Of men and Faludas

I stop by the restaurant I used to frequent, whenever I missed home in India. I haven't been there in months.

Of late, I don't feel the same way about things. Something has changed in a very fundamental way, and I can put my finger on what it is...... Somewhere I have read that a soul has many rooms (is it in my friend Julia Dutta's writings?). Mine has probably had a change of rooms.

To me, home meant a place I can always go back to. It always symbolized seeing my father, and resting - just mentally letting everything go. Now there are no strong arms that await, there is no healing touch. A lot of battles fought alone...and on behalf of those close to me. I don't balk at battles, but I have lost my sounding board. Things haven't been simple in the last couple of years.

These are the times I miss having a husband. At the end of the day, it would be nice to just hold someone and not have to speak. To have someone who would be protective, and with whom one can occasionally let down one's guard, and not pretend to be strong. Not all married women are blessed with such a man. But I have seen the effect of the right man on a woman. Men and women heal each other in so many ways...it'a pity that sometimes we pretend otherwise. Independence is over-rated.

*-*-*

To my pleasant surprise, I discover that the restaurant hasn't lost its effect on me. With most waiters speaking Tamil, and serving familiar food, the atmosphere relaxes me completely. A benevolence descends over me - not unlike what one gets after having a few drinks. And I haven't even touched a drop.....

The waiters chatter on familiarly, with their friendly smiles. They ask after Kamala, they have known her since she was two years old. They have practically seen her grow up.

R, the owner of the restaurant, is an old friend. We have been part of the same theater group, staging shows once a year for charity. We know each other's families, and wish each other on important days. R is a natural actor, and like most natural actors, is completely at ease with himself. There is a very spontaneous and friendly air about him. He saunters by my table, asks if I have been served, and tells the waiter to ask the chef to take special care in preparing the meal. "And make it fast for our special guest!", he says.

"Thanks, R!"

I smile at him, and he vanishes with a quick wave.

"You eat in peace, I'll be back!"

I see him checking on the other diners, asking a waiter to refill water, making sure everything is going well. I settle down and enjoy my special Masaal Dosai. It is made just the way I like it - with a generous dose of butter. What's life without an occasional indulgence?

Dessert comes. The faluda is refreshing, topped off with rose flavored ice cream. I dip my spoon in it, and savor the layers, mingled differently in each spoonful. The smooth ice-cream feels divine on my tongue, and I close my eyes....this is nirvana in a tall glass. The strands of vermicelli are done perfectly, and the milk is sweet and refreshing. Whoever invented this knows his/her stuff.

"Nice faluda?"

I smile at R. "Absolutely! A wonderful end to a Friday."

R sits down across from me, and asks the waiter to bring him a soup. It is rare for him to do this. Most times, he is on his feet. He says he sleeps for only four hours each day - and yet he is one of the most cheerful people I have met - always a kind word here, a joke there...friendly ribbing, followed by caring words. I don't know how he manages it.

"How's aNNi*?" I ask, enquiring about his wife.

"Ach!" He slaps his forehead in mock anger. "See, this is the problem with you. Why do you have to make me your brother? If pretty women call me brother I feel like running away!"

I laugh. This is a standing joke between us. The mock anger, the fake frustration are all too familiar.

"R, remember my line? All married men are my brothers!"
"There is no need for such lines! Why make us brothers - we have feelings too!"
"I am appealing to your protective side - as my elder bro you are honor bound to protect me, you see."
"Sheesh....Why do women utter such filmi dialogues? Now I have no choice but to be a bro under severe protest."

One thing I like about R is his outrageous statements. A whole day's stress will evaporate in 5 minutes once R starts talking. He might posture and talk big, but at the end of the day he is a devoted husband and father. His wife, after over two decades of marriage, is used to his speech and doesn't bat an eyelid.

"But why make all married men your brothers?", he persists.
"Because that's the way it is. My life is complicated enough without incurring the wrath of other women."
"What wrath?"

I shrug. "Wrath. If I run around with another woman's husband, you think she's going to be happy? She'll curse me and that curse will be upon my family too!"

"Ach! Filmi dialogue again. What's wrong with you women? You take a simple matter and give a big build-up about it"

I can't help laughing. I feel like becoming filmy and dramatic, just to rile R - and see what hilarious comments he comes up with.

"What build up?" I say with mock seriousness. "Its wrong to take another woman's man, period. No discussions!"

R looks bewildered. "Who's talking about taking another woman's man?"
"Huh? You of course!"

R shakes his head. "This is not taking. Its like 'Ma'm, may I please have a taste of your Faluda, please?' That is all. Who's talking about taking an entire glass? Just take some, say thank you and that's it!"

I look at my faluda glass. "I don't share faludas, R!"
"But other women may not mind."
"Ahaan, with other people's faludas come other people's germs, sir! Who wants those?"
"Well - the other option is to go hungry! You are wasting your life."

Sigh. "I'm just waiting for the right man, R!"
"Yeah. The right man, the right time, the right bells and whistles. May never happen..."
"I know"
"And you're okay with this?"

He says this with the same wondering tone as Timon in The Lion King.
Simba, Nala wants to eat Pumba!
Yes.
And Pumba is your friend!
Yes.
And...we're all okay with this?

I burst out laughing.

"You're impossible, R! If I listen to you...."
"If you listen to me..."

I finish the last of my faluda, and fold my hands in a Namaste.

"Mera izzat ka faluda ho jayega**!"
------
*aNNi - brother's wife in Tamil
**Mere izzat ka faluda ho jayega - roughly translated, "people will make a faluda of my reputation!".

Linked to a Tag...

I've been tagged by Scarlett. This is a different tag from the ones I'm used to, and a lot less writing, so to speak.

Without much ado, the rules are as follows: Post 5 links to 5 of your previously written posts. The posts have to relate to the 5 key words given : family, friend, yourself, your love, anything you like. Tag 5 other friends to do this meme. Try to tag at least 2 new acquaintances (if not, your current blog buddies will do) so that you get to know them each a little bit better.

So here I went a-digging up old blogs, and trying to post links that are relevant. When it came to choose, I have favored older links over the newer ones.

Family: A lot of my family writings appear to have revolved around my daughter Kamala. Raising her is fun and a challenge, in equal measure. But one cherishes the innocence and treasures small joys and moments.

Other family writings have been about my beloved father, whose loss has been a tough, tough thing to bear.

Friends: The title of my blogsite should say it all :-). Friends are my favorite topic, and all of my friends - old and new, young and aged - are close to my heart. They have walked with me during difficult times, provided a haven when tired.....In short, to borrow a line from a Tamil film, friendship is the ship that never sinks. I've been far more confident about friendship than its fickle cousin, love.

An update on Jessica, my friend who battled cancer - she has succeeded in the fight. She is now married to her childhood sweetheart, and is leading a normal life. Bless her brave heart.

Love: I have loved and lost, lost and found. Its been exhilarating sometimes, exhausting at others. Despite all the struggles, I have found that true love never dies - it lingers as a form of truth in one's heart, even after the loss of a loved one.

Yourself: A lot of my posts have been about my life, so what more can be about myself? :-)Perhaps a tangential take about Monalisa moments, that can occur at some time or another, in the lives of those who prefer direct speech and are baffled at the world's indirectness.

Anything: Now, this is interesting. I can point to some of the fiction I wrote, or some non-fiction. I would like to post this link that is closest to my heart, and that may prove useful to others.

Didn't mean to end on a melancholy note, so here's a more humorous take on a related theme.

Now I need to tag five others. Would love to hear from some old blogger pals: vi, cheti, dharma, Motorama, and Dooka. Please do write, and let me know.

Handbag tales

I stand in the department store's accessories section, and wonder at the array of handbags up for sale. They are laid out in great variety, ranging from unassuming clutch purses to flashy designer handbags. They are in several shades - made of felt, cloth, leather - and decorated with different embellishments. Yet, most of them don't fit my needs.

I wonder whom the bag makers are targeting - women to whom the style of the exterior matters, while the interior can pretty much be the same? I see that bag after bag has just two compartments, a larger one for make-up, papers and such; and a smaller one for money. A few bags have a third, and smallest compartment - for coins, perhaps. Why should there be only two, or at most three compartments? What is the point of this many bags, if only the exterior looks different?

Perhaps the bags are made for women who would use them merely as an accessory to match their dress? Or, it could be that the handbag designers haven't caught up with the modern day working woman...

A handbag to me is not a style statement. Its a snapshot of my lifestyle, in a sense. I do not have the time - or the patience - to match my handbag with my dress and nailcolor everyday. I wonder how many working mothers would have the patience to get up each morning, and repack their driver's license, credit cards, store cards, library cards, insurance cards, bits-and-pieces, hand sanitizer, child-size band-aids, contact lens liquid, and mints - into a different color-coordinated handbag each day and still manage to not miss anything.

And I wonder how many women will feel that they have to settle for a bag that falls far short of their expectations. Perhaps some women will buy a wallet in addition, and place it inside the bag.

At any rate, handbag shopping leaves me in disbelief at how little thought has gone into the design of most women's handbags. Perhaps the designers are mostly men, with no clue as to what a woman may need, or want? Here's what this particular woman wants, and she suspects many other women may want too:

1. A bag in black, brown, navy, off-white or even a cool metallic shade - basically, one color that matches all clothes.

2. In addition to the standard 2 or 3 compartments, a pouch for a cellphone - in an easy-to-reach place.

3. A pouch for keys, badges and such.

4. A separate area to stack ID cards, drivers license, credit cards, insurance cards - you name it.

5. Another area for coupons, and receipts.

6. A smaller place for an ipod, perhaps.

7. A sturdy strap, to bear all the weight we carry. Working mothers carry an awful lot of things - and we don't want a leather-strap-stitched-to-the-base-by-thread kind of deal. That kind of strap is pretty much useless, as it comes off the base in a few months. For better durability, the strap should be attached to the base with steel rings. The steel bears the weight much better, and transfers it to the base more easily.

Now that is a handbag that I can live with.

After searching in a few stores, finally there is one that fits my needs. But the bag comes in two rather insipid-looking colors: mustard brown, and grey. I settle for one, glad that the search is over, but as I leave the store, I can't help wishing that the handbag were more sexy-looking.

Come on, designers!! Women have evolved over the decades and are balancing multiple roles. Still the humble handbag hasn't evolved at all. The sexy-looking handbag has a dull interior. The dull-looking handbag (found after a LONG search) has all the features I want. Why should handbag selection be almost as difficult as mate selection? :-J Can't I have a handbag with beauty, brains and a generous heart in one place? :-)

------------------------
P.S: Valentine's Day shoppers - if you're going to gift a bag to your lady love, do consider the above points while shopping for one. Your lady will be pleased at your thoughtfulness. You can come back and thank me :-)

Evano Oruvan - a review and some thoughts

R.Madhavan deserves kudos, bouquets, and a great big hug - for making a classy film like Evano Oruvan ('A man in the crowd'). He has written the dialogues, and also produced the film. The film, at a crisp 2 hours, is a remake of the Marathi film Dombivli Fast. It doesn't feel like a remake, though. Within the film, Madhavan has lived the character of Sridhar Vasudevan - and the film rides on his shoulders.

Vasudevan is an ordinary man, who works as an officer in a bank. He boards the train everyday at Nanganallur to work, and lives a routine middle-class life. You can feel his everyday struggles, the way he swallows his frustrations as he goes about raising a family and being a provider, while trying hard to live by his principles. He is a simple, intelligent human being who stifles his creative, poetic side to be a provider; an idealist who is looked upon as a freak for being honest and expecting honest dealings. He eventually pays the price for daring to be honest in an essentially dishonest society.

Madhavan's performance and the the story's realism were absolutely RIVETING. The viewer identifies with him, feels his pain, and, as happened in the theater where I watched the film - is too moved to get up from the seat when the film ends.

Some things in life don't come easily, and resorting to short-cuts, bribing, wanting and more wanting without an end, ends up hurting our children and us as a society. The rot we ignore will soon be upon us.

*-*-*

Read this article about the recent school shooting in Gurgaon:

http://www.sify.com/news/fullstory.php?id=14577059

It talks about greed as a society, and impatience to get what we want now, as some of the factors that push children towards crime. Buying whatever a child wants is easier for two exhausted working parents - rather than saying 'no' to the child and facing the tantrum (and one's own guilt). Considering the fast-paced lifestyle and the dwindling of support systems, giving in is far easier than fighting. So we end up buying peace in the short-term.

*-*-*
Got a ticket from a policeman recently for speeding in school-zone hours. My fellow passenger commented "If this was India, you can bribe the cop and get away". And I'm thinking, that's where the rot begins.

You make a mistake, you face the music - the buck stops there. Otherwise, the buck not only hops around but multiplies like a virus, perpetrating clones. Soon there'll be hordes trying to weasel their way out of consequences, and one day your child will do the same because 'everybody is doing it'. The ones who are honest enough not to join the crowd will be labeled pizhaikka theriyaadhavar (those who don't know how to survive).

This is not to say that one country is more or less corrupt than the other. We all try to get away with what we can - and the temptation is always there. But if enough of us resist, and take responsibility for our own mistakes, there is hope for our children.

Random Thoughts

Asai mugham

I have always felt that if one truly loves a person, the love remains in some form - even when the person is lost. Memories, and the shared past link us to them, and the person is never really lost. They are, and will always be, a form of truth in our hearts, and a presence in our lives. I have held on to this belief in the face of some rare lost friendships - even a lost relationship.

Reconciling to death is another matter, though. So far there has been no reconciliation - I find myself blanking things out, preventing the past from rising to the forefront. I think of my father everyday, a habit that has been with me over the years. But it is abstract. I don't let myself recollect the details - the feel of his hand on my head, the kindness in his eyes, the always-clean scent of him, the faint smell of vibhuti from his prayers..... The sound of his voice, which ever since I can remember, has spelt safety and comfort - always cool, quiet and calming. The feeling of strength.

I blank it all out, to prevent the tightness in the chest that makes it hard to breathe. Later, I tell myself. Think about it after a few years, when the pain has dulled, when the bittersweet joy of shared times is all that remains. But I can't help wondering - will blanking out memories make one lose them all? What if, one day, one forgets the details? What if a person cannot conjure up in their mind, the complete presence of one they lost to death? Like a moth-eaten heirloom silk sari, will the memories be a faint recollection of the past, with none of the old glory?

Asai mugham maRandhu pOchche...

sings Bharati. I have forgotten the beloved face (that I haven't seen for so long). I am convinced that the face can never be forgotten. The questions remain, though.

*-*-*

Chinna chinna Asai

Small desires....As kids, we often thought about what we wanted to do when we "grew up". It was fun imagining, and when looking back, oddly none of what I imagined came true. Never mind that - I know I could have owned an ice cream factory or been a movie star if I had tried ;). I just didn't dare to try.

Anyhow, feel like making a list once again. After all, why restrict this activity to only kids? Maybe this time I will dare to try - and God willing, will be given that chance.

I'd like to:

1. Someday, be rich enough to live on the mountains - perhaps in a fully-equipped log cabin, with a functional kitchen and a pucca bed. Live surrounded by nature, and just write. Not worry about earning enough for sustenance. Perhaps the royalty of one published book will keep me afloat and I can afford the luxury of writing the next book while just listening to bird song, and the sway of trees :). Of course, on the weekends I should be able to visit loved ones. And go back to civilization whenever I want.

2. Learn salsa, swing dancing, and tango again. I love fast dances, and salsa and swing give quite a workout. I love the intensity and deliberate long steps of the tango too. Too bad I haven't done all this in at least 3 years.

3. Cook liesurely, and have friends over for a meal. Try out fun new recipes, and be completely unrushed. No making up to-do lists in the mind, no worrying about undone homework, no Maalox moments like kid letting me know with worried eyes that she has a Big Math test the next day, just before bedtime. Kid is hopefully grown up by this time, in good shape and at the risk of sounding like a copy of my mother, living a decent life with good values - and making a decent living.

4. Live surrounded by family and friends (can't be isolated on a cabin too long, you see).

5. Babysit a few cute kids in the neighborhood, but give them away to parents at the start of a tantrum. Babysit Kamala's kid and give baby away to his/her parent at the start of a tantrum (yippee).

6. Tutor some kids on Math and Science and watch their progress. Plant a vegetable garden with their help, and teach them hands-on about gardening (I have to learn it first!).

7. Stay healthy, and pass away quietly, without much ado.

Ha....small desires. Signing off now, on that note. Its time for dreams - getting close to midnight.

It's that age

Motherhood is something one cannot really prepare for. I have babysat a lot of children, practically raised one of my brothers, taught scores of students - but all of that doesn't matter. The real thing is something else altogether.

"Oh, I grew up with boys", I tell myself. Lots and lots of boys. Little boys are simple beings, really. Tell them a few things in no uncertain terms, have a fist-fight or two if necessary, and all's settled....well, that was how it appeared to me as an older child anyway :). In later years, I managed to retain the respect sans the fisticuffs, and that made things easy. You can teach, play with them, watch a game of cricket or two and its all smooth-sailing.

*-*-*

Raising a girl is a different thing, though. Sassy back-talk, sudden super-sensitivity, endless rounds of arguing, persuading, failed attempts at empathy from my side.....sometimes ending in two little hands crossed across a little chest, and a seething "I don't want to, and you can't MAKE ME!"

Sometimes it ends with me counting loudly to five, the count of five signifying the end of "The Grace Period" and the start of the "Do It Or Else Period". The 'it' can be anything - putting away her dishes after use, studying for a test, looking over the mistakes in a past test in the hope of correction, finishing up a homework, dance practice. Resistance is sure to come. It must be faced, and the job needs to get done, so God help me.

*-*-*

I wonder if at 9, I already have a teenager on my hands. One day I find myself saying aloud:

"I hope one day you will have a daughter just like you! Then and ONLY then will you know how much you've put your mother through...."

And I find myself pausing. This has echoes from the past. Years ago - decades ago, I remember my mother screaming these exact words to me. And looks like her wish came true.....Hmm.

So that is what it is. My daughter is too much like me. We must feel similar levels of stress in the same situation, while laughing ourselves silly in others. The good times are super and the bad times are nothing short of exhausting. I don't have a partner to help me through this, or divert her attention. So its all up to me - getting her to do her work, facing resistance, holding firm....and wearing myself out in the process.

"It's that age", someone tells me. "They are growing, and finding themselves. Rebellion is to be expected!"

But how does a parent survive this? Child wants endless fun, and no homework, tests or anything.

"I'm just a kid, Amma", she says.

On the other hand, all of a sudden she wants to act grown up. One day it is about trying out a new hairstyle:

"Ok", I say. "But no hair over the eyes - it gives one a squint"

The next day it is wanting fake stick-on nails that had a built-in French Manicure.

"Not in this household and not at 9"
"But Fatima is doing it"
"I don't care what Fatima is doing. You're not and that's that!"

The arguments usually go in circles, coming back to the same point and starting over.

"You never let me DO anything!"
"Yes, I do"
"Like what?"
"I got you nail glitter the other day when you wanted it!"
"But you don't let me wear shorts!"
"You wore them yesterday!"
"Not the blue shorts - you said I can't wear them to school!"
"Those were your shorts from 3 years ago!"
"But they still fit me!"
"School rules are that shorts must not be shorter than an inch above the knee!"
"But we have a new principal and she doesn't care!"
"I care."
"You never let me DO anything!"

*-*-*
Sudden increase in school work is the other challenge. Homework is now everday, and tests every other day. The rule is that one comes home, relaxes for half an hour, grabs a snack and a drink. After that the work gets done first, then one can play, watch cartoons, do what they want. This seems reasonable, but apparently Kamala doesn't think so.

It begins with whining.

"But its too difficult!"
"What's too difficult?"
"This - the three pages of Math!"
"What's so hard about it?"
"Ammmaaaa! You're saying that because you've done all this already!"
"And so have you, Missy. There is not a single problem in this that you cannot solve!"
"But its 3 pages!"
"So? The sooner you start, the sooner you get done!"
"But its too haaaaard!"
"What is?"
"This - the three pages of Math!"

And so we go on until I realize...that this is getting to be a broken record. Kamala was upset at missing out on all the fun. There was TV to watch, stories to read, and the study time was ruining all that. So she was rebelling by delaying getting to her work, and arguing in circles.

I tell her that I'll be in the next room, until she finishes. I walk away and close the door. But still there is no peace.....Kamala, when she protests something, makes sure she is heard. Each problem is punctuated by cries of "Its too haaard!". I try to ignore her, but her voice grates on the mind.

Finally, I emerge to find that every problem she has finished, is done right. Only a few remain. But here she is, glaring at me:

"Its too difficult!"
"No its not!"
"Yes it is."
"I'm going for a walk!"
"You're SO mean! I HATE YOU!"

Sigh.
*-*-*

I decide to take her to the park one Sunday. The idea is to get her to prepare for a Math test the next day. I tell her that she can study for her test in the park, and in between she can take breaks to play. I figure that she can't scream "Its too difficult!" in a public park, and I can get some peace that way.

It is a nice cloudy day, with a hint of sunshine. Kamala dresses carefully in her jeans and fancy beaded top. Most of her costume jewelry is on her. She is wearing bracelets on one hand, and rings in the other. She puts on her dangly earrings - and carries a purse someone had gifted her. She looks as if she's getting ready to go to a party. Glances at me as if waiting for an objection. I zip my lips and decide not to say anything. Better save the battles that are sure to come, for the Math test preparation.

The day is beautiful. Chidren are playing on swings, see-saws, and slides. Ducks waddle around near a lake. We find a little gazebo with a picnic table and sit down on the bench.

I let her play for a bit and then we work on the test. We practice some problems together. She watches kids on see-saws, and has to be plodded to work. I give her a list of problems to solve on her own. Half-way through the list, she looks like she wants a break. Looks longingly at the Monkey-bar - but stoically says nothing.

"Ok, kid! Two more problems, and you can go play on the Monkey-bar for 5 minutes! You can come back and finish the rest!"
"Ok!"

She is all enthusiasm now. Races through the problems and is off. I take a break too, get up and stretch myself. Walk around a bit, and come back to sit down. She calls out from the Monkey-bar:

"Is it time already?"

I look at my watch. "Two more minutes!"
"Okay!" she smiles at me.

I watch her navigate the bars expertly, and then come to a low bar. She holds the bar with both hands, and swings her body. Then pulls her legs over the bar, bends her knees over it to make an upside down 'V' with each leg, and lets go of her hands.

I watch her, amused. There she is, bracelets and all, rings on her fingers, fancy beaded top and nailpolish to match.....dressed to kill, but gleefully hanging upside down by her knees on a Monkey-bar. She has a contented smile on her face, and for all my fears of prematurely having a teenager on my hands - seems very much the child. A child who needs my guidance and limit-setting, whether she appears to want them or not. A child who sometimes tries on an adult role, and stumbles around like a toddler wearing her mother's slippers..... No wonder she gets angry and frustrated.

My heart goes out to her, and tries to record this moment in time. Its that age, indeed. I still have no clue how to navigate it, but moments like this will remind me of an easier time, and make it bearable.

Springtime memories

I ran into her the other day, in the cafeteria at work...Paused for a minute. Is it really her? The sari, the hair wavy in a pronounced way, the long single plait, a big red bindi on her forehead, a distinctive Tamil Brahmin face...yes, indeed, it is Malini. Malini and I work for the same company - she in Bangalore and I here. We currently work on the same project, on different teams, at different parts of the world.

Malini looks a little tired since the last time she was here on deputation. That was two years ago. She seems to have aged too, since then. I wave to her, and she comes over to me.

"Priyamvada," she gives me a broad smile. Rows of pearly whites beam at me, well-maintained and still beautiful. I return her smile.

"On deputation again?"
"Yes - I'll be here another week. Hey, congrats on the product release! We got the chip last week."
"Thanks. Post-release support is going on - we are not done yet."
"I'm here trying to test and make sure things work well on the Silicon. What'll you be working on next?"
I shrug, smiling. "I don't know. Still ironing out some issues - whatever it is, I'm ready!"

I hesitate to ask her about anything else. I hoped all is well with her.

*-*-*
Malini and I go back a long way. We were both undergraduates in the same college, many years ago. Malini was a year junior to me. We have known each other as teenagers, stayed in the same hostel, and pursued literary interests as a hobby. We were both serious students, and were both known for our ready smiles. Malini was much quieter, though - shy and a bit reserved.

As editor of our college newsletter, and yearly magazine, I remember chasing Malini and assorted others for articles one Spring. I would knock on their rooms like a creditor, coaxing them, forcing them to write even :-). I once remember Malini parrying me for days, then finally giving me her article. She gave that to me with the same broad smile, rows of pearly whites gleaming at me. Her article was good, and I had it published as the first one in the magazine. She had covered her mouth with her hands in surprise, when I handed an issue to her personally.

"Was it that good?" she had gaped.
"Yes, it is. You should write more often"

She grinned, disbelief in her eyes.

"I mean it, Malini. I will pester you again.."

She laughed, shaking her head. "No need for that"
"Why, will it be of no use?"
"No", she says gently. "The mere threat is enough!"

I laughed, marveling at her quiet assertiveness. Malini may not be the kind that speaks much, but she sure was effective.
*-*-*

I did not see her after the college years. Our paths crossed two years ago, when she was here. I had approached her first, introduced myself, and we had talked for a while. She had talked of her work, years in the company, and mentioned her children. I had referred to Kamala in passing.

"What does your husband do?", she had asked. "Is he in the same field?"

I had smiled, and just nodded. I did not mention the divorce, or anything along those lines. I was glad to see an old acquaintance, someone I had known in my youth. Personal details had no place in that interaction.

*-*-*
Late last year, when I started working on my current project, an email went around to the folks in India, saying I had joined this team. Malini wrote to me immediately, saying she looked forward to us working together. I was glad to see her name on the email, and for a minute I went back to the old days, remembering our youth in that hostel.

*-*-*
I hope all is well with Malini. She has visibly aged since the last time. Maybe it is ill health, tiredness, perhaps caring for a sick relative? I did not want to ask. We both have our challenges, our share of joys and troubles.

I would rather have her remember me as the editor who wasn't afraid or embarrassed about arm-twisting people to write. And I'd like to think of her as the young woman with the beautiful smile. A part of our past is preserved thus - frozen in time.