Eventually, since I did not want to end up as a news item ("Eye witnesses said that the woman was driving at a highspeed when.."), I settled down to a comfortable 75 and was contented to watch the manoeuvers of the bold.