(A short story - also, my 200th post - dedicated to a dear friend who cannot be thanked enough for leading these writings and this writer to this happy place)
I have always loved wet streets, wet walls, and wet sand with the love of a man who has received a surprise hug from his lover. But today, as I walk through the wet street leading to my wet house with an emotionally dried up family, my love for the wetness resembles the love of a man who is denied a hug from his lover because she has had a tiring day. I pass a television news reporter who is screaming at the camera pointed towards her. “…as Kerala reels out of one of the worst floods any Indian state has witnessed in the recent future, the Indian government is still accountable…” The sight of my house drains out the voice of the news reporter. I halt and look at the remains after an incessant rain. The large, iron-gate that served as the security guard to my father’s Hero Honda Splendor and as the wicket in the cricket games played between me and my sister is now missing. So are the hibiscus plants that my sister so dearly nurtured and the tulsi plants my mother so dearly revered. The television set and the refrigerator lie on the front-yard. A couple of earthworms slowly wriggle out of the butterfly-stickers-laden refrigerator.
My younger sister, Selvi, grabs my arm and breaks down on my shoulder. I notice my mother enacting a similar action with my father. I throw a glance at my father – the man who always has the funniest things to say. He replies with his silence, a silence that teaches me two things. One, my father’s words can be silenced only by nature and never by mankind. Two, it is time for me to step into my father’s shoes.
“Why all this sadness?” I understand my father’s greatness as I mask desperation with hope. “Come on! We wanted to renovate our house anyway.” My father lets out a chuckle and a teardrop. I wonder if the teardrop is for the loss of a house or for the gain of a successor. I place a mild slap on my sister’s cheek to shake her out of her sadness and lead her onto the front-yard.
“No more untimely roars from a refrigerator older than Selvi, and no more dancing visuals from a television set older than me.” My joke works with the entire family and the damp atmosphere begins to lighten up. I lead my family into the house. An unbearable stench welcomes us along with books and utensils spread on the floor. “Were there any leftovers from your mother’s cooking on the day we vacated our house? Nothing else can smell so bad!” My father’s comment signals his return to his normal self and also adds a smile to my mother’s tearful face. An unexpected natural disaster is best dealt with an internal family joke.
My sister and I start picking up the books and utensils. My father points to a stainless steel bowl inside which a snail is resting and makes a happy declaration. “Finally, we have become a non-vegetarian family.” My mother places a mild slap on my father’s back and joins us in picking up the utensils. My sister lets out a giggle as she picks up two books that have gotten glued to one another by water. She holds them like a prize as my father and I understand her joke. The books that have gotten glued are Richard Dawkins’s The God Delusion and Bhagavad Gita. My sister, the rationalist, carefully places the books on a table, not separating their embrace.
My mother steps into the kitchen with the utensils she has collected, and I follow her. The kitchen that had always glowed with the warmth of the first two Harry Potter films now seems to be filled with the eerie coldness of the last two Harry Potter films. My mother places the collected utensils on a shelf and slowly walks towards the battered wet grinder lying on the ground. I feel sorry as I look at my mother having to deal with the loss of her wedding gift from her parents. My sister enters the kitchen and rushes towards my mother to offer her a needed hug. Wanting to reduce the drama, my father also joins us in the kitchen with a ready remark. “Our son is 26 years old now. Let us just get him married immediately and demand a wet grinder from the girl’s parents.” I throw an angry look at my father as the kitchen warms up with laughter.
****
“Mom! Come here! Just take a look at this kitchen!” Selvi’s screams and her enthusiastic face from a faraway section direct me, my father and my mother towards her. We arrive at the section where Selvi is busy with opening and shutting cupboards. “How great would it be to have a modular kitchen at our home!” My mother nods in approval of Selvi’s statement and walks to join her inside the kitchen. I follow my mother, voicing my confusion to Selvi. “Have you taken a sudden liking to cooking?” Selvi throws me the look of a teacher trying to explain an extremely complex concept. “Why should I like cooking to want a beautiful kitchen? Isn’t an inclination towards good design enough to appreciate a good looking kitchen?” I realize my mistake in trying to take a dig at my sister.
I step out of the kitchen and join my father. “Are you liking this?” I doubt if a communist like him would enjoy an interstate visit to IKEA’s store in Hyderabad, especially in its opening week. “It is definitely fun. What is not to enjoy when one gets to learn about the microscopic concerns of people who shut themselves to the macroscopic problems?” I question my father’s statement, realizing that my family always answers with another question. “But then, a society is made up of a few hundred families. Shouldn’t the families want internal happiness to start working towards a happy society?” My father smiles and delivers a lasting punch. “The want for happiness in a family always grows with its expansion. How many families do you know that have stopped expanding?” I remain silent as a family walks past us, discussing about the number of bedrooms they would need once the two college-going sons in the family get married.
“I think we have spent enough time trying to figure the right look for our kitchen. Let us proceed towards the living room section. That’s the room that relatives notice when they visit.” My mother’s finding directs us to the living room section. “Wow! This one has a Japanese table in it. Let’s buy one for our home.” Selvi walks to the table and kneels before it. “We can all have our dinner on this table, with each person kneeling on each side.” I look at my father who lets out a sigh, indicating that a joke is to follow. “Selvi still hasn’t come out of her punishment habit from her school days.” I wink at Selvi and let out a laugh as my father receives a call on his mobile phone. He walks away with his mobile phone only to return after a few minutes with a serious face. “What happened?” My father looks at his mobile phone and calls out to my mother and sister to bring the family closer. “I just got a call from Nambi. It seems the rains are getting intense back home. Let us wrap this visit in the next one hour and try catching the next bus to Kerala.” My sister and mother nod and hurry towards the living room section while I stay with my father. My father starts making phone calls to the other neighbours in our area.
****
I exit the kitchen and enter my bedroom. All the efforts my sister and I would put to keep our cots as far apart from one another as possible seem to have been washed away by the floods. The cots remain one on top of the other. My sister’s wall paintings of butterflies seem to have flown away, leaving behind an empty canvas.
My father joins me and places his hand on my shoulder. “Are you worried?” I turn to look at him. “Are you?” He shakes his head and tightens his grasp on my shoulder. “We will overcome this.” He then lets go of my shoulder and folds his hands. “Do you have any money saved?” I nod. “Do you?” He looks at me with his trademark mischievous smile and replies. “I am not as playful as my remarks.” I feel slightly offended by his misjudgement of my judgment. “I did not refer to the remarks or playfulness. I referred to the communism.” He remains silent. After a thoughtful minute, he turns to look at my mother and sister still seated in the kitchen. “Maybe it will do them some good to visit the IKEA store again.” I look at him confused. “Let’s just say that I am a better husband and a father than a communist.” I return him his mischievous smile with my reply. “Aren’t we all?”
My father and I walk to the living room where my sister also joins us. “Mom wants us to search the entire house and gather the scattered idols of Gods. She wants to perform a pooja before proceeding further.” The three of us separate in different directions and set out on our spiritual quest. After the passage of half an hour, we meet again in the living room with damaged and muddy idols in our hands. “I finally found God.” My sister winks after her joke and my father and I let out a hearty laugh. My mother joins us with two clean, undamaged idols which she had packed with her while vacating our house. She arranges all the idols in neat rows, like school students waiting to be photographed for the school album. She then lights a lamp before them and begins her prayer. My father, my sister, and I silently stand behind my mother, knowing well that my mother’s prayers would suffice for the entire family. As I look at the tiny temple my mother has created for the Gods, I am reminded of my state’s pet name.
I have always loved wet streets, wet walls, and wet sand with the love of a man who has received a surprise hug from his lover. But today, as I walk through the wet street leading to my wet house with an emotionally dried up family, my love for the wetness resembles the love of a man who is denied a hug from his lover because she has had a tiring day. I pass a television news reporter who is screaming at the camera pointed towards her. “…as Kerala reels out of one of the worst floods any Indian state has witnessed in the recent future, the Indian government is still accountable…” The sight of my house drains out the voice of the news reporter. I halt and look at the remains after an incessant rain. The large, iron-gate that served as the security guard to my father’s Hero Honda Splendor and as the wicket in the cricket games played between me and my sister is now missing. So are the hibiscus plants that my sister so dearly nurtured and the tulsi plants my mother so dearly revered. The television set and the refrigerator lie on the front-yard. A couple of earthworms slowly wriggle out of the butterfly-stickers-laden refrigerator.
My younger sister, Selvi, grabs my arm and breaks down on my shoulder. I notice my mother enacting a similar action with my father. I throw a glance at my father – the man who always has the funniest things to say. He replies with his silence, a silence that teaches me two things. One, my father’s words can be silenced only by nature and never by mankind. Two, it is time for me to step into my father’s shoes.
“Why all this sadness?” I understand my father’s greatness as I mask desperation with hope. “Come on! We wanted to renovate our house anyway.” My father lets out a chuckle and a teardrop. I wonder if the teardrop is for the loss of a house or for the gain of a successor. I place a mild slap on my sister’s cheek to shake her out of her sadness and lead her onto the front-yard.
“No more untimely roars from a refrigerator older than Selvi, and no more dancing visuals from a television set older than me.” My joke works with the entire family and the damp atmosphere begins to lighten up. I lead my family into the house. An unbearable stench welcomes us along with books and utensils spread on the floor. “Were there any leftovers from your mother’s cooking on the day we vacated our house? Nothing else can smell so bad!” My father’s comment signals his return to his normal self and also adds a smile to my mother’s tearful face. An unexpected natural disaster is best dealt with an internal family joke.
My sister and I start picking up the books and utensils. My father points to a stainless steel bowl inside which a snail is resting and makes a happy declaration. “Finally, we have become a non-vegetarian family.” My mother places a mild slap on my father’s back and joins us in picking up the utensils. My sister lets out a giggle as she picks up two books that have gotten glued to one another by water. She holds them like a prize as my father and I understand her joke. The books that have gotten glued are Richard Dawkins’s The God Delusion and Bhagavad Gita. My sister, the rationalist, carefully places the books on a table, not separating their embrace.
My mother steps into the kitchen with the utensils she has collected, and I follow her. The kitchen that had always glowed with the warmth of the first two Harry Potter films now seems to be filled with the eerie coldness of the last two Harry Potter films. My mother places the collected utensils on a shelf and slowly walks towards the battered wet grinder lying on the ground. I feel sorry as I look at my mother having to deal with the loss of her wedding gift from her parents. My sister enters the kitchen and rushes towards my mother to offer her a needed hug. Wanting to reduce the drama, my father also joins us in the kitchen with a ready remark. “Our son is 26 years old now. Let us just get him married immediately and demand a wet grinder from the girl’s parents.” I throw an angry look at my father as the kitchen warms up with laughter.
****
“Mom! Come here! Just take a look at this kitchen!” Selvi’s screams and her enthusiastic face from a faraway section direct me, my father and my mother towards her. We arrive at the section where Selvi is busy with opening and shutting cupboards. “How great would it be to have a modular kitchen at our home!” My mother nods in approval of Selvi’s statement and walks to join her inside the kitchen. I follow my mother, voicing my confusion to Selvi. “Have you taken a sudden liking to cooking?” Selvi throws me the look of a teacher trying to explain an extremely complex concept. “Why should I like cooking to want a beautiful kitchen? Isn’t an inclination towards good design enough to appreciate a good looking kitchen?” I realize my mistake in trying to take a dig at my sister.
I step out of the kitchen and join my father. “Are you liking this?” I doubt if a communist like him would enjoy an interstate visit to IKEA’s store in Hyderabad, especially in its opening week. “It is definitely fun. What is not to enjoy when one gets to learn about the microscopic concerns of people who shut themselves to the macroscopic problems?” I question my father’s statement, realizing that my family always answers with another question. “But then, a society is made up of a few hundred families. Shouldn’t the families want internal happiness to start working towards a happy society?” My father smiles and delivers a lasting punch. “The want for happiness in a family always grows with its expansion. How many families do you know that have stopped expanding?” I remain silent as a family walks past us, discussing about the number of bedrooms they would need once the two college-going sons in the family get married.
“I think we have spent enough time trying to figure the right look for our kitchen. Let us proceed towards the living room section. That’s the room that relatives notice when they visit.” My mother’s finding directs us to the living room section. “Wow! This one has a Japanese table in it. Let’s buy one for our home.” Selvi walks to the table and kneels before it. “We can all have our dinner on this table, with each person kneeling on each side.” I look at my father who lets out a sigh, indicating that a joke is to follow. “Selvi still hasn’t come out of her punishment habit from her school days.” I wink at Selvi and let out a laugh as my father receives a call on his mobile phone. He walks away with his mobile phone only to return after a few minutes with a serious face. “What happened?” My father looks at his mobile phone and calls out to my mother and sister to bring the family closer. “I just got a call from Nambi. It seems the rains are getting intense back home. Let us wrap this visit in the next one hour and try catching the next bus to Kerala.” My sister and mother nod and hurry towards the living room section while I stay with my father. My father starts making phone calls to the other neighbours in our area.
****
I exit the kitchen and enter my bedroom. All the efforts my sister and I would put to keep our cots as far apart from one another as possible seem to have been washed away by the floods. The cots remain one on top of the other. My sister’s wall paintings of butterflies seem to have flown away, leaving behind an empty canvas.
My father joins me and places his hand on my shoulder. “Are you worried?” I turn to look at him. “Are you?” He shakes his head and tightens his grasp on my shoulder. “We will overcome this.” He then lets go of my shoulder and folds his hands. “Do you have any money saved?” I nod. “Do you?” He looks at me with his trademark mischievous smile and replies. “I am not as playful as my remarks.” I feel slightly offended by his misjudgement of my judgment. “I did not refer to the remarks or playfulness. I referred to the communism.” He remains silent. After a thoughtful minute, he turns to look at my mother and sister still seated in the kitchen. “Maybe it will do them some good to visit the IKEA store again.” I look at him confused. “Let’s just say that I am a better husband and a father than a communist.” I return him his mischievous smile with my reply. “Aren’t we all?”
My father and I walk to the living room where my sister also joins us. “Mom wants us to search the entire house and gather the scattered idols of Gods. She wants to perform a pooja before proceeding further.” The three of us separate in different directions and set out on our spiritual quest. After the passage of half an hour, we meet again in the living room with damaged and muddy idols in our hands. “I finally found God.” My sister winks after her joke and my father and I let out a hearty laugh. My mother joins us with two clean, undamaged idols which she had packed with her while vacating our house. She arranges all the idols in neat rows, like school students waiting to be photographed for the school album. She then lights a lamp before them and begins her prayer. My father, my sister, and I silently stand behind my mother, knowing well that my mother’s prayers would suffice for the entire family. As I look at the tiny temple my mother has created for the Gods, I am reminded of my state’s pet name.
Deivathinde swantham naadu. God’s own country.
