Love and its labors!

"I don't believe in love at first sight." 
This is one of the many statements my friend told me after watching the film Kayal. We had a lengthy discussion later about love at first sight and the problems that came along with it. My friend felt that love at first sight was something that belonged to only films and was never applicable in real life. 
And so do many people. 

Following is a simple description of an experiment conducted by the psychologist Nalini Ambady.
A group of students were given three two-second videotapes of a professor with the sound turned off and the students were asked to come up with a rating for the professor's teaching effectiveness. She collected these judgments and she compared them with the ratings given by the students who had had the same professor teach them for a full semester.
The result - The judgments were very much similar.

I learnt about this experiment thanks to a fascinating book titled 'Blink: The power of thinking without thinking' written by Malcolm Gladwell (I thank you Malcolm for helping me out in a second post with your findings!).

The experiment above shows that instinctive decisions can be as effective as the ones taken over a longer period. The instinctive decisions, a result of our adaptive subconscious, though made in a matter of seconds are a result of all our lessons learnt over our entire lifetime. Why is it that we believe then that a partner chosen carefully over a long period of conversations and understanding would be better than the one chosen at a single glance?

As I try very hard to dig into my memory, I find that I still have very similar opinions about most of my friends at college as the ones that took birth when I first laid eyes on them except a few guys who turned out to be complete opposites. But still, we being a species that always prefers considering the 'majority', I guess it would not be wrong of me to support instinctive decisions.

We do have a lot of close friends but what is it that makes someone 'special'? 
A 'special something' perhaps.
I do agree that it might take time for a person to notice the 'special something' in another person to start dishing out more love but is it not possible that the 'special something' might be visible, though not in its clearest form, but as some sign of a charm at first sight?

And these instinctive decisions, as mentioned earlier, are a sum total of lessons learnt and with respect to love, they might as well bring in the characteristics of our parents we observe, according to the great Sigmund Freud. 


But on a completely different and even a contradictory note, a general problem that we face is our tendency to try to believe that there might not be a reason, after all. 

It is obviously easy to say that 'Love is magical' or 'Love is divine'.
But why is it that we fail or try very rarely to show interest in understanding a feeling that has its roots in our own brains (Fine! Maybe a part of it in the heart!) and try to mix up the cause with the effect?

Instead of spending more time in understanding the cause (the reasons that make us fall in love) we spend more time in understanding the effect (the emotions that follow up with love). And therein lies the root of all romantic problems.

Once the cause is understood properly or to put it clearer - once 'our' expectation we had had of the partner is understood in depth - an obvious revelation would occur as to where we went wrong (in the instance of something going wrong) and if possible, where things could be made right.

Even science suggests something similar.
The beginning is the end of all problems. 
A main reason 'Big Bang' has its prominence increase day by day.

I have a few friends who suggest kindly that I stop analyzing about love and learn to experience its magic instead. And I do agree that the feeling of being in love is unmatched. But understanding the reason behind it seems even more fascinating. 

After all, would you prefer knowing that you fell in love with a boy/girl because of a closer resemblance to the characteristics of a parent or would you prefer a pure miracle?
Would you prefer knowing that you fell in love because the 'special something' was a collection of all the things that had affected you in life or would you prefer a divine intervention?
I leave the choice to you.

Because love would always be love, be it fact or be it faith.

The Transmogrifier

If you wondered as to what the title of this post meant, I truly feel sorry for you.

I feel sorry because you have missed out on one of the most beautifully drawn and one of the most meaningful comic strips.

I feel sorry because you have missed out on learning to use astronautical terms for a simple swinging experience.

I feel sorry because you have missed out on learning intelligent ways to avoid solving math problems.

I feel sorry because you have missed out on learning how to answer a math problem or any other question, for that matter, in case you had no other go.

I feel sorry because you have missed out on learning how to never give in to your failures.

I feel sorry because you have missed out on imagining the satisfaction attained by blaming the world outright.

I feel sorry because you have missed out on the most important commentaries on art and creativity.

I feel sorry because you have missed out on realizing the sweetness of doing nothing.

I feel sorry because you have missed out on understanding mankind and life in the simplest ways possible.

I feel sorry because you have missed out on excellent humor.

I feel sorry because you have missed out on the works of a great comic artist who turned down hundreds of millions of dollars from huge corporate organizations that wanted to use his characters for commercial brand endorsements and stood by his sentiment that his art was not for sale.

All in all, I feel sorry because you have missed out on 3150 comic strips of pure joy.

But as the final comic strip drawn in 1995 by the above mentioned great man shows, it is never late to go exploring.

Just try letting Calvin and Hobbes enter your life.

You would realize pretty soon that they not just transform your life.

Calvin and Hobbes transmogrify your life.

Taboo

(Typed in angst of a writer's plight)

Swami paused for a moment to observe his son. The argument they were having flew out of his mind and he slowly examined his son.

His son looked just like him. The eyes that strained for a purpose, the pointed nose that flamed with anger, the ears that curved towards the end – every single detail. His heart brimmed with joy at his creation while the creation’s cry of ‘Dad!’ brought him back to their argument.

“Sorry!” Swami said meekly and continued, “I still stand by my opinion. Engineering is your best option.”

His son’s eyebrows raised in anger. “Why should not a son follow his father’s footsteps? When you are happy with your work and have such a good reputation as the chief editor of a daily, why do you force me to study something I am not interested in?” he asked.

“Journalism is not as easy as you think it is..” Swami started when his son interrupted. 

“Writer! I said I want to become a writer. There is a significant difference."

Swami smiled feebly and said, “That is an even more difficult profession. Just because you write occasionally does not make you..”. He was again interrupted.

“Have you read any of my writings?” his son asked, indifferently. Swami did not answer. He remained silent for a few seconds before continuing to finish the sentence he had started, “.. an expert with writing. It has a lot more to it than you realize.”

Swami’s son’s face showed clear signs of frustration. He turned around to leave when Swami called out. “Fine! I will give you a topic. Show me how good your writing is.”

His son looked at him, a bleak smile visible on his face. Swami grabbed a sheet of paper from a table that lay at the corner of the room and uncapping his fountain pen, he started to write a few lines on it. A minute later, he handed the sheet to his son. Accepting it eagerly, his son looked at what Swami had written. As he finished reading Swami’s statements, he let out an irritated sigh. Crushing the paper as firmly as he could, he threw the paper forcefully on the ground and walked away, banging his fist on the room’s door as he exited.

Swami’s wife who was standing at the doorway tried to console their son but he did not mind her. She turned towards Swami and entered the room.

“You should give a glance at his writings.” she said, a tone filled with sympathy for their son.

Swami let out a chuckle. “Do you really think that I live in this house without being interested in my son’s activities?” he asked her. His wife looked at him questioningly and Swami slowly nodded.

Before she opened her mouth again, Swami raised his hand to stop her and said, “Do not worry. I have seen enough of this world to know that it is futile to force him into something he does not like, especially if the ‘something’ is his education. Let him study literature. I just wanted to see how badly he wants it.” Swami finished.

His wife smiled and landed an affectionate pat on his shoulder. She then bent to the ground and picked up the crumpled paper. She opened it holding the paper’s edges and flattened it out with her palm. As she read what was written it, she gave Swami a playful cum angry look.

“I expected him to strike off those warnings and write down a piece. But I guess he needs some training with respect to facing the real world.” Swami explained.

“Still, don’t you feel this is extreme?” asked his wife.

“Trust me!” Swami said. “I know what it takes to be a writer in today’s world.”

She nodded and placed the paper on the table, seating a paper-weight on it.

On the paper was written,

“Write up to two pages on ‘India – From Mughal Empire to Modi government’

Warnings:

Avoid statements on God and religion.

Avoid statements about caste. 

Avoid statements about political parties. 

Avoid truth if offensive. ”

Self importance and Sambar rice

"Why on earth do you add turmeric powder?" would begin the argument from my side. "It adds its own flavor. Is it tasting bad?" would be my mother's counterargument. "It does not taste bad. But why do you add turmeric powder?" I would ask her again. She would shrug her shoulders and continue her work in the kitchen. 
All this for a simple dal. 

"In no other home would anyone fear so much for preparing just chapathi and dal!" my mother would often exclaim before beginning to prepare the same. 
My mother's version of dal is one with chopped onion pieces, tiny tomato scrapings, a teaspoonful of turmeric powder, a few curry leaves, no chilies, no lemon essence, no coriander and no cumin seeds.
My version is one with huge tomato pieces, thin chili slices, a handful of cumin seeds, lemon essence added exactly to about 5 drops, a few closely chopped coriander leaves, no turmeric, no curry leaves and definitely no chopped onion. 
And every time the dal boiled in our kitchen stove, an argument would arise even though never once has it stopped me from feasting on the chapathi and dal later.

And this small piece that I have typed above is not to mention as to how dal should be prepared but to put forth clearly how bad a foodie I am.
Food OCD, to be exact!


Being such a person, I always found it difficult to reject outright the food served at our hostel mess. I couldn't reject it sans any reason (though on many occasions, one look at the fatter-than-the-fattest oothapams and bite-me-if-you-can bread slices would warn you even from a mile) but I had to taste them and find out what had gone wrong. And by 'gone wrong', I do not mean the 'There seems to be no salt', 'The potato curry has not been roasted properly' level. It refers to a deeper analysis.

But coming to the point, on numerous occasions I had found the dishes served at the hostel mess - be it the curry or the sambar or the rasam or even the idlis (especially when they were soft with the hot steaming sambar poured over them) - to have had the ingredients in the exact proportions as it would have been made at my home but the taste seemed starkly different. The reaction the hostel mess dishes would evoke at that time were not of the same standards as the emotion evoked by the dishes with the same ingredients at my home. 

When I told my grandmother about this, she gave a reply, typical of any Indian mother or grandmother.
"We prepare the dishes for you at home with a lot of affection. Do you expect that from the people who prepare the dishes at your hostel mess?"

The problem with being a science fanatic is that these emotional dialogues, though give a warm feeling for some time, lose their credibility soon and you start breaking your head. Why do the same dishes prepared with the same ingredients in possibly the same way not evoke the same reaction as the one at home? Does 'affection' really play a part? 

These are not questions you can possibly discuss with your friends at hostel because the moment your friends realize that you are taking the mess food so seriously, it would indicate them that you have started losing your mind. The only option left would be to search about this baffling phenomenon online and you would not believe the results such a search returns (One of the most humorous results led me to a fantastic website).

But by a stroke of luck, I managed to get my hands on an amazing video today morning - a TED talk by Malcolm Gladwell (even the title of this post is a loose rip-off of the video's!).
The video was largely about Gladwell's description of how a man named Howard Moskowitz had helped considerably in giving a fresh life to the sphagetti sauce industry in the United States. But by the end of the video, he described so effortlessly the answer I had so strenuously been searching for. To quote Malcolm Gladwell's own words as he addressed the audience,
"If I were to ask all of you to try and come up with a brand of coffee - a type of coffee, a brew - that made all of you happy and then I asked you to rate that coffee, the average score in this room for coffee would be about 60 on a scale of 0 to 100. 
If however, you allowed me to break you into coffee clusters, maybe three or four coffee clusters, and I could make coffee just for each of those individual clusters, your scores would go from 60 to 75 or 78. "
And he ended the talk by calling out for the embracing the diversity of humankind. 

But it was the above quoted part that made me think. 
When people know that the product is for everyone, the score is less. But when they realize that the product is designed specifically for them, the score rises significantly.
People wanted importance to be given to them.  


I had read an article sometime ago where an analysis had been made as to why Apple surpassed every other leading tech organization in its sales and the reason that had been cited had been a simple one. 
Apple focuses on a very small group - a group that it knows would not mind waiting for an entire cold night outside on a street to lay their hands on a newly released Apple product. And it designed products specifically for them. Which obviously others, not belonging to the group, wanted. The importance.
But most of the other tech competitors released products not meant for one group but for everyone. They wanted to attract a larger mass. But people often prefer less that which is meant for everyone. The importance.

And it all came together in my head.
The reason people preferred restaurants even when the dishes prepared there also are on a large scale. 
The reason I felt that food back home gave a different feeling in comparison with the mess food even on occasions the dishes actually tasted good. 
The importance.

Every one of us wants a product/dish specifically designed/prepared for us (though it is the same laptop or the same sambar).
Every one of us wants individual attention. 
Every one of us wants importance to be given to us.
Every one of us, possibly, have a streak of babyhood throughout our lives.


With such a striking thought, I entered my hostel mess happily today afternoon. I knew now what was the reason behind my partiality for the mess food. I washed a plate and eagerly extended it for a small mountain of rice and had 4 spoonfuls of sambar poured over it, making my plate resemble an island supporting a rice volcano with the sambar lava flowing all around. I sat down at a table and mixing the rice well, I took a large handful of it and stuffed it in my mouth. About two munches later, I quickly gulped down the rice. 
I immediately poured water in my mouth to wash down the remaining pieces that lay stuck to my tongue and stared helplessly at the small mountain that lay before me. 
From then on, till the last handful of rice, I made sure that the rice went down my throat as quickly as possible without touching my tongue.

Guess affection does play a part in the taste! - I told myself as I washed my hands.

So much so for being a science fanatic.

ARR - My mushroom ring!

My life seems to have no purpose.

This was a thought that kept constantly eating away at me nearly two years back. Not a single thing stimulated my interest. It was a dark phase. And many people helped me in my return journey to normality. Lao Tzu. Robin Williams. Charlie Chaplin. William Earnest Henley.

But the most important of them was a short humble man who celebrates his birthday today. Allah Rakha Rahman.

Lao Tzu showed me The way. Robin Williams showed me hope. Chaplin showed me silence and humor. Henley showed me grit. 
But Rahman showed me none of these. He, instead, made me feel. 
Feel hope. Feel silence. Feel grit. 

And by the end of it all, I emerged a simpler and happier human being with two recondite revelations:

• Every single thing that happens in life - from the most trivial to the most significant - has its own purpose.
• Rahman is at his best while composing for Mani Ratnam.

Like any other day, I stepped out of my hostel in the early hours of today morning, headphones inserted. Needless to mention that the song playing was a Rahman song. And I walked ahead, turning right when the road turned right and turning left when the road turned left. My eyes kept effortlessly searching around for any little beauty of nature that required a minute's attention and if needed, a camera click for a happy reminiscence. Most of the walk continued without much fuss from nature's side. But then, my eyes fell upon them. 

A troop of mushrooms. 
A family to be exact - There was a father, a mother and two small ones.

I sat down and took out the camera from my pocket. Placing it amidst a few blades of grass, I clicked a few shots of the family. As I went through the captured images on the camera screen, I felt not entirely satisfied. But for some reason, I did not feel eager enough to capture a few more and got up to continue my walk.


I was clueless when I sat down today evening, staring at the blank white space available for typing in my Blogger 'new post' page, having decided to type down a post about Rahman. I just couldn't resist a post.
A list of my favorite Rahman songs? Everybody does that.
An analysis of how he has blended carnatic music into many of his popular songs? I knew literally nothing about carnatic music.
An elaborate article on his Academy award achievement that turned the spotlight on Indian cinema? A lot has been written already.

I thought. I scratched. I banged. Nothing hit me. At least, not in the way a Rahman melody hits you as you lie on your cot, covered by your blanket and surrounded by darkness.

I gave up all hopes of typing down a post and started browsing about mushrooms. The family that I had seen in the morning stayed in my head for some reason and I started reading about them. As I continued reading, two words suddenly caught my attention.
I read them and re-read them and I couldn't help smiling.
Magical portals.

Mushroom rings were considered to be magical portals according to folklore. But I did not care reading any further. I had gotten the two words that mattered and sufficed. For a simple post about a simple man. 

Thank you, my dear Madras Mozart! Thank you for being the mushroom ring of my life!

Every single thing that happens in life - from the most trivial to the most significant - has its own purpose. 

Alone Again (Naturally)

Though the amazing song by Gilbert O'Sullivan that serves as the title would make for a very good post, I guess I would reserve it for some other day perhaps as this post is comparatively more important being a post about the urge/craving/desire of a college-going hostel-staying boy to be alone.


I don't understand if it is a result of the so-dominating social networks without which life has become unimaginable. I don't understand if it is a result of the large family structures that form a significant part of our Indian culture. I don't understand if it is the emphasis by most of the educational institutions and organizations, at present, for ample collective efforts.

But when you prefer to remain seated, separately, on certain evenings on a stone bench at your hostel from a group of friends seated and chatting on a nearby bench or when you prefer to take a longer route, alone, to your hostel from your college canteen instead of accompanying a group of friends on a shorter route, the reactions vary right from irreverent mockery to serious sermons about the value of friendship.

And the moment you give voice to the thought in your head - I want to be alone for sometime - you get the rare opportunity of seeing the faces of your otherwise care-about-nothing friends adorn extremely worried looks. 
Reminder to self: Never ever mouth the words 'I want to be alone' again.

It baffles me as to why the desire to be alone is misinterpreted by many as a symptom of mental instability. And when you have an unsuccessful romantic history, the symptom always automatically turns into a confirmed sign of pleading to be cured.
Reminder to self: Share about your romantic history, especially if it is an unsuccessful one, to as few people as possible (except perhaps the blog!).

I guess a major reason for the misinterpretation is owed to the general confusion between 'being alone' and 'being lonely'.

I generally prefer to visit our college canteen alone, which if you are a college student is similar to committing a crime as serious as the one accused of the film PK by certain Hindu religious groups. We don't have any reasons but it is just wrong.
Now, 'being lonely' in this situation would suggest that I stand indifferently at a table, a hopeless plate of hot and over-fried aloo paratha before me, with a possibly-in-love couple standing beside my table as I stare jealously at them, laughing over a silly joke. 
But I prefer being alone.
And 'being alone' would suggest that I stand peacefully at a table, a steaming plate of roasted and a tad crispy aloo paratha before me, with a possibly-first-time-together-to-the-canteen couple standing beside my table as I observe them unconsciously, noticing that the girl is trying to fake a laugh being more concerned about the guy's plate than his joke, perhaps a result of her having ordered the wrong dish. 

I like visiting our hostel mess early and if possible alone, which if you are a hosteler is similar to being a major political party in Tamil Nadu looked at eagerly by the smaller political parties prior to an election. Why don't you join us instead?
Now, 'being lonely' would suggest that I sit alone at an eight-people-seating table, slowly munching at my food as my ears unwillingly open up to lines like 'Machaan..Onnu keppaen..Namma class Swetha irukkaa la...', '..nallaa kuduthaan paaru da Moodar Koodam nu oru padam..', '..thammudu, naaku urugaya dabba ivvu..', '..porumaya aadu da nu sonnaa periya punaku maari erangi vanthu aaduraan..', '..innikum class vittu velila thorathittan da antha bucket mandayan..' from the tables surrounding me.
But I prefer being alone.
And 'being alone' would suggest that I sit with my legs fully stretched with a fully filled water jug at a neatly shining steel table, slowly tasting the chappathi with the side-dish wondering how do they maintain the taste absolutely similar to the one that was tasted on the first week of the semester's commencement as my ears help me recognize a guy with a romantic problem that is going to get worse by the advice of his friends, a guy with a very average taste in films, a guy who does not have any inhibitions in emptying his friend's homemade pickle, a guy who takes every cricket match he plays seriously and a guy who finds it extremely difficult to wake up every morning.


Is it wrong wanting to be alone in a canteen, able to observe a guy who sneakily tries to gulp down a piece from his friend's fried pav-bhaji as his friend leaves to wash his hands instead of being a part of any group that irrelevantly tries to guess as to how a fair skinned girl and a dark skinned boy got into a relationship?
Is it wrong wanting to walk alone in an avenue noticing that the gulmohar trees have started blossoming instead of being a part of any group that refers to a boy walking ahead as the guy who was the ex-lover of a girl who had been seen at the college canteen two days ago?

I guess it is time people with misconstrued perceptions started understanding the difference between being alone and being lonely and stopped giving sad looks of 'How poor a soul?'. 

Wanting to be alone is, after all, a happy voluntary choice.  
Please stop looking at it as a problem and start embracing it for what it is - a preference.

If not, the world would become a place filled with a large number of people who talked and talked and talked and talked amidst a very less number of people who listened.

The Chocolate Butterfly

(A short story dedicated to every butterfly that has crossed my path, fluttering its wings and delivering me moments filled with sheer joy)

“Wouldn’t 50 rupees be enough?” Ravi asked as he dumped the waste from the basket into the wagon of the tri-cycle.

He tapped the basket twice to ensure that no piece of waste had stuck itself to the basket. He then returned it to Thamarai. She placed it sideways on the ground and pushed in the garbage that she had already piled up with her broom. When the basket had been filled to its neck, she slowly tilted it back and placed it on the ground. She then picked up the leftover garbage that lay on the ground with her hand and placed it over the heap that already filled the basket. She then lifted it slowly and handed it to Ravi. As he took it over carefully and turned it upside down into the wagon, Thamarai spoke.

“The white colored one costs 50 rupees. But I want to buy her the brown colored cake. It costs around 100 rupees.”

She paused to look at Alli. Alli stood at a meter’s distance from them. She seemed to be clapping her hand in air as she kept turning around at her place. It took Thamarai a moment to spot the yellow colored, black spotted butterfly that kept circling above Alli. The scene put a smile on her face.

“She had once seen a group celebrating somebody’s birthday with a cake at our J.J. park. She had come home that day and had asked me if I could get her a cake for her birthday. She asked me again yesterday if it was possible.” Thamarai said, turning towards Ravi. “I promised her I would get her a cake. I do not want to see her face lose the smile” she finished.

Ravi lowered the basket having emptied it in the wagon. He held out his hand. Thamarai looked at his extended hand and looked at hers. She had collected garbage with it just a minute earlier. She looked at Ravi hesitant to place her hand on his. Ravi waited for a few moments and realizing that she was hesitant, he grabbed her hand.

“How much have you managed?” he asked her.

“60 rupees. Mrs. Mohan fortunately has her brother’s family staying at their house and there were a lot of utensils…” Ravi stopped her. “You know it hurts me to hear these things. I just asked you the amount you managed to collect. 60 rupees. Fine.” he said and searched in his pocket.  There lay two ten rupee notes inside. He took them out and placed them in her palm. She looked at him refusing to clutch the notes with her fingers. He pressed her fingers and folded them as she tried to pull them out of his grip. A ten rupee note fell down as a result of their fight.

Thamarai quickly bent down to pick up the rupee note. She picked it and rose up, the two ten rupee notes now held between the thumb and the index finger of her right hand. She was still hesitant to accept them. But then, she looked at Alli.

Alli came running towards her shouting, “I couldn’t catch the butterfly again. I told her that it was my birthday today. But she still flew away!”, in her typical anger-filled tone.

“How do you know that the butterfly is a ‘she’?” asked Ravi fondly.

“Don’t you know? All butterflies are girls. That is the reason they like flowers.” Alli replied earnestly, her anger having been replaced by the excitement of an explanation.

Thamarai smiled hearing Alli's answer and her fingers folded unconsciously, clutching the two ten rupee notes and her right hand slowly moved towards the pocket of her overcoat that read ‘Tamil Nadu Waste Management Services’.

****

Thamarai stood at the entrance of the dump-yard where all the garbage that had been collected for the day by the employees of the waste management services was dumped. The dumping process marked the end of the day for the employees. It was nearly 5 pm and Ravi had entered the dump-yard asking Thamarai to wait at the entrance fifteen minutes earlier.

Alli had been silently standing by Thamarai’s side when she had suddenly spotted her butterfly – the same yellow colored, black spotted butterfly - a few meters away, circling a creeper that had grown over the compound wall of the dump-yard. She had looked at Thamarai who had also noticed the butterfly. Thamarai had smiled at Alli which had made her quickly dart towards the butterfly.

As she stood there, looking at Alli running behind the butterfly, Thamarai couldn’t help remembering their mother. Alli had their mother’s eyes and smile. Every glance at Alli reminded her of their mother. But Thamarai seldom tried to remember the unfortunate night, two years earlier, when their parents had lost their lives in an accident, leaving an eighteen year old Thamarai to look after a five year old Alli. Thamarai had managed to erase the past, except her mother who was running behind a butterfly about two meters away, from her memory with great difficulty.

She stood there waiting for Ravi, hoping that he would return with the remaining money required for the cake, borrowed from one of his friends inside. Alli, since their parents’ death, had rarely asked Thamarai for anything. She would instead smile at whatever Thamarai provided her and the smile would adorn her face even on days when Thamarai had nothing to provide. But for some reason, Alli had been fascinated by a birthday party she had seen while roaming around a park near their home and had come home to ask Thamarai if she could get a cake for Alli’s birthday. Thamarai had not been able to refuse the first thing that Alli had asked her but she had not imagined that buying a cake would make her so desperate. She had, while agreeing to Alli, forgotten that Alli’s birthday fell on the last day of November. Had she remembered it, she would have also remembered that her salary sufficed only for the first 25 days of every month.

A drop of water that fell on Thamarai’s head brought her back to the dump-yard. She looked above at the dark grey clouds. A heavy rain was about to follow.

“She flew away again! I don’t know why she never wants to sit on my palm.” said Alli, loudly, as she came near Thamarai, tired by her chase.

“Butterflies sit on our palms only when they want to be our friends. They do not like if people try to catch them and force them to be their friends. Next time you see her, just admire her beauty silently without trying to catch her. She will eventually come to you.” Thamarai indulged Alli’s butterfly pursuit.

Alli’s eyes widened. Her sister had given her an insightful thought on approaching butterflies. As she extended her hand forward trying to stop the rain drops, that had begun to fall very slowly, from reaching the ground, Ravi walked towards them from the dump-yard. He had removed his overcoat and was wearing a striped blue shirt.

“I have managed another twenty rupees. Hundred would be enough, right?” Ravi asked Thamarai. Her face lightened up.

“How did you get it?” she asked him. “Don’t you worry about it.” he told her and handed her the twenty rupees. A rain drop fell on his cheek. He looked above at the sky. “I think it would be better if you two start hurrying towards the bakery. I need to meet Gopi. I will join you in a minute. ” he told Thamarai. Thamarai agreed and started walking ahead holding Alli’s hand. “Thamarai! What would you do if it starts raining heavily now?” Ravi shouted in a jovial tone. Thamarai turned to give him an indignant look and proceeded ahead. Ravi let out a chuckle. He had not imagined that a person could possibly hate rain till he had met Thamarai.

A couple of minutes later, Gopi walked out of the dump-yard. “Tomorrow at 11 am. Royal Apartments. The one on the G.T. street. Please don’t forget. I would not have put you to this if I had been feeling well.” Gopi explained Ravi. “Worry not. I will surely be there. You take care of your health” Ravi told him. “And thanks again for the twenty rupees.” he added. Gopi smiled and took leave.

Ravi recalled what Gopi had told him inside. The septic tank in the septic system of Royal Apartments had begun to overflow with waste and needed to be cleaned. Ravi had not performed a task of such nature earlier. But he had agreed for the twenty rupees Gopi had lent him then. Thamarai mattered to him more.

As he looked at the sky again, he started hurrying towards the direction Thamarai and Alli had went hoping that the clouds would wait another hour before they started pouring down on his rain-hating Thamarai.

****

Ravi had hoped to catch Thamarai and Alli on their way to the bakery. But it seemed that they had gone well ahead of him and as he entered the street on which the bakery stood, he saw Thamarai and Alli standing at some distance from the shop. He hurried towards them. As he reached them, he saw that Thamarai’s face had become pale.

“What happened? Is the cake not available?” he asked her.

She shook her head. “What then? Is hundred rupees not enough?” he asked.

She shook her head again and looking at him with a disturbed face, she moved her hand over her overcoat and reaching the collar, she clutched it.

It took Ravi a moment to understand what she meant. He himself had faced it a lot. People who never cared who he was when he wore plain clothes reacted differently and at times even hostilely, when he wore the overcoat declaring that he worked for the waste management services.  

Ravi asked her the money. “Don’t start a fight, Ravi. Not today. Buy the cake and let’s move.” she requested him.

He nodded and walked towards the bakery.

Thamarai looked at Ravi from her spot as he stood at the bakery, explaining something to the man who worked there. Ravi had proposed his love to her nearly a year ago. Thamarai had never had any romantic inclinations towards Ravi but she had not wanted to hurt him. He had helped her a lot ever since she had taken up her father’s job after her parents’ death. And so she had asked him for some time. A month later, when he had asked her again, she had agreed. In her heart, she had known that she did not love him as much as he loved her but then, it had not been a love of choice for her. Being a victim of poverty, the relationship that continued had been a love of need. She had felt guilty whenever he had showered affection on her and Alli but to her unexpected relief, the last two months that had passed had made her realize that the thing she had believed would never happen had started showing signs of happening. She had started loving him out of her choice.

About ten minutes later, Ravi returned carrying a plastic cover with the cake placed inside a box.

“It would take only half an hour to reach my home which I would say is the better option considering the clouds” Ravi told Thamarai, pointing to the sky. She agreed and grasping Alli’s hand, started walking alongside Ravi towards his home.

As they had walked for about fifteen minutes, the rain clouds suddenly burst open and a downpour started. “Find a place! Quick!” Thamarai shouted as she pulled her overcoat, covering her head. Alli let out an excited cheer as the rain hit her face. She loved the rain as much as Thamarai hated it. “I see a place there. Follow me!” Ravi shouted as he ran towards an empty car-shed of a house that was in the process of being demolished for the construction of a new building.

He entered the shed followed by Thamarai and Alli. “The cake is not wet, right?” Thamarai asked as soon as she faced Ravi. He smiled and after checking inside the cover, assured her that it was fine. Thamarai let out a sigh of relief as she removed her overcoat and started wiping Alli’s head with her saree.

“Seems like the rain would continue for some time. Why don’t we celebrate her birthday here? ” Ravi suddenly asked Thamarai, voicing the idea that had struck him then. Thamarai looked at him surprised. She then looked at Alli who had a wide smile spread over her face. 

“Is it fine with you?” she asked Alli. Alli nodded excitedly. Thamarai looked at Ravi who showed her a thumbs-up and placed the plastic cover with the cake on the ground slowly. He then searched around for a small table. Luckily, he found an old wooden chair at a corner and he dragged the chair to the center of the shed. The sunlight had been fading minute by minute and by the time he had dragged the chair, darkness had begun to settle. He had noticed a light-bulb when he had entered and as he approached a switch that was present on a side of the shed’s wall, he realized that it would be of no use as the house was being demolished. But he decided to try his luck and as he pressed the switch, the bulb to his surprise flooded the shed with an orange light. A moment later, a butterfly appeared flying out of a corner of the shed surprising the three of them. It tried to fly past the rain but the rain drops that kept falling rapidly failed its attempt and it returned to the corner from which it had taken flight.

Alli looked at Thamarai, her face excited. Thamarai tilted her head and gave Alli a what-did-I-tell-you look that made the excitement slowly disappear from Alli’s face. Ravi blew the dust from the chair’s surface and Thamarai wiped it clean with the plastic cover in which the cake had been brought. Ravi then slowly lifted the cake box and placed it on the chair. “Are you ready?” he asked Alli, smiling. She did not reply. Her eyes were fixed on the box. Ravi looked at Thamarai and saw her holding her breath. He let out a chuckle.

“You have no idea how much this matters to me.” Thamarai told him with a serious face. “I do!” he replied smiling and opened the box.

As he slowly unfolded the entire box, sat at the center a circular chocolate cake, filled with a dark-brown cream on its top with the wordings ‘Happy Birthday Alli’ written on the surface. Near the word ‘Alli’, a small flower had been drawn.

Thamarai looked at the cake, still holding her breath, and turned towards Alli. She had never seen Alli’s face gleam with joy as much as it was gleaming then. A tear rolled down Thamarai’s cheek. She had successfully completed the first responsibility that Alli had given her.

She looked at Ravi who was also looking at Alli. They exchanged smiles as their eyes met. Ravi then took out the plastic knife that had been given at the bakery from his pocket. “Won’t you sing the ‘Happy Birthday’ song?” Alli asked them, her eyes wide open.

“Why not?” asked Ravi happily and signaled Thamarai to sing. As they finished the first line ‘Happy Birthday to you…’, happened something they had not expected.

Alli who had been looking at the cake, her eyes glowing in delight, had slowly approached it and as she had reached the cake, she had banged her face on the cake, immersing her head in it and had slowly lifted her head from the cake a minute later, her face filled with chocolate cream.

Alli then wiped off the cream over her eyes and opened her eyes followed by her mouth in a big triumphant smile, revealing her white teeth amidst the chocolate cream that filled her face.

Ravi had not expected it and it took him some time to understand what had happened. He then looked at Thamarai, who was standing frozen, the expression of shock written all over her face, staring at the now-destroyed cake.

Within a span of few seconds, the image of her pleading to Mrs. Mohan to allow her wash their dishes for very little money, the image of her picking Ravi’s ten rupee note from the ground, the image of her waiting outside the dump-yard hoping that Ravi would somehow bring the remaining money, the image of her becoming subject to the bakery owner’s scorn – all these images began filling her head. She had silently let all those things happen for one single reason – the cake. And there it lay destroyed, a thin circular wall of chocolate at the ends with a huge hole in the middle with tiny bits of cream splattered all over the floor of the shed.

She turned towards Alli, still reeling from the shock.

“This is how you celebrate with a cake, Thamarai! I know! I saw it at the park. The entire group was celebrating like this.” Alli explained happily.

Alli’s explanation hit Thamarai even more harder. 

Alli had asked for a cake saying that she had seen a group celebrating with a cake at the park but Thamarai had not been told about the celebration part. Thamarai’s head started spinning with images of Alli’s chocolate filled face, the celebration that she imagined to have happened at the park and her hardships for the cake and she found it difficult to control her emotions. She turned to leave the shed. The rain had not ceased. But she couldn’t stand inside the shed. She needed to breathe and as her emotions overcame her sensibilities, she stepped out in the rain.

As the rapidly falling rain drops hit her face piercing her skin like sharp pins, tears flowed down. Ravi walked out of the shed towards her. He stood silently by her side not knowing what to say. She turned towards him and slowly placing her hand on his shoulder, she bent forward pressing her face against his chest. Her hands hugged him as she broke down, completely letting go of herself.   

Ravi’s heart leapt in joy with every second her head touched his chest. He knew that he had to console her but this instance had been the first time when she had voluntarily come closer to him since her acceptance of his love. He then controlled his happiness and lifted his left hand, placing it on her shoulder.  He said slowly, “Don’t cry!“ and a moment later, added, ”It is not Alli’s mistake.”

But Thamarai couldn’t stop crying.

Alli stood watching Ravi and Thamarai as the chocolate cream slowly started to drip from her face.

“Thamarai, Please! Why are you crying?” Ravi asked her again, this time a bit more firmly. Thamarai lifted her head still sobbing and looking at Ravi, she uttered, “I don’t know why. I am not angry at Alli. I am angry with myself. But I don’t know why.” She again hit her face on his chest, crying. The rain kept lashing the two of them continually.

Ravi wanted to stop her tears but he knew that letting her cry would be better for her. And he stood patiently in the rain, her face pressed against his heart, as she cried out for all the moments in her life she had held back her tears.

By the time Ravi and Thamarai entered the car-shed, most of the cream from Alli’s face had fallen in to her hands that she had held below her face. Thamarai had let free all the trappings of fate she had filled her mind with and now as she looked at Alli with an empty mind, she couldn’t help laughing. She walked towards Alli and lifted her up. Her eyes automatically turned towards Alli’s chocolate cream filled hands. She slowly took a handful of cream from Alli’s hands and rubbed it on her cheeks. Alli let out a delighted scream. She lifted her hands filled with the cream and rubbed them gently over Thamarai’s face. Thamarai let out a chuckle and rubbed her face against Alli’s. Ravi stood by the entrance of the shed, watching the happenings, his heart brimming with joy. The rain had made his life blossom.

As Thamarai and Alli kept rubbing their faces against each other, something on the floor suddenly caught Alli’s attention. She asked Thamarai to let her down. As Alli proceeded towards it, she noticed what it was. The butterfly that had tried to escape the shed earlier had perched itself over the piece of the cake with the flower’s drawing on it which lay fallen on the floor. On reaching the fallen cake piece, Alli observed that the butterfly had black spots on it. The orange light had robbed the butterfly of its color. Alli moved back a couple of steps remembering Thamarai’s advice. She saw the butterfly flapping its wings drilling up the cream. Tiny pellets of the chocolate cream landed on its wings. 

Unable to lift its wings, the butterfly stumbled ahead on the floor. Alli placed her hand on the ground before the butterfly. As it slowly climbed on her fingers, Alli pushed away the chocolate pellets from its wings. Being relieved of the pellets, the butterfly immediately flapped its wings and flew out of her hand towards its corner but after it had flown a couple of feet, it circled and returned to land on her hand. It was time the butterfly embraced Alli.

“Chocolate butterfly! I have a chocolate butterfly!” exclaimed Alli in delight as the butterfly slowly walked around on her cream filled palm.

Thamarai, who had gotten by Ravi’s side, smiled looking at Alli and her butterfly. Resting the back of her body on Ravi with her head placed on his shoulder, she told him happily, “I have two chocolate butterflies before me”.

Ravi leaned forward joining his hands around her waist and as his lips neared Thamarai’s ears, he whispered gently, “I have three!”

*****