Preethiya Nalku Abhirupagalu: Part Two

Shaheen

This morning, she smelt Uppuppa in the mid-morning light. Fresh like a steel knife glinting in the sun. He passed away a month ago. He smelt of Rexona soap and Surf Excel. In his starched striped kuppayam and mundu. Reading his six newspapers. Five in Malayalam, one in English. Three of them were communist, two socialist, and The Hindu. Did he visit today? Again?

He loved floral bedsheets. He would contemplate their freshness, a bedside study. Should it be washed? The last time he had asked her for help, she yelled at him and ran away. So stupid, she muttered. He looked hurt. She was only here for a week, in the home of her father’s childhood. But the days slip into months as the pandemic rages. Every night she waits for grief to pass into slumber.

She wakes from the dream, fingers brushing against the sheet as if they were swatting a fly away. The bottle with the pink rose, dried to a crisp dull yellow, crashes. She needs to return to the darkness of sleep’s shadows to find herself.

The cat’s paw taps, two little moons of lamplight. A call, a cry, a call for resurrection. Place one foot after another, leave quiet trails of trespassing.

Uppumma calls him the Visiting Professor. She follows him to the kitchen. He stands on the countertop, forelegs poised to nudge the moodi away. Uppumma’s red fish curry nestles in the mann-chatti. The other cats would come by when she would peel the skin off the fish in the outer courtyard. Flinging their heads and cleaning up after raw guts. Feasts on a Tuesday morning. Visiting Professor prefers cooked fish.

The Visiting Professor must have seen Uppuppa around. He was privy to their final fights. When he had demanded the water of five coconuts even though they were scarce that season. When Uppumma had threatened to leave for her son’s house if Uppuppa didn’t control his cleaning urges. Privy to their mismatched struggles in loving. Him, struggling to kiss her, despite the voices in his head warning of germs and the diseases they coddle. Her, pursing her lips and holding back tears as their grandchildren left.

Time slips with the slowness of still life. Light seeps in and out of the windows each day after Uppuppa’s leaving. The baby coconuts he asked them to plant are forgotten by the moss wall. She misses his stubble on her cheek. One kiss, before he goes to bathe. His five white towels hung for drying. The Dettol smell of freshly wiped luggage (so the germs are denied entrance). I am sorry. So sorry.

She wonders how her grandmother drains her grief. In the urgency of cooking, in quiet mornings, with chaya and the one paper. In the dismissal of sanitisers, she perhaps seeks a return.

For Shaheen, there is only one return—to the sunlight in the window and the floral bedsheets by the moon. She will try this again tomorrow. 

Deepa

The onion peels slip from my fingers. Sleeping whorls unfurl as the curry bubbles in the corner. These days I cook for myself. Shaheen is returning from dance class. She likes dal. An extra fistful of lentils tinkle against the pressure cooker. I am no longer held captive by my need to disperse. Shaheen does her own thing. I do mine. On some days, we cook for each other. I am learning to be a friend again.

On some days, we walk to campus. It is different now. The wilderness of the past is replaced by doctored trees. The air here is dry and cracked like it is in our oor. Every time I am here, I think of our godhi fields, brimming with seeds, heavy from the unshed waters of the air. In the mud huts of my childhood, there were sweat-ridden torsos. And the smell of brinjal disintegrating against crushed groundnut. Wilting with ginger, garlic, and onions. Badhnekayi yenngai. I haven’t shopped for grated coconut or dried red chillies here. Delia loved the burnt taste of groundnut curry. Where she was from, they didn’t cook with groundnuts.

I like that I am able to afford a place away from campus. Need tires me. People consume my self-driven need to please. To look up and smile. Rude interruptions from solo reveries. Delia’s taunts are a distant past. The way she said, You know the HoD doesn’t trust your teaching, right? We were sitting with plates of Manglur buns from our college canteen. The way she said I don’t like this question paper. We’d just shared coffee. I loved her anyway. The way her saree hugged her hips. The way her hair fell on a rushed morning. And slowly, my self-worth swept along the slush of the city after rains.

It took me a while to pull back. From all the conversations we shared over French fries and oily momos. The ones with Yenngai filled my heart quietly, fully. Harder to pull back, like the unforgiving taste of misplaced love. She took a picture of me by the window, once. My face framed by the imprint of coconut palms. Land of her roots, of Shaheen’s. How different they are. Her problem was that she couldn’t be alone. Mine was that I needed too much solitude.

By freshly soiled plates and hand-me-down curtains, we have small conversations, Shaheen and I. Light from our four-square windows slips into the gadigi full of her guppies. I tuck my worn love and read and write for myself. Shaheen’s flowers keep me company.