A cultural riot - I: Of girls, losing and a twinkle

26th September, 2014

As two of my friends and I had taken a few steps into the National Institute of Technology, Trichy (fondly called NIT-T), after having played for a few minutes with the revolving door that blocked the entrance, passed by us a very fair-skinned girl wearing a red sleeveless t- shirt and a dark blue jeans. My eyes followed her, with my head rotating slowly in a 180 degree turn and my eyes remained glued on that dazzling beauty till she stepped out of the college. As I slowly turned to continue into the college, I found my two friends staring at me, their eyes widened and a shameless glee spread over their faces. I smiled in acknowledgement and one of them completed the moment by saying a huge and an extended 'Wow'. I knew right then that 'Festember 14' - the inter-college cultural fest of NIT-T - was going to be an experience that I would cherish. And I was right.

Two hours later, I was screaming my lungs out in the barn hall of NIT-T in support of my friends who were performing a street -play. Or at least so it would have seemed to my college-mates who stood around me, shouting out their lungs on their behalf. But there was a more selfish and more petty reason behind my shouting. A girl. (It is always a girl, isn't it?) 

The girl

My friends who were about to perform in the street-play had been taking selfies of themselves as they all had had their faces painted for the street-play. I had been roaming around the barn hall aimlessly, looking around for something interesting. And it couldn't have been more dramatic when she walked in, one among a group of 10, wearing a green churidhar with a red shawl. 
In the midst of all the girls who were wandering around in sleeveless t-shirts and skin-tight jeans, she seemed like a more than welcome change. A charming face, hair tied behind in a neat plait, eyes decorated in a beautiful thin layer of mascara, a smile accompanied with a dimple - she seemed the quintessential Indian girl. 

We boys, generally, have two categories of girls - 
i) girls, at the sight of whom we call our friends nearby and show the girl, leading to a barrage of exclamations and appreciations and desperation(s) 
ii) girls, at the sight of whom we turn around quickly to check that none of our friends are looking at the girl and breathe a sigh of relief as the girl is someone more special

She belonged to the latter. I stood transfixed at the sight of her as she kept walking away from me, with every step. A minute later, I quickly jolted myself out of the mesmerised state I had gone into and ran behind the girl and her group when one of my friends called out my name. I stopped my chase halfway and walked towards my friend, frustrated. He had called me to hand me a biscuit. I gave him a nasty look and snatching the biscuit from him, I walked again in the direction of the girl. But by then, she had disappeared among the crowd that filled the barn hall. 

About twenty minutes later, as my friends had gotten on the stage to perform the street-play, the rest of us from our college rushed into the crowd to cheer them. As the street-play started, we let out a cheer so loud that half the crowd turned in our direction. And it was then that I saw her standing two rows ahead of me. For the briefest of the moments, our eyes met and that sufficed to set flame to my cheers. As our group's cheers subdued and the play proceeded, I suddenly let out a cheer for no apparent reason known to me. But it made her turn again. And my heart leapt in joy. And from there on, the cheers and the shouting increased gradually and so did my blooming romance.

The failure

By two clock, I found myself and my two other teammates wandering around the 'Lecture hall' of NIT-T for our event - Tamil cine quiz. As we finally found the room where the prelims was happening, we settled ourselves down and asked for the question paper, the three of us pretty confident of clearing the prelims and making it to the finals. The question paper was handed over and as we turned over its 5 pages, we suddenly felt a chill spreading. It seemed more difficult than what we had expected. And the duration also seemed less - 45 minutes as opposed to the general norm of one hour. 

One of my teammates lost hope as soon as we finished reviewing the question paper and started panicking that we were not even going to make it past the prelims. Being the organizers of the event in our college and not even making it past the prelims in a neighboring college is something that does not sit well with the 'organizer' reputation. And the very thought of not even making it past the prelims started haunting us and it took us a few minutes before we could come to our senses. 

We started approaching the questions one by one and slowly, the answers started showing up. And by the time we had completed about 30 of the given 40, only five minutes were left. As we sat breaking our heads to answer the remaining ten difficult ones, the five minutes flew away in a jiffy and the question paper was literally snatched away from my teammate's hands.

We walked out of the room to our eagerly awaiting college mates who asked excitedly as to how we had done. My teammate replied that we could have done better but said that he had confidence that we would easily make it to the finals. My feeling was not mutual but I did not want to shatter his hopes and remained silent. 

The hours passed and by six, after an exhausted tour around the college, we still hadn't received a call saying that we had made it to the finals - there normally is a phone call when you make it past the prelims. But the absence of it started worrying us and as we decided to call the organiser of the event, we unexpectedly came across him. My teammate rushed towards him asking as to why they had not made a call yet regarding the finals. After asking as to who we were, the organiser very calmly replied that we had not made it through and asking us to attend the finals that was to be held the next day saying that we would enjoy it more as an audience, he walked away. And we were left in a state of shock and humiliation at having not even cleared the prelims when our seniors and super seniors had had the accomplishment of having won the event in the past. 

Both my teammates walked to a nearby bench and sat down on it dejected and I was left standing there, staring at the setting sun, not knowing how to console them.

The twinkle

It was about eight at night and my college mates were still trying to console one of my teammates on the loss. Of the two, one teammate had accepted it after some time and had left it behind. But my other teammate had not been able to digest it and even after consolations from about 10 of us, he still refused to accept it saying that he had let them down and had not completed the one task he had come for, properly. 

As our group stood around him consoling, started a drizzle and we, who were standing at about ten meters away from the 'Open Air Auditorium', quickly ran towards a huge tree nearby, seeking shelter under its leaves from the drizzle. In a few minutes, the drizzle turned into a downpour and most of my college mates started suggesting that it would be better to run to the auditorium and get drenched a bit along the way rather than standing there underneath the tree and get completely soaked in rain. I am not someone with athletic abilities and so I refused, leading them to start their sprint towards the auditorium. 

As I stood there holding a hand-kerchief above my head, trying to find the thickest of foliage, came running a small group of people towards the tree. As the unknown faces stared at me, trying to fit themselves under the tree, my eyes glanced upon a sight I thought I would never see again. It was her.

As I typed the above paragraph, I paused for a moment because it seemed like a scene straight out of a Tamil film. But sometimes, life does present scenarios more dramatic than cinema and that moment under that tree in the thrashing rain seemed out of this world.

She had seen me and by the slightly upward angle her eyebrows struck, I could make out that she had recognized me from the morning. I looked back at her trying to bring about a smile as charming and romantic as possible. As we kept staring at each other, suddenly her lips seemed to widen slowly to a smile giving a premature birth to her dimple. And appeared a childish twinkle in her eyes for a split second that totally ripped apart my heart. 

It would have been at the least a twenty second romance that our eyes would have shared. And as I tried to widen my smile, splattered a few drops on my spectacles that caused me to wipe them in a hurried manner to look at her again which made her let out a chuckle. And I looked at her through those water splattered glasses, a sheepish smile spread over my face.

One could probably not ask for a better romantic moment.

****

Standing at the foot-board of a crowded government bus gives a rush to the adrenaline. But standing at the foot-board of an empty bus with the wind slapping your face hard and talking to your teammate standing nearby is something heart-warming.

My teammates and I had left NIT-T as soon as the rain had stopped while the rest of my college-mates had decided to stay there longer for the 'Pro-nite'. My watch had displayed the time as ten-thirty as we had boarded the bus to our college. And having paid for the ticket, my teammate and I had stood by the foot-board as the other teammate settled himself down on an empty seat and had started listening to songs on his music player. 

My teammate standing by my side, now recovered from his self-condemning phase, started discussing about cinema in general and the chat that followed is one of those chats I would remember for long.

As we got down at our college by eleven o' clock, my teammate had decided that he would attend the Tamil cine quiz finals that had been scheduled for the next day to see the standard of questions that the NIT-T organizers stuck to and also to snub the organizer who had replied haughtily, if a chance presented itself. He had readied his mind for retribution. 

The other teammate also agreed to accompany him the next day saying that he had not taken any photographs inside NIT-T and wanted at the least one good picture of him inside that campus. Seeing that I was silent, they asked me if I had any problem accompanying them the next day. I immediately shook my head saying that I had no problems.

How could I refuse?

I wanted another one of those 'breath-taking' twinkles and probably, her name too. She had, after all, ran away with her group as soon as the rain had stopped, her hair and her red shawl dripping wet, taking along a piece of my ready-to-burst heart. 

And so, I wanted another day filled with fun and frolic and her dimple.

But little did I know that the next day would be one of the most defining days of Tamil Nadu politics and would hand me an experience I would never forget.

Epistolary me!

"People lie more while talking to each other than while using the written/typed form - messages, mails and letters." This is a statement made by Jeff Hancock, Communications and Information Science professor at Cornell University during a TED talk. But how many of us would believe that?

We generally live under the false assumption that people while talking face to face are more wary and conscious of being caught lying and hence prefer the safer method of written/typed communication to put forth their lies. But evolution shows us that with the spoken form having originated very prior to its counterpart, it is the former where people remain untrue more as opposed to our belief. 

I have always had a problem speaking to any person face to face, irrespective of their closeness to me. This attitude of mine has got nothing to do with the above context but is just a simple result of my introverted nature. 

But then I would have to consider carefully as to if I am really an introvert. 

The comfort and ease that I have while pouring my heart out in a mail or a message or even a post like this for instance is something swell. But the discomfort that creeps up as soon as I look into the eyes of the same person that I had spoken with earlier through a mail or a message seems completely contrary. I have wondered many a day as to why such a problem exists.

Most of my cherished relationships have been strengthened only by mails and messages. The bonding with my brother became stronger only by our mails. The friendship with my dear buddy became stronger only by our text messages. Even my love story has a more than fair share devoted to text messages. 

As a writer, I am happy that there is a voluminous work available as a testament of my cherished relationships. But as a romantic at heart, the lack of more memorable real time experiences does make me sad.

If the discomfort prevailed for a relatively new person, one could probably agree that the shyness factor would have been a cause. But when the scenario persists even to someone close, the question does loom large. 

Whenever I meet my brother or buddy in person, there is definitely a warmth in my heart and I celebrate every moment spent in their company. But still the liberating/exhilarating feeling of pouring out in a mail or a message is seldom felt during a conversation. 

When for a person of the opposite gender, the scenario becomes even more worse. The thought of an irksome remark and the fear of the uncomfortable silence makes me tremble at the sight of any girl and with age, it only seems to be getting worse, further adding to my impuissance. But a mail or a message in this same scenario has a completely different outcome where the gates of the heart unlock themselves by a very mild breeze. 

Why is this so? Why this discomfort when faced with the person alone?

The problem is not something Goliath but it holds a key to my position in this world dominated by social networks and group discussions.

Being a student of science, the first person I turned to seeking a solution was Sigmund Freud. But his works and observations only seem to compound the question. And I realized that the answer lay not with that Austrian genius but with this Indian pretending-to-be-a-writer introvert.

I have been pondering over the issue for quite some time now asking myself again and again as to what my inner fear was. But only today it struck me. 

So far, I had been trying to seek the answer the wrong way. I had been trying to have a 'conversation' with myself.

And I stopped it.

I realized that a short text message would get a more effective response. And so, I sent a text message from my lower pumping base to my upper command center.

I still keep waiting for the reply as my mind wanders to Jeff Hancock's statement for some unknown reason.

And accompanying it seems to be a quote form Oscar Wilde.
"Man is least himself when he talks in person. Give him a mask and he will tell you the truth."

As I try hard to understand the underlying connection, the wait continues for an answer that is true enough. 

Romantic trips with Rahman

"Thevai ethuvum thevai illai

Thevai enthan thevathaiyae! "

The above lines, a part of the deeply moving 'Ennodu nee irunthaal' song from the movie 'I', which when translated mean - I do not need any need of mine. All I need is my angel - finally succeeded in bringing a tear as I listened to it for the 3rd time.

I once came across this line in a film - "Unfulfilled romance is the best romance". It seemed a great piece of writing then but very soon after, I realized that writing was very different from living. There are many things that writing could glamorize which living could possibly never. A long and a beautiful poem written about a lonely guy on a bench could never even come close to the warmth of sitting near a close one on the same bench. A mouth-watering descriptive piece about an Indian dish could never become a substitute for sharing the same dish with a close one. 

And so there are two things that I have started to believe in, with the passage of time - first being that 'tragedies make for good writing but never for a peaceful life' and the second being a slight alteration of the above mentioned dialogue - "Unfulfilled romance is never the best romance, unless probably there is a Rahman 'sad melody' (since I couldn't come up with a better term) to accompany you". 

So, does a Rahman 'sad melody' make up for a lost love? Definitely not.

But for something that cannot be got back, it does provide a soothing companion. Yes, it does bring about a few tears. But then, why hold back them? 

For some reason, the lyrics of a song attract our attention more when we are sad in contrast to the happy times when it is the music that keeps us glued. 

"Nilavinai ennaku arugil kaatiyathu nee thaane.. arugil kaatiyathu nee thaane..

Malarin mugavarigal sonnathum nee thaane..."

(I would be committing a conscious crime if I tried to translate these priceless lines)

"Veesungindra thendrale... velai illai nindru po...

Pesugindra vennilaa... penmai illai ointhu po..."

" Kaatril kaneerai aetri.. Kavithai senthaenai ootri.. Kannae un vaasal saerthaen..

Oyum jeevan odum munnae, ododi vaa... "

" Paal mazhai'ku kaathirukkum bhoomi illaya.. Oru pandigai'ku kaathirukkum saami illaya..

Vaarthai vara kaathirukkum kavignan illaya.. Naan kaathirunthaal kaadhal innum neelum illaya..."

The lyrics of every sad melody of Rahman's have imprinted themselves in my otherwise pathetic memory so badly that some random song in its entirety comes rushing in my head at a moment's glance of the close one. And the result, I wouldn't complain as to be a devastating one. Rather, the song and the tune in my head make me cherish the moment more than it ever calls for. And the misery at heart does get embroiled in serenity which readily becomes a more than welcome relief then. 

I read long back in a newspaper article about a little girl in comatose state who had been made to listen continuously to Rahman's melodies by her mom which doctors believed had been the main reason for her recovery when she had come out of her comatose six months later.

I would never be able to forgive myself if I compared myself with that little girl who had fought those six dark months with grit and determination and Rahman. 

But I guess that I could probably say that Rahman has been one of the main reasons that I survived a phase I very strongly believed would be my last and Rahman still continues to be one of the main reasons that I overcome a sudden flood of haunting memories with a tear and a smile, a song later.

Even as I finish typing this post, plays one of my most favorite Rahman sad melodies through my earphones.

"Izhaitha kavithai nee.. Ezhuthu pizhaiyum nee.. 

Iraval velicham nee.. Iravin kaneer nee..

Ennadhu vaanam nee.. Izhantha siragum nee..

Naan thooki vazhartha thuyaram nee....

Oru dheivam thantha poovae...." 

And the song/my life goes on...

Chennai Days

As the final credits of 'Bangalore Days' started rolling on my laptop screen yesterday, there was an overwhelming feeling of happiness but amidst it was hiding a tinge of sadness. I wished that I had seen it with my cousins siblings. The feeling would have been ethereal. 

It was a very good film with excellent writing and brilliant performances. But this film to me was not like the many other films I generally watch to analyse and understand the art of film-making. I did not care about the placement of the camera. I did not care about the back-lighting. I did not care about the fade-ins and cross-fades of editing. I did not care about the subtlety and the helpfulness of the score to the premise. I watched the film as a normal viewer would watch, after quite a long time and thanks to Anjali Menon for that - Thank you for making a film, unknowingly for you and surprisingly for me, about me and my cousins siblings.

Nazriya's role brought alive my (cousin)sister, Dulquer's to a very large extent my (cousin)brother's and Nivin's role, mine. I was stunned to see the exact replications of our characters - a girl with very simple yet meaningful ambitions, a boy/man in the search of a purpose for his life trying to fight against all the odds of the system and the society and a boy, faced with the simple desire of making his mom happy and the complex issue of making a girl like him. For about half an hour, I tried to think about how each character was so similar to each of us but I gave it up pretty soon because I found refuge in something even more beautiful - the unforgettable memories of the little yet everlasting times we spent together.

I had always been wanting to write about the 'lizard and death' incident that happened in our childhood but I never found a more appropriate moment than now when I am still reeling in the warmth of 'Bangalore days'.

****

Lizard and death

One of the reasons I try to write down most of the important moments in my life is because of my understanding of my memory which is pathetic. Many charming moments I spent in the company of my brother and sister during our childhood have gotten themselves washed away by a few recent ones but still as I think about our childhood days, one incident that never fails to evoke laughter is the incident of the 'lizard and death'. 

The three of us got together for the most part in either my brother's home or my sister's. And despite wherever the location was, the 'scapegoat' of our lot was my sister until of recent, where my love escapades have made me the butt of all their jokes. 

But going back, it was about half past eight at my brother's home and having finished our dinner, me and my sister got up to wash our plates (washing our own plates was something my aunt very strictly insisted to my complete displeasure) and as we stepped into the backyard to wash the plates, a lizard fell on my sister's arm. And a scream erupted from my sister stopping all our hearts. But the being that had been scared the most had been the lizard and before any of us could shout "What happened?", it had jumped off her arm and had run away. But the sudden landing of the lizard had shaken up my sister so much that she broke down. And seeing her break down for a lizard falling on her arm, me and my brother started laughing out loud which made her cry even more intensely. 

And then my brother did something - he picked up a 'daily-sheet' calendar that had been hanging on the wall and turned it - for those of you who don't know, many of these so called 'daily-sheet' calendars have 'lizard-omens' written behind them that says as to what would happen if a lizard lands on a particular part of the human body - and after he saw what had been written, his eyes widened but he remained silent and hung it back on the wall. I asked him repeatedly as to what had been written but he did not answer. I could not let it go and I provided the finishing touch to the meaningless confusion that had resulted because of a 5 centimetre lizard. I took the calendar from the wall and turned it and as I read what had been written, I was shocked. Instead of remaining silent like my brother, I shouted out - "My God! It has been written here that a lizard falling on one's arm is an omen of death!". That completed the chaos. It took about one long hour before my aunt and uncle could convince my sister that a lizard falling on the arm would not kill her. 

Needless to say, me and my brother were subjected to a few harsh words.

****

I don't know what you would have thought about the above incident because for many, it might seem a very childish or perhaps even a lame event. But that event in our childhood was a clear indication of our bonding that would follow - my sister was always the most vulnerable, my brother the most understanding and rational (looking at the 'lizard-omen' was the last irrational thing he did) and myself, the source of many a problem and a silent onlooker of few. 

There are many more such - the semi-erotic 'Maalai mangum neram' song in 'Rowthiram' when everyone else in the theater became silent and attentive (!) with just the three of us laughing, my sister hiding behind a chair and me running off to the next room as soon as the ghost arrived in 'Evil Dead', the unforgettable Mahabalipuram trip when my brother and sister very easily climbed up the rocks whilst I was left panting and puffing out of breath at the bottom helplessly, the awkward jokes me and my brother cracked at my sister's love, the absurd comments we passed at my sister's cooking only to completely devour the dishes prepared later, the digs that my sister and my brother took at my futile attempts at romance, the uncontrollable laughs that they had when the kittens at my brother's home that would have been playing happily with them till then would abruptly take off at the sight of me, the nights we spent sleeping on the terrace of my brother's home to be woken up in the middle of the night by my sister who felt that she heard the sound of anklets - and the list just goes on and on. But the post seems to have become long enough already.

Bonding with one another was never really a problem as all the three of us were single kids to our parents. But the way in which our relationship has shaped up after all these years is what amazes me.The silly fights resulting because of sillier reasons have taken a back seat (though they show up once in a while even now) and the understanding that each of us have about the other has come to the front. Certain small yet significant distances that existed when the three of us stayed at Chennai have vanished to bring us closer even though the three of us are separated by hundreds of kilometres from each other now. 

I guess I would not be wrong in speaking for my brother and sister as well when I say that we never ever felt that we were single kids even while growing up and with the passage of time, the sibling bond only seems to be getting stronger.

With my job being posted at Bangalore and my sister planning to settle there, it would be left to my brother to make a move. But if by chance, the three of us manage to get together at Bangalore, I would very confidently say that our 'Bangalore days' would be more interesting and more heartwarming!

(No offence please, Anjali Menon!)

'Thank you!' - part II

"There is a simplicity in every great thing and a greatness in every simple thing".

I pondered for a moment over the quote above as to why I had typed it. I knew that it was too 'great' a quote to be added to this post but I did not want to delete it and so I let it be.

When I left behind my 'Tumblr' blog to start this, it was because of a few personal reasons. I wanted complete freedom writing whatever I felt and thought, without the scrutiny and averse comments that some of my posts received from a close one. I had started writing because/for her but I realized that every post being posted was controlled by the thought of being read by the close one. And the result - the posts were emotional, touchy, sappy but never true. I had to choose between the close one or writing and I did not have to thankfully choose. The close one became a closed one and I was left with the task of starting this blog, putting behind the older one with all the memories it carried.

When I typed up the first post of this blog - 'Thank you!' - I never had an idea as to what I would follow it up with. There was an urge to write. There was an urge to express. Most importantly, there was an urge to share.

But I never knew what lay waiting to be written/expressed/shared. Everything that followed happened on its own.

But then, why am I digging up all these stuff? 

As I lay on my bed today, completely bored and jobless, I clicked on my 'Blogger' page. And my eyes widened as I saw the number of 'page-views' - a perfect round 1000!

I saw the figure and my heart skipped a beat. I knew that it was a very petty achievement compared to the various incredible feats that people of my age were doing all around me. But one thing that my grandfather taught me in my childhood has stuck with me so long and it was to celebrate any and every significant thing that happened in life, whatever was its magnitude. The only difference between him and this writer filled with vanity is that he was a man who was always happy and expressed it all out whereas most of my emotions occur internally and there are only a handful that are expressed. Amongst the handful is gratitude which my mom taught me as to be the most important quality of a person.

Every successful person begins by thanking his mentor/guru/inspiration and I would be failing miserably if I failed to thank my brother without whom I wouldn't have taken up writing seriously. I thank you, my brother, for every word of appreciation and every word of criticism because every single word in every single one of my posts is a result of those comments.

The next person to thank would be my very dear friend but I guess the gratitude should be accompanied by an apology as well because the poor fellow is forced and pressurized by me to read what I had posted, every time after every post, amidst all his important work. I thank you, my friend, for so patiently bearing up with me and providing your few yet valuable comments as well (The torture is only going to get worse!).

And we come to the 'follower'. Most bloggers, I guess, make it public and let every friend of theirs know about their blog once they start it. But I started 'blogging' just to see if I was capable of writing. So the only two people in my life who knew about my blog were the two people in the above two paras. But then happened the recruitment process of 'Freshdesk' in our college and though I lost the job, I gained a follower. 
It is the duty of every artist to carry on his work for the sake of art and not for the laurels that come and go. I keep telling myself that everyday but still, somewhere deep down, the heart does ache for a bit of recognition and a word of appreciation. And I must honestly say that never have I been appreciated more in my life's entirety than ever since this follower happened. I sincerely thank you, my follower, for that and I also request you to tone down your praises a bit as the regular dose seem to be making me doubt if they are really true as I know that most of it is overrated and your intentions, really good.

Finally and most importantly perhaps, I should thank every single one of you out there who have chanced upon my blog accidentally by clicking the 'Next Blog' button. You, anonymous bloggers, form the majority of my readership (if I could call that). I hope that none of my posts made you regret chancing upon my blog and if my posts had evoked even the tiniest of emotions, I would consider it a bigger achievement than the 'page-view' figure. 

I once heard the very famous author Elizabeth Gilbert explain in a 'TED-talk' the origin of the word 'genius' saying that the term 'genius' had been primarily used by the Romans to describe the 'spirit' that guided a creative person to create a piece of art. According to the Romans, the guiding spirit was behind every success and failure of the creative person and they never appreciated/offended any creative person completely for the work as they knew that the spirit was behind it.  

I am not a believer of many things but I guess, having very high doubts in my creativity myself, I could attribute a lot of credit to this so called 'genius' of a spirit and thank it.

But then, wait. That wouldn't be right.

Most of the credit should go to my mom and very little to the spirit as the spirit never pursued 'English literature' in college nor did it voraciously read books during pregnancy.
So, a very heartfelt thanks to you, my dear mom.

And well..what else remains after all this gratitude?

A tiny-weeny celebration perhaps - internally, of course!!

A God under the umbrella!

He held his grandmother’s hand firmly and slowly led her across the crowd that seemed to be growing minute by minute. He had never seen such a crowd ever before in his 20 years of occasional visits to the market place. When he had started from his home, his mother had warned him that the market place would be crowded and he himself had realized it, that day being ‘Vinayagar Chaturthi’ – The festival of Lord Ganapathi/Ganesh.  But the crowd in the midst of which he was standing made him feel dizzy.

“That one… That one looks good. The trunk is also curved to the right” suddenly shouted his grandmother from behind him. He looked in the direction she pointed. Seated in large numbers were clay statuettes of Lord Ganesh with their crowns painted in a golden colour. Amidst all the shops that sold either plain clay statuettes or fully painted ones, this shop with the ‘painted crown’ Ganesh statuettes looked teasing and rightfully was over-crowded.

“It looks too crowded. Let’s buy the Ganesh statuette there” he said to his grandmother pointing at a shop that had only 3 customers standing by it. But his grandmother wouldn’t agree. The Ganesh there had his trunk curved to the left.

“Is the orientation of his curve so important?” he asked his grandmother, frustrated by her adamant nature.

“You said you would not let your rational beliefs out and that is why I allowed you to accompany me. Now, either listen to me or leave. I will wait here till the crowd at that shop departs and come home with the proper statuette” she said and turned her face away. He knew that it would not bear any fruit arguing with her and so he tightened his grip and led her towards the shop she had pointed at.

“How much is that one?” he asked the shopkeeper, pointing to a statuette his grandmother had chosen after about 10 minutes of careful consideration.

“100 rupees” said the shopkeeper and continued the argument that he had earlier started with another customer.

“Fine. Buy it.” said his grandmother, opening her purse. The grandson was shocked.

“Did you hear the rate he said?” he asked her. She nodded and extended him a 100 rupee note. The grandson kept staring at her without taking the money.

“Don’t you think it is too much for two days’ worship after which it is going to go in the well?” he asked her. “We should never bargain when it comes to God” she told him and pushed the 100 rupee note in his hand. The grandson was not satisfied.

“Would you give it for 80 rupees?” he asked the shopkeeper. The shopkeeper gave him a nasty look and told him outright that the cost was non-negotiable.

“Why are you bargaining? I told you to pay him the 100 rupees. Don’t show your miserliness here. Pay the shopkeeper 100 rupees.” His grandmother shouted at him. The grandson knew that it was useless arguing either with the shopkeeper or with his grandmother and handing the shopkeeper the money, he lifted the statuette and placed it carefully in the coir-basket his grandmother had brought.

“So, what remains?” he asked his grandmother as they managed to come out of the extremely over-crowded market place with great difficulty.

“Just the umbrella” said the grandmother. The grandson never understood the concept behind buying a tiny umbrella for the Ganesh statuette. His grandmother’s explanations for the umbrella had never convinced him but he knew better not to start another argument and so looked around. A small boy standing with a long bamboo stick, colorful umbrellas pointing out from it in all the directions, caught his eye.

“Let’s buy an umbrella from that boy” he said, pulling her towards the small boy’s direction. As they reached him, the grandson was surprised to see how small the boy was. He would have been probably 6 or 7 years old. He was finding it very hard to keep the bamboo stick still. It definitely would have weighed more than the small boy.

“Sir.. Sir.. Please buy an umbrella sir. Please sir!” the boy pleaded as soon as he saw the grandson. The grandson got down on his knees and smiling at the boy, asked him the cost of an umbrella. 20 rupees was its cost.

“20 rupees?! What is so special in that umbrella that it costs 20 rupees?” shouted the grandmother from behind.

As the grandson turned towards her to reply, a man clad in white shirt and dhoti holding his daughter’s hand walked towards them.

“How much for an umbrella?” he asked in an ordering tone to the boy. “20 rupees sir” said the boy feebly.

The man took out a 20 rupee note from his pocket and gave it to his daughter to hand it over to the boy. The daughter rushed forward to hand the boy the money.

“Careful Divya! Careful! Don’t touch his hand. Just place the 20 rupee note and get the umbrella.” he cautioned his daughter. “We are very orthodox. That is why I insisted.” The man elaborated to the grandmother, smiling a sheepish smile.  

The grandson was angered very much by the man’s statement. Though he was a Brahmin himself, he hated several superstitions and customs that the Brahmins practised – one such, being the custom that they would not touch a person of a lower caste and if the contact happened even accidentally, they would take a bath to wash themselves of the sins of the person who had touched them and it was this custom that the man was trying to pertain to with the small boy right then.

Infuriated, the grandson got up.

“Even the umbrella was touched by the boy. Be sure to wash your clay idol before placing the umbrella alongside it. Otherwise your God might become a sinful one!” said the grandson, looking directly at the man’s eyes.

The man was taken aback. The grandmother was also shocked. Both the small boy and the man’s daughter stood there confused at what was happening. The grandson expected the man to retort back. Instead, he grabbed his daughter with the 20 rupee note she was still holding and walked away.

“Sir.. Sir.. Please buy it sir. Please sir!” the boy shouted out to the man. But he was gone. The boy’s face had become glum and he looked at the grandson with his tiny helpless eyes.

The grandson had not expected that outcome for his statement. He again got down on his knees and told the boy that he would compensate for the loss he had caused.

“What are you doing? In addition to your foolish statement, are you going to buy two umbrellas now? Brilliant!” the grandmother smirked. But the grandson knew that he had to pay for his mistake and taking out his wallet, he handed the boy a 50 rupee note. The boy’s glum face lightened up. He handed the grandson two umbrellas.

As the grandson stood up with the umbrellas and turned to walk away, the boy tugged at his pant. When the grandson looked down, he saw the boy extending a 10 rupee note. He was overwhelmed and asked the boy to keep it. But the boy refused and asked him to take the money. The grandson ruffled the boy’s hair and accepted it.

                                                                            ****

Ever since he had got home, the grandson felt disturbed for some reason. He had been thinking for a long time as to what the reason could be but he had not been able to deduce it.

He kept staring at the fan that was rotating above for some time when he heard his mom calling him to the pooja room. The pooja for the Ganesh statuette was about to start. His mom handed him the bell and asking him to ring it, she started rotating the aarti-lamp before the statuette. And as the grandson stood there alongside his grandmother, shaking the bell looking at the aarti shown to the lifeless clay statuette by his mother, it hit him.

After the pooja got over, he pocketed a few sweets that his mom had prepared for the occasion and telling his mom that he had to meet a friend, he went out. About ten minutes later, he stood before the market place staring at the small boy who was standing quite some distance away, shouting his lungs out to sell the umbrellas.

The grandson walked towards him. The boy’s face brightened on seeing the grandson. The grandson smiled and got down on his knees. He asked the boy to hand him the bamboo stick. 

The boy was puzzled. The grandson insisted and the boy handed him the bamboo stick.

Holding the stick firmly in one hand, the grandson pulled the boy closer and hugged him tightly. 

The boy did not understand the grandson’s actions but he felt a warmth in the hug he had never felt before and so he let the grandson take control.

After the hug that lasted for more than a couple of minutes, the grandson let go of the boy. The boy let out a mild chuckle that brimmed with shyness. The grandson gave him back the bamboo stick and handed him a 100 rupee note.

The boy looked at the rupee note in awe.  Mixing his amazement with a tinge of confusion, he stared at the grandson.

“Do not worry. I am not giving you this for free. Give me 5 umbrellas.” said the grandson.

“Didn’t you already buy 2?” asked the little boy.

The grandson nodded but still held out the 100 rupee note. The boy took it from him and slowly removing 5 umbrellas from the stick, he gave them to him.

The grandson stood up and asked him if he had an elastic band. The boy gave him one. He removed the handle of one of the umbrellas and folding the small wooden handles of the rest, he tied the five umbrellas together with the removed handle supporting the entire group.

He took it and slightly lowering the bamboo stick, he placed it on the top, inserting the handle inside the top hole of the bamboo stick. As he pushed the stick back to the position the boy was holding, a shadow of a large umbrella fell on the ground at the spot where the boy was standing.

The boy's face glowed as the shadow covered his face. 

The grandson got down on his knees and handed the boy the sweets he had brought with him. As the boy happily munched at them, the grandson asked the boy his name.

The reply the boy gave made the grandson let out a hearty laugh. The boy asked him why he had laughed. The grandson told him that it was nothing and hugged the boy again.

The boy's name was Ganapathi.