Evening Musings!

I sat there for a very long time, not realizing the sun has finally gone down the horizon, to bloom and shine in another land far away, where my sister has now found herself a new home. The veranda of my grandparents’ house was built in a quite old fashion, with black cement floor and a half raised wall on one side that was shaped like a bench to accommodate our immediate guests. The house itself dates back to the early 1970s when my mother was still a little girl in her petticoat. Today, after forty something years later, it looks like a tired old grand-master whose wisdom rests solely on the moments it had lived; the laughter it had gleefully listened to, the arguments that torn its heart, the happiness of togetherness that was warmly embraced.

My grandmother lightened the lamp and began her monotonous recitation of holy verses from various books. I looked at her. Behind the layers of weak and lined skin, there is a soul that was tortured and tormented before it was ripened, a heart that was mercilessly broken by words and deeds. But never once have I seen a trace of those afflictions passing her face, the mirror of her mind. I wondered what she would be thinking in her free times, but shall never have the courage to ask her about that.

Dinner followed prayer, an unconsciously initiated routine. My grandpa would only have porridge at night and my grandma only knows how much of salt and spice he would take. Theirs is a different love story; a story started probably after my own birth, and continues to be unacknowledged. My mother and her sister have unfailingly told me countless times how my grandfather used to prefer his mother and sisters to his wife and children; my great-grandmother and a great aunt were the villains and their death did bring some good fortune to the family, they said. Their accounts of their nightmarish childhood had made me weep to sleep many times. I was a very sensitive kid.

After dinner the three of us sat to watch some television shows. The T.V. was kept in a room that we called padinjaran muri, the western room. The room had a mosaic floor and a wooden roof painted white. It had a ceiling fan that often frightened me with its quaking sound and also had a wooden ladder that would take us up to the paththayam above. It was a comparatively bigger room of the house and on either side of it were two regular sized beds where my grandparents slept, respectively. When I was a small girl, I took turns to sleep with them. I remember sleeping with my grandfather more because only he did tell me stories. He told me the stories of Rama and Ravana and Ramayana. I don’t remember him telling me any stories from Mahabharata though I grew up to love the savvy Krishna more than the gentleman that was Rama. I don’t remember when and how did that habit of sleeping with them fade away, but today I was certainly not sleeping with either of them.

While on bed, I thought about the couple again. I have rarely seen them sleeping together. Even more rarely have I seen them touching each other or exchanging any gestures of affections. But somewhere between the chores of daily life, they found a definition for their being together, for their love story. And even though never once in their lives have they confessed this feelings for each other, their unsaid words would assume the shape of an unsung divine hymn, pure and powerful, for it has been so rooted in the place where it was born and would remain there, forever.

I don’t really know when these thoughts melted into the blankness of obscurity, but the next morning when I woke up to my mother’s call, in a room situated some 50 miles away from my grandparents’ home, all that was left of the previous night’s quick visit was a sweet reminiscence of two serene smiles.