Iru kodugal 2 parallel lines principle and yet.......KR On Tue, 17 Sept 2024 at 22:15, Narayanaswamy Sekar <[email protected]> wrote:
> > > ---------- Forwarded message --------- > From: N Sekar <[email protected]> > Date: Tue, Sep 17, 2024, 9:57 PM > Subject: Fwd - Oh, children, Oh, children - poor parents > To: Kerala Iyer <[email protected]>, Chittanandam V. R. < > [email protected]>, Rangarajan T.N.C. <[email protected]>, > Narayanaswamy Sekar <[email protected]>, Mathangi K. Kumar < > [email protected]>, Suryanarayana Ambadipudi < > [email protected]>, Srinivasan Sridharan <[email protected]> > > > > _*Strategy specialist ....*_ > > Grandmother was pretending to be lost in prayer, but her prayer-beads were > spinning at top speed. That meant she was either excited or upset. > Mother had just put the receiver down. "Some American girl in his office, > she's coming to stay with us for a week." She sounded as if she had a deep > foreboding. > Father had no such doubt. He knew the worst was to come. He had been > matching horoscopes for a year, but my brother Vivek had found a million > excuses for not being able to visit India, call any of the chosen Iyer > girls, or in any other way advance father's cause. > > Father always wore four parallel lines of sacred ash on his forehead. > Now there were eight, so deep were the furrows of worry on his > forehead. I sat in a corner, supposedly lost in a book, but furiously > text-messaging my brother with a vivid description of the scene > before me. > > A few days later I stood outside the airport with father. He tried not to > look directly at any American woman going past, and held up the card > reading "Barbara". Finally a large woman stepped out, waved wildly and > shouted "Hiiii! Mr. Aayyyezh, how ARE you?" Everyone > turned and looked at us. Father shrank visibly before my eyes. Barbara > took three long steps and covered father in a tight embrace. Father's > jiggling out of it was too funny to watch. I could hear him whispering > "Shiva shiva!". She shouted "you must be Vijaantee?" "Yes, Vyjayanthi" I > said with a smile. I imagined little half-Indian children calling me > "Vijaantee aunty!". > > Suddenly, my colorless existence in Madurai had perked up. For at least > the next one week, life promised to be quite exciting! Soon we were eating > lunch at home. Barbara had changed into an even shorter skirt. The low > neckline of her blouse was just in line with father's eyes. He was glaring > at mother as if she had conjured up Barbara just to torture him. Barbara > was asking "You only have vegetarian food? Always??" as if the idea was > shocking to her. "You know what really goes well with Indian food, > especially chicken? Indian beer!" she said with a pleasant smile, seemingly > oblivious to the apoplexy of the > gentleman in front of her, or the choking sounds coming from mother. > > I had to quickly duck under the table to hide my giggles. Everyone tried > to get the facts without asking the one question on all our > minds: What was the exact nature of the relationship between Vivek and > Barbara? She brought out a laptop computer. "I have some pictures of Vivek" > she said. All of us crowded around her. The first picture was quite > innocuous. Vivek was wearing shorts, and standing alone on the beach. In > the next photo, he had Barbara draped all over him. She was wearing a > skimpy bikini and leaning across, with her hand lovingly circling his neck. > Father got up, and flicked the towel off his > shoulder. It was a gesture we in the family had learned to fear. He > literally ran to the door and went out. Barbara said "It must be hard for > Mr. Aayyezh. He must be missing his son." We didn't have the heart to tell > her that if said son had been within reach, father would have lovingly > wrung his neck. > > My parents and grandmother apparently had reached an unspoken agreement. > They would deal with Vivek later. Right now Barbara was a foreigner, a lone > woman, and needed to be treated as an honored guest. It must be said that > Barbara didn't make that one bit easy. Soon mother wore a perpetual frown. > Father looked as though he could use some of that famous Indian beer. > > Vivek had said he would be in a conference in Guatemala all week, and > would be off both phone and email. But Barbara had long lovey-dovey > conversations with two other men, one man named Steve and another named > Keith. The rest of us strained to hear every interesting word. > "I miss you!" she said to both. She also kept talking with us about Vivek, > and about the places they'd visited together. She had pictures to prove it, > too. It was all very confusing. > > This was the best play I'd watched in a long time. It was even better than > the day my cousin ran away with a Telugu Christian girl. My aunt had come > howling through the door, though I noticed that she made it to the plushest > sofa before falling in a faint. Father said that if it had been his child, > the door would have been forever shut in his face. > Aunt promptly revived and said "You'll know when it is your child!" > How my aunt would rejoice if she knew of Barbara! > > On day five of her visit, the family awoke to the awful sound of > Barbara's retching. The bathroom door was shut, the water was > running, but far louder was the sound of Barbara crying and throwing up at > the same time. Mother and grandmother exchanged ominous glances. Barbara > came out, and her face was red. "I don't know why", she said, "I feel > queasy in the mornings now." > > If she had seen as many Indian movies as I'd seen, she'd know why. > > Mother was standing as if turned to stone. Was she supposed to react > with the compassion reserved for pregnant women? With the criticism > reserved for pregnant unmarried women? With the fear reserved for pregnant > unmarried foreign women who could embroil one's son in a paternity suit? > Mother, who navigated familiar flows of married life with the skill of a > champion oarsman, now seemed completely taken off her moorings. She seemed > to hope that if she didn't react it might all disappear like a bad dream. > > I made a mental note to not leave home at all for the next week. > Whatever my parents would say to Vivek when they finally got a-hold of him > would be too interesting to miss. But they never got a chance. > The day Barbara was to leave, we got a terse email from Vivek. "Sorry, > still stuck in Guatemala. Just wanted to mention, another friend of mine, > Sameera Sheikh, needs a place to stay. She'll fly in from Hyderabad > tomorrow at 10am. Sorry for the trouble." > > So there we were, father and I, with a board saying "Sameera". At last a > pretty young woman in salwar-khameez saw the board, gave the smallest of > smiles, and walked quietly towards us. When she did 'Namaste' to father, I > thought I saw his eyes mist up. She took my > hand in the friendliest way and said "Hello, Vyjayanthi, I've heard so > much about you." I fell in love with her. > > In the car father was unusually friendly. She and Vivek had been in the > same group of friends in Ohio University. She now worked as a Child > Psychologist. She didn't seem to be too bad at family psychology either. > She took out a shawl for grandmother, a saree for mother and > Hyderabadi bangles for me. "Just some small things. I have to meet a > professor at Madurai university, and it's so nice of you to let me stay" > she said. Everyone cheered up. Even grandmother smiled. > > At lunch she said "This is so nice. When I make sambar, it comes out like > chole, and my chole tastes just like sambar". Mother was smiling. > "Oh just watch for 2 days, you'll pick up." Grandmother had never > allowed a muslim to enter the kitchen. But mother seemed to have > taken charge, and decided she would bring in who ever she felt was worthy. > > Sameera circumspectly stayed out of the puja room, but on the third day, I > was stunned to see father inviting her in and telling her which idols had > come to him from his father. "God is one" he said. Sameera nodded sagely. > By the fifth day, I could see the thought forming in > the family's collective brains. If this fellow had to choose his own > bride, why couldn't it be someone like Sameera? > > On the sixth day, when Vivek called from the airport saying he had cut > short his Gautemala trip and was on his way home, all had a million things > to discuss with him. He arrived by taxi at a time when Sameera had gone to > the University. "So, how was Barbara's visit?" he asked blithely. "How do > you know her?" mother asked sternly. "She's my > secretary" he said. "She works very hard, and she'll do anything to > help." He turned and winked at me. > > Oh, I got the plot now! By the time Sameera returned home that evening, it > was almost as if her joining the family was the elders' idea. "Don't worry > about anything", they said, "we'll talk with your > parents." > > On the wedding day a huge bouquet arrived from Barbara. "Flight to > India - $1500. Indian kurta - $5. Emetic to throw up - $1. The look on > your parents' faces - priceless" it said. > **** > Yahoo Mail: Search, Organize, Conquer > <https://mail.onelink.me/107872968?pid=NativePlacement&c=Global_Acquisition_YMktg_315_EmailSignatureGrowth_YahooMail:Search,Organize,Conquer&af_sub1=Acquisition&af_sub2=Global_YMktg&af_sub3=&af_sub4=100000945&af_sub5=OrganizeConquer__Static_> > > -- > You received this message because you are subscribed to the Google Groups > "Thatha_Patty" group. > To unsubscribe from this group and stop receiving emails from it, send an > email to [email protected]. > To view this discussion on the web visit > https://groups.google.com/d/msgid/thatha_patty/CABC81Zffvy0neACVbwFGAtEMefYBRhF-kFS7eFO97%3DTH3wDLOw%40mail.gmail.com > <https://groups.google.com/d/msgid/thatha_patty/CABC81Zffvy0neACVbwFGAtEMefYBRhF-kFS7eFO97%3DTH3wDLOw%40mail.gmail.com?utm_medium=email&utm_source=footer> > . > -- You received this message because you are subscribed to the Google Groups "Thatha_Patty" group. 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