Reunion

Kalyani Amma put her fingers through her waist-length silvery golden hair. With deft fingers she twisted the tips and rolled her hair up into a bun. She fastened it with the quick movement that she had been doing for years. It stayed at the nape of her neck, taut and full, unaided by any clip or hair accessory of any sort. Proud and independent. Much like 93-year-old Kalyani herself.

She gave a cursory look into her old mirror that was covered with scratches. Were there really that many wrinkles? She leaned forward for a closer look and then decided against it. She turned resolutely away. She was definitely beyond the age to spend hours agonizing over how her face looked. But then again, Raghavettan would have disagreed.

Raghavettan. Not an hour passed without him flitting in and out of her mind. But then there would be unfettered time in the afternoon to devote to the memories of the only man she had ever loved. She straightened up and patted her silvery bun. And then smoothed her Veshti. Her Set Mundu was freshly pressed, just as she liked it. She brushed away an imaginary bug from the Mundu. The ancient wall clock let out a creaky groan. It was 6:00 in the morning. Kalyani walked towards the main door.

She walked on the beaten mud path. The dew from the grass on either side left wet patches on the thin maroon border of her mundu. She saw Vishaalakshi from the Nambiar house near the school, coming her way and slightly lowered her head in acknowledgement. Vishaalakshi nodded and gave a slight smile as well. Neither spoke. The conversations would happen over steel tumblers of piping hot tea around mid-day. Kalyani walked on.

As she approached the stonewall of the temple, she could hear strains of her favourite Siva hymn begin to reverberate from the tape record player, the temple had acquired in the 1980’s. Kalyani Amma slipped her feet out of her well worn, yet well looked after Bata sandals and walked into the temple compound.

The fragrance of incense sticks and sandalwood paste or chandanam as it was called hung heavily in the air. Kalyani took a deep breath. She loved this particular aroma. When she shut her eyes, she could imagine Raghavettan standing next to her in his brand new Mundu, purchased especially for the wedding. His crisp white shirt slung over one shoulder, his black hair slicked back. She remembered sneaking a glance at him from the corner of her eyes. That had to be one of her most favourite memories of the temple.

‘Prasadam’, the Tirumeni said, breaking into her thoughts. She opened her eyes to see the youngish priest standing with flowers, chandanam, a few pieces of banana and some tulsi leaves on a cut banana leaf. He was the son of the older Tirumeni who had been in charge of the temple when she had first stepped foot there as a young bride. She placed both her palms together and stretched out her arms to receive the Prasadam.

Clutching the Prasadam close to her chest, she continued to walk around the temple enclosure thrice, as was the practise. Today somehow, the usual mantras were eluding her. Her mind kept returning to incidents and things from long ago. Yet another memory of walking with Raghavettan around the temple, a three-year-old Ammu holding tightly onto her grandfather’s calloused palm. And then running across to her, her grandmother, each time she needed small change to put in the donation box. Her first and only granddaughter. Yet another memory of sitting in the temple’s cool, black oxide hall, feeding her one-year old grandson his first mouthful of rice. And then many years later, coming back to the temple on her own, without Raghavettan by her side. A whole one-year after his death. He used to slow down so that she could match his long-legged pace. Thirty-two years with him and forty-two without.

Much too long, she thought as she wiped her feet on the coir entrance mat to her home. Lakshmi came running. She did not wear a watch. But having grown up in Kalyani Amma’s kitchen, she knew when Kalyani Amma would get back from the temple. She knew her entire routine in fact.

‘Chaaya, ‘ she said, placing a steel tumbler with tea and the morning newspaper on the cement parapet in the veranda. Kalyani Amma smiled and wordlessly took the tea. She settled herself in a cane chair and propped her legs on the parapet. She browsed through the headlines. All depressing. Swine Flu, boat accidents, natural disasters. She averted her eyes and let out an almost inaudible prayer. She eased herself off the chair and ambled in.

Lakshmi had kept her breakfast aside. Her daughter Radhika was busy packing Satish and Vineeth’s lunch. Both father and son always took the day’s breakfast as lunch. Kalyani Amma smiled at her daughter and gestured to her to take the Prasadam.

Radika distractedly smiled and said, ‘Ok Amma. As soon as I pack these two off, you eat ok?’

It was time for her daily afternoon siesta. Kalyani Amma lay down on her cot, looking up at the wooden ceiling. She idly stretched her feet. Radhika would come home first. The school she taught in tolled its last bell at three-thirty in the afternoon. Two hours to go. Then Vineeth would come, an hour after that. And at around six forty-five to seven in the evening, Satish would come. Raghavettan used to come back at 6 P.M on the dot. He used to leave by seven thirty in the morning, check on the workers in the fields, give them a hand and walk around revelling at the beauty of his rice fields. Next on his routine was a stroll around the banana plantations. Then it was time to unwrap the lunch that she packed in a banana leaf for him. Kalyani knew his routine by heart and why not? She used to wake up early to finish off her household chores to accompany him. She would trail behind him as he made his rounds. He would hold her hand if he was sure that none of the workers were around and then point out the crops to her. No matter, how many ever times she had heard Raghavettan tell her about the crop cycle. She would still feign interest. Anything to be close to Raghavettan, to hear his voice.

Time had stood still after him. He had been too young. Fifty-nine. She had taken over. Walking in the fields, talking to the workers, stopping in the banana plantations for lunch. Sometimes she would lean back and close her eyes and she would feel her nostrils fill with a familiar scent. A hint of tobacco, a whiff of some Old Spice aftershave and some plain old Raghavettan. Her eyelids would flutter open and expect to see him with his lopsided smile and beedi, sprawled in front, looking at her.

She did not know how she had gone on. Her grandchildren and her youngest daughter had been her greatest allies. They were always there. She had fallen into a routine, trying to fill the void. Forty-two years of unsuccessfully trying to gloss over the absence of someone who had been with her for thirty-two years of her life. Why was it that one person became so important that his absence could not be ignored even in the presence of ten other dear ones? In the last few years, as her children and grandchildren increasingly made lives of their own, the memories of Raghavettan had become more and more of her silent companion. Forty-two years was too long to be apart.

She looked at the clock. Two o’ clock. All India Radio would have some discussion or the other at this time. She turned the black knob and adjusted the frequency. Vineeth must have played with it. A slightly nasal, male voice announced that a program discussing the fertilization of rice crops was next. Kalyani Amma smiled. She knew what Raghavettan’s reaction would have been. She sighed deeply. What she wouldn’t give to see his lopsided grin again. She laid still, absentmindedly listening to the show. She felt drowsier than usual. She knew that Lakshmi would wake her up in an hour with her tea and a piece of toasted bread. The bread had been Raghavettan’s favourite, not hers. She had started eating it, only after he had passed away. She smiled at the memory of him reaching over for that third piece of toast on Sundays. She drifted off.

It was when Lakshmi came with the tea, that she found her like that. She panicked and ran to the neighbours, who called Satish up immediately. Radhika returned to a house filled with distraught relatives and a wailing Vineeth. Her sister and brother had arrived. They were waiting for Ammu to fly in from Mumbai.

Kalyani Amma looked down at the scene. Her beloved Ammu was sobbing uncontrollably. Her children were in various states of shock. She wished she could tell them it was all right. She had gotten over great pain and moved on too. It would hurt unbearably for a while, but soon they would purge the pain with memories. And as for her, to make up for their absence, she had her Raghavettan. The forty-two year wait was finally over.

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