revathi_siva
My screamingly hennaed hands groped in the crate, mindful of the hungry nails that splayed out. “Aiyyo, what are you doing,” scolded Lalitha, my younger sister. “Childish, childish.”
I had posted her at the attic door. With Ganapathi homam and the bountiful lunch that marked the Iyer benevolence on Appa’s 39th birthday, someone would come looking for us soon. Lalitha got cross and hot, but minded me.
“I’m looking for Paati,” I said, and fished out a notebook. My grandmother was all over the house, somehow more so since she had died two years ago. Suddenly, I would meet her somewhere. In a luscious portrait of liquid eyes and full lips, for instance. In two months, I would be married, and would not be able to see her.
“Amuda, the guests are arriving,” breathed Lali, dancing impatiently. “Hussain Maama has brought his weird, fond eyes.”
The pooja bells began to tinkle as I peered into my notebook. Why, it was about forty years old too. Probably born just before Appa, I thought excitedly. It was pitted and blackened with rotting fungus. Delicately, I turned a page.
Immediately, Paati began to talk to me in the low, full voice that made my eyes prickle. “The malli bush studs the coal sky,” she murmured. “The milk boiled over when He left on tour for two days.” Thatha, my grandfather. The only man in the world whose name could be He.
Suddenly, the diary screeched to a halt. I glanced at the date. About eight to nine months before Appa’s birthday.
“Amuda, Hussain Maama is wearing the black coat in which he looks so handsome,” sang Lali’s high-pitched voice, vexedly. She strained at my leash, but held her post.
Hussain Maama was a family friend. Regardless of the Persian aristocracy that shone through the philandering rumours attached to his name, he was a proud example of Thatha’s Nehruvian secularism. They would meet as brother to brother, and Paati would serve him coffee in tumblers that would be scrubbed with tamarind, and stored in the washroom, where they entertained little ambitions of inhabiting the kitchen. Still, Maama liked me, I knew.
“The priest has finished and left, so Maama is allowed to shake hands,” Lali announced, with a lace of acid. It was a favourite pastime with us to identify how many inches Appa would touch Maama, for how long, and how soon before his bath. “In your next birth, you will be a Muslim,” a tired Paati had scolded Appa once.
“Hussain is coming in his black coat,” bubbled Paati. I giggled delightedly at the coincidence, and looked up to tell my sister.
“It’s a very big present,” Lali cried.
“It’s amavasai tonight,” murmured Pati.
The last entry. The words to Lali died on my lips as I saw that it was Paati’s last entry.
The bells had stopped ringing, anyway. The attic was locked into a shocked, suspended silence. Then I dropped the notebook back, and dusted my hands.
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I had posted her at the attic door. With Ganapathi homam and the bountiful lunch that marked the Iyer benevolence on Appa’s 39th birthday, someone would come looking for us soon. Lalitha got cross and hot, but minded me.
“I’m looking for Paati,” I said, and fished out a notebook. My grandmother was all over the house, somehow more so since she had died two years ago. Suddenly, I would meet her somewhere. In a luscious portrait of liquid eyes and full lips, for instance. In two months, I would be married, and would not be able to see her.
“Amuda, the guests are arriving,” breathed Lali, dancing impatiently. “Hussain Maama has brought his weird, fond eyes.”
The pooja bells began to tinkle as I peered into my notebook. Why, it was about forty years old too. Probably born just before Appa, I thought excitedly. It was pitted and blackened with rotting fungus. Delicately, I turned a page.
Immediately, Paati began to talk to me in the low, full voice that made my eyes prickle. “The malli bush studs the coal sky,” she murmured. “The milk boiled over when He left on tour for two days.” Thatha, my grandfather. The only man in the world whose name could be He.
Suddenly, the diary screeched to a halt. I glanced at the date. About eight to nine months before Appa’s birthday.
“Amuda, Hussain Maama is wearing the black coat in which he looks so handsome,” sang Lali’s high-pitched voice, vexedly. She strained at my leash, but held her post.
Hussain Maama was a family friend. Regardless of the Persian aristocracy that shone through the philandering rumours attached to his name, he was a proud example of Thatha’s Nehruvian secularism. They would meet as brother to brother, and Paati would serve him coffee in tumblers that would be scrubbed with tamarind, and stored in the washroom, where they entertained little ambitions of inhabiting the kitchen. Still, Maama liked me, I knew.
“The priest has finished and left, so Maama is allowed to shake hands,” Lali announced, with a lace of acid. It was a favourite pastime with us to identify how many inches Appa would touch Maama, for how long, and how soon before his bath. “In your next birth, you will be a Muslim,” a tired Paati had scolded Appa once.
“Hussain is coming in his black coat,” bubbled Paati. I giggled delightedly at the coincidence, and looked up to tell my sister.
“It’s a very big present,” Lali cried.
“It’s amavasai tonight,” murmured Pati.
The last entry. The words to Lali died on my lips as I saw that it was Paati’s last entry.
The bells had stopped ringing, anyway. The attic was locked into a shocked, suspended silence. Then I dropped the notebook back, and dusted my hands.
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