Anand, who is in love with literature even though he is one of the worse poets ever to scrape nib
across paper, is saying “respect, man” in English; Devan is nodding profoundly; Mrs Devan is muttering “couplet eighty-two”, as though meaning to lodge it in her memory; and
Mrs P looks to be close to tears that someone has said something so beautiful to her family.
Amma wobbles her head, as though to confirm “Yes, this is my husband – pre-eminent scholarly genius in Mullaipuram and all South India”. Even Swami, chronically depressed as he
is, has to work hard not to beam with satisfaction.
“What is the nectar of immortality?” Mohan asks.
“Go!” his father tells him, “get the milk, and then we will find out!” He pushes him out of the room, and Amma trails Jodhi behind him, and away they go together, the two
young people, loping awkwardly down the street.
* * *
It is 9 p.m. on a Friday evening – the family priests had been particular on the timing of this unorthodox second pre-engagement meeting, which has to be so overtly
auspicious as to counter the debacle of the first – and Mullaipuram is throbbing with people who are shopping and promenading in the cool night. The traffic is nose-to-tail on every road, at
every junction, with pedestrians cramming into the space between the cars and the shops: whole families, old friends, husbands and wives, mothers and daughters and sons, girls walking in pairs with
elbows linked, boys walking in threes with their forearms across one another’s shoulders, all of them milling around and weaving in and out of the mass. There are strings of lights over every
stall, music blaring from shops, resting cows, altercations, some drunks, a street drama taken from the
Mahabharata
, large insects butting into lamps, bats tumbling overhead in the night
air. Jodhi, burning with embarrassment, in mortal fear of stumbling into a friend, leads Mohan off the main street and down a side road, where the Tamil Nadu Milk Board has an outlet.
Mohan takes a sly sideways glance at Jodhi’s figure, and gulps involuntarily from an excess of admiration. Jodhi takes a quick peak at Mohan, and has to admit to herself that he is
certainly a handsome boy. She waits for him to speak, but he does not speak. She realizes that she must speak, but speech has deserted her. Walking side by side, both of them building up to saying
something, they pass a tethered goat chewing on a plastic bag, and at last Mohan is inspired to break the silence. It’s true that he is the holder of the
Sri Aandiappan Swamigal Tamil
Nadu Information Superhighway Endowment Scholarship
, and it’s true that he can write computer programs in C++ of dazzling elegance and utility, but…
“Goat,” he says.
Though mining remote nooks and crannies of their brains, they arrive at their destination without excavating any further conversational jewels. In silence Jodhi buys a floppy plastic sachet of
milk from the sullen boy sitting in the open hatch of the Milk Board outlet. As soon as it is in her hands Mohan snatches at it, blurting “Let me carry it!” as though her life will be
at risk if he doesn’t – but his reaction is so abrupt that Jodhi instinctively steps backwards. In the confused tussle, Mohan’s grab at the milk sends the sachet flying down the
street.
“So sorry!” Jodhi cries, mortified.
“It didn’t explode!” he exclaims in relief, and scampers off to recover it; then he takes it back to the boy selling milk, and barks, “Wash this dirty thing!”
Following this little adventure, they set off for home, still incapable of finding anything sensible to say. Just as they get back, he whispers, much too late, “What is your email
address?”
“Ah, here are the young wanderers!” says Mr P, slightly annoyed – he had been on the verge of raising the subject of the dowry – “Here they are, talking talking
talking, talking away!”
Jodhi takes the milk into the kitchen,
across paper, is saying “respect, man” in English; Devan is nodding profoundly; Mrs Devan is muttering “couplet eighty-two”, as though meaning to lodge it in her memory; and
Mrs P looks to be close to tears that someone has said something so beautiful to her family.
Amma wobbles her head, as though to confirm “Yes, this is my husband – pre-eminent scholarly genius in Mullaipuram and all South India”. Even Swami, chronically depressed as he
is, has to work hard not to beam with satisfaction.
“What is the nectar of immortality?” Mohan asks.
“Go!” his father tells him, “get the milk, and then we will find out!” He pushes him out of the room, and Amma trails Jodhi behind him, and away they go together, the two
young people, loping awkwardly down the street.
* * *
It is 9 p.m. on a Friday evening – the family priests had been particular on the timing of this unorthodox second pre-engagement meeting, which has to be so overtly
auspicious as to counter the debacle of the first – and Mullaipuram is throbbing with people who are shopping and promenading in the cool night. The traffic is nose-to-tail on every road, at
every junction, with pedestrians cramming into the space between the cars and the shops: whole families, old friends, husbands and wives, mothers and daughters and sons, girls walking in pairs with
elbows linked, boys walking in threes with their forearms across one another’s shoulders, all of them milling around and weaving in and out of the mass. There are strings of lights over every
stall, music blaring from shops, resting cows, altercations, some drunks, a street drama taken from the
Mahabharata
, large insects butting into lamps, bats tumbling overhead in the night
air. Jodhi, burning with embarrassment, in mortal fear of stumbling into a friend, leads Mohan off the main street and down a side road, where the Tamil Nadu Milk Board has an outlet.
Mohan takes a sly sideways glance at Jodhi’s figure, and gulps involuntarily from an excess of admiration. Jodhi takes a quick peak at Mohan, and has to admit to herself that he is
certainly a handsome boy. She waits for him to speak, but he does not speak. She realizes that she must speak, but speech has deserted her. Walking side by side, both of them building up to saying
something, they pass a tethered goat chewing on a plastic bag, and at last Mohan is inspired to break the silence. It’s true that he is the holder of the
Sri Aandiappan Swamigal Tamil
Nadu Information Superhighway Endowment Scholarship
, and it’s true that he can write computer programs in C++ of dazzling elegance and utility, but…
“Goat,” he says.
Though mining remote nooks and crannies of their brains, they arrive at their destination without excavating any further conversational jewels. In silence Jodhi buys a floppy plastic sachet of
milk from the sullen boy sitting in the open hatch of the Milk Board outlet. As soon as it is in her hands Mohan snatches at it, blurting “Let me carry it!” as though her life will be
at risk if he doesn’t – but his reaction is so abrupt that Jodhi instinctively steps backwards. In the confused tussle, Mohan’s grab at the milk sends the sachet flying down the
street.
“So sorry!” Jodhi cries, mortified.
“It didn’t explode!” he exclaims in relief, and scampers off to recover it; then he takes it back to the boy selling milk, and barks, “Wash this dirty thing!”
Following this little adventure, they set off for home, still incapable of finding anything sensible to say. Just as they get back, he whispers, much too late, “What is your email
address?”
“Ah, here are the young wanderers!” says Mr P, slightly annoyed – he had been on the verge of raising the subject of the dowry – “Here they are, talking talking
talking, talking away!”
Jodhi takes the milk into the kitchen,
Similar Books
