LITMIR.BIZ

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      She thought to herself that he had a pleasant smile. Not the smile of a boy who would beat her or say cruel things.

      He approached the boundary wall and she had stood, rooted to the spot. If her stepmother had come out and seen her, she would be beaten with a stick. Such behaviour was considered fast, and if people heard she was speaking to boys over the boundary wall, she would never get married.

      ‘Hello,’ he had said.

      ‘He-hello.’

      ‘Did they speak to you, then?’

      She nodded.

      ‘And what do you think?’

      She stared at him. What did she think? Why was he asking her that? Was it a trap?

      He was waiting for an answer.

      ‘Do you wish to be married to me?’ he asked.

      ‘I – I believe our horoscopes are a good match,’ she said. ‘My father said so. Said it was a much better match than–’

      She broke off, blushing.

      His smile broadened.

      ‘I am glad they are a good match. I would be very happy to be married to you. But if you are not–’

      ‘No, there’s nothing like that! Nothing like that at all. I – I, too ...’

      She trailed off, not knowing how to finish the sentence. Then she jumped as she heard her stepmother calling her.

      ‘Kummi! Where is that child? I asked her to wash and sweep the front porch ten minutes ago!’

      Still she stood rooted to the spot, until he spoke again.

      ‘You should go now.’

      She nodded, and had just picked up the broom when her stepmother spotted her. She barely heard the scolding as she silently swept the porch. She was thinking of a pair of kind, smiling, brown eyes.

       * * *

      ‘Coffee smells good,’ her husband said, emerging from the prayer room.

      Kummi Paati turned around and handed him a stainless-steel tumbler full to the brim with hot, frothy filter coffee. She poured the rest of the coffee into two similar tumblers.

      ‘Pooncholai! Come and take your coffee!’ she called out.

      The small maidservant, who arrived between 7.30 and 8 every morning, appeared in an instant. Kummi Paati handed her one of the two remaining tumblers and carried the last one out to where her husband sat on the balcony.

      Their flat was on the first floor of Block A, on one end of the colony, right beside one set of scooter garages. The other scooter garages were on the opposite side, next to Block E. When they had initially looked for a home, she had hoped for a ground-floor flat. These were slightly more expensive but came with a small garden area. But none were available, so they took a first-floor flat. Over the years, she had come to appreciate the vantage point that the balcony offered her, even as she regretted the growing impact of the stairs on her knees.

      On the balcony were two wooden armchairs. Despite the heat, they almost always sat here to drink their coffee. Only when the monsoons were upon them, and the rain was pelting down sideways, did they sit inside. Even then, they would leave the door slightly ajar. Kummi Paati loved the smell of the rain.

      Somu Thatha was already seated in the chair on the right-hand side, gingerly taking small sips of his too-hot coffee, as he did every morning. Kummi Paati usually sat in the other chair. But today, she walked to one end of the balcony and peered down towards the scooter garages. There was a lot of activity going on. All the office workers were leaving for the day, chatting to one another as they sped off. As she watched, she saw Mr Suresh, Ravi’s father, walk towards his garage and unlock the door. He walked in and almost immediately exited backwards, holding his scooter upright. Then he kickstarted it and drove off, leaving the garage door unlocked.

      ‘Coffee is very good today,’ Somu Thatha said.

      Kummi Paati still stood at the edge of the balcony, watching the other people leaving for their work.

      ‘Kummi? What are you thinking?’

      ‘Me? Oh, nothing. Nothing at all.’

      She turned away, sat down in her armchair and gave her husband her full attention.

       * * *

      Just before 4 pm that evening, Kummi Paati made her way to Mythili Mart, the corner store just outside Shanthi Colony. She smiled politely at Dilruba, one of the security guards, on her way out.

      ‘Namaste ji,’ he said. Kummi Paati smiled and returned the greeting.

      Dilruba was not from Chennai; he was from what Kummi Paati called The North. She had never been to The North. She knew they spoke Hindi there, and Punjabi and other languages that were as alien to her as French or German. They had different food too – she had eaten it occasionally, mostly when she visited her best friend, Neela. It was good, but her rice-based diet, as opposed to their wheat-based one, suited her much better. Rice filled you up in a way that roti did not. She had heard that it was supposed to be bad to eat too much rice – but she and Somu Thatha only ate one proper meal per day, and at their age surely it was too late to change their ways. Besides, her people had been eating this way for generations. That being the case, how bad could it be?

      Her grandchildren enjoyed a lot of the food from The North, though, and for their sakes Kummi Paati had asked Neela to teach her some recipes. Channa bhatura was a favourite (chickpea curry with fried wheat pancakes), and so was pav bhaji (mixed vegetable curry eaten with buttered buns). She had to admit these had grown on her as well.

      She was walking as she pondered all this, and soon arrived at Mythili Mart. Somu Thatha usually did most of the shopping. But she still found herself popping over to the Mart on a fairly regular basis, for something or the other. It was not as cheap as the large store where Somu Thatha bought most of their provisions, but it was right there. And today, it was playing exactly the role she had hoped.

      As she walked under the awning, relieved to be out of the still hot sun, she saw Ravi standing in front of a big basket of balls, trying to choose one. He picked one up and then another, throwing each ball into the air and then catching it, as though trying to gauge its weight. Kummi Paati did not draw attention to herself. She didn’t let Senthil, the shopkeeper, see her. He was serving someone else, a younger woman of around forty or forty-five, dressed in a salwar kameez, who was haggling over the price of the rice he stocked.

      Kummi Paati pretended to be looking for a plastic basket. This was as good an excuse as any, as she used the plastic baskets from the Mart to store non-perishables and occasionally had to replace them. For a good ten minutes or so, she watched in silence as customers came and went. Some were from Shanthi Colony and some were from different houses or apartments around the neighbourhood.

      Finally, she saw what she was waiting for. A group of boys from New Look Manere arrived. Kummi Paati had often seen them there in the evening, spending their pocket money on chips or chocolates.

      The boys had seen Ravi, who appeared to have decided on which ball he wanted. As he turned around to wait for the shopkeeper to be available to serve him, he saw the group of boys. His eyes widened slightly and he swallowed. Twice.

      ‘Hey, man,’ said Arun, one of the New Look boys. ‘It’s the vice-captain.’

      ‘Oy, Tendulkar,’ said another, ‘you’re just now buying a ball?’

      They laughed.

      ‘No! I mean, yes! I mean ...’

      ‘What do you mean? Huh? Are you buying a ball or not?’ Arun asked.

      ‘Y – Yes. Yes I am. Why shouldn’t I?’

      ‘No reason! No reason at all! I thought you took the match seriously, but if you don’t even have a ball

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