The doorbell rings.
A small mirror hangs on the wall, pimpled with bindis - all of different sizes and colours. She hurries toward it for a glimpse and panics at the surma that has begun to sneak out of place. She runs a delicate palm over the carefully arranged folds of her new Kanjivaram saree. A few moist buds of jasmine drop to sit pretty on the red granite floor as she scurries to the door, her anklets jingling in unison. With lissome grace, she opens the door and then follows him to the sofa.
Her eyes remain lowered as she hesitantly seats herself next to him, smiling to herself in sweet anticipation. She feels the warmth of his gaze... Will he just keep looking at her? Does he find her that beautiful? Is he about to gently adjust the strands of hair that dangle hopefully at her temples? Or is he going to say those sweet nothings she'd been dreaming of the whole of last week during the marriage proceedings? Will he... Did he just whisper something... She looks up to find him staring idly at the black and white TV set, "What's for dinner?"
Monday, October 01, 2007
Dont Mention It!
In deep blue funk, don’t we often think of how it'd be if we die? How our dear ones would shed tears and remember us for what we had always stood for, how the people who’d caused us grief would repent and wish we'd lived to listen to their heart-felt remorse, how we'd never really die for we'd forever dwell in the hearts of those who've known us...
Perhaps; but well, with women - you never know. An old relative passed away the other day. Come noon, and my mother, my aunt and both my grandmothers were sitting around our dining table, a grave silence engulfing their long faces. I clothed myself in dull cotton lest I should be declared heartless and managed low pitched 'Vanakkam's before I joined them in their walk down memory lane - the old days, what a wonderful person she had been and how she had stayed strong when her mother died. "Yes, yes", one of the ladies nodded, "She was, despite her family's usual traits. Do you know, her second cousins were always busy pretending loss of consciousness in funerals!”
A half hour later, I sat dumbstruck at the guffawing women - "And in Ganapathy maama's funeral, his daughter-in-law hugged his wife so tight, she died on the spot!" Roars of laughter. Well, lets face it. We die. And we're better off not discussed!
Vanakkam – a way of greeting elders in Tamil Nadu
Maama- Uncle (usually maternal)
Perhaps; but well, with women - you never know. An old relative passed away the other day. Come noon, and my mother, my aunt and both my grandmothers were sitting around our dining table, a grave silence engulfing their long faces. I clothed myself in dull cotton lest I should be declared heartless and managed low pitched 'Vanakkam's before I joined them in their walk down memory lane - the old days, what a wonderful person she had been and how she had stayed strong when her mother died. "Yes, yes", one of the ladies nodded, "She was, despite her family's usual traits. Do you know, her second cousins were always busy pretending loss of consciousness in funerals!”
A half hour later, I sat dumbstruck at the guffawing women - "And in Ganapathy maama's funeral, his daughter-in-law hugged his wife so tight, she died on the spot!" Roars of laughter. Well, lets face it. We die. And we're better off not discussed!
Vanakkam – a way of greeting elders in Tamil Nadu
Maama- Uncle (usually maternal)
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