28-year old Madhav is visiting his wacky but lovable grandparents in the village (in South India). This is an excerpt from my work-in-progress. Would appreciate thoughts and suggestions.
Glossary
Tataiyya Grandfather
Nainamma Paternal grandmother
Garu Added after a person’s name as a sign of respect
Namaskaram Traditional greetings
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Madhav looked at the early morning sunlight streaming in. Five more days of doing nothing! Sighing in pleasure, he jumped out of bed. He had a sudden desire to sit in the courtyard with his grandmother and drink his first coffee of the day. He hurriedly brushed his teeth, then went in search of her.
Nainamma was in the kitchen – no surprise there – stirring something over the gas stove. Her hair was completely white, in startling contrast to the brown of her skin. Her skin stretched tightly across raised cheekbones. If Madhav hadn’t known for certain that plastic surgeons had yet find their way to Gopanpally, he’d have been very suspicious of his grandmother’s smooth skin. Every alternate tooth was missing, from use or abuse, he couldn’t tell, but all those that remained were stained red from the betel leaf she constantly chewed. The missing teeth, along with the huge diamond stud embedded in her nose, gave his grandmother a rather cute air, Madhav thought, though his grandmother would be mortified to know that. Her one concession to vanity was the crisply starched Venkatagiri cotton saris she favoured, the loose end tucked at the waist.
There was also something endearing about the way she stood atop the stool – because she could no longer reach the top of the pan on the stove – stirring away vigorously, her multi-hued glass bangles, interspersed with gold ones, jangling in rhythm.
His stomach growled in response to the delicious smells. Walking to the counter, he put his hand out to snag a freshly fried vada.
Nainamma slapped his hand away. “How many times I have to tell you, I have to offer it to the Gods before you can have it.”
Madhav grinned as she continued to mutter under her breath about badly raised, godless city boys.
He breathed in the aroma. “What is that curry? Cabbage?”
Nainamma swung her head around, a look of disbelief on her face. “See what happens when you stay away for so long? Forgotten all our vegetables. Shamelessly hankering for English ones.”
Madhav laughed out loud. Nothing had changed. His crusty old grandmother still refused entry into her kitchen to all vegetables ‘English’ – potatoes, tomatoes, beans, carrots, cauliflower and, of course, cabbage. Never mind the British were long gone, and their vegetables were now as Indian as anything else.
“Come and have coffee with me,” Madhav said, trying to cajole his grandmother.
“You think this is a 9-to-5 job?”
“9-to-5?” Madhav teased. “Granny, you’re zipping along in the 21st century.”
She smacked him on the shoulder. “Go away, you manner-less boy. I have import-ment things to do.” For all Nainamma’s insistence on being traditional, she loved to sprinkle her Telugu with mispronounced English words. ‘Mod-run’ – for modern – was another favourite.
“Have coffee with me.” He wrapped his arm around her in a hug and was batted away for his efforts. “Please?”
“What is wrong with you youngsters? Always thinking you are only import-ment. Go away.”
Giving his grandmother a last squeeze, Madhav left the kitchen whistling. For all her crankiness, he knew that coffee and Nainamma would both appear in the next few minutes. He bent to pass under the low hanging doorframe, out into the internal courtyard.
The rectangular space, surrounded by the rooms of the house, had been the central gathering place in his youth, before the veranda took over that honour. In the middle was the tulsi – the same plant Lingam’s ‘legal’ document had specified as ‘sharing only.’
Madhav went down the couple steps, slid out of his slippers and touched the holy plant. Joining his palms together, he closed his eyes in a brief prayer. Putting his feet back into the slippers, he sat down on the high step going up to the walkway. He’d been sitting barely a minute before Nainamma appeared, followed by Buchamma, the maid.
Madhav took the coffee and smiled his thanks at Buchamma. He leaned back against a column supporting the roof and sipped appreciatively. Nothing to beat village coffee, he thought, as Buchamma helped Nainamma settle into an armchair.
“You are up.” Tataiyya’s voice boomed across the courtyard. His grandfather looked fresh and hearty in a sparkling white kurta and matching pancha. Grey ceremonial ash, the vibhuti, was smeared across his forehead, evidence that prayers were over for the day. Sitting down next to Madhav, he asked, “You are enjoying your vacation?”
Madhav nodded, and the three were silent as they enjoyed their first cup of the day. He waited warily for his grandfather to broach again the topic of Madhav’s Vaastu-ised portion of the house. Last night he’d refused to sidle past the banyan to go to ‘his’ portion of the house. He knew an attack was coming, surely as the village suffered power cuts in the summer.
“Been checking out Shyamala, have we?” Nainamma said.
Madhav choked on his coffee. All he’d done was smile at the girl as he accepted the cup of tea yesterday. Of course, it was a particularly warm smile, given that she’d grown up into an exceptionally pretty girl. Still.
Tataiyya pounded Madhav on his back till he got his breath back.
“Wh…at?” Madhav said.
“Your ears have a problem, Boy?” Nainamma said.
Madhav scowled, quite certain his face was a certain English vegetable red.
Tataiyya grinned.
How Nainamma had found out, he had no idea. He knew that neither Raghu nor Headmaster garu would ever say a thing. And, as far as he could tell, no one had stopped by to pay his grandmother a visit. But she had a web of informants that would put the former KGB to shame.
“Well?”
Madhav took a few more sips of coffee to buy time. His grandparents lived in hopes of his marrying and providing them with great-grandchildren. Any girl he smiled at was immediately filed away as a prospective granddaughter-in-law. He pretended to frown in confusion. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
Nainamma gave an inelegant snort. “Do you see any flower in my ear?”
Madhav shook his head. The day he was able to bluff his grandmother was the day he would… he would… Madhav gave up. He was too frazzled to think.
“Namaskaram!” a high voice screeched.
All of them froze.
“What, no response to a friendly greeting?”
The sound of their across-the-road neighbour, Murty garu, galvanized Tataiyya into action; hejumped up, intent on making a getaway. Unfortunately for him, the edge of his pancha caught on the arm of Nainamma’s chair, and he went down like an overloaded barge labouring across the Godavari.
Before Madhav could react, Nainamma started to beat her chest and wail. Flustered, he turned to stare.
“Aiyyo! What will happen to me now? I’m an old woman, whose sole grandson is not bothered about her only. Not bringing me a daughter-in-law, not providing me heirs. Who will take care of me now?”
“Stop, woman! Stop!” Tataiyya bellowed. “At least wait till I’m gone before you start up with all your nonsense.”
Madhav dropped his head in his hands, suddenly remembering why he thought his grandparents eccentric beyond reason.
Nainamma sniffed.
Madhav looked up.
“Oh,” she said, using the edge of her sari to wipe the corners of her eyes. As she spied the advancing figure of their neighbour, she was spurred into movement; she sprang from her chair with an agility that would have done an Olympic athlete proud. “Since you are fine, I’d better go and finish making lunch. Madhav will be hungry. Growing boys, you know.”
Madhav snorted.
He would have run away himself, only Tataiyya floundered at his feet like a garden lizard in the death grip of a cat. Sighing, he helped his grandfather up and to the chair Nainamma had so recently forsaken.
Murty garu, his skinny frame swaying like a cooked strand of Maggi noodles, traversed the length of the courtyard and plonked himself on the step, next to Madhav. Using an incongruously pudgy middle finger, he pushed his oversized spectacles up his nose and turned to the unfortunate duo, his forehead luminous with, and smelling of, Jasmine Scented Parachute Coconut Hair Oil.
“So you see,” said Murty garu to Madhav as if this weren’t the first time they were meeting in more than three years. “I have been thinking.”
“Oh?” Tataiyya said.
Madhav rearranged his face in what he hoped was an expression of interest.
“I am very pleased your Tataiyya agreed to listen to my good counsel on Vaastu.”
Ah ha! So the Vaastu stuff had not been Tataiyya’s idea. Not that he had anything against the ancient architectural science, but using it to emotionally blackmail him? This was a new low, even for Tataiyya. Madhav glared at his grandfather, but the elderly man seemed to be absorbed by something on the ceiling.
Said Murty garu, “I have come to help you with Numerology. I’m an accountant, you know.”
Madhav didn’t. He didn’t see the connection between the two, either.
Murty garu forged ahead, “Your house number 1-2-3/3/2/10/A/C-339 is not very good, you see. If you add everything up, it should come to an auspicious number that makes you to be a happy family.” He frowned at Madhav and Tataiyya. “What, you are not saying anything? I am doing this for your good only, no?”
Madhav managed a weak smile.
Thus encouraged, Murty garu continued, “Number 3 is very good for you. Change the fifth digit in your address from “2” to “1” and your house number will add up to 3. See, add 1 and 2 and 3 and 3 and 1 and 10 and A and C and 339, which is 363. 3 + 6 + 3 is 12. 1 + 2 is 3. Perfect.” He beamed.
“You are talking about the number of my house,” Tataiyya said. “Not an entry in your accounting ledger.”
His flared nostrils twitching like a squirrel’s, Murty garu looked at Tataiyya. “Tch, tch,” he finally said, wagging his finger in front of Madhav’s nose. “I know Satyanarayana postman, you know Satyanarayana postman. Wha...at is the problem, I say?” He pursed his lips, mimicking deep thought. “Hmm. Post will come. Where it will go? If the number brings you good luck, what is the harm? After all, Tataiyya built that East facing entrance for you, and you came here, no?”
This time Madhav’s stare pinned Tataiyya down.
His grandfather had the grace to look ashamed.
“Besides,” Murty garu continued, “number 3 is for happy families. Lots of love, lots of fun, lots of laughing. Everyone in family will talk to everyone. Only a little problem of interfering, overfriendly neighbours, but you don’t have to worry, no?”
“Err... no.” Tataiyya’s voice came out strangled.
“Well, then,” Murty garu continued, as he got up. “I knew you will do the right thing. My man is waiting outside with a bucket of paint. He will make your house number right. What will the world come to, I say, if neighbours don’t help each other?”
And, with that little piece of homily, Murty garu sailed out of the house.