Meenu lived with her mother in the town where she and the music professor, Krishnan met during the girl-seeing ceremony. It was a tiny, dim-lit house that seemed to Krishnan both crowded and neat with little moving space among overflowing but well-arranged furniture and pictures of gods and goddesses covering every inch of the walls. Her mother was a road-side hotelier’s widow—a demure woman with an unadorned forehead and a feebly husky tone. Meenu worked in a bank, had many friends and collected and stacked interesting artifacts at home, but never cooked, and her mother’s constant culinary activity was probably the reason. Not that she bothered. Making fun of cooking was a routine, so also with housekeeping—though she liked to read “The Hindu” aloud in English, and also “Reader’s Digest” at the top of her voice as she turned a corner eye and a stifled giggle on the uneasy neighbor on a recipe-collecting errand. Engineers were in queue—the marriage broker said—and so were three or four doctors. She rejected them all. It surprised everyone especially the broker when she blushed at English professor Krishnan on the cool breezy day of the Margazhi month of December. Aromas of coffee and snacks filled the room and laughter resounded like the tinkle of anklets.
“Is the coffee—Meenu said. “Is the coffee sweet enough?”
He smiled a yes. In a moment, he felt seized with her. Her voice lingered in his heart like the ring of a strummed Tambura. He never wanted to leave her. She was the breath of his flute.
Forty-five years had strolled on. The evening before they left, Meenu ordered rice and vegetables for the whole week from the nearby supermarket. “You have ordered the same thing again,” the delivery boy said in a tone of surprise and curiosity, handing over the provisions that looked exactly like the big bag delivered earlier in the day.
“I will never have to order again,” she said after the boy left. “I guess I can eat home-made food made by experienced cooks,” she said, “or dish up some easy-to-make food too. It’ll be like in a serviced apartment.”
She took out the provisions from the bag she’d been holding and poured the rice into the steel drum. Then she stacked the vegetables in the fridge again, pulled out the end of her sari she’d tucked in her hip and arranged the mundanai. She was a dark and slim-hipped woman, sixty-five years old but worn-out and tired, with fine legs, strong arms and feet, but large, elephant-like ears. Her voice that was as sweet as a Cuckoo had gone from silvery to husky without Krishnan noticing when, and she spoke in a feeble way, as her mother had done. (It had alarmed Krishnan’s mother who was a voice teacher. The feeble and husky voice more than the tiny crowded house had told her everything about strength and health. But otherwise Meenu, with her strong, shapely figure and large, fish-like eyes was nothing like her mother. She had a curved forehead, which she hid by combing some of her hair in front on it—usually after tying her hair into a traditional bun. She simply loved her long hair and would happily wash and dry it every week without feeling the pinch.
She was the same on this day too—gregarious and uncertain as she was, sweet and feeble.
It seemed to Krishnan that the last time Meenu cooked dinner was ages ago. Not that there was anything new about it. Meenu had always wanted to skip cooking surviving solely on light meals and diet plans. Krishnan and the daughter, Hasini had got used to it. With her cooking schedule, it was not uncommon for them to go out for dinner at least twice a week.
The new dinner schedule was different. Ordering dinner—mess, pizza shops, and hotels. And, when the delivery boy comes, it would all either be excitement with eyes popping out or agitation at ignorable, miniscule details. But, brunches or lunches would be quiet and cooked happily by her—with the cook putting in most of the effort.
It was getting worse by the day—her memory. The evening before, she went to a shop to buy jasmine flowers but instead bought bananas. She insisted she went to buy bananas and looked scared pointing at her shadow that grew longer all the way to the shop and back. She went to the railway station to take the evening train to her daughter’s house in Bangalore but returned home by dinner time. She said that she got irritated with a co-passenger.
It was confusing. She’d talk to her friends about the mix-up and laugh at herself. “Don’t worry,” she said to Krishnan, “I just get tired in the evening just like I used to, those days after work.”
He asked if she had been taking any anxiety pills for her high blood pressure. She brushed the question aside but came back to him with a cup of tea and said sorry for not responding. “I am not on any medication. Maybe I should have an energy drink.”
Hot or cold energy drinks—energy drinks for women didn’t help. She would open the fridge and stand figuring out what she wanted to take. While lifting a spoonful of rice to her mouth, she would lose her hold and drop it, spilling all over the table. She would yell at the increasing sounds of footsteps—of people coming home in the apartment corridors. She’d ask Krishnan where Hasini lived.
“Is it New Jersey or Seattle?”
“Bangalore,” he said.
“When did she return?”
“Five years back.”
“Nobody ever tells me anything here.”
Krishnan felt vague explaining to the doctor. “She probably tires herself out to sleep well in the night,” he said, “so by evening, she cannot stand any agitation or noise.” He was unable to explain with success how Meenu’s evening spells now seemed routine. Was it just a phase of life? Or, was it the stars? Or a natural decay of the mind?
“Well,” the doctor said, “It’s not really possible to say anything now. Probably it is the aspect of sun-downing. Maybe if there is some sort of frequency to it, we can find a pattern.”
After sometime, finding the pattern didn’t matter. Days never passed without the clink and clank of steel spoons, tumblers, or vessels falling over the kitchen floor. Meenu, who went for an evening walk to the park in front of the apartment, strode off through the rear gate and meandered to end up in a far-away street. The residents asked her name and she replied correctly. When they ventured to ask her address, she swore that the house on that street was where she lived. But she made the mistake of asking if they’d seen her daughter, when an old resident there recognized her.
The daughter was born miraculously after the doctors gave up on her. It was after a few years following the birth of a stillborn son. Or it might have been after her mother’s death. Hasini’s large eyes and rotund face matched hers when she took her to participate in local music competitions. In those days, Krishnan, who shifted to teaching music at a local college (a rare foreign degree in music being the impetus), was seen by some people as modern and revolutionary in trying to bring about changes in the teaching system of the music.
There was an elaborate ritual performed by Ageless, a senior citizen residence with geriatric facilities far away from the city only after which people could be admitted. Propitiating the gods was followed over the ages for long life and good health. The taxi was waiting below.
“Let’s go!” Meenu swung a black handbag on her frail shoulders.
“You are wearing an old saree,” Krishnan remarked.
“Only it is the wedding saree,” she said looking happy and radiant. “I pulled it from under a pile of other old silk sarees last month, hung it on the terrace, hand-washed it, and then gave it to the drycleaners. Now, it looks as good as new.”
It was the time of their wedding when the priest called out to bring the girl. The time to tie the holy wedding thread was fast approaching. Meenu entered the hall. She wore a green silk saree instead of the traditional red one—the reason being she represented the goddess of her town. The color went along with her dark skin contrasted only by a huge bunch of white jasmines decking her long hair and a shyly-happy smile showing her pearl-white teeth. She did look an exact picture of the goddess.
If she could be so bright and calm, and so clear and correct, could she really have a problem? That was all he could do not to leave home and stay back.
The manager explained to Krishnan how the residents would be made to undergo a variety of tests for the first three weeks. They needed to create medical records for them at the time of joining. Before that, there had been people who brought in a whole set of infectious diseases to existing residents. Not that Ageless did not care for the unhealthy, he said, but just that they needed to know. And, the residents needed to be alone all those weeks without any visitors calling or calling upon them.
They had been to Ageless once before to visit an NRI childless couple who found it fashionable to settle there and breathe their last too. There were concrete buildings with red-oxide floors and facilities modern to those times. Now, the floors were all plush and shiny granites, clubhouse and tennis courts added, profuse greenery as lawns and creepers on well-laid walls, and shrubs and plants trimmed as landscaped gardens.
There had been many questions: why leave her alone there? Why don’t you employ a caretaker? Why don’t you be there with her too? Everything was tried—a few dozen caretakers had sighed and left. Hasini tried to help being here but couldn’t handle. Krishnan himself had a six-month funded project to train students with self-developed elementary music learning; and he couldn’t drop it just like that. And, it was a matter of a few months. Then, he will get her back and be with her all the time.
Krishnan called everyday to speak to the attendant and get a satisfactory report on Meenu’s tests and general health. Meenu’s blood pressure was normal. Other tests and scan reports showed normal health. She had mild fever, the attendant said at the end of the first week—though it was slightly uncommon for residents to go through that to adjust to the new place. They normally catch a cold but probably she was just too sensitive, he said.
During the initial years of her marriage, Hasini used to call and visit frequently. But now, with a kid of her own, constant job shift of her husband’s, and her own non-starter music career, she hardly finds time to call up. Krishnan informed her of her mother’s new place for which she muttered a sigh and a few consoling words. He did not have to tell her about not visiting the first few weeks as she was not going to visit her anyway, for now.
Like men of his age, Krishnan went for walks. He walked on the streets around the beach as the sun peeped into the sky and left it bright yellow over the fishermen’s hamlets that were bound by quiet waves splashing on beach sand and human waste on it. He came back, took his bath and ate the breakfast made by the cook. Krishnan and Meenu usually breakfasted together though in their working days, it was rare to see them all eat together—even dinner. They never shared thoughts about work, plans or future—only a bed that showed signs of intense intimacy in those fiery youthful years that reduced to mere hugs and kisses in the last couple of decades.
During one of his study vacation (men going abroad to study after marriage, was quite uncommon; thanks to the providing wife) while doing a PhD abroad, when he visited his wife in Chennai for a month, Krishnan received an airmail that contained a painstakingly-packed box. Meenu picked the letter stuck in a corner of the box. It was from Charlotte, and described their last day together, and cloying, yearning in a way. The girl was someone to whom he gave private tuitions and affections but parted amiably when her family left town. After the last lesson, he treaded softly on her lily white skin with his artistic fingers exploring all the curves and contours. He told how her mouth tasted as sweet as Panchamritam, a honeyed dish made of mashed bananas, milk, curd, and jaggery. He saw her and the family off at the railway station. It was least likely of her to even remember him let alone send the Panchamritam in the box. Meenu opened the box, took out the bottle, and rushed from the flat. From the window, Krishnan saw her feeding it to a flea-infested, stray dog. Although it was her first, Meenu didn’t yell, cry, or react at all. When—and if ever, she spoke, it was matter-of-factly. There was no sarcasm, irony or even frustration in her tone. Only a stony silence filled the house. Nobody talked about it—or anything at all. Krishnan spent all his time with the two-year old Hasini. The day before he went back, Krishnan got drunk. He went to Meenu and took her hands in his. There was a vacant expression in her eyes. Hasini crawled to them, giggling and babbling. Meenu wriggled out, lifted Hasini and took her to the crib. Krishnan waited patiently for the child to sleep. Then, again he took her hand in his and promised her a new life—without making the error of confessing.
If ever Krishnan was appreciated for carrying on the family tradition of being the seducer (though he had declined to call himself that as his conquests never equaled his grandfather’s, the flute maestro at the erstwhile Kingdom of Gauripur), he knew nothing of it. His grandfather had a wife but visited her only during the day; and she received words of his spending nights at various mistresses’ houses. They were childless and then, she adopted Krishnan’s mother in retribution to washing his sins and giving life to a girl child. Krishnan, who was a child then, played with the urchins and specialized in throwing tiny stones at the dark ‘thing’ that lay open when the flaps of the vesthi of a sleeping old neighbor was carelessly parted. He, however, never had even one mistress; just a few flings here and there, which anyway required him to ‘bear lots of crosses’—that was his pick-up line with his young and immature students—so what was the fuss all about, anyway?
Thus, he went on, paying no heed to his promise, but getting cleverer by each affair in his ability to mask them. He prided himself on conquering white females; something his grandfather could not lay hands on—combining sizzling Kamasutra experiments with artistic and sensitive foreplays. While Indian girl students needed secure and protective lovemaking, taking one step after another; not going the whole way; not too far; and definitely not too soon—the learning he got while teaching at the college, after completing the foreign conquests, white women were easier. And, of betraying Meenu—which, of course, he had, what was better? Leaving their wives as others did or being with them? He could never think of it. After getting back, he spent lots of time with her, especially in making love at nights.
Yes, defended Krishnan, Meenu was a major part of his life, but not his life completely. His music needed an outlet. He served as jury for grants, published papers, taught with an experimental teaching model to the envy of other local professors, and held private tuitions at his home. Although Meenu never found any concrete evidence, there was nagging suspicion cancerously multiplying in her mind. She would often complain to her friend how her husband was always surrounded by young girls. Most of his students were girls—music, and especially Carnatic music not appealing to boys as a serious career. Despite most girls learning music were for the sake of singing that one song on their girl-seeing ceremonies, some of them took to it as a career too—a soft career that could be continued after marriage without disrupting marital harmony. In a hitherto unknown manner—unknown to Indian customs, Krishnan would always close the door while teaching students, even at home. There were the nubile whose thighs he would grope while teaching them to play the Tala. If they didn’t object, he would make progressive overtures. If none of his normal overtures worked out, he would fall back on his ever successful pick-up line, ‘You know, my wife never cares for me, she is only bothered about her job.’ True, Meenu had a job which needed more care, and all the more because that job provided for her all her life including the one decade when Krishnan went to study abroad and sent money home irregularly. An occasional exchange student would be treated to the complete act in the hotel he would have arranged for her to stay—all this during daytime under the pretext of having some work to do around there. He arranged another flat in the same apartment complex for college students to stay—those ones who found it difficult to stay in the hostels. Students practicing in the wee hours in the mornings would get a visit from him discretely, quick kisses, caresses and quicker orgasms followed by the routine morning walk. Devoted students would receive an initiation as disciples by ‘surrendering’ to the guru.
Krishnan never felt particularly worried about Hasini. She was growing up by herself, looking prettier by the day, and taking after her mother. She was learning to sing with another teacher, more successful than Krishnan. Meenu took an active interest in her singing career and chided her husband on not nurturing Hasini’s talent. But, now, something happened that made him throw away his job and devote all his energy and time to getting Hasini married and married well.
One of his disciples whom he had tried time and again to brainwash unsuccessfully left, not only from him but from the career itself. In her place, came two new girls, who seemed too content to be by themselves. Actually, Krishnan later found out that they found solace in each other’s arms. Some found them tonguing in dark corners. The new angle thrilled Krishnan enough to begin his overtures. But, no sooner had he done it, these girls started singing like canaries to the other professors. So, before anyone asked him, he took voluntary retirement. There was fear in the household that Hasini’s life may get affected. So, by the time she graduated, she was married off to a suitable boy. Krishnan spent lavishly on her marriage—the only thing he could do and did for her. Her music took a backseat.
The family breathed a major relief. They sold the flat and shifted to a smaller one in an upscale area. Both his wife’s and his savings contributed to it. They decorated the flat together. He urged her to go on morning walks with him. He taught her to like having expensive tastes—from soaps/shower gels to fashionable outfits and cosmetics. He had tried to teach her to sing or play the flute but she would have none of it. They invited relatives and other neighbors often, and Krishnan didn’t try to involve himself—no careless caress while handing over the coffee tumbler, no seemingly-accidental bumping on women of any age and so on.
All for the good, Krishnan thought, when it cooled off. He thanked the two cozy girls for the songs that landed him in soup. Yes, he was out of his mind and could not continue like that. It was just at the nick of time. He would probably have landed in greater trouble than what he went through with the hidden shame. What if he was accused of fathering kids; what if he had got infected; and what if there were photos and blackmails—nobody knew when things would go wrong. It would only be a matter of time when it would have cost him his Meenu, had he continued.
Krishnan got a call from Ageless. “All the tests are over. You can come over to meet her.” The attendant said. The next day, he woke up early and put on his best shirt and well-ironed veshti. He took her comb and brushed his grey hair, or what was left of it. Humming the madhyamavati raga, he rubbed three fingers in holy ash and drove the three lines on his forehead and added a red kumkum below it. She liked him in Indian attire—an observation she made after they had got engaged. While studying abroad, he had looked so westernized to the extent of wearing loose shorts exposing thighs that almost reached his bottom. But, now all that has changed. He looked more traditional than the most traditional Carnatic musician.
While driving, he felt like how he felt that day when he was meeting her for the first time—the girl-seeing ceremony. He wanted to discover her and know her all over again. The rain had subsided. Potholes and pools of water remained on the roadsides, but the freshness on that warm and bright Sunday morning lifted his spirits. The broad, country roads looked like they had been given a thorough wash. He had a box of her favorite cashew nut cake, sweet and diamond-shaped, which he had never bought for her before. He entered the gates of the residence eagerly looking like a lovelorn husband.
“Please come.” The attendant said, “Hope the journey was smooth.” Pointing to the lift, he told Krishnan to take a left on the third floor and the last room on the corridor. He was a wiry, thin man who looked like he had forgotten to eat for a few days. “Please go; I’ll join you in a few minutes,” saying, he left.
Krishnan knocked. There was no response. He looked near the door to see if there was a calling bell. He rang. Still, there was no response. He turned the handle. It was locked. “Perhaps she has gone to her friend’s room,” the attendant said, walking down the corridor. “He stays on the other side of the lift; again at the end of the corridor.” Krishnan hesitated, holding the bag with the box of sweets. “You could keep it on her table; I have a set of keys and will open the door for you,” he said. Krishnan told himself that the sweets and a thin man with keys didn’t match well. “No, thanks,” he replied, instead. He led Krishnan to the other side of the corridor and rang the bell. “This is the person,” he said, pointing to a gold-colored name plate mounted on wood. The letters of the name were in black and embossed. It said, “Dr. K. Ramasamy”. A familiar name, Krishnan mused, while waiting for the door to open. He knew a Ramasamy but then, the name was so common. Like his own name, Krishnan. However, Meenu was too stylish for their times. Perhaps, he was a medical doctor, he thought. He wished.
The door opened revealing somebody in a wheelchair. To Krishnan, the familiar name now had a face—familiar too, but aged—exactly who he had hoped not to meet now, or at any point in his life. There sat on the wheelchair, the crippled form of his former Head of the Department of Music. No, he never reported to him. In fact, when Ramasamy was made the head, it coincided with Krishnan leaving. The irony was this Ramasamy was younger than Krishnan; and Krishnan could never hope to become the head. When Krishnan was a senior professor (and the women-related rumors went on strongly), it felt best to retire voluntarily and gracefully. But, the venom in Krishnan had continued for a long time. And now, when he had left everything and turned a new leaf, this had to happen.
“Sir, his wife is here?” The attendant broke the tension. He stretched his neck and saw Meenu sitting on the chair, watching television. Assuring Krishnan, he left.
“Hello, Krishnan,” Ramasamy said, trying to sound normal. “How are things?” He brushed aside his thick, white hair falling over his forehead—an act that always turned Krishnan green. He had maintained his health; his tall and slim figure proved it. His face and demeanor was nonchalant with something of the charm of a dignified lion with only the darting of the egg-shaped eyes giving away his excitement.
Krishnan simply stretched his lips without a smile and acknowledged by nodding his head. Looking across towards his wife, he stepped in. Ramasamy moved to give way.
Krishnan saw Meenu’s profile. A ripened skin hid a flabby cheek in a way he had never seen before. Her eyebrows were drawn closer and she was watching the movie with keen eyes. When he got near her, she looked sideways towards him and smiled—the same shy and charming smile that had attracted him during the girl-seeing ceremony.
“See what they are showing—Kathalikka Neramillai—the movie I had always wanted to watch during college.
“But, didn’t you just watch the movie yesterday evening here, with me?” Ramasamy said.
“Maybe it was some other one. You forget too often,” she said, her eyes looking at him warmly.
“Shall I make some tea for you?” She asked. The family from where Krishnan came—the court musician family with its vestiges of royalty-like lifestyle, it would be great dishonor to mention a ‘lower-level’ drink like tea. Krishnan had made sure that he and his family followed only the highly-revered customs from the very beginning. Maybe the royalty themselves have taken to modern habits the American billionaires with new money or homegrown rags-to-riches billionaires followed; but Krishnan and other such—the second rung—steadfastly stuck to old-world customs and preserved them like pickles, although fungi-filled.
If it were pre-Ageless times, Krishnan would have thrown a fit. Instead, “Shall we go to your room, Meenu?” he asked softly. He held her arm and tried to help her get up. But, she would have none of it. She rose with one hand on the arm of the chair holding strong. Still, he held her eyes.
He wanted to hug her and say how much he missed her. But, something about her sudden rigid face and guarded smile—something that looked like she was guarding Ramasamy from him—and him from Ramasamy—made him put on his guard too.
“Look what I have brought!” Krishnan opened his bag. “Your favorite sweets,” he said. Meenu was turning in the lock of her room. “Great, you remembered to lock your room and carry the key too,” he added. “But, I had never forgotten,” Meenu said.
“So you go to his room often?” Krishnan asked. Meenu pretended not to hear. “That man, I meant,” he stressed. “Oh,” she said trying to recollect. “Ramasamy?” “Oh, that’s nothing. He is a childhood friend. We studied in the same school, which was a co-ed till eighth class. Then, he went to a boy’s school and the family eventually shifted to Chennai.”
“I never imagined that he could be a musician. In fact, he worked at the music department at the college and retired as the head.” She said.
“I know him alright. He worked where I worked.” He said.
“Where did you work?” She asked.
Krishnan was taken aback. “The College.” He said with a shocked look on his face.
“Really?”
There was a pause. “By the way, you didn’t even take a look at the sweets.”
“But, this is not my favorite,” she said, “I like Laddoos.”
“You always told me you hated it—it being a commonplace sweet.”
“Actually, I hate these cashew cakes. They are too rich.” She said.
Krishnan looked at her helplessly and then his face fell flat. Pointless, this talk.
“I’d better go and watch the rest of the movie.” She said.
“But, you have got a TV here.” He retorted and switched it on.
“Oh, I thought this was some fancy box,” she said. “All those days I went over to watch movies; what would Ramasamy have thought? Maybe, it must have occurred to him that my TV was not working,” she coaxed herself.
All that interaction left Krishnan wondering if she remembered who he even was. Not able to hold any longer, he said, “Meenu, I am Krishnan, your husband.”
“Of course, I know who you are. Shall I make some tea for you?”
It was upsetting. First, that unannounced Ramasamy; then, Meenu not accepting s