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| artist : sachin venkates |
Kalyani’s husband Srikumar stood there as still as a statue, with no expression on his face. The younger son Seenu’s eyes shone with the thin film of tears that he refused to let fall. His hands were clenched into tight fists while his body had the stance of a panther ready to pounce on its prey.
Sridharan looked down at the prone figure of his daughter with something akin to hatred in his eyes. The length of firewood was still in his right hand, the red-hot embers winking in the pre-dawn light that seeped into the back yard of the house in Kumbakonam, a large town in the Thanjavur District of Tamil Nadu.
The matter was simple. Soumya was in love. ‘But how dared she?’ heaved an angry sigh from her father’s chest. They were Iyers and the boy was an Iyengar. Both Brahmins but one prayed to Lord Shiva and the other worshipped Lord Vishnu. How can there be a wedding between the two families? Over and above that, how did the seventeen-year-old think that he or the other members of the family would accept the idea of a love marriage?
Sridharan gave a snort of disgust. A nosy neighbour spied the young lovers talking to one another behind the main shrine of the Uppiliappan Koil and brought the news to Soumya’s father. Sridharan locked his daughter in a small dark room with neither food nor water for 24 hours, confident that she would come to her senses.
But the—grr—bloody girl had too much arrogance it seemed. When she was let out for her morning ablutions, she gave her father a defiant look and gone her own way, every movement of her body suggesting defiance. His own blood! He couldn’t believe it. He turned to glare at his wife, accusing her of being very careless in bringing up their daughter, showering her with too much love and freedom. She was the first female who attended school in his family and look at the result.
His wife’s tears, his daughter’s stubborn attitude and the sarcastic expression on his daughter-in-law’s face drove Sridharan to desperation. He picked up the length of firewood from under the huge copper pot of boiling water and marked his daughter’s left leg with the glowing tip.
He felt no sense of satisfaction as he looked down at Soumya yet again. He turned to Srikumar and said, “Send word to Dr. Murali once the sun’s up. But there’s no need to offer any explanation.” He turned to Kalyani and said, “This matter will not be discussed outside these four walls, is that clear?”
Kalyani nodded her bent head and waited for her father-in-law to cross the threshold back into the house before knocking her chin against her right shoulder in a gesture of contempt. She looked at the rest of the family in utter dislike. “The old man has failed to bring his daughter up properly. But when it comes to me - who is from a well-bred family - he’s very clear about his instructions, hah!” She repeated the gesture before moving towards the kitchen. Her husband followed her without uttering a single word.
Jayalakshmi and Seenu lifted Soumya from the floor and holding her up by her shoulders, took her to her room and gently laid her on the bed. Soumya winced as she woke up, the skin on her left calf burning as her full skirt rubbed against the raw wound. She scrubbed an angry hand against her face to stem the flow of tears. Crying was for cowards. She wasn’t her father’s daughter for nothing.
Her mother looked at her daughter, a hand caressing the thick locks of hair. “Soumya, why don’t you listen to Appa and forget this boy?” she appealed in her soft, gentle voice. “Is he more important to you than us - your family - with whom you’ve been all your life?”
Soumya looked at her mother with her large doe-like eyes and automatically smiled. This kind-hearted woman perfectly balanced the nature of her tempestuous father. She had married Sridharan at the tender age of thirteen. No one could exactly blame her if she didn’t understand the concept of ‘falling in love’.
“Amma!” said Soumya equally softly. “I’m seventeen and I’m sure that you and Appa must be planning to marry me off to someone.” Jayalakshmi nodded her head reluctantly as her daughter waited for her response. “Then why not to someone I love instead of a stranger?”
Jayalakshmi couldn’t deny her daughter’s logic but her husband—she shuddered as she recalled the morning’s incident. She gave her daughter a beseeching look, which just bounced off the lady in love. She left the room to seek refuge in the Puja room.
Seenu took his sister’s hand in his. He was barely nineteen. “You don’t worry, Soumya. I swear that I’ll ensure you and Shekhar get together if it’s the last thing I do,” he promised fervently.
Soumya grinned through her pain and thanked him. Brother and sister set about their plan of action without the knowledge of the others.
SOUMYA STOOD AT THE TOWN BUS STOP shivering in the chill morning air along with Seenu. She pulled the pallu of her half-sari tighter around her body to ward off the cold. She and Shekhar had decided to elope. Both their families refused to allow their marriage. Shekhar was a postgraduate and had landed a wonderful job at Bombay with company quarters to live in. With Seenu’s aid, the young lovers planned their escape to Bombay and intended to get married there.
Shekhar cruised by in a car and she left with him to the railway station bidding good-bye to her dear brother. In the end, it had been quite easy getting away secretly. Shekhar was extremely affluent and had booked a first class coupé for their journey. Once they were settled, he looked at his fiancée, gently enquiring after her health. Much to her astonishment, he lifted her leg on to his lap and checked her wound, which was still not quite healed. Tears sprang into his black eyes at what she had had to undergo. Soumya raised a tender hand to wipe the single tear that rolled down his manly cheek and shook her head at him. This very gentleness of his was what had attracted her to him in the first place. He was like an oasis to the girl who had been brought up by a man who roared away orders to his family and didn’t know the meaning of affection. Shekhar’s soft voice and soothing manner had stolen her arid heart.
SRIDHARAN NEVER MADE AN ATTEMPT to trace his daughter. She was dead as far as he was concerned. Only Seenu was in touch with his sister and brother-in-law. The couple grew gradually in financial status and had one son, Krishnan. While Shekhar’s family forgave the couple after the birth of a grandchild, Sridharan carried his hatred to his deathbed.
Soumya rushed with her husband and son to her father’s bedside on hearing that he had suffered a paralytic stroke. He couldn’t speak. Tears poured down the once proud face as he looked at his grandson who was all of twenty-one years. So much wasted time. The old eyes took in the tableau of the family of three; regret being the only emotion reflected there.
SOUMYA LOOKED AT THE FRAMED PHOTO of her dead husband. She hadn’t mourned his death a couple of years ago. After all, they had celebrated the golden jubilee of their wedding together. Fifty-four years of wedded bliss. What more could a person ask for?
She read her granddaughter’s letter yet again and smiled. Simran taught at the University of Utah and was in love with a colleague, Billie Masey. Billie was thirty-four to Simran’s Twenty-eight, a widower with two small children aged seven and three. More than anything, Billie was Afro-American. Her smile didn’t waver, an expression of wisdom on her weathered features.
Krishnan accepted his daughter’s decision easily. He was educated in the USA and had many Afro-Americans for friends. But his Punjabi wife Komal was extremely upset with their daughter’s choice. This was despite hers and Krishnan’s love match, wholeheartedly approved by both their families.
Soumya grinned widely as she hugged her granddaughter on her arrival. Then she turned towards the black giant who stood in front of her, all of six feet and four inches in his socks. He suddenly bent to touch her feet as Soumya shook her salt and pepper head. “No, no,” she protested, “I prefer a hug, my dear grandson.”
Komal was amazed by her mother-in-law’s reaction. Was she senile, maybe? All said and done, she was a few months over seventy-three. She stared as Soumya enfolded Todd and Terry in a warm hug. Billie’s children snuggled into the arms of their newfound great grandmother like homing pigeons. After all, love didn’t require language or religion.
Komal moved forward from her stiff stance to welcome her daughter and soon-to-be son-in-law. Although she tried her best, her body language showed her reluctance. Simran looked askance at her grandma. The old lady winked and gave her a nod.
Late in the night, after all had settled, Komal walked into her mother-in-law’s room with her nightcap of milk. The younger woman was obviously disturbed.
“How can you be so calm Mama?” She was astounded to see the serene expression on Soumya’s face.
The old lady pulled her daughter-in-law onto the bed beside her and stroked her back calmingly. “We’re going global, aren’t we? You allow Chinese noodles and Italian pizzas into your kitchen. You dress in jeans and skirts while using imported lipsticks and perfumes. You listen to rock music and you dance western style. These are but physical expressions of globalisation. The true spirit of globalisation is Universal love. Love doesn’t recognise religion or the colour of skin. Look for the soul within, my dear child and you’ll identify this for yourself.”
Komal calmed down, lulled by her mother-in-law’s stroking and loving words. While it was still too tough to swallow, she could see a small brightness at the end of the dark tunnel, the light of love. She was sure that the morning would only bring in cheer.
This story is a part of the anthology MATCHES MADE IN HEAVEN Coming Soon on Amazon.
About the Author :
Writing appeared like a ‘bolt from the blue’ for Sundari Venkatraman in 2000. Since then, she’s been writing romance novels, short stories and blogging voraciously. After working as Copy Editor with Mumbai Mirror (Timesgroup) and Web18 (Network18) for many years, Sundari has become a full time author, self-publishing her books on Amazon under her own banner ‘Flaming Sun’. She would love to hear from you at:
Aapke mere khayalaat kitne milte julte hai. This is the Indian family I always dream of - a truly global family. But this one calls for a longer piece of fiction, a bigger canvas.
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