Kavya Janani U.'s Blog, page 2

My Fingers in The Mixie – Unburdening Through Recollection

Long post alert! But I just want to let it all out here. I have already learnt that writing about something traumatic is one of the ways to make me feel better.

It’s been five months since my last memoir blog post here. I have turned to Twitter for micro-blogging instead of writing long blog posts here. I find it easier too to use a social media platform to voice out my random thoughts than this blog where I no longer keep track of my stats. But I want to write in detail about something that happened to me on March 31st. I feel pouring it out here will unburden me a bit. Also, I have been typing this post only with my right hand. Well, I’ll get to the incident now.

I have always wanted to write about the unfolding of my Sundays. Nothing too special or phenomenal in it. My Sundays are the lazier version of my weekdays. The mornings are a bit laidback, unlike the other days. So, March 31st was like any other Sunday at home. In a parallel universe, I might have gone to work on that day, but that was not the case in this universe. I woke up, did my ablutions, prepared breakfast, fed my daughter, and then washed my hair. Later, I took my daughter to the Easter celebrations hosted by one of my neighbours for the kids in my apartment. It was happening in the parking lot. The kids painted the shells of the hard-boiled eggs, then played Find-The-Hidden-Eggs, and ate them too. Then we put on some music and danced to the songs. I never guessed that that would be the last time I’d get to see my fingers intact.

After the celebrations, I went up to my parents’ flat to help with the Sunday lunch. I started stacking up the washed dishes in their right places. Then I suddenly remembered that I had left my flat unlocked. So I rushed to clear up a few things in our bedroom and then lock the house. Usually, I’d finish some more chores at my home before I go to help my mom. But on that day, I cleared up only a bit and rushed back to my parents’ flat.

My mom had filled the mixie jar with four sliced tomatoes and other spices to blend them for rasam. Here comes the part where things could have actually gone right but there are always greater forces at work even if we are observant like a hawk. I placed the mixie jar on the mixie and turned the knob to 1, but then I realised that it wasn’t plugged in. I turned the knob back to 0. But the knob hated the number 0, I assume. It was a bit away from it. So, when I plugged into the socket and turned the switch, the mixie started running. Ka-boom! Whirrrrr! The tomatoes thrashed everywhere. Maybe I was too terrorized to realise that the lid had already flown. I don’t know what came over me in that one second.

MY FINGERS HAD CAUGHT THE SUPERFICIALLY RUNNING MIXIE JAR!!! THREE OF THEM!!!

The words of my mom telling me to turn off the switch never registered in my mind for that one second. Only when my dad (who was gratefully near the sink in the kitchen washing the prawns) turned the switch off, I started screaming. Gut-wrenching wails looking at my severely injured fingers and the blood cascading from them. Still screaming like a banshee, I washed my fingers under running water. By then my husband rushed to the kitchen and caught my shoulders while I cried and washed. In a post-injury daze, I stumbled to the hall crying aiyooo aiyooo valikudhu valikudhu. My mother came running with a handkerchief to tie around the wound. She began crying looking at the blood still gushing down my hand.

NEVER HAVE I EVER LOST THAT MUCH BLOOD FROM AN INJURY!

I sat down on the sofa, mumbling inscrutable words. Later I was informed that I was crying about not being able to do anything thereafter at home or work. I even told my mother that I was scared and that she should accompany me to the hospital. I don’t remember saying any of this. Maybe that was an immediate repercussion of trauma. My husband took me to the hospital on his bike, while I cried all the way in pain and overthinking about all the things I wouldn’t be able to do for a while in my life.

They took me in as an emergency case. A local anaesthesia was registered to my hand immediately to numb the wounded fingers and covered them in gauze. For a while, I didn’t feel any pain. To say in the words of Pink Floyd, I was comfortably numb. They gave me another painkiller injection and a TT injection too. Later, they sent me to take an X-ray of my hand. All through this ordeal, I let down a fresh bout of tears. Uncontrollable crying. When my mother came to console me, I remember telling her that my daughter had her first day of school (class 1) the next day and this misfortune happened. I seriously couldn’t stem my crying though I wasn’t in pain. My mother kept repeating that they were all there to support me and I shouldn’t be worrying about anything then.

But all I could feel was that the world around me was crumbling to pieces and I was helpless to pick them up and stitch them back together. My routine as I know will no longer be the same anymore.

While waiting for the X-ray, blood dripped from my index finger and a droplet fell to the floor. That was enough to send me once again on the worry lane and I cried even more, while my mother chanted words of encouragement to me. Meanwhile, my husband entered the X-ray room and got the X-ray from the staff. Then I was taken to another room for the doctor to inspect the injuries and suture them. Since my hand was still numbed, I couldn’t feel whatever they did with the injuries. The doctor called my mom and husband and told them since the flesh on my middle finger had been cut too nastily, they could not stitch the entire wound, but only at a few places. The impact was comparably less on my index and ring finger.

After the stitches were done, my fingers were dressed with ointment, gauze, and bandage. So, this is what it looked like after I reached home from the hospital:

Then began the endless cycle of suffering. Pain. Shock. Trauma. The screams and sounds playing on a loop in my mind. Fear to enter the kitchen. Restlessness. Sleeplessness. Antibiotics. Painkillers. Every two days once dressing the wounds.

On the 2nd dressing session, the bandage from my ring finger was removed as it was the least impacted. On April 5th, the dressing from my index finger was also removed. A bit of the nail is damaged, but it would heal in the open. But every dressing session of the middle finger was/is/will be a trip to hell. While I’m resting at home, reading books, writing poetry, listening to music, watching movies, and sleeping away, I still have the helplessness gnawing at me that I have to depend on others for wearing clothes and other everyday things that require both hands.

Well, I was told that there was no blood circulation to that finger. So whenever I saw the wound while dressing, it was like a blob of black something. There was always the tingling pain in that finger. So on April 7th, a week after the incident, they cut the nail that was restricting the healing of the wound.

If you think this would have been easy, no, it was not. I wasn’t given any anaesthesia for this procedure. The pain of the real incident was marred by this pain. I cried out my lungs in indescribable pain. A fresh wave of trauma was added. My cries kept echoing in my ears long after I came home.

I couldn’t do anything after reaching home. I just sat and cried for some time, after popping a painkiller. They had also instructed us to take the opinion of a hand surgeon the next day.

Today, the hand surgeon inspected the wound. He even showed it to me. The blob of black was no longer to be seen since the nail was removed and now the original wound was visible. I could see the bone underneath because there was no flesh in the place of the injury. The surgeon told me that the bone too had a minor crack which would heal as the wound heals. Further dressing sessions would be needed. If it doesn’t seem to heal, I would require plastic surgery on the fingertip.

Phew! So that’s it. I’m now waiting for Thursday. Another trip to the hand surgeon would clear things up. I have been prescribed antibiotics once again. When I asked the surgeon about the time taken for this wound to heal, he said it would take a month.

A freaking month!

If you have read till here, please wish for my speedy recovery as I’d love to bounce back asap. I might think about a hundred possibilities where this whole accident could have been avoided or not happened, but certain things are bound to happen. It’s time for me to learn and grow from the pain. I have also written two poems about this incident for National Poetry Writing Month. You can read them here and here.

Love,
Kavya Janani. U

The Mind’s Sketch – Romance Drama Short Story

I wrote this short story in 2022 and submitted it to the Commonwealth Short Story Prize 2023, but it did not get shortlisted . Then the synopsis of this story was featured in the Somewhere Or The Other Publishing Short Story Contest and it won the first prize in the Romance category ($50 prize money).

The powerful aroma of mustard seeds crackling in hot oil spread through the house. As the seeds popped, Bhagyashree added cumin seeds, fenugreek seeds, a bay leaf, and two red chillies to the tempering, gently stirring the kadhi that was boiling on the other stovetop. She was humming ‘Chura Liya Hai Tumne Jo Dil Ko’ as she added some red chilli powder, mixed the tempering, and poured it over the kadhi. She then turned off the stove, lifted the pan, and placed it on the countertop to let it cool. Gathering some bajra (pearl-millet flour) and water, she settled on the sofa in the living room and began to knead the dough to make rotis.

“Abhijeet, idhar aa!” Bhagyashree yelled at her two-year-old son, who was running around the house. The boy imitated the sound of a car’s engine – vroom, vroom – and rushed inside the bedroom to escape his mom’s yelling.

‘This boy is hopeless! I don’t know how I am going to manage another kid,’ she sighed, thinking. ‘That reminds me, I should talk to Prithvi about getting pregnant again. Abhijeet has crossed two and it’s time to conceive the next one. I am still breastfeeding this fellow. If I conceive, I will wean and get ready for the next baby. Maybe, we will try tonight. Prithvi will be happy and content after eating the special rotis I am making for him. I will add extra butter just for him.’

Many years ago, Bhagyashree’s mother had told her that the way to a man’s heart was through his stomach. She was a staunch believer in that ancient adage and followed it religiously. Wiping a line of sweat from her brow with the end of her odhani, she went into the kitchen again, this time in a happy mood. Her tomato-red bangles jingled as she rolled the dough into twelve little balls. Just then, she realized that she had run out of cooking oil.

“Prithvi must have some in his almirah. I’ll just go and fetch it,” she muttered to herself.

The wooden almirah in their bedroom was coated in dust. Bhagyashree never bothered to clean it as other household duties took up most of her time. Prithviraj was the kind of man who thought that cooking and cleaning were a woman’s duties. So, there it was – unkempt and unclean. Cobwebs adorned the space between the almirah and the wall. It would have made a good prop for a haunted house, yet it was Prithviraj’s most prized (also largely ignored) possession. While the couple arranged their clothes on the stone shelves built into the bedroom walls, they used the almirah for arranging old clothes that they’d donate later and for storing extra groceries.

Bhagyashree opened it, coughed a bit, and bent down to retrieve the packet of oil from the bottommost shelf. As she straightened up, she noticed a sheet of paper wedged between Prithviraj’s old shirts.

‘What is this?’ she wondered and pulled it out. She let out a tiny gasp as she looked at the lifelike sketch on the sheet – it was a portrait of an astonishingly beautiful woman with a pair of striking eyes and well-sculpted cheeks. Her mesmerizing looks indicated that she was yet another Rajasthani, maybe from a different community. But it was not Bhagyashree, and that’s what bothered her. Her fingers shook as she held the sheet between them. Her lips quivered and tears ran down her cheeks. She knew about Prithviraj’s artistic talents and had seen some of his sketches, too. But she had never come across this portrait before. If he had kept it hidden from her so far, it meant only one thing.

He was somehow involved with the woman in the sketch. Was he having an affair with her?

*****

Bhagyashree wondered if there was a sad version of the Chura Liya song that she could listen to on repeat. She searched on YouTube, but the results showed different cover versions of the song, with none of them a sad version. The song was a craze even after forty-five years.

“A sad version must exist!” she exclaimed to no one in particular. Finally, she settled on listening to Naina Barse.

Just then, the main door opened and Prithviraj entered. Immediately, Bhagyashree stood up in respect, adjusted her odhani, and relieved him of the groceries that he had bought from the supermarket. She went to the kitchen to place the bag on the shelf. Prithviraj sat on a chair at the dining table and pulled a plate towards him. Bhagyashree came running from the kitchen to serve him the food, but he stopped her and served himself the rotis and kadhi. He then beckoned her to sit with him and set a plate for her, too.

Bhagyashree’s heart melted at the sight of her husband serving her the food. It was strange because he had never done such a thing. She forgot about the sketch and started admiring his bronzed skin, freckled face, high forehead, and his beady eyes. When he smiled at her, his malposed teeth shone like little diamonds.

Four years ago, in 2014, Bhagyashree was a carefree 20-year-old whose only duty was to wander around Penawa, a quaint and dry village in Pali, Rajasthan. Her soft beige skin, heart-shaped face, tapering cheeks, sharp chin, narrow-set eyes, and protruding teeth attracted many men in the village. Her parents decided that she would turn reckless and modern as she was the only woman from the village who went to college and graduated with a bachelor’s degree in Hindi. They decided to marry her to a slender jewellery pawnbroker from Sowcarpet, Chennai, who was 24 years old then, went by the name Prithviraj Mathur, and hailed from Hemawas village in Rajasthan. Their marriage was fixed on April 15th, 2015, and that was the end of the happy-go-lucky Bhagyashree. By March 2016, she had given birth to Abhijeet. She shouldered all the responsibilities of a dutiful wife and a doting mother, while Prithviraj slogged in their jewellery-pawnbroking shop.

So, it was a huge ruination to her lovestruck heart when she realized that Prithviraj could be involved with another woman. She couldn’t digest the fact that after all she had done for him, he’d fall in love with someone else. She had to do something about it. Her mind conflicted with her heart. Somehow, she had already decided that there could be no other possible explanations for the presence of a sketch of a woman in a private almirah, done by her husband’s very hands. There had been other subtle signals, too, now that she thought of it…

‘Ask him about the sketch!’ Her brain screamed.

‘No, you shouldn’t. You must somehow find that other woman directly and talk to her,’ her heart suggested.

Prithviraj finished his dinner and burped loudly. Subconsciously, a smile formed across Bhagyashree’s lips; she took his burp as a sign of satisfaction. But the smile was soon replaced with a frown as she pondered on what to do about her discovery.

She even forgot about discussing her decision to have a second baby, let alone get into the process of making it.

*****

“Haan, Bhagya, bol!”

It was unusual for Bhagyashree to call Prithviraj in the afternoon when he was usually busy attending to customers.

“I am going to Mannady to sell some of the new earrings I made. Taking Abhijeet with me. Shall I go?” Her voice shook slightly as she lied to him.

“New earrings? Why didn’t you show them to me?”

“I am sorry, I forgot yesterday.”

“Chal, theek hai! Come home soon.”

“Okay,” she hung up and wiped her perspiring face.

She took some money that she had hidden amidst her sarees. She’d show it to Prithvi if he asked about any earnings she made by selling the earrings. Since Abhijeet couldn’t speak full sentences, he wouldn’t tell Prithvi that they weren’t selling any earrings, but merely wandering around North Chennai searching for a strange woman.

Bhagyashree had decided that given the woman’s facial features, the area in Chennai populated with settlers from the North of Vindhyas was her best bet in finding her.

Before leaving the house, Bhagyashree clicked a picture of the sketch on her phone. She’d need that while showing it to people to enquire about the mysterious woman. She hailed an auto-rickshaw, carried Abhijeet, and asked the driver to take her to a street she knew of in Mannady – it could be as good a place as any to start her search.

The place was bustling with shops selling different wares, snacks, chaat, and savouries. She alighted on a street corner, asked the rickshaw driver to wait under a shady tree, and began her search from one of the chaat shops. By the end of the hour, she had roamed around most of the area, stared at thousands of people, and asked many of the shopkeepers, showing them the picture of the woman. None of them recognised her; it was as if the woman did not exist.

Abhijeet’s tantrums reached a pinnacle when he started hitting Bhagyashree, demanding ice cream. She silenced him with a slap of her own. Locating the auto-rickshaw driver again, she asked him to take her to Royapuram, the second area on her list of probable places to find the mystery woman. This was a huge residential area replete with living quarters and apartments. There were also many wholesale shops. Bhagyashree had a tougher time navigating through the streets, asking the people about the woman, what with Abhijeet’s constant wailing now. She found a Jain restaurant and bought a thali to satiate their hunger, but her efforts to find the woman were in vain.

All she wanted to do was to seek the woman and ask her to stay away from her husband. However, she called it a day and returned home in defeat. She did not have the luxury of spending an entire day away from chores. But her heart was fixed on finding the answer, and she decided to try Broadway and Parrys the next day.

*****

A week had passed by since Bhagyashree’s tenacious search for a woman who might not even exist had begun. It never even occurred to her that the sketch might have been purely from Prithviraj’s imagination. The woman looked too beautiful and life-like to be a figment of imagination. She was confident that her hunch would come true, and she’d find that other woman in her husband’s life. It was she who shed blood and sweat to ensure that Prithvi stayed hale and hearty every day. She didn’t want another woman’s seduction to sabotage her happy marriage.

“Abhijeet, what would we do if your dad left us for this other woman?” Bhagyashree was driven to tears as she asked that question, her desperation becoming evident when her hard efforts did not even pay off.

‘Gu, gu… ga, ga,’ replied Abhijeet in his babyish voice, in all his wisdom.

“What will we do for survival then? Where will I get a job? I cannot go back to my parents… that would be a shame,” A tear rolled down her right cheek at the helplessness she felt at the unfairness of it all.

She brainstormed and suddenly settled on an idea. Her insides brimmed with inexplicable joy. She knew what she had to do. And here was something she could surely do and that would yield more satisfying results. She’d put extra effort into taking care of her husband that he’d regret having an affair and leave the other woman soon.

“Yes! I am going to do this. No one can stop me now,” she did a mental jig as she thought about all the things that would bring her husband closer to her.

That night, she wore a turquoise blue bandhani saree with a peacock-blue border and a matching turquoise-blue blouse. Prithviraj had gifted it to her on their first wedding anniversary. She applied some rose powder and red lipstick. She even wore a pair of handmade metallic jhumkas that shimmered and shone alluringly when she moved her head. Overall, she was dressed to kill.

Prithviraj couldn’t believe his eyes when he looked at her.

“Bhagya! Yeh kya hai? Are you going out somewhere?”

“No, Ji. I thought you’d love to see me in this saree. That’s why.”

“Oh! You look beautiful, Bhagya.”

“Thank you, Ji,” Bhagyashree’s cheeks blushed crimson. Then they had a hearty meal of rajma chawal.

As expected (and meticulously planned on her side), they made love that night on the bedroom floor, after putting Abhijeet to sleep on the cot. Bhagyashree felt secretly happy that she was able to acquire her husband’s full attention back. She was also overjoyed that she might become pregnant with their second kid.

‘I should continue this endeavour for a month so that he leaves that wretched woman and comes back to me,’ she thought.

*****

Prithviraj inhaled deeply and revelled in the seeping aroma of besan gatte, his favourite dish. Bhagyashree rarely made it, as the preparation was a tedious process. Of late, though, she was making all his favourite dishes every other day, and he was rather confused by her actions. But he did not question her about any of that. He deduced that she had some extra time on her hands as Abhijeet was able to play by himself without disturbing her nowadays.

While they were devouring the besan gatte and rice for lunch, Bhagyashree put forward a strange request.

“Ji, are you free in the evening today?”

“Why, Bhagya? You want me to take Abhijeet out somewhere?”

“No, Ji. I’d like to take you to Chokhi Dhani. I hope you know about the Rajasthani Village model in Poonamallee. Can I take you there?”

“What?! Are you going to take me out?” Prithviraj stressed the ‘you,’ as if mocking her.

“Yes, Ji. I saved some money by selling the earrings. So, I thought I’d treat you by taking you out.”

“How sweet, Bhagya!” Prithviraj smiled. “Okay, I will close the shop at five today. We can leave then.”

“Thank you, Ji. I thought you might laugh at me for this.”

“Yes, it is amusing… But anyway, the world is changing. So, I think we have to change along with it, as well.”

Bhagyashree couldn’t interpret her husband’s words, but she smiled at him. Though the mere thought of the presence of another woman in his life gnawed at her, she was making progress with her plan and that was her only solace.

When evening arrived, she got all dolled up for the trip to Chokhi Dhani, an ethnic artificial Rajasthani village modelled in Chennai. Though the tickets at the venue were expensive, Bhagyashree managed to shell out the required money from her savings. Abhijeet squealed as soon as they entered the village set-up. They went boating on an artificial lake that went around a palace-like structure. Then they watched some boys performing horse dance, while Prithviraj nudged Bhagyashree to try the dance. Though she was hesitant initially, she went ahead and performed an awkward dance to make her husband happy.

Many figurines, statues, and Rajasthani artefacts contributed to making it an aesthetic village. The couple also tried their hand at pottery, camel riding, bullock-cart riding, and horse riding. Then they watched a folk dance performance, during which Bhagyashree romantically held Prithviraj’s hand. Though he was taken by surprise by the sudden PDA, he didn’t mind it. He was happy to realise that something new was happening in their relationship, and he found that quite a welcome change.

There was a maze by the name of Bhool Bhulaiya which was quite fun for Abhijeet as he ran around the pathways shrieking like a little monkey. They also watched a magic show, puppet show, rope-balancing act, and parlour tricks of astrology by a parrot picking cards. Finally, they ended their trip with a sumptuous Rajasthani Thali in the restaurant.

As they were walking towards the exit, Prithviraj tapped on Bhagyashree’s shoulder. She turned around to find him holding out a rose to her. Her cheeks turned scarlet at the thought of her husband performing a cinematic proposal – even though it had been a few years too late. But he didn’t move his body or go down on his knees. So, she humbly accepted the rose, removed her odhani, pinned it to her hair, and wrapped the odhani again. However, she felt so electrified with joy that she wanted to dance around like a Bollywood heroine.

The pressing matter of the other woman’s sketch was put on the back burner momentarily.

*****

“Bhagya! Come here soon,” Prithviraj hollered at the top of his voice.

Thinking that he was in some trouble, Bhagyashree rushed to the bedroom. But she found Prithvi casually scrolling through his Facebook newsfeed. Heaving a sigh of relief, she asked, “Ji, why did you call me?”

“Sit here,” he said, pointing at a space beside him on the bed.

Bhagyashree slouched down beside him and looked at him expectantly. He moved a pillow to reveal a jewel box.

“Here, take this. It’s for you,” His lips curved into a full smile.

“What is this, Ji?” She received the box from him curiously and opened it, her heart bouncing inside her ribcage. There it was – a gleaming, ruby-and-emerald-studded necklace with a pair of matching earrings. She gasped at the sight of the ornaments.

“It’s a gift for you,” Prithviraj continued.

“Ji, dhanyavaad. But what is the occasion?”

“I just felt like giving you something. It’s been a long time since I have even looked at you properly. You are doing so much for me, but I am not even buying anything special for you. That’s why I got you this. Hope you like it.”

“I love it so much, Ji,” Bhagyashree gushed happily.

With a wide grin, Prithviraj began humming the popular 90s romantic song – Nazar Ke Saamne. Now feeling reasonably certain that he had left the other woman for good, Bhagyashree felt intoxicated with a mixture of relief and peace. Her inner turmoil finally unpossessed her.

The sketch and its eccentric origins can rest in some dark corner, for she had finally won back her husband from the invisible clutches of possible infidelity.

*****

Five months later, a visibly pregnant Bhagyashree decided to visit her long-time friend, Pooja Dwivedi, who resided in Royapuram. Since she was also planning to purchase some utensils in Broadway along with Abhijeet, she boarded a shared-auto-rickshaw, carefully manoeuvring her belly and ensuring that Abhijeet was seated properly. Just as she was getting settled, a fair-skinned woman wearing a pink sleeveless top and jeans got into the same shared auto. Her gold-streaked hair was tied into a flowing ponytail. She was so alluring that Bhagyashree couldn’t stop looking at her ethereal beauty. Her eyes darted to the woman’s cleavage, and she was a bit disgusted by the revealing clothes. But there was another reason for Bhagyashree’s bewilderment.

The beautiful woman resembled the woman in Prithviraj’s sketch! Bhagyashree felt her stomach roil. No! She had left that behind months ago. But now, here was the living proof that the sketch was not just a product of her husband’s imagination. Why was life testing her this way?!

The woman turned and flashed a casual smile at Abhijeet. Those striking eyes and that expression enamoured Bhagyashree, for they were captured perfectly in her husband’s sketch and were unfortunately quite familiar to her. The woman’s alabaster skin made Bhagyashree wonder whether she could see through her skin. Her eyebrows were plucked and arched like a professional model’s would be. She had full pink lips. When the woman greeted Abhijeet with a ‘hello’, Bhagyashree noticed that her teeth were well-aligned. After a moment, their eyes met.

“Hel – hello. Is… is your name Pooja?” Bhagyashree blurted out in Tamil – the local dialect – the first name that came to her mind. That way, she could know the woman’s real name.

“No, I am Keerthana,” her voice was feathery.

“Oh, okay. You resembled one of my friend’s sisters. That’s why I asked you.” Bhagyashree stuttered.

“No problem,” Keerthana smiled. “How many months pregnant are you?” She asked, pointing at Bhagyashree’s belly.

“Five months,” replied Bhagyashree with a full-toothed smile. Their conversation continued in Tamil.

“Okay, take care of your health. Eat as many fruits as possible and nuts too.”

“Sure! Are you a doctor?” Bhagyashree asked, burning with curiosity.

“No, no, I just work in an MNC in Broadway. My house is in Royapuram.”

“I am also going to Royapuram to meet my friend.”

“That’s great! Where do you live?”

Bhagyashree observed that Keerthana spoke animatedly, using a lot of English words.

“I live in Sowcarpet along with my husband and this boy,” she nudged Abhijeet to smile at Keerthana, but he was busy watching a cartoon on his mother’s phone.

“Huh, you know, I studied English at Loyola College. I wrote an essay about Rajasthani women in my second year. That’s why I was drawn to talk to you.” Keerthana said.

“Achcha! What did you write about us?”

“Many things, most of which I don’t remember right now.” A forlorn expression touched Keerthana’s face. It was as if she didn’t want to talk about it further. Bhagyashree, too, didn’t want to press on it. But she had other things on her mind that she had to ask lest her brain would burst.

“Do you know anyone called Prithviraj?” She blurted so abruptly that the latter was almost taken aback.

“No, never heard of that name. Why? Are you still thinking that I am Pooja?”

“Haaye, no, no. I think I am just confused.” Bhagyashree managed.

By then, Keerthana felt quite irritated. Since Bhagyashree was pregnant, she did not want to retort or argue much. She kept quiet for the rest of the journey. When she alighted in Royapuram, she waved a casual goodbye to the mother-son duo.

While walking on the road, Bhagyashree’s mind ran amok…

‘What in the world was I thinking? She might resemble the woman in Prithvi’s sketch, but I am sure that he would have never had an affair with or even looked at such a modern wretch. Look at her clothes! She might have been nice to me, but she shouldn’t be exposing too much skin in public. What will other people think about her? If she was my relative, I’d have given a piece of my mind. But she is a stranger, and she turned all curt when I spoke about Prithviraj. She might be the woman whom Prithvi drew, but she’s not his lover. What the hell! My Prithvi was never in an affair in the first place, and I had doubted him unwantedly. May God punish me for this!’

Thinking so, Bhagyashree began to cry. She wiped her cheeks only after reaching Pooja Dwivedi’s house, wanting to present a proper face lest there were awkward questions.

*****

When Prithviraj returned home that evening, he had not expected Bhagyashree to hug him suddenly. She did not let go of him for a full five minutes. She was also sobbing profusely, and he just stood there, clueless.

“Bhagya, what happened? Tell me.”

But she remained silent and merely shook her head. After two minutes, she broke the embrace and looked into his eyes.

“I am sorry,” she whispered in a raspy tone.

An eerie fear grabbed at his heart as he presumed that their unborn baby was in some serious trouble. Abhijeet looked fine, after all. Prithviraj held her by her shoulders and shook her.

“What is it, Bhagya? Is it the baby?”

“No, Ji. But I am sorry. I am sorry for everything. I shouldn’t have thought about you like that.”

“Like what?”

“I am sorry, Ji…”

There was no stopping her tears now that she realized that her husband was innocent. Prithviraj let go of her and fetched a glass of water for her from the kitchen.

“Here, drink this. Sit down on the chair and tell me what happened.”

She followed his instructions and took deep breaths before she proceeded to reveal the truth.

“A few months ago, I discovered a sketch inside the almirah. When I saw that it was of another woman – and a beautiful woman at that – I suspected that you were in an affair with her. But I realized now that I was wrong all along. You are such a good soul, Ji, and I shamelessly suspected you. I am sorry.”

There was a slight disturbance in Prithviraj’s stunned expression at the mention of the sketch, but Bhagyashree was crying too hard to notice the fluttering of his eyes. Composing himself, he spoke gently, “Bhagya, is this what is bugging you? I just drew a random woman I saw on the streets. Well, wait…”

Saying so, he opened the almirah and pulled out the sketch.

“I did not know it would affect you this much!”

He then went inside the kitchen, switched on the burner, and placed the sketch on fire. Both of them watched the paper melt into the flames.

Whatever unwelcome thing that had homed in both of their hearts was no longer a tenant.

*****

The next day, Prithviraj opened his shop earlier than usual. As soon as he settled on his chair, he phoned his best friend, Manish, and asked him to meet him in his shop.

Half an hour later, the two men were sipping hot ginger tea, while the shop-assistant boy was attending to a customer.

“Tell me, Prithvi. Why did you want to meet me suddenly?” asked Manish.

“I am a bit upset.”

“Oh! Is it something to do with Bhagyashree?”

“No, she is fine. We are fine. There’s no problem between us. It’s something else. Before I married Bhagya, I was in love with this Tamil girl, who was haunting my thoughts till yesterday.”

“What?! What is this new story?” Manish spat out.

“It’s an old story, Manish. Are you ready to listen? I think if I share it with you, I can finally feel relieved of her memories.”

“Sure, I am ready to listen.”

Prithviraj began his rigmarole in Hindi.

“Seven years ago, I had just opened this shop when this beautiful girl came along with her mother to pawn some jewels. As I chatted with the duo in a friendly manner, I got to know that they were also staying in Sowcarpet. I felt overjoyed because I liked the girl from the very first sight. I found out her address from the slip they had filled out for the bill. I’d wait for her in a tea shop near her house daily in the evenings when she returned from college. We both would eye each other endlessly. I don’t know whether she was as enamoured by me as I was by her.

“One day, I mustered the courage to talk to her. She told me her name was Keerthana Muralidharan. I introduced myself as Rana, my childhood name… I think I was panicking as I did not tell her my actual name. Soon, we exchanged mobile numbers and started texting and talking daily on the phone. One day, we confessed that we loved each other. Though we knew that we were from different communities, we continued our relationship. We hung out in many places in the city – parks, beaches, and the cinema. We even kissed a lot. It was the loveliest period of my life.

“After a year, her parents found out about our relationship. They accompanied her to college and returned along with her in the evenings every day so that she never had a chance to meet me. They even confiscated her mobile phone. But, somehow, she bunked college one day and met me in my shop. I took her to a faraway beach so we could talk it over. We eventually decided that we would elope and get married. I told her that I’d fund her education after our marriage. All the plans were set.

“But suddenly, my parents and brother arrived from Hemawas. They had come to know through a mutual friend that I was in love with a Tamil girl. They insisted that I should marry only someone from our Rajasthani community or threatened that they’d kill Keerthana. Afraid that they might harm her, I went to her college and requested that she meet me. Then, I explained everything to her, and we parted with heavy hearts. Her last words have always haunted me – ‘Rana, I will always love you, no matter what.’ I don’t know whether she still loves me. I never saw her after that day, though I know she’s still in Chennai. That is it, Manish.”

“Haye Bhagwan! What a love story! But why are you telling me this now?”

“Yesterday, Bhagya told me that she saw a sketch of a woman in my almirah, and she thought that I was in an affair with that woman. I sketched Keerthana from memory a few months ago. I thought I had hidden the sketch, but somehow, she found it out. I burned it in front of her, to reassure her that there was no affair or any threat to our marriage. You know, Manish, I felt so relieved.”

“Wow! You did well. Are you still in love with this Keerthana? You would still be cheating on your wife even if your love was in your mind…” Manish pointed out.

Prithviraj looked up at the overcast sky. Somewhere, a ray of sunshine was streaking through. He then turned to Manish with a smile.

“No, I love my wife very much. I cannot live without her. No other woman has a place in my heart now. My love for Keerthana was real, but it was not meant to be, and my love for my wife and my happy family supersedes it, always. It was not only the sketch that burned that day but all lingering love, too.”

If you loved this short story, you can read my other short stories here.

A Boy-ish Obsession – Drama Short Story

I wrote this short story in 2021 and submitted it to the Commonwealth Short Story Prize 2022, but it did not make it to the shortlist.

Through the open window of the hall, I watched life unfold. A sparrow had just flown in and landed on the compound wall; its teensy wings were dotted with drops of rainwater. It pecked at a coiled, yellow-spotted millipede while another millipede slid away from the scene.

Between the window and the wall was a patch of land. This patch served as a hiding place for me when I, as a seven-year-old, played hide-and-seek with my friends. Now, though, this patch was blossoming with algae. A mouldy odour emanated from the wetland. It tickled my olfactory nerves and strangely, I felt comforted. Smells of any kind made me want to throw up these days, but Mother Earth’s fragrance was kind of healing.

There was no cup of hot ginger tea to soothe me or ward off the dredged-up memories. I craved some tea, though. Flicking my tongue over my dry lips, I let my mind meander over the memories. It took me back to 2006 when my aunt was pregnant for the second time. My aunt, with her huge belly, standing on that patch of land and talking to our neighbour. My aunt, her pearly laughter rippling through the June breeze.

In those days, I didn’t guess what the gender of the baby would be. It was just a baby for me. A living, breathing mass of wonder safely cocooned inside my aunt’s womb. What has gender got to do with a baby that has not yet seen the world? But wherever my aunt went, she was stopped and included in an unnecessary gender-guessing game.

She gave birth to a boy the next month. The first phrase I heard from our neighbour was, ‘Thank God! Just think how burdening it would have been if she had given birth to a girl the second time, too.’

I winced and swatted at a mosquito hovering around my forehead, silently thanking it for breaking my reverie. Enough of reminiscing! I chided myself and closed the window. My mother, grandmother and my husband were conversing in the kitchen. I was in no mood to listen to my husband’s boastful tales, but a line from their conversation caught my attention. I stood near the kitchen door and listened.

‘My parents met an astrologer this morning just to ask about our family’s general well-being. He looked at my mother and said that she would have her grandson in her arms the next year.’

A chuckle emanated from his mouth. My mother and grandmother did not reply. I gritted my teeth.

‘Calm yourself, Vaishnavi. You are just six weeks pregnant. Anger can worsen things for you and your baby,’ I reminded myself.

I entered the kitchen with a graceful stride, threw a general smile at the ensemble, and gulped some water from the newly installed RO water purifier.

‘Do you want some vadas?’ My grandmother asked me.

‘No, grandma. I will have some ginger tea.’

Immediately, my mother began taking out the ingredients and my grandmother set the saucepan on the stove. I looked at my husband, indifference writ all over my face. He was munching on some vadas, oblivious to the turmoil whirlpooling inside me.

‘So, how are your parents?’ I asked him.

And then he repeated the same tale about the astrologer encounter, this time with a hint of pride dancing in his voice.

~~~~~

‘Vaishu, do you know that astrologer who stays at the house opposite your grandma’s?’ asked my mother. I was munching on some nauseating pomegranate pearls, all the while wondering if I should juice them up instead. My mother’s mention of an astrologer made me more nauseous, and I clicked my tongue in disapproval.

‘Ma, not again. Please. When will you guys stop being obsessed with what the astrologers have to say about a woman’s pregnancy?’ I whined.

‘Oh, shut up! That astrologer owns a car that he occasionally rents out to families. He has agreed to arrange a driver for you so you can travel to work. It would be a smooth ride, instead of travelling in all those bumpy buses and auto-rickshaws.’

‘Oh, is that so? I’m sorry I misinterpreted. By the way, how much should we pay him?’

‘We can discuss that later. He wants to meet you. So, can we go to Grandma’s house in the evening?’

I nodded my consent.

***

A plate consisting of some coconut barfis and thattais was placed on the charpoy. The white-shirt-and-veshti-clad astrologer was sitting on the sofa, shaking his head at something my grandma was relaying. I fidgeted with a thread of patchwork on the bed as I listened to their inane conversation. My mother, who was seated beside me, chipped in with some inputs that she felt would contribute to the conversation. After a few minutes, the astrologer turned his attention to me.

‘So, I have spoken to the driver. He said he was okay with this arrangement. From next Monday, he will pick you up in the morning and drop you at your office. He would park his car nearby and wait. In the evenings, he would pick you up again. If at all he gets any short ride in between, he would take that up too, if that’s not a problem with you.’

‘Sure, uncle, it sounds fine. What about the payment?’

‘I will discuss it with him and let you know about it.’

Then, casually, the conversation veered towards women, pregnancy, and childbirth. I wondered how my grandmother was skilled in bringing anyone into a dialogue about pregnancy. One thing led to another and finally, it came to that thing I dreaded.

After closing his eyes for a few moments and muttering a prayer, the astrologer declared, ‘By God’s grace, you will surely have a son.’

***

By God’s grace, that astrologer went on a holy trip and the designated ‘driver’ never turned up.

~~~~~

There was something beautiful about medical leave, even though the condition that necessitated my bed rest was quite scary. I was diagnosed with placenta previa when I had completed 2.5 months of my pregnancy. I had fervently prayed for a break, but I didn’t expect that it would come in a form that gave me the chills occasionally. Everything came to a standstill. My work, the travel, the metro rides, but not people’s mouths. Once I completed three months, people – known and unknown – commented on my looks. My belly wasn’t even showing up, but I had a few broken-toothed women say that I would be blessed with a boy. As the days passed by in a haze, something huge came up.

***

The makeup artist was working on my eyes. She insisted that my eyes were my greatest asset, and she would enhance them with such elegance that I would be the cynosure of everyone’s eyes. Of course, it was my baby shower ceremony and I’d be the centre of attention anyway. I did a mental jig; I had completed five months of pregnancy without any further gender-guessing games. But I was also distressed that the real drama would begin after the ceremony.

I was draped in my heavily embellished wedding saree. When I looked in the mirror, I looked like someone else. Chubbier cheeks, fatter nose, broader hips, and a low-hanging pregnant belly. At once, I knew that no one would notice my facial features. My low-hanging pregnant belly, though, would make it to my neighbours’ and relatives’ headlines that afternoon.

The party hall was filled with a handful of people. A group of teenagers – children of my mother’s friends – gathered to click selfies. Some middle-aged women, adorned in radiant Kanchivaram sarees, were laughing. Couples of different age groups, with shiny gift boxes in their hands, occupied the chairs, whispering something among themselves. I took in the atmosphere and heaved a huge sigh before a crowd surrounded me and began asking about my well-being.

That day, my baby’s kicks were fiercer. Maybe, it felt that all the hullabaloo to adorn its mother with shiny bangles was too much. While I was posing for the photographs, a potpourri of smells emanated from the dining area. My stomach rumbled. Nausea had broken up with me long ago, and now I had cravings to such an extent that I could have six meals a day.

I lost count of the number of people – especially older women – who smeared my cheeks with sandalwood paste and whispered to me that it was a cute little boy kicking inside me. I had a meek, forced smile pasted on my face, though my insides filled with all the possible retorts I could throw at their faces.

The cherry on the cake of that day was this anecdotal sentence from a middle-aged woman, ‘You are gorging on spicy items from your leaf. Surely, it must be a boy!’

~~~~~

An entire month of food from outside during pregnancy is an unimaginable factor. However, I had to save my job – it could have been a shiny, government job that came with many benefits. Hence, my mother and I stayed in a nearby three-star hotel to, well, save my job. I’d repeat this till infinity because there wasn’t any need for me to go to work and put my health at risk, but I still chose to… no, I don’t want to sound repetitive anymore. What I didn’t know was that returning to work meant more gossip, more riddles, and more annoyance.

I would have happily borne it if the irritation had stemmed from my workload, but that was not the case. Surprisingly, my workplace understood me, and I wasn’t too burdened. All the stress in my mind came from listening to people talk about my appearance, especially my low-hanging belly. In my country, a low-hanging belly meant that a male heir to my husband’s meagre inheritance was on its way.

‘Akka, please juice these sweet limes,’ I requested the housekeeping staff, Poorani.

‘Dei!’ She bellowed, gazing at my belly. ‘You are too demanding, boy. Your mom must pay me for all the extra work. Or you grow up into a gentleman and pay me back.’ She chortled at her attempt at a joke. It was a casual dialogue, but all I could observe was the weird obsession that the people of my country had. I couldn’t roll my eyes because I had done that so many times that my optic nerves refused to cooperate.

Adding fuel to the fire was my colleague, Vanaja. ‘You will surely have a boy baby’ was one of the constant phrases that she used umpteen times in a day. I had to bite back the not-so-pleasant retorts that I could place in her way, but it was a workplace and I had to maintain a ‘healthy’ environment for everyone to be happy and peaceful.

***

‘Vanakkam, how are you, madam?’ Karikalan, one of our bank’s regular customers, approached my counter.

‘I am good, how are you?’ I asked him back with a fake smile. I wasn’t particularly fond of him, since he worked in an association whose staff had salary accounts with our branch; everyone from the association was either rude, annoying, or downright irritating.

‘This ATM card is not working. Can you help me, madam?’

‘Sure, wait, let me call Poorani Akka. She will help you.’

The ATM was outside the branch, and I didn’t want to get out of my counter to help him. To my dismay, Poorani was nowhere to be found. Sighing, I gathered my 6-months pregnant belly in my hands and slid out of my counter.

If the branch was Coimbatore, the ATM room was Ooty. It had two air-conditioners whirring and cooling the room, turning it into a temporary hill station. If any customer was allowed to be inside the room for more than ten minutes, they would surely unroll a mattress and take a nap on the floor.

I felt relieved to be inside. Pregnancy and summer didn’t go well together. I was almost constantly sweating like a pig, even though I was surrounded by air-conditioners for the better part of the day. As I was inserting Karikalan’s ATM card inside the slot, he initiated an unwanted conversation.

‘How is your health, madam?’

‘I am… doing good.’

‘Did the hospital tell you the gender of your baby yet?’

‘What? No! It’s prohibited. You must know that!’

‘Everything is possible if we bribe them, madam. Anyway, you will have a boy baby. Wait and watch.’

This time, I lost my cool. I did not snap at him or ridicule him for his phrase, but I wanted to know whether his analysis was backed by research.

‘How are you sure that I will have a boy?’

‘It’s simple, madam. If it’s a girl, your face will glow. Since you look so weary, it is definitely a boy.’

‘See, your money is out. There was no problem with your ATM card,’ I said. ‘There’s a problem with you, though,’ I silently added, but only in my mind.

While walking back to my place, I could only imagine flushing all the currency notes down Karikalan’s throat.

~~~~~

Roger Simon was the waiter who tended to us in the mornings during our stay at the hotel. He hailed from a village in Manipur. His family was poor, and they couldn’t educate him beyond class 12. His father, too, passed away a few days after his board exam results. Since then, he has been taking up odd jobs to support his mother and two sisters. In a stroke of luck, he landed a job as a waiter in the hotel which paid him better. He sent money to his family, took care of other expenses, and even joined a catering course at an evening college.

When he waited on us – bringing us milk and whatever we asked for – we assumed that he was the most soft-spoken person in the hotel. He greeted us jubilantly every morning. Sometimes, he stopped by to make small talk. We liked him and decided that we should tip him heavily when we checked out. But it turns out that some humble people have nasty minds and don’t deserve any special treatment.

Apparently, Roger knew about my pregnancy during the third week of our stay. Till then, he probably hadn’t noticed my pregnant belly. As he placed the milk on the bedside table one day, he exclaimed, ‘Oh my God! You are pregnant. I never knew that. Congratulations!’

‘Thank you, Roger,’ I flashed a wide smile.

A minute’s pause later, he said, ‘I want it to be a boy. You must have a boy.’

I was startled. All colour drained from my face. Someone who had been a favourite person till then had dropped a bombshell suddenly.

‘Why is that so?’ I asked him.

‘Just like that. Girl means responsibilities… marriage, dowry, pregnancy, delivery… too much!’

I signalled him to stop. ‘You may leave now,’ I said, my face devoid of any smile. Roger couldn’t understand my sudden coldness. He smiled uneasily and left the room.

‘I think we should get used to this,’ my mother started slowly.

‘Get used to what?’ I demanded.

‘People telling you that you will have a boy. We just have to put up with such comments. We cannot keep fighting everyone.’

‘Ma, I am not fighting anyone. I just want people to stay neutral, and not interfere in my life. Also, what is this silly obsession? I have never heard of such stupidity before.’

‘That’s because you are young, and you never cared about pregnancy and motherhood before. When I was pregnant with you, many people told me that I would give birth to a boy, but I prayed for a girl. I don’t know what made me pray, but I was sure that it was a girl kicking inside me. Maybe I was too fed up with the men in my life that I wanted to bring up a girl. Remember, every pregnant woman has to go through this gender-guessing phase.’

‘Such shit!’ I murmured, overwhelmed by my mother’s confession.

I looked out the window. The trees were with the April evening stillness, much like my yearning for my country to become a better place for women.

~~~~~

‘Come on, Vaishnavi! You can do it. Please don’t grit your teeth or control your screams. That will not help you push. Try harder when the next contraction hits…’

The OB-GYN’s voice floated in the chilled labour ward. I writhed in pain. My face was sloppy with tears. My baby’s head had crowned by then and I had already tried pushing once. The next contraction began within another minute. This time, I willed myself to push my baby out. I invoked all the Earth’s energy and let it flow through my pelvic bones as I arched forward and pushed for one last time. My baby slid out like a pro. I gasped for breaths like a maniac.

The OB-GYN lifted the tiny human being and bellowed, ‘Girl baby, dear. It’s a girl baby!’

Somewhere at the bottom of my heart, an unnameable feeling swirled. It was an amalgamation of joy and contentment. My baby was placed on my chest. A mother’s instinct, or whatever you call it, made me touch her bloodied back. Her skin was blotched with such warmth that it felt like a ray of sunshine spreading on my palm.

‘No, you shouldn’t touch the baby now! Look at your palm.’ One of the nurses chided me.

I withdrew my hand immediately. My baby was taken away for washing and checking vitals. I birthed the placenta a few minutes later and the OB-GYN began the horrendous process of stitching my episiotomy cut.

Later, when they shifted me to a room, I was engulfed by hugs from my mother, grandmother, and aunt. I couldn’t find my husband anywhere. When I asked for him, they told me that he was seated on the staircase, looking lost and forlorn. I was puzzled. How can a new father look lost when he must be happy?

‘What was his reaction after you told him that it was a girl baby?’ I asked my grandmother.

‘Just for a moment, his face turned pale. But then he covered it up with a smile as everyone congratulated him.’

I nodded. Maybe my husband had taken the words of the astrologers, neighbours, and relatives too seriously. He always named our baby Tarzan, Tin Tin, Popeye, and other male cartoon characters during my pregnancy. I wondered – had it been a boy, he would have surely distributed sweets to the entire hospital. And then I envied the father – I had read about him on the news one day – who had distributed 50,000 panipuris because his wife had given birth to a girl baby.

‘But he’ll get used to it, Vaishnavi. After all, she is his daughter. His paternal instinct might kick in late, but he’ll not be a bad father,’ I reassured myself.

A few minutes later, my husband walked in. He beamed when he looked at me and said, ‘Congratulations!’ He then peeped inside the crib. If there was any disappointment, he was masking it well. He touched my daughter’s fingers gently and whispered, ‘Tin Tin.’

I had to swallow a sob. It was then that I realized the magnitude of his belief about getting a son. I also realized that it would probably take weeks, even months, for him to love his daughter and form that invaluable bond that fathers have with daughters. Maybe, if he had had a son, he would’ve instantly fallen in love with the newborn and felt proud and happy. At least I would’ve seen genuine beams on his face rather than the fake ones that he was flashing now with effort.

‘Everything in time,’ I reassured myself, yet again.

~~~~~

It did not stop there. The next day was dotted with phone calls to near and dear ones to announce my daughter’s birth. The air around me was punctuated with invisible exclamations.

‘What?! It’s a girl baby? Congratulations!’

‘A girl baby? Oh my God! Congratulations!’

The question mark behind the phrase ‘a girl baby’ was apparently because no one could understand how the gender could change when they had all stamped me with the ‘surely it’s a boy baby’ seal.

A few days before the birth, my mum and I had gone dress shopping for the yet-to-be-born baby. While picking out the dresses, there were cute frocks suited for girl babies. However, we had kept them aside. We were anxious to take that call. What if my husband mistook us? What if he assumed that we were expecting a girl and not a boy like that astrologer had predicted?

These gender assumptions did not stop even after childbirth. Maybe we were all so conditioned that we had started to believe, at least subconsciously, that I would have a son. The best example of this conditioning turned out to be my mother.

After my discharge from the hospital, my parents and I were huddled together for an evening conversation, with my daughter sleeping between us on the bed. My mother was updating her status on Facebook and my dad was peeping into her mobile phone.

‘Look at that! Your mother is typing “blessed with a grandson on…” Hahaha, I think even she was expecting a boy baby,’ my dad chuckled.

I glared at my mother.

‘Hey, what can I do? We had almost come to believe that it was a boy baby inside you. Only I was sure that you’d have a girl, just like me. See, I have corrected it now.’ She thrust her phone into my hand.

I gave it back to her without looking at it.

After all, I couldn’t blame her; not the woman who had prayed for a girl for herself. I could never blame her. It was the boyish obsession of this country that was to be blamed.

The sky outside was azure, replete with cottony clouds. I wished that the people’s minds would also become clear like the July sky. But as I wrapped my arms around my precious girl, I understood that such a societal awakening was a long time away, if it ever came.

If you loved this short story, you can read my other short stories here.

My Diwali in The Pre-Smartphone Era

16 years ago, I woke up on the morning of Nov 8th, to the sounds of firecrackers bursting all around. The Diwali mood set in as soon as I entered the kitchen and inhaled the aroma of grandma’s Maida Maavu cake which she’d cut into diamond shapes for us to eat later. My mom came running from the kitchen to apply that pepper-soaked gingelly oil to my hair. Immediately, I was sent off to bathe and wash my hair.

All along, Sun Music was running on the TV and new songs were being played. My curiosity got the better of me and I stood in the hall to watch the videos of my radio favourites – Megham Megham from Kannamoochi Yenada and Ellam Pugazhum from Azhagiya Tamizh Magan. Those days, that was the only medium by which we could watch the videos of our favourite new songs. There was no YouTube to release the music videos. Also, our family did not plan to watch any Diwali releases in the theatre. So, I had to satiate myself by watching videos on music channels.

Before my mom could scold me, I gathered my towel, finished my ablutions, and changed into the new dress she had laid out for me. I don’t remember what dress I wore, but it was a colourful new dress. No matter what, we always had the practice of buying and wearing new clothes for Diwali. All dolled up, I ate a simple breakfast of idli and vegetable kurma, watching the video of Minnalgal Koothadum (Polladhavan) on Sun Music.

An hour later, I was asked to give bags of sweets and savouries to my neighbours. That was my favourite part of the day. I got to walk to their houses, hand over the bags to them, make small talk, and then walk back to my home. If a family friend lived a street or two away, I’d cycle to their house and deliver the sweets. There was something liberating about it. The walk, the fresh air, the cordiality of the neighbours, the songs I hummed while walking and cycling – all these sowed the seed of nostalgia in me.

Later, we burst firecrackers. My uncle was enthusiastic about it, and I just watched him have a good time. Right from my childhood till now, I have had no interest in bursting crackers except the occasional sparklers. We also had a photography session. My uncle clicked pictures of the family in different poses with his tiny digital camera.

2007 was the year when lots of technological progress took place at our home – my MP3 player was replaced with an iPod, the bulky desktop was replaced by a flat-screen desktop, feature mobile phones began to be used along with the cordless telephone, and the normal camera was replaced by a digital camera.

After that cracker-photography session, I was called for lunch – a vegetarian meal of rice, sambar, and potato fry. We started eating non-vegetarian on Diwali only in 2017. A movie was running on KTV and I ate my lunch, being lazy and carefree. These days, lazy afternoons have become a privilege. I can only marvel at how having nothing to do was also an enjoyment. Usually, I’d take a nap after lunch so that I could get ready for the evening cracker-bursting. But I chose to go out and have fun with the shotgun cracker where I had to load it with roll-caps and just shoot it.

Though we had a gala time in bursting crackers in the evening, I rushed inside sooner to catch up with the 6 PM movie on Sun TV. I think it was Chandramukhi on that day. As per my knowledge, nobody watches these movies anymore or the channels are just telecasting serials even on festival days. The day ended with a feeling of completeness, a fulfilling day spent with family, friends, and neighbours.

The point of this reminiscent post is – I just wanted to treasure the spirit of how I celebrated Diwali in the pre-Smartphone era. Nothing can ever replace the feeling of calling up friends from our landline phones and wishing them a ‘Happy Diwali’. No amount of Instagram scrolling is going to replace those moments when I replayed in my mind the love scenes between Prithviraj and Sandhya in Megham Megham. Though I share sweets and savouries with my neighbours in my apartment, it doesn’t include a refreshing walk or the slaphappy state I was in.

We have new activities now, like creating Reels, updating our statuses with our Diwali photos, and even working because of the WFH culture. Maybe this is the new spirit of Diwali and someday we’d be reminiscing about these days too.

The Unorthodox – Drama Short Story

This story was first published on Women’s Web in 2021. I have made minor changes to the narration.

The breeze rampaged the reeds forcing them to swish and sway to its vagaries, forwards and backwards, this way and that. Everything was as it had been yesterday and the day before. The cuckoo bird continued its coo-coo call, pleased with its poetics, its rhythm unfaltering. So much had transpired, yet nothing had changed. Including the ridiculousness of that traditions-stained village – Thembaanam.

I stood there watching the heavenly dance of the reeds and reminiscing about the early days of my marriage to Selvaraman. A tap on my shoulder broke my reverie.

‘What are you doing here? They are going to bring him home,’ said Malar.

Malar, one of the victims of internalized misogyny aka the second last sister of Selvaraman. Malar, who told me that I should be ready with the vest and brief as soon as my husband finished his holy bath after my father-in-law’s funeral. Malar, who picked up her sons’ plates after eating, instead of asking them to wash the plates by themselves.

‘I was just-’

‘Okay, okay, I can understand. Let’s go.’

I trudged along with her. We crossed many mud paths before we reached our place. The stench of raw manure welcomed me as I entered that ill-fated street. Even after fifty years, I’d have the same foreboding. Even after my death, my ghost would regret that one decision that turned my life topsy-turvy.

No, I must stop thinking about death. There’s too much death in the air already, I chided myself.

The shamiana was already hung in front of the two-storied, forty-seven-year-old house. Strong wails emanated from inside, yet I maintained my composure. A few rugged women with unkempt hair, saggy breasts, and scrutinizing eyes were sitting on the chairs that were placed under the shamiana. Ignoring everyone, I removed my slippers and entered the house.

My daughter, Saanvi, came running towards me and hugged me. Her entire body shook as she let all her bottled-up emotions out. I soothed her by caressing her back gently. She wasn’t wailing like everyone else, but I could absorb her grief through her muffled sobs. My eyes brimmed with tears. But before they could spill out, Malar tugged at me and whispered,

‘Aishwarya, you have to change into a saree. If not, you must wear your dupatta over your head and sit on the floor beside the freezer box. That’s what wives of dead husbands do. You mustn’t stop crying. It is a huge disrespect to your husband if you don’t ululate.’

‘What the hell!’ I hissed, while my tears spilled as I blinked. ‘For heaven’s sake, it is 2035. I know how to mourn my husband’s death. Don’t ever think I am going to give in to any of your wishes. Not anymore. Stay away from me!’ I nearly yelled.

The women who were ululating till then stopped suddenly and gazed at me with a mix of wonderment and disgust.

‘But, anni…’

‘Don’t but anni me,’ I replied and slumped on the floor. Resentment rose like a tornado from the pit of my stomach. I peered at Selva’s lifeless body. I had cried buckets of tears when I found him dead on his bed last evening. I had shaken him, patted his cheeks, and even screamed at him to wake up, but I couldn’t get any response from him. Then the doctor came and pronounced him dead. Sudden cardiac arrest. I had collapsed at that moment. Hours later, we all had flown to Trichy and then another hour of bus ride to Thembaanam.

I moved near the freezer box and placed my head on the glass. I wasn’t crying or muttering illegible phrases. I had met Selvaraman at a conference in 2014. I was just 20 and he was 26. What I termed as love blinded me, as I ignored his deep-rooted misogyny and married him when I turned 22. As I exposed myself to literature and social media, I learned and unlearned things that made me see the world through a different lens. I was a partial feminist before my marriage, but I turned into a full-fledged feminist after two years. Though I knew that people assumed feminism was about women dominating men, I couldn’t go around telling everyone what it was truly about. I could see where I went wrong in my life only after I removed my rose-tinted glasses. The advice of my parents had fallen on deaf ears and I never listened to anyone’s suggestion of telling me that Selva was not the right person for me. Then I slowly realized that Selva was a wrong choice and vice-versa. I was young, but he could have weighed the pros and cons of marrying a modern woman like me.

Amidst all this ruckus, Saanvi was born. Motherhood changed me into a woman who could voice out anything. Though I had fallen out of love with Selva two years into my marriage, I still tried to revive my love for him, as he was a good father to Saanvi. However, I just couldn’t fall in love with a misogynist again. There was affection, care, and respect in our marriage, but not love. He was not the companion I yearned for or someone with whom I could share the inner workings of my mind. Love became a mirage in my life and something unreachable since I was bound to someone with whom I shared a child and I couldn’t do anything about it.

A sob escaped my lips as I tried to remind myself about all the good things in our marriage. I wanted to cry, not because the villagers would stamp me as an immoral woman, but because I didn’t want Saanvi to know about my lovelessness. Somehow I willed myself to shed tears. I even wailed a bit, clutched at my chest, and pretended to turn numb with grief. I let my tears flow freely, like how the women of this village let their self-respect, self-care, and self-love flow away from them while they served the misogynistic men in their lives. Saanvi sat beside me and held my hands.

‘47 is not the age to die, but the heart doesn’t know the age, Saanvi,’ I whispered to her.

‘Yes, Ma. I don’t know how I would cope with his absence,’ she lamented. Her 17-year-old face was flushed with an overbearing sorrow and I couldn’t do anything to alleviate her from the turmoil that she was undergoing.

Selva’s other three sisters also sat hunched, with their heads pressed against the glass. I observed their mourning and teary reminisces of their sweet brother’s memories.

Three hours later, Selva’s family and the other villagers began the proceedings for the funeral procession and the burial. As usual, Kanimozhi, the eldest sister, called me aside and relayed a list of customs I had to undergo so that I could be upgraded to the status of a widow.

‘Anni, can I tell you something? This is not acceptable. I am not undergoing any breaking of bangles, wiping of bindi, or draping of white saree. No, I just cannot. No means no. I have said enough yes in this village. Hereafter, you will get to listen only to my no.’

Kanimozhi looked stunned. Immediately, she gathered her other sisters and conveyed my callousness to them. Later, all the villagers came to know about it. The senior ladies quacked abuses at me, while the men tried to bash me with phrases like ‘this is why we told Selva to not marry a city girl’ and ‘these city girls are always cruel and mean’. Saanvi stepped in at that very moment and spoke, ‘Enough! I said enough. I know I don’t have the right to speak here, but I can’t let my mom undergo anything in the name of tradition.’ Her Tamil was tainted with a UK accent, but the villagers were rendered silent. They just couldn’t speak anything against Saanvi because she shared their blood.

‘Do whatever you want!’ Kanimozhi thundered and asked the others to start the proceedings.

Since women were not allowed in the burial ground, we stayed back at the house. Thankfully, no one spoke to me during that time. I sat along with Saanvi and we recollected all the good memories of Selvaraman. An hour later, the men returned and we were asked to take a bath. After the bathing session, we were provided the traditional after-funeral food in banana leaves. The rest of the day passed with villagers visiting the house to offer condolences.

Bedraggled, Saanvi and I retired to our room upstairs. We couldn’t sleep, so we just fiddled with our mobile phones, cried a bit while reminiscing, and just sat through the whole night.

The next morning, there was a furore downstairs. Saanvi and I had finally fallen asleep at 5 AM. We had just two hours of sleep before we heard voices engaged in a heated argument. I alighted the huge steps and found myself facing all the sisters and their husbands.

‘Oh, good morning, queen!’ bellowed Thaamarai sarcastically. She was the second eldest sister of Selvaraman.

‘Look at how she looks at all of us! How can you be so rude yesterday, Aishwarya?’ asked Anbuvalli, the last sister of them all.

‘I wasn’t being rude. I was just being me. Is there any problem?’ I tried to play cool.

‘We all have many problems with you,’ started Thaamarai. ‘I can’t fathom how our brother married you. You are an ultra-modern woman. He should have thought a hundred times before marrying you. And I even wonder how your marriage worked for the past nineteen years. Selva should have just left you.’

‘Of course, I gave him that option when we had huge fights about…’

But Thaamarai interrupted me, ‘First, you refused to tie a saree during your visits here. Then, you never followed the tradition of daubing turmeric while you bathe. Then, you never once kept sindoor on your forehead while you were in Chennai and Scotland. You kept it here because you had to act in front of us. You never followed any home remedies that our mother suggested. And, worst of all, you didn’t want to have another kid! Which sane woman will not give her first-born child a sibling? Saanvi should have had a brother to continue Selva’s lineage…’

‘Stop it, Anni!’ I thundered.

The women looked at me with filth in their eyes. But I ignored their stares. I had had enough of their stupidity in my life.

‘I don’t want to listen anymore. You women have no idea what it feels like to have dreams, be career-oriented while taking care of the family at the same time, and struggle to pursue one’s passion while supporting their child’s passion. You seriously have no idea what I went through to keep myself and my family happy. I’m sure Selva wouldn’t have been happy, but as a family, we were quite contented. Tell me, are any of you really happy with the way you live? I know you love your husband and children so much that you don’t bother about them being misogynistic, but are you really happy? Just tell me.’

No one replied to me. They were looking at me as if an alien was making a speech.

I continued, ‘I wish that every woman in this world lives for herself first before she lives for anyone else. I wish that they choose themselves and their mental health always. I did all these and I am happy today. Saanvi is happy too. Maybe Selvaraman might have drowned in regrets because I was being myself and I was living a life that only a few women could imagine. Have you ever thought about yourselves just for a second? At least for a day, live for yourself and see. Then, make it a practice. You will see how happy you and your family have become. You will surely notice a change in the men or you may not in a few cases. Anyway, it all begins with you, but you don’t choose yourselves and you don’t even think about betterment.’

‘I am leaving Thembaanam for good. I don’t have anything to do with you people anymore. If at all you all change at some point in your life, just remember me.’

For the next hour, Saanvi and I packed our belongings. All the villagers whispered to each other about how I was leaving the village the very next day after my husband’s death. I ignored all the comments skilfully and boarded the auto to reach Trichy railway station. We never waved goodbyes to anyone.

During the auto ride, Saanvi said, ‘Ma, you know, Malar was telling to someone that she was so proud of you. She told them that you were an ideal woman which she could never become.’

‘What? She wouldn’t have said so. She is the personification of internalized misogyny in that goddamn village.’

‘Yes, it’s true. But I overheard her. Maybe she wouldn’t have supported you because of her upbringing and societal conditioning.’

‘Well, if she sows the seed of change in Thembaanam, the village would finally come out of the coop.’

I looked at the sky from the rickshaw’s window. The clouds were gradually changing shapes every minute. Heaving a huge sigh, I wished the people of Thembaanam would change too.

If you loved this short story, you can read my other short stories here.

My Favourite Words

What’s your favorite word?

Well, interesting. I’m happy that Jetpack has given me two consecutive prompts that have made me start blogging again.

I’m a logophile (someone who collects words). I love everything to do with words because I’m a poet and I always love to research new words to shape them into unlikely metaphors.

So, without any further ado, these are my favourite words:

Serendipity

This is my first favourite word. If someone asks me what my favourite word is, I’d tell this word instantly. That’s how much I love it. It means, the faculty or phenomenon of finding valuable or agreeable things not sought for.

I’d just list the rest of the words here, as I want this to be a short blog post. Here they go:

1. Sunshine
2. Nostalgia
3. Moon
4. Poetry
5. Music
6. Incandescence
7. Silence
8. Dream
9. Solitude
10. Magic
11. Ocean
12. Melody
13. Longing
14. Gratitude
15. Universe
16. Fierce
17. Ache
18. Purple
19. Diaphanous
20. Deja-vu
21. Time
22. Love

These are my favourite words in English. There are so many more but they don’t come to my mind as of now. I have my favourite words in Tamil and Hindi too. But I’m saving them for another blog post.

If anyone’s reading this post, I’d love to know your favourite words. Share them in the comments below.

Here’s What I’m Doing This Evening (And Every Other Evening)

What are you doing this evening?

One of the first things I do in the morning is to check the writing prompt in Jetpack so that I can squeeze my creative juices and write a blog post. And the prompt today has got me doing just that. I want to narrate about my routine evenings in the most routine way.

The Evening Rush

Right when the clock turns 17.20, I get all jittery, because I have to board the 17.40 suburban train which starts from the railway station half a kilometre away from my workplace. So, I have to leave exactly at 17.25 to catch a shared-auto-rickshaw, reach the subway, walk, reach the station, walk again, and then board the train. By the time I board, it’d be 17.38.

On a few evenings, even this doesn’t happen. I leave the office only at 17.28 and then I become a whirling tornado to board the train exactly at 17.40 and then pant like a dog for a couple of minutes. I have even written a poem about boarding this 17.40 train which I’d be submitting to magazines.

Reading, Music, Some Introspection

So, this evening will be no different. Either I’d be leaving my office at 17.25 or 17.28. Then I’d board the train and relax for a few minutes. And then I’d take the book I’m currently reading and read it for fifteen to twenty minutes. Right now, I’m reading Frankenstein by Mary Shelley. I’d read it till the train crosses four stations. Then I’d plug in my earphones and listen to any one of my Spotify playlists according to my mood.

I might browse interesting topics or I’d be reading poetry while the music is running. Sometimes, I might even track my submissions and submit my poems to more literary magazines. Or I’d just listen to music and let my mind wander. It depends on whatever mental state I’m in.

Yoga, Dinner, Chores & Poetry

After reaching home, I’d first greet my daughter and have a good chat with her about her day at school. Then I’d have the tea prepared by my mom and take my daughter to my flat. If she has homework, I’d let her do the homework by herself (she can manage quite well), while I do yoga for fifteen minutes and refresh myself. Then I’d prepare dinner (usually it’d be dosa and chutney).

While I’m preparing dinner, I’d stack the washed vessels back in their places, put my lunch boxes for washing, and keep any other things in their right places. I’d feed my daughter and read her stories from a few books or just play with her. After I eat, if I have some time to spare, I’d write poetry or write in my planner-cum-journal about my current feelings or do something regarding writing.

Digital Minimalism & Night Rituals

I have stopped scrolling my social media feeds mindlessly during the evening. Since I’m embracing digital minimalism, I have curbed my social media use. I have uninstalled the Facebook app and I log in through the browser only if really needed. I even stay logged out of my Instagram account for days and only use the poetry account for posting my poems. The only social media I use is Twitter (which is now X) where I love to read & repost poems and share my running thoughts.

When the time nears 22.15, I’d wind up using any electronic gadgets. My night rituals would begin. I began these rituals due to a distressing period of insomnia in August (it lasted just 4 days, but it kind of depressed me). These rituals include guided meditation or chakra meditation, massaging the soles of my feet with coconut oil and then wearing socks, applying sleep roll-on essential oil under my nostrils, on the temples, and back of my neck, and doing some reading (either Explore the World of Lucid Dreaming by Stephen LaBerge or Aram by Jeyamohan) before hitting the bed.

Though I had been sleeping well without these rituals, I incorporated them to prevent any further episodes of insomnia. Now, I’m more relaxed than before and I do get a good night’s sleep which is required for my interest in lucid dreaming. While I’m doing my rituals, my husband makes my daughter sleep. The only times I’d forgo these rituals are when I’m chatting with my close friends on WhatsApp or I have just returned home from a function.

This is what a typical evening looks like in my life. Though it’s nothing to write home about, the little practices that I inculcated for myself make me look forward to enjoying even the normal evenings.

Book Review: Now You See Us by Balli Kaur Jaswal

Book Title: Now You See Us

Author: Balli Kaur Jaswal

Publisher: HarperCollins India

Blurb:

Hidden lives. Buried secrets… It’s time to shine a spotlight on it all.

Corazon, Angel and Donita have all come to Singapore to work for a living. The thing that unites them? Their labour must remain unseen.

Then an explosive news story shatters Singapore’s tranquillity, and sends a chill down the spine of every domestic worker. Flordeliza Martinez, a Filipina maid, has been arrested for murdering her female employer. The three women don’t know the accused well, but she could beany of them; every worker knows stories of women who were scapegoated for crimes they didn’t commit.

Shocked into action, Donita, Corazon and Angel must gather every ounce of bravery, fearlessness and gumption to piece together the mystery of what really happened on that fateful day. After all, no one knows the secrets of Singapore’s families like the women who work in their homes…

Review:

Now You See Us by Balli Kaur Jaswal was a refreshing read. The book introduced me to a new world and culture that I hadn’t explored before. The story was one kind of an intriguing journey with the criss-crossing lives of the domestic workers playing out most engagingly. Balli Kaur’s captivating narration grabbed my attention right from the word go. The lives of the three domestic workers – Corazon, Angel, and Donita – were well established in the first three chapters. The subsequent chapters alternated between their POVs to move the story forward.

The crux of the story is the murder of an employer, Carolyn Hong, in the neighbourhood. Flordeliza Martinez, the domestic worker of the house, is arrested and pressed with the murder charges. This information shakes Cora, Angel, and Donita. Together, they have to piece together the mystery to prove that Flor is innocent while navigating their daily lives in their respective employers’ houses.

Cora, as the eldest and the wisest among them, is grieving the untimely death of her nephew and has fled from her previous employer’s home. Her current employer, Elizabeth Lee, is a kind woman who treats Cora as a family member and includes her in everything. This behaviour of Lee creates troubles for Cora and she finally faces an ultimatum from one of Lee’s daughters. Angel takes care of Mr. Vijay who is paralysed after his wife’s death. She’s been let down by her sister, the only person she ever trusted to share about her sexuality. She also faces harassment from Raja, Mr Vijay’s son. Donita, the youngest and wildest among the domestic workers, is employed by the proud and cruel Mrs. Fann who ill-treats her. She is the one to witness Flordeliza walking on a rainy street while the murder happened at the Hongs’ house. So, she strives to prove that Flor is innocent and runs into trouble frequently. She is also in love with Sanjeev, an Indian, who loves her truly but has second thoughts about their relationship.

While these women struggle through their daily lives by fighting their demons, what binds them is their Filipino roots. The friendship between them is unbreakable and they have each others’ backs at all the time. The cliffhangers in some of the chapters kept me turning the pages of the book. The other aspect I loved was the setting. I have never been to Singapore. So, the culture, the lives of the high-class families, and the cuisine were new to me. I loved learning about a different culture through this mind-blowing drama. I also loved how Balli Kaur touched upon feminism and inclusivity by introducing the fictional SAGE council in the story. Huge applause for including queer characters. Balli Kaur subtly injected an underlying message into the book.

Nothing felt unnecessary in the plot. So, I’m not able to pinpoint any flaw. The climax was well-written and did justice to the whole saga. Though the lives of these migrant domestic workers are always tumultuous, things are changing for the women, albeit slowly. Balli Kaur Jaswal drives home this point with her clever and thought-provoking story.

Rating: 4.5/5

You can buy this book on Amazon here: Now You See Us.

This review is powered by Blogchatter Book Review Program.

Vacationing in the Hospital

Have you ever had surgery? What for?

It was the year 2008. The 24th of June. A warm afternoon.

A sudden stomach pain engulfed me out of nowhere while I was in school. When I returned home, my mother took me to the hospital and the doctor suggested that I take a scan. The scan reports showed nothing and I was relieved. Later, I went to the tuition. Being in the 10th grade meant attending tuition for Physics, Chemistry, and Maths. After the tuition, I had a vegetable puff in the nearby bakery, because I was sure that the stomach pain wouldn’t return and also I was over-confident.

Come midnight, the stomach pain arrived yet again and I woke up. My mother and my grandfather took me to a doctor on the next street who was well-known for her diagnosis. We waited outside since it was midnight and the doctor hadn’t yet returned to her clinic from a major hospital. I kept groaning in pain, while my mother and grandfather were discussing the possible causes for it.

After 45 minutes or so, the doctor checked me. She pressed the right side of my lower belly and told my mother I should be taken to the hospital the next day for further diagnosis. She prescribed some painkillers to chase the pain away for the night. I slept well, a peaceful dreamless sleep before the turbulence that was to hit me the next day.

When morning dawned, my mother informed my class teacher that I’d be on leave. Then she took me to a reputed hospital along with my grandfather. One of the duty doctors diagnosed me and told me that I had appendicitis. He also added that the appendix should be removed immediately as it was in its acute stage. It was all too much for me to process. All I knew was that I was going to be operated and I wouldn’t be going to school for a few days. That distressed me greatly because I loved attending school and meeting my friends.

Before I was taken to the operation theatre, they prepped me for the surgery by administering a few injections and shaving me. Meanwhile, I called one of my close friends from my mother’s mobile phone and informed her about the surgery. The nurses told me not to eat or drink anything a few hours before the surgery. And that’s when images of biryani and panipuri floated around in my mind. Sigh! I was hungry, but since appendectomy fell under gastroenterology, I should stay away from food so that it doesn’t interfere with the surgery.

Around 7 PM, they took me inside the operation theatre. The anaesthetist spoke to me jovially while I tried to keep myself calm. He asked me about my favourite subject and stealthily injected the medicine into my vein. I only remembered answering him with something illegible before I fell unconscious. Sometime after the surgery, my mother told me that I was kept in that state for three hours. The gastroenterologist came in only at 10 PM and performed the laparoscopic surgery on me. After the surgery, the surgeon woke me up gently. But as I tried to open my eyes, I felt dizzy. Instantly, I started wailing, assuming that something was happening to me and that I was going to die! Well, I thought I was going to wake up, all fresh and feeling mirthful. My bad. Reality sucks.

The surgeon calmed me down and consoled me by telling me that the surgery was over. As a thankful response, I puked all over the stretcher. Some of my vomit might have landed on the surgeon too, who knows. Through my blurred vision, I saw that my puke was green in colour. Even in that state, I demanded that my cheeks be cleaned at the earliest. After half an hour, they hurled me into another stretcher and placed me in a ward, with a nurse looking after me on her night duty. Within a few minutes, I started feeling the first wave of post-surgery pain. I whimpered, sometimes letting out muffled cries. And then I realised what was making me feel so uncomfortable. It was the oxygen mask. To catch the attention of the nurse who was in the adjacent ward, I screamed out my lungs. The nurse came running into my ward, imagining the worst, probably. But then I pointed to the oxygen mask and asked her to remove it which she did promptly. I then requested her to remove the pulse oximeter too as my finger was feeling quite itchy.

An hour later, my mother and grandfather came over to speak to me. Though I conversed well with them, I felt rotten. So, I decided I’d turn to music, as I have always done when I felt gloomy. My mother brought me my MP3 player and I lost myself in listening to songs from Taal, Yaaradi Nee Mohini, Mozhi, Unnale Unnale, etc. In between, a nurse injected me with a painkiller. But within a few minutes of the painkiller injection, I puked again. This repeated a few more times the next day too before the nurses realised that that particular painkiller wasn’t working for me.

The next morning, I felt relieved to look at the sun rays streaming through the window. I was given a bedpan to discard my bodily waste. Throughout the day, I kept groaning in pain, while my mother bathed me and helped me change my clothes. They gave me only oats to eat and water to drink as I shouldn’t be eating solid food for a couple of days. Finally, they shifted me to an air-conditioned ward and I felt much better because the room had a TV and I could watch movies and song videos. I’d always remember how I felt like prompting myself up through all that pain and dancing to Kutti Pisase song that was running on the TV.

Two days later, I was discharged. Though I had that excruciating pain for a week, I could eat normal food which meant I could gorge on my comfort food too. The whole experience was one I’d never forget in my life. They gave us the removed appendix dipped in solution inside a vial. That was my warranty card. If something happened to me later, I could show that appendix and they’d diagnose my condition correctly. Well, thank God, I didn’t have to get hospitalized for anything else, except during my labour (I’m planning to republish my pregnancy and childbirth memoir in this blog once again).

I also wrote about this hospital experience in a strange poem titled Tulips, imagining a bunch of tulips inside my ward.

Love,
Kavya Janani. U

The Telephone Booth – Part 3

Read the previous parts here – Part 1 and Part 2.

Vishnu’s Experiment

Vishnu curled his pinky finger with Nayani’s. They decided that a leisurely evening walk would be a great stressbuster. Also, Nayani wanted to try another experiment with Vishnu. She was intrigued to know whether it worked for everyone. Even to those who haven’t used that particular telephone booth. She also wondered whether all the payphones in the world turn into time portals after they are abandoned.

“Hey, Vish. Have you ever used a telephone booth to speak to someone?” She asked Vishnu.

“Yes, I have. Lots of time.”

“When was the last time you used a payphone?”

“I think it was in 2010.”

“Is that booth like the red ones you see everywhere?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Okay, let’s take this path. I want to show you something.”

“What? This narrow street?” Vishnu’s honey-coloured eyes searched the path for any signs of human inhabitation. But he couldn’t find even one human being in sight.

“Yes, love. This path-“

“But it looks haunted. There are only trees and more trees. Why would you want to go this way?”

“I want to show you something, Vish. Believe me, you’ll be thrilled.”

“What? Are you planning to put me in a horror movie?” Vishnu chuckled and hit her playfully.

“Nope. You wait and watch. Come.” She looked into his eyes again and melted in those honey-coloured eyeballs. The corner of his mouth twitched, making his perfect jawline a spectacle to watch. She placed her left palm on his porcelain cheeks and pulled him closer. They kissed, his hands roving all over her back and their tongues exploring each other’s mouths. Then they realized that they were in public, though the street they just crossed was deserted. They pulled back and stood awkwardly, not knowing what to tell.

“Come, let’s go.” Nayani held his hand and led him on the path.

They walked on the narrow street, strewn with beech and mango trees. A cool breeze engulfed them, though the skies were still clear. A few steps away, the red telephone booth stood as majestic as ever.

“Vish, this street came into existence only because of this telephone booth. The school in which I studied is situated on the other street, which we crossed a few minutes ago. This booth was popular a decade ago, as it was the only means of communication used by the students of this locality. I have some fond and bitter memories associated with this booth. Yesterday, something strange happened, which I cannot explain clearly. I came to this booth to just take a look at it. But it started raining heavily and I got caught. I wanted to inform Ma about my whereabouts. But there was no signal on my phone. So, I just had this weird idea of using this telephone.”

“Instead of calling my mother’s number, I dialled my high school sweetheart Mayank’s old number, as I am used to dialling it frequently in this booth. Guess what? That number is not in existence now. But the call got connected. For a moment, I thought that he might be using the same number. He picked up the call. I started speaking to him, but he wasn’t in the present. I mean, I was speaking to his past version in 2007. I was astonished. Then, I tried the old landline number which we used in 2007. Believe me, I talked to my father. Later, I went home and tried Mayank’s old number from my phone. It said that it wasn’t in existence. I know this sounds strange. But I want you to try calling some old number once and check whether the same happens to you. Make sure that that old number has been dialled in a telephone booth in 2010.”

After a moment of stunned silence, Vishnu burst out laughing.

“Hahaha! Hey, Nayan, what happened to you? Are you writing a science-fiction novel?”

Nayani’s shoulders slumped. She knew no one in their sane mind would believe what happened to her. But she wasn’t letting this go.

“No, Vish. I am serious. I am still reeling from the experience. Please try it. Call Vidhya’s past self. I think she died on August 26th, 2010. That is tomorrow. So, you call now. Tell her that you love her. Or rather loved her. Confess it now at least. You cannot prevent her accident, but a great weight would be lifted from your shoulders. You might have surely called her from a telephone booth in 2010.”

The mention of Vidhya brought Vishnu back to reality. He turned serious and fidgeted with his fingers. The memories associated with Vidhya were too painful, but Nayani had presented a chance for him to talk to her again. Something more than happiness bubbled in his heart and he rubbed his hands together.

“Okay, I am ready, however absurd this sounds.”

They entered the telephone booth and Vishnu lifted the receiver. He was thrilled when the display pane shone green. Nayani dropped a coin in the slit.

After a few rings, the coin fell and the call got connected. Nayani almost gasped. She didn’t expect her experiment to be successful.

“Hello, Vidhya?” Vishnu spoke in his sing-song voice.

Nayani couldn’t hear what the voice at the other end spoke.

“Vishnu here. What are you doing?”

The sweet voice at the other end was the perfect mixture of happiness and puzzlement.

“I am calling from a telephone booth. Listen, I just felt like talking to you. I am so overwhelmed with emotions right now, that tears are brimming in my eyes.”

A short pause as he heard Vidhya’s confusing questions.

“I just want to tell you I love you, Vidhya. I have always loved you, but I never mustered the courage to tell you. I love you, okay? I don’t want to know what you feel about me.”

Nayani slapped his hand and signalled him to ask about her feelings too, while he listened to Vidhya’s exasperations.

“What?! You love me too?”

Nayani swallowed a lump in her throat, as she realized the possibility of Vishnu warning Vidhya about her impending accident. Then, Vidhya would live and Nayani would never meet Vishnu. But that would create a paradox. If Vishnu never meets Nayani, then he wouldn’t go to the telephone booth to warn Vidhya about her accident.

“I don’t know what to say. Vidhya, I love you. You are always in my heart, no matter what.”

Nayani couldn’t listen anymore. She stepped out of the booth. Suddenly she felt that it was a mistake to have initiated this experiment with Vishnu. She hugged herself, as goosebumps appeared on her body. She also discovered that the telephone booth could connect anyone to the past. Those who had used a pay phone in the past. That too, to the exact date and time of the last year they had used it.

When Vishnu came out, his face was soaked in tears. He ran towards Nayani and hugged her tightly.

“Thank you so much, Nayani. As you told me, I am feeling so relieved now. I know I cannot prevent her death. I cannot meddle with time. But I am happy I confessed my love to her and I also got to know that she loved me too. Thank you so much!”

Nayani hugged him back and cried on his shoulders. Through her tears, she asked him, “Is she still in your heart? Don’t you love me truly?”

He pulled back from the embrace and looked at her, his eyes hard with love.

“What madness is this, Nayani? Will a mother not love one of her two children? Or, will she abandon the second child because the first one died? This is like that. Vidhya is my past. You are my present. And, I love both my past and present equally. For hell’s sake, she is no more. Dead loved ones stay with us forever in our memories, Nayani. You should understand that.”

Nayani heaved a sigh and replied, “I am sorry I asked that question. So silly of me! Come, let’s leave everything here and go home. Ma is preparing some special snacks for you.”

“Wow! That’s so sweet of her. Let’s go!”

The happy duo walked back home, sharing some light-hearted banter.

*****

“What is that in your hand?” asked Vishnu, as he walked along with Nayani on the same street the next day. She removed the newspaper wrapper and showed him the thing in her hand.

“Sledgehammer? But, why?”

“That payphone is not going to do either of us any good.”

“What do you mean, Nayan?”

“Only both of us know its secret. We will not share it with anyone, but we might blurt it out unknowingly. So, what will happen then? The secret will spread. Then, many people will make calls to their past, meddle with time, and change all the events. I don’t want to be the one destroying others’ lives. Whatever has happened should happen as it was. Okay?”

“Okay, so you’re going to destroy it?”

“Yes. And also, you and I will be tempted to call to our past loves again. We have achieved what we wanted to do. I gave it back to Mayank and you confessed to Vidhya. That’s all. I don’t want us to dwell in our past just because of a damn telephone. We have a beautiful life ahead. Let’s concentrate on our present and future.”

“Well said, madam!”

And so, the abandoned telephone booth lived on, with its payphone shattered to pieces, and the two souls it held falling in love over and over again.