Lalita

There are days which bring one joy, and those somber days when nothing seem to cheer one up. Even the piercing sunlight bouncing off a rose petal looks like blood oozing out of wounded plant. With advancing age the cheerful days seem to appear too few and far in between. Kuchalambal could not put any reason to it, but kept her in tenterhooks all the same. Like drops of dark venom dripping down on a glass of clear water, morbid thoughts would ink her heart violet on days such as these. Doctors would call it depression; poets may have a different description for it, but for the soul, sifting through moods of grey and black, its feels like riding upon waves beyond control on a moonless night.

The week after Holi had always had this effect on her. She had lost Pattabi in the weeks following Holi. The events in their daughters life, had left an abscess in Pattabi’s heart, and festered there unnoticed for too long, to finally claim his life, a bit prematurely at an age of sixty two.

Memories now had started playing tricks on her, some hitting her unexpectedly making her pause in agony, and some making her smile and lose herself into its realm.  Tomorrow will be Lalita’s death anniversary too. Kuchalambal was in a delirium now. She saw her child crawling towards her with arms outstretched, wanting to hold on to her forever, she gasped, with perspiration lining her wrinkled eyebrows, her hands reaching out to hold on to her baby crying out for her mother, with pain and confusion lining her eyes. She drifted back again into time.

 Lalita their bundle of joy, those little eyes shining like emeralds in the dark, the tiny palms, bald head with few whiffs of hair, nose just like Pattabi’s, all seven pounds of her, was blessed to them after two years of their shifting to Delhi.  An inverted placenta and few other complications ensured that the child birth could not customarily happen in Madras. ‘Conveyor Belt Caesarians’ were yet rare in those days, hence Kuchalambal managed to deliver normally after twelve hours of labor.

From birth, Lalita took after her father. The gait, the features, the confidence, and the smile so charming that would put a snake charmer out of business. If she managed to inherit something from her mother, it was the poise, the beauty and the tolerance of the young Kuchalambal.

She blossomed, like a lotus upon a lake serene. She assimilated and radiated beauty around her, and made even the drabbest settings shine like a royal portrait. The back ground seemed to diminish on its own, as her radiance took up the frame. Her soft voice would ease into the audience, hardly intruding into the harmony of the settings, a lullaby for the deprived soul. When people described here as a ‘Mahalakshmi’ it hardly sounded clichéd. She embodied the multiple virtues of knowledge, wisdom, fortune, generosity & courage. Her grandmother started calling her ‘Maha’ in love and reverence to this beauty. As a baby she would have won any ‘Baby Show’ hands down, had she participated. ‘Dhristi’ the fear of the evil omen, was a big deterrent to such participation, in those days.

Right from her ‘Hammock’ (Tooli, a snug hammock strung from the roof so as to encompass the infant in a tight & warm embrace) days she was the princess of the household. If her parents treated her like one, the neighbors were not far behind. She used to traverse the neighborhood in the arms of various admirers. People found her so cute that she was the star attraction at each home, endearing each one of them with her smiles & child full banter, during her early days of speech, even the automobile trader living in the far end of the street, managed to teach her few Punjabi words. She had an unparalleled love for food the varieties of food that she had consumed as a child in the various households where she managed to spend the afternoon, did perhaps help. If the morning started with the customary pieces of ‘IDDLY’ shared from her father’s plate, dotingly fed by Pattabi, the next few courses of her intake would vary from a Parantha at the Sukvinder’s place to Khichdi at the Arora’s, Custard at the Rao’s to finally culminate with her tantrums at home during lunch. ‘Pakki’ (Oh the hungry one) used to scream Kuchalambal, why do u have to go out and eat so much! She would exclaim; frustrated by the baby’s resistance to food during lunch.

If the child was a doll during infancy, she was a little princes at school. Her talents made sure that she was one. Not one competition went by without her participation, or any activity that she was not member of. Singing, classical dance, dramatics, talent searches, debates, leading the morning prayers at school, presenting the bouquet to the chief guest at school functions, her popularity in the ‘DTEA’, her school soared.  The Principal came to recognize the couple as lalita’s parents as did numerous families around the area.

She was two when the family shifted to R.K.Puram from Karol Bagh, they would spend more than 25 years in that two bedroom government housing apartment. Years which would mould their future in more ways than they could comprehend. Perhaps the seeds of their destiny were already sown when the couple first moved to Delhi.

The day they moved in they found their neighbor lined up in the landing during a silent assessment of the new arrivals. Sukhvinder Singh a ‘Sikh’ lived with his family in the ‘house’ opposite. They shared a staircase and a landing with their neighbor, so any movement in the area would be open for scrutiny to both families. Sukvinder’s wife Preeto holding their four year old son in her lap watched the incoming inventory as the luggage moved in. Gurmeet the four year old whose long tresses, were knotted up on top of his head, covered with a small cloth, watching the movements with curiosity.

R.K.Puram, a quaint little housing locality, occupied by bureaucrats, some higher up in the rungs of the government machinery and some lower down. But to each of them, the remunerations of office sufficient just to sustain the day to day costs of living. One could, without visiting any house list out the goods which could be found within. Old cane woven sofas, adorned with cushions and hand knitted laces, and in some houses bare sofas too. Cots made of bamboo frames called charpoys, with coir ropes knitted between the frames as a base, these needed you to put on a cotton mattress before one actually sat on them or risk the posterior being  riddled with pressure marks of the rope. Short little stools made of coir again, for parking oneself in the fore yard or the back yard, Cotton stuffed quilts to protect against the cold winter nights, the number of charpoys and quilts restricted to the numbers in the family, spare ones for guests were a luxury. Large trunks to store those quilts during the summer months, a sewing machine for the lady of the house to mend the clothes in, (the more versatile of them would stitch their own clothes in them, thereby saving precious tailoring costs).

Television sets, refrigerators & telephones made their appearances only in the seventies and having these luxuries put such households’ way up there in the pecking order. Moreover these fortunate people really needed to have philanthropic side to them,  for letting their neighbors pop in for a phone call at odd hours, or having to summon someone from three houses down the line to attend to a incoming call, for lending ice cubes to the lady next door, and provide cold water from the fridge, for the infinite time, to the kid standing at the door, of having the benevolence of sharing the evening TV program with eighteen other people from the neighborhood, the count, of course, could swell in case one of the neighbors had taken to liberty to bring along his own guests too, to watch the Sunday movie. Of having to wait till the viewers shuffle out, before having their dinner, and sometimes few guest would hang on with sadistic pleasure, wanting to watch even the drabbest of programs like the daily news till the end.

To sum up life was bare, community living with things shared, cups of sugar & oil being exchanged between neighbors, women assembled in the courtyards, knitting away to glory, sharing the latest patterns of knitting learnt from the sister-in-law, extracting peas from its pods, and some grating carrots.  A stray vendor of blankets or lingerie, finding a ready market, among the assembled women folk. Children playing street cricket, men away at work, turning up for lunch and a quick siesta, before ambling back to work.

Such were the charms of the place that the couple moved in to. The Sukvinders would have a long standing relation with the Pattabi’s. Fate would have more than its share of surprises for both the families. When the world dissolves in a melting pot, distances are forgotten, cultures intermingle, and values need to be redefined. The Pattabi’s were at that threshold of time when such rewriting had to be done, no doubt there were some costs to be borne, some real some illusionary.  Time extracts its price from one and all, and it did from the Pattabi’s too. Who gained; who lost, is a moot question, for there cannot be questions asked of ‘Fate’.   

Experiences of Colour

Delhites had packed up their woolens. The bone chilling cold had given way to warmer days. The city’s forenoon breeze was enough to freeze the unsuspecting young migrants from Madras, who were used to much milder days of Margazhi temperatures. Even at those high temperatures it used to be a standard protocol to wrap a muffler around the head while heading out in the morning. But having already faced the much harsher winter in Delhi once, these milder days seemed to bring in a relief to the stricken couple.

‘Splat’’ the water balloon burst on her back, and a chill ran down her spine. The imaginary fear of ‘Holi’ now stood transformed into reality, as she stood in the market place, drenched and shivering. She had just stepped out to buy some groceries, knowing well that with a day left for holi, she would be lucky not to be ambushed by water balloons or a splash of color, from any of the endless rows of balconies and terraces which she had to cross on the way to the market. For those with a ‘Holi’ phobia this was a terrifying ordeal, of having to navigate through the narrow lanes, with half an eye on the sky, to spot an incoming missile and trying to avoid it, and at the same time appearing as nonchalant as possible. As the children in the balconies, resembling snipers, waited to take as many victims as possible, each successful hit would be greeted by a big cheer from the balconies around, as the unsuspecting victim stood around sheepishly, some grinning in disbelief and some gesticulating wildly at the mocking children in the balconies.
She looked around for her tormentor, but found tens of children perked in ledges around the buildings, it would be futile to guess as to who had fired the deadly missile at her. As the chill made her uncomfortable she wrapped her saree more tightly around her shoulders and proceeded to finish her errand. As she started her return trip, she found a large group of revelers coming her way from the opposite direction, all of them adorned with bright colors and dancing merrily and spreading color all around. She froze in her tracks, looking for a doorway of escape, and thankfully found a grocery store a few steps ahead and quickly ducked in, to let the group pass. As the grocer looked curiously at her, she beat a hasty retreat back into the street.

The holi eve brought in more revelry, a huge bon-fire was lit few doorways down the street. The street folk gathered around the fire merrily dancing. As the couple looked on in curiosity, there was a call from down below asking them to join the group. They looked at each other, Pattabi smiled his usual smiled and jumped up to go, egging her to join him too, and she reluctantly accompanied him down the stairs. The ‘Dhol’ started its beat just as they reached the cross road, People jumped up in a burst of dance. To her surprise the ladies joined in the dance too, a big taboo down south. One of the young ladies grabbed her hand and pulled her into the dancing crowd. Too dazed to react, she tried doing a few dance steps. The little dancing that she knew was the ‘Bharatnatyam’ that she had learnt as a child. She would look awkward indeed trying out those moves out here in this group. For a short while she managed swinging her hands in sync with the group, and when she found the men folk watching her, anxiety got the better of her as she broke away from the dancers and regained Pattabi’s side.

The game of ‘Holi’ elicits extreme reactions from people; on one hand are the majority who swear by the fun and frolic of anointing each other with colours and chasing each other with water in hand. The fervor & gaiety marking the high point of camaraderie and brotherhood, has a deep symbolic effect on the faithful who swear by it. On the other hand you have those who simply can’t make out what the fuss is all about, the invasion of privacy, aversion to strange touches, the inconvenience of being drenched & the slight shiver of the cold water, combine to make it hard, to convince them about the greatness of the festival. Kuchalambal was not part of the latter group, but the concept of ‘Holi’ was new and too much of a cultural shock for her, the initiation yet to happen.
‘Holi’ dawned and what started off as a sober day, slowly burst forth in a mix of colors and noise of Dhol beats. Kuchalambal not adequately forewarned, had her bath early in the morning as practice would have it and got ready for her prayers. The children had begun their fun in the streets and were heard shouting with joy, throwing colors and water at each other. The couple watched stealthily from the floor above, at the rapidly increasing fervor on the streets. The elders had started gathering in the street below, applying colors and sandal paste on each other, it was not long before they remembered the Madrasi couple. Raamanji ! Went the call. ”Come down, come join us”. The couple eyed each other. Fear was writ large on her face. “You go”! She urged Pattabi, before they could decide what to do, the banging on the door started, a group had assembled outside the door, and wanted to drag them out to play colors. Pattabi opened the door and the group barged into the small room. Within seconds Pattabi was transformed into a strange figure, all black and blue and red, his veshti and white shirt suddenly transformed into an artist’s canvas, ‘Holi hai’ cheered the crowd, as Kuchalambal cowered in the kitchen beyond, a few ladies barged into the kitchen, and began the ceremonies on her. The myriad streaks of colours now adorned her fair face, as she helplessly tried to wipe away the grime from her face with her forearm, hopelessly managing to rub in the colours into her arms too. Happy to have done the customary anointing, the crowd faded away again into the streets. The couple, although rattled by the experience, felt good to have participated, if only symbolically. If they regretted anything, it was the loss of one good pair of dress which the colors had spoilt, and of course, the need to bathe again. Never again during their stay in Delhi would they ever have their bath so early in the morning on a ‘Holi’

Each new festival seemed to bring in new experiences to the Madrasi couple. The last ten months of stay in Delhi had showered them with varied surprises, the Raksha Bandan, the Lohri, the brightly lit Diwali and Durga puja, all brought with them, joys never experienced so far. Life seemed so different here in this northern city. The late night festivities of Delhi contrasted with the early morning hustle bustle in Madras. While it used to be a mad rush in the mornings to attend marriages in Madras, with some of them scheduled for as early as seven, the marriages in Delhi would be scheduled for the late hours of the evening. The New Year morning’s celebrations and gaiety in Madras, seems sadly absent, as all of Delhi seem to be relaxing in deep slumber till late in the noon, tired after the whole night celebrations of the previous night. After almost a year of stay in Delhi, Kuchalamba’s longing for her home grew with each passing day. Telephones were nonexistent in those days, the yearning to hear her mother’s voice, the comforting presence of her father, the smell of jasmine, the crowded lanes of T Nagar & Mylapore, the temple chariot and the utsavams, the beach visits and the Music Festivals all seemed to beckon her as she sat thinking about the day just past.

The memories of her first holi flashed in her mind now almost fifty years later as she sat in the balcony watching the roar of the revelers. Vishwa and Gomati had escaped to a movie hall, and she was left alone with her memories, some good and some heart wrenching, her soul searched for the meaning of it all, the years gone by, the experiences, the struggle, the pain, the joys of motherhood, and the achievements of life, finally culminating in this balcony all alone, like a solitary bird in the sky, looking for its salvation. She could not phantom her emotions. She scanned the horizon for some signs, but she got no answers, until a tiny voice exclaimed ‘HOLI HAI’, she slowly turned around to find a two year old in the balcony above holding a small spray gun in hand, trying to drench her with the tiny steam, of the small water gun. The few drops of water that touched her face gave her the answers. It was all about life, the unending cycle of birth and death, of the blooming flowers and wilting leaves, the new blades of grass, replacing the trampled older lot, bursting forth with new hope, new energy, to keep the cycle live, ‘HOLI HAI’, she exclaimed with the spirit of Holi rekindling her hopes again.

Early Hindi Lessons

‘School teacher stabbed to death in Chennai’ screamed the headlines. Kuchalambal strained to read the details below, hurriedly searching for her glasses. The winter morning haze did not help much in illuminating the room. She struggled up to switch on the lights, so as to be able to read the newspaper.

“A teacher was stabbed to death in the classroom of a private school here on Thursday, allegedly by a 15-year-old student who was upset at being repeatedly reprimanded by her for not doing well in studies. The boy had failed in Hindi. The teacher had written remarks in his diary which had angered him.”

What a shame she thought, two precious lives destroyed beyond redemption, , children rendered motherless, parents in distress, and scores scorched by the event. All because of a child’s inability to learn a language!

She was reminded of their own travails, of landing up in an unknown city, not knowing much more than a smattering of English. Her knowledge of Tamil & Telugu, was of hardly any use in this strange land, where people seemed to understand only Hindi and nothing else. Of what use is English when one has to buy a kilo of pulses, from a grocer, or for that matter in asking for Asafoetida, or tamarind, camphor, sesame oil, curry leaves from a shop keeper who had never been near a word of English. She could not imagine a life without any of the above items of cooking.

Thankfully buying veggies out of the vendor’s cart used to be an easier task. One just had to just pick up any item and ask him for two hundred grams of the stuff. Someone in the crowd would translate for her and the job would be done. But the funny thing was that if the vegetable that one wanted was not displayed up front, she could never ask for it by name; she never knew in the initial days what to call what. ‘Alooo’, was the first word that she learnt, it sounded so easy, ‘alooo’, she rolled the word around in her mouth, it felt so good, ‘alooo’, yes she though, it may not be so difficult after all. And it was easy to remember too, her brother’s name was Balu, and he looked so like an ‘alooo’ to boot, she smiled to herself. ‘Muli’ was the next one she learnt, again because it spelled like her cousin Murli’s name. She was now having ball learning Hindi.

Buying milk turned out to be so much easier. She learnt that it goes by the name of ‘Doodh’ but the difficult one was to get the preferred milk of one’s choice, ‘Cow’s milk’, she struggled with the milk man the first day. She had caught hold of him delivering milk from a can, a few buildings away, and had somehow made him come over to her own gate. She was warned earlier, that buffalo’s milks is more prevalent in Delhi, so she was trying to convey to him that she did not want buffalo’s milk. As if ordained to save her from embarrassment, a cow ambled across the road in slow motion. She indicated to that animal, and said to the milkman ‘Cow’ ‘Cow’. By now the milkman whose whole world revolved around bovine creatures understood, like a mathematician understanding a difficult puzzle, and promptly took out the precious contents off a different can. “Gai ka Doodh” he said. She nodded, as if a great awakening had dawned, Gai, similar to bhai, she giggled to herself.

She balanced the vessel full of milk on one hand, and navigated around the puddle in the courtyard, holding her sari pleats in the other hand. Pattabi watching from the terrace above could not hold a smile. She looked so divine, he thought, the radiance of a newly wedded bride, the hope, the wonder, in her eyes, the milk in her hand as though symbolizing a brimming cup of life. The soft thud of her foot falls as she climbed the stairs, the clinking of her anklet, as if echoing the distant peeling of temple bells, entranced him as he watched his goddess incarnate, walking into the small kitchen which was just across the terrace, to return with that invigorating cup of coffee in her hands.

Providence solved her communication problems to a large extent. The second day into her life in Delhi, she met ‘Lakshmi Mami’. Mami & Mama for those not familiar with the term, is a common reference to a lady and a gent respectively. (The term Mama & Mama is also means Maternal Uncle and Aunt). When she first saw a familiarly ‘tamilian looking’ lady walking past her house, she jumped after her and almost grabbed her hand in glee saying ‘neegal tamizha ? (are u a Tamil), and when the lady in question nodded in acknowledgment, Kuchalambal was awed, and gaped at her as if she had met an Eskimo in the African jungles. Forty eight hours of not having met a tamilian was too harsh for the young lass.

The easy going well to do Lakshmi Mami, a good ten years older to her, had herself come to Delhi a decade back and lived a few rows of houses beyond. A tall impressive lady at first sight, she maneuvered herself with elegance unmatched. Her husband too like Pattabi was a civil servant, but financially well settled, which reflected in her own demeanor. A brilliant singer, with a perfect grip on spoken English and Hindi, the lady oozed confidence in her every step. Kuchalambal was impressed and totally in awe of the lady and her persona partly also because she was lost out here in the huge Hindi jungle. On her part Lakshi mami, had never had a younger sister, she had grown up always being bullied by her older siblings, and in Kuchalambal she found the sweetest little sister she could ever find. They struck an instant rapport.

The ladies, alone, after their husbands left for work, had all the time in the world to explore the markets of Karol Bagh. Lakshmi seems to know exactly where to look for items of need. And she was only too happy to act as interpreter whenever required. Thanks to Lakshmi, she got to know of the South Indian Store, on Ajmal Khan Road. The day Lakshmi told her about the store, Kuchalambal dragged her out of the house wanting to immediately go and get her ration for the month. She was fed up with the struggle of buying grocery. The challenge in figuring out the Hindi word for things so simple as rice floor & jaggery, of being confronted by the shopkeeper in his dirty pajamas, scratching himself uncontrollably at forbidden places, as he tried to figure out what was that she wanted to buy. Not to speak of his constant muttering something’s about Madrasi’s under his foul smelling breath.

The ultimate test of her communication skills was yet to come. Lakshmi and she had planned to visit Birla Mandir. Unfortunately Lakshmi boarded a crowded bus from the front, and she from the rear. Kuchalambal got separated from her in the crowd which was packed as if going to the gas chambers of Auschwitz. Panic struck her when the conductor asked her to buy a ticket. Seated on his high pedestal, he would not climb down to jostle thorough the crowd as they used to in Madras. He was roughly five layers of humanity away, and her frail frame could not budge an inch, as the conductor’s rhetoric got shriller and shriller, pushing everyone to buy tickets, she looked around for help, but none was forth coming, the bus had moved a good few kilometers in the meanwhile, not stopping anywhere as it moved along, people standard in the bus stops in between making a run for the bus in vain, and the conductor would smile at the running mass in sadistic pleasure. ‘Birla Mandir’, he screamed as the bus came to a halt, before it could even stop another mass of desperate humanity came running to cling on to the entrance of the bus, preventing anyone from getting down. ‘Stop Birla Mandir’ her frail voice echoed lost in the crowd. ‘Stoooop’ she sobbed in panic. Thankfully the word stop did make sense to the conductor whose whistle went ‘Phrrrrrrrrrrrrr’ in single shrill call. But to her horror the bus would not stop. A sea of humanity kept running on the ground, chasing the bus like a truck load of ambulance chasers. But the bus went on without stopping. Kuchalambal burst forth in a flood of tears. ‘Roko’ shouted someone in the crowd, to no avail. Finally when the bus stopped it was two stops away from Birla Mandir. By now the plight of the lost girl dawned on the passengers, who de-boarded to make way for her to get down. The blast of fresh air as she got down from the bus, put fresh life into her, enough to make her trek back two kilometers down, to rejoin a worried Lakshmi.

The first few years were harrowing to say the least, But she managed bravely, the energies of youth, provides one with a zeal to deal with the toughest of challenges. She slowly discovered her linguistic capabilities. Within two years she had mastered spoken Hindi, and latter as her children started going to school she also managed to master Devnagri, learning it, along with them, from their text books.

She knew from experience that a language was just a means of communication, however the best of human emotions can be communicated without the use of any language. Hence it seemed to be such a waste that a teacher had to lose her life in such tragic circumstances, her eyes went moist as she silently cried for Uma Maheshwari, the teacher who had lost her life
******

The Train Journey

Kuchalambal had just packed off Vishwa and Gomati, her young tenant couple, to work. She had now retired to the balcony watching the street gearing up for the busy day ahead. Gomati had seemed sickly today, and had refused breakfast too. Her worried husband insisted that she do not go to work that day, but was promptly turned down by a anxious Gomati, she was expected to be in office today for a important event. She was the Public relations In-charge and was responsible for organizing the event to be presided over by the MD. Finally Vishwa relented.

It was so fulfilling for Kuchalambal to watch the young ones dote over each other, reminded her of her own days after marriage. Within seven months of her marriage Pathabi landed a job in Delhi, a family friend had arranged for his employment, and in those days when jobs were hard to come by, it was the happiest news that the young couple could possibly expect.

It seemed like yesterday. First day of May 1964, the day when they landed in Karol Bagh, travel weary, holding a lone steel trunk and bed roll, and of course the tiffin carrier emptied of its contents of three days’ supply of Idly’s & Curd Rice. The back breaking journey in the Grant Trunk Express with its innumerable stops, passengers boarding and de-boarding all though the various stations, the innumerable Chai & Coffee vendors, the fruit sellers and magazine vendors, excitement over the changing terrain they passed by, leaving the know, into unknown lands, was even now etched in her mind. Different languages, strange food the type of which they were hardly familiar with, changing from the very familiar south Indian to a gradually north Indian flavors from station to station, were all an alien experience for homemaker, who had hardly ever stepped out alone, leave alone such a long journey.

The day she & her husband set out for Delhi, their entire clan had come to the Central Station in Madras, to see them off, her parents accompanied by her two brothers, her Patti(grandmother) all of eighty years old, Vichu their rustic cousin from Lalgudi, Pattabi’s parents, and his sisters were all present. When the time for farewell drew near, the women folk bust out in a relay of tears, displaying the anxiety of sending the young ones on a journey so far, seldom traversed by many in the clan. The best they could remember was when Pattabi’s great grandfather had set out to visit ‘Kasi’ never to return again. For these simple Mylaporeans, Delhi seemed to be a far away land yet.

Her Mom in law came out a with a long list of ‘To dos and not to dos, her mother seemed to be inconsolable, her sisters bursting out in unison, with huge sobs as if the house was on fire. But among all these holding the fort was Pattabi, unmindful of all the sorrow, grinning from ear to ear, and bidding farewell to one and all. As the guard, blew the first whistle, she clutched desperately to her Mom’s hands through the steel grill, seeking hope against hope for reasons to stay back, only to be reassured by a comforting pat from her father. The long line of waving hands on the platform, seemed so eerie, foretelling a final farewell to the life as she knew till now.

Sitting in the late morning sun, she was lost into the memories of that epic journey. She remembered settling down for the long journey, the varying olfactory stimulus seem to etch different memories in her minds, starting with the stink from the Basin Bridge, to the smell of burning coal from the loco engine, the smell of the rice fields of Andhra, the fresh air of the eastern ghats, the dry winds of the Chambal valley. Passing through the Chambal, she half expected horse mounted bandits to appear in the horizon. When the train passed through the rugged terrain, the scenes from the movie ‘For a few dollars more’, came to her mind, Pattabi was a big time movie buff and had dragged her along to watch the new release. The smattering of English that she knew, was hardly enough to understand the dialogs, but Pattabi’s whispered explanation kept her updated, he seem to be hardly bothered by the muttering of the irritated people in the rows behind. The terrain that now presented across her was similar to the one she had seen in the movie, bone dry, dusty, ugly gashes in the valley side made by some unimaginable hand of nature, the only sign of life around being a few vultures making a meal of a departed animal, the fear of the bandits kept her clutching the window bars in apprehension.
The sweltering heat of the peak summer made their journey even more difficult. The water in the ‘Gooja’ was almost set to boil in the afternoon heat, the endless tumblers of warm water hardly quenching their thirst. They were in the fourth compartment from the engine. The dust laden, scalding wind, gushing into the compartment, also carrying with it the charcoal laden particles from the steam engine made their faces dark and dusky. A white towel wetted frequently to wipe the faces had gone black in the process. Kuchalambal desperately searched around for a tender coconut in all the stations along the way, not realizing that she had left behind the last one, some one thousand miles behind.


The Tumbling and turning of the train kept her awake all night long, she had slept through a major part of the afternoon as the train struggled its way through the fields set on fire in the summer heat with her hubby keeping a keen eye on their belongings. Now under the dark blue light of the night lamp in the compartment, she lay awake unable to sleep. Each passing shadow reminded her of the horror stories of robberies in trains. Her meager jewelry consisting of one ‘Manga Malai’, a two tola chain and a set of bangles were all locked up in the trunk they were carrying. She reassuringly touched the locked trunk, and suddenly remembered her mother’s face, and felt terribly lonely and a sudden panic overtook her, while a huge sob escaped her throat, it was drowned in the noise of the overhead fan. The rocking motion of the train & the fatigue, took their toll as she slipped into a slumber.


She was woken up from her sleep, with ‘Capi’ ‘Capi’ ringing in her ears, a gentle nudge from her ever smiling husband, with a cup of coffee in his hand, did the trick as she got up eagerly to look out of the window. ‘Agra’ said Pattabi, we are near Agra, and couple of hours more, we shall be in Delhi, and he smiled once again, without a care in the world. At the name of ‘Agra’, she instinctively looked out of the window searching for the ‘Taj’. No, grinned the ever smiling one, one can’t see it from the train, he said, realizing what she was looking out for.
Reaching deep into the travel bag, she began hunting for her toothbrush, only to be beaten to the task by her better half, he had already washed the brush, and put an inch of ‘Colgate’ on it, as he extended it to her with one more smile. God she wondered, how can he smile so much !! as she gathered herself to visit the toilet, the repulsive stench of the toiled did little to encourage her onwards, but the golden rule of brushing her teeth immediately on getting up, made her hold on to her guts as she swayed on the motions of the train, trying to brush. It was the most disgusting morning brushing she had ever done. half way done with the process she found the door of the toilet being pushed open forcibly, she was startled, but hurriedly pushed back the door to bolt it. “Kundi band karo”, shouted a voice from beyond. “Kundi kyon nahi band karte” the man was yelling. Repeated use of the word ‘Kundi’ was equally shocking to her, she hurriedly finished brushing and came rushing out, to the safer confines of her berth looking for her hubby to complaint about the incident. Needless to say Pattabi was no master in Hindi either, he went crimson with anger at the mention of the word and went looking for the rustic guy who had shouted the expletives at her. She later learnt that even after a lot of convincing by co-passengers, Pattabi would not accept, that the word uttered had an entirely different meaning in Hindi. It was a joke they would share between themselves for lot many years to come

Thirty Eight hours after leaving Madras, the couple landed in Delhi. It was forty six degrees centigrade outside in the sun. It was as if the blistering roast of a journey they had undergone, was only a curtain raiser to the hotter days to come.
As she let her foot touch the platform, little did she know that this city would be her home till the end. The soft clinking of her ‘golusu’ (Anklet) was lost in the mad cacophony on the platform.