by Kousalya Sarangarajan
I woke at 4 am to the sound of chirping birds from the neem tree that had withstood the force of Vardah. I threw open the windows and the balmy air – typical of Chennai – greeted me.
It has been two months since I moved from Coimbatore to Chennai to live with my son and his family. They believed I could not cope on my own after my wife passed away. I did need a change of place, but two months in, I am not so sure. My son is employed in a software company and works during office hours and ungodly hours and all the hours in between. Sumithra, my daughter-in-law, has her hands full with household work, the kids and the numerous classes they should be dropped at and picked from, and her volunteering at the local balwadi and the temple. I felt I was an added burden to this family.
It was a new moon day and Sumithra had already bought everything I needed for my rituals yesterday. I went into the kitchen and made decoction for the household and made myself a tumbler of coffee and sat at my table to work on sudoku puzzles. After an hour, as the sun began its ascent, I heard a cacophony of voices interrupted by bursts of laughter. This was my alarm to go for my morning walk; Chennai wakes up early and I feel reassured to see and hear fellow humans milling about on the roads. I wore my walking shoes and made my way out of the house, surprised that Sumithra was not in the kitchen as was her routine.
I walked cautiously on the streets, looking out for stray dogs which seem to be early risers too, eager to run to humans and smell our feet. My first stop was the newspaper shop that had decorated every inch of its surface with ‘headlines’ such as a wife killing her husband for a silly reason and a boy hanging himself for an even sillier reason, the spate of burglaries and women attacked for everything… jewellery, lust and anger. I adjusted my clothes to ensure that the noble metal around my neck got its due protection. I bought a newspaper to read the real news that always appeared in small print: discoveries in science, the glories we won in sports, the collector of some small town achieving something remarkable, and so on.
Suddenly a thuggish-looking man appeared next to me and started reading the headlines. I glanced slyly at him: he was large, with a mop of curls on his head, a tight black t-shirt over his chiselled body and obnoxious-looking silvery jewellery around his neck. Living in the tinsel town of Chennai, one can frequently see men like him roaming the roads, working in movies and TV series as thugs. They are usually harmless, but the sight of them continues to repulse me because sadly, we tend to judge books by their cover. I left the shop and continued on my morning stroll.
As I walked next to the house that rained bougainvillaea on the road, I was in for a rude shock when a man in a bike came very close to me and whispered into my ear, ‘Mama, hand over that bag you are holding so close to your heart.’ Knowing that any struggle was futile, I mutely began to hand over the bag that was folded multiple times to hold the big bundle of keerai I wanted to buy.
A gruff voice said ‘Ayya’ and the motorcycle thief sped away. I turned around, startled, and saw my TV star companion from the newspaper stand approach me.
‘Ayya,’ he said. ‘Shall we have a cup of inji tea in that Bhai kadai?’
I remember that my heart was thumping so loudly that he had to shout to make himself heard; I nodded a yes. It was Amaavasai. I was to not eat anything outside the house. But I was shaking from top to bottom and just followed my knight in shining armour without a thought. After downing two cups of tea I thanked Sara (short for Saravanan) for his timely help. As I had guessed, he was acting in a television show and lived in a men’s hostel in Saligramam, out of view of the respectable streets that housed koteeshwaraas in posh apartments.
I told Sara that I needed to head back. He kindly agreed to walk me home. He even waited when I stopped at the Sai Baba temple. I thanked the Lord for His messenger, standing by me. I asked for His pardon for drinking tea outside my house on an auspicious day and promised Him that I would donate for a worthy cause in gratitude as soon as possible.
A cheerful girl came by and gave me a slip of paper, ignoring Sara. Oblivious to my squirming, she gushed, ‘Uncle, Samskruta Bharathi is conducting a ten-day spoken Sanskrit course, free of cost. The details are here. We need to do our best to see how we can uplift our samskriti with Sanskrit!’ As I tried to get away from the awkward situation, Sara said ‘Janani janma bhoomischa swargaadapi gareeyasi.’ I couldn’t hide my shock; neither could the girl, looking at Sara with disbelief writ on her face. Sara laughed and said ‘My knowledge of the language stops right there, because my first role as a theatre artiste was in a Sanskrit play and that was my dialogue.’ She was at a loss for words. She handed a flyer to Sara too, saying ‘It would be reallllly nice if you could make it!’ and hurried away.
We walked together until we reached my son’s house. Sumithra was standing at the gates, waiting for the school auto that would pick up my grandchildren. I invited Sara in for a cup of filter coffee even as Sumithra looked at me and my companion with shock.
I could sense Sara’s discomfiture and even as I tried to insist on the cuppa, he politely refused and left. I thanked him once again and then waved goodbye to the children. My son was already on an official call and nodded at me as I went back to the loneliness of my room. It was the new moon day, a day to pay my respects to my forefathers. I saw the paraphernalia required for doing the necessary rites placed on my table, gleaming in the sunlight. I thanked Sumithra in my thoughts for always doing things without being asked. I also decided to enrol in that Sanskrit course that girl had mentioned that morning. I could at least try to learn the meanings of the mantras I had to recite during these rituals.
Just as I finished my prayers and went to find Sumithra to ask her to serve me lunch, the doorbell rang. I heard her talking to someone in an urgent tone and walked to the door to see what was happening. She was arguing with a man holding a receipt book. He was asking for a donation to an old age home and she was asking him to leave. I called Sumithra aside and explained to her that I would like to donate as it was amaavasai and that my karmic account would be credited if I did some dhaanam. I thought I should also thank the Gods and my forefathers to have stayed with me when I had a narrow escape from the motorcycle thief that morning.
Sumithra was not happy; she gave me a hard stare and left the room. I asked the man how much a day’s meal cost at Vanaprastha, the old age home. He answered that there were twenty five inmates and five thousand rupees would give these abandoned souls a lavish meal. He showed me a laminated certificate on the NGO’s authenticity. Feeling very good about being generous, I parted with five thousand and was given a receipt which assured me that I would be exempted from income tax under Section 80G.
Not finding Sumithra anywhere, I helped myself to the food on the dining table. I was still trying to get used to her sudden absences. I looked at the clock; my conversation with the man from the old age home had taken half an hour! She must have left for the balwadi. The feeling that I was a burden crept in again, but I dismissed the thought, convincing myself that the children there needed her more than I did. I cleaned the table and wondered how I could while away my afternoon as I could not easily shake off the eerie feeling of someone trying to steal something from me that morning. I could share the incident neither with my son nor my daughter-in-law, as both had no time to listen, though they had hearts of gold.
Suddenly, an idea struck me. A visit to Vanaprastha would be a good distraction – and a reminder that my life was a lot better. I left for the place in an Uber cab, which said the place was twenty five minutes away. After a good forty-five minutes, though, much to the consternation of the driver who claimed he didn’t take a wrong turn, we were still circling around looking for the place; there was nothing where Google Maps indicated the old age home was. At last, I got down and asked an iron kaaran ‘Where is the old age home Vanaprastha?’
He replied, ‘They closed the place two years back, ayya.’
I felt like I was kicked in the guts. I wondered if my karma account would be credited for my intention or debited for being a fool.
Picture from flickr.com/photos/anandnav/
Wonderful narration.Similar incident in my life too..
Very nice !