A Terrace Symphony

By Praveena Shivram

You know, 30 years ago, I was made iconic by Illayaraja and Mani Ratnam with this song. You have heard it, right? Please don’t tell me you are a millennial. It’s this one.

Suddenly, the motte maadi, the terrace, as in, me, became ‘the’ thing for romance, and you, the voyeur (every act of watching or listening is voyeuristic, you have to agree), could watch a ‘show’ for free. And obviously, I mean the motte maadi of the night, because that’s when I transform from a Karan Johar film heroine with saris and bedsheets and undies flapping in the wind to a room devoid of walls, because who needs walls when the dark night herself ensconces you in her darkness?

Ah, I got a bit poetic there. But who wouldn’t, when here I am, back in the limelight, so to speak, after 30 long years? You want to listen to this motte maadi story? Not as catchy as Illayaraja’s song or as aesthetic as a Mani Ratnam film, but when was a true story ever beautiful except in the eyes of the beholder?

This was during the time of lockdown… eh, what’s that? Oh, okay. Sorry, that was my scriptwriter informing me that the lockdown is still very much under effect.

This is during the time of lockdown, the story of Dorai and Neelaveni, motta-maadi-crossed lovers. Ending in tragedy? Ayo, no, that is balcony, not terrace, and before you ask, this story doesn’t end in marriage either. Why does everything have to end in marriage? What happened to the essence of moments, fleeting like early morning thoughts, yet visceral in their sleep-addled heaviness?

So, close your eyes (metaphorically, of course) and picture this. Dorai, a 40-something guy (you guessed right, this is not a millennial story, ha!), in advertising, a copywriter, with work that has become sporadic like rain in Madras, with no access to his three-year-old daughter in his ex-wife’s house or Tinder dates, thankfully not in his ex-wife’s house, his eyes tired of binge-watching on Netflix and Prime, and his nose tired of the insufferable smells of garlic and dejection of his two, also out-of-work theatre actor roommates, decides to go for a night walk on his terrace.

And he sees her. (For him literal, for us, still a metaphorical seeing.)

There she is, Neelaveni, true to her name, the long-haired one, the blue glow from her phone screen framing her face, not revealing too many details but catching the glint of a nosepin, the outline of the earphones plugged to her ears, the open-necked kurta she was wearing, and the way her laughter suddenly scattered into the wind in soundless wonder. She was sitting on what looked like a white cemented bench, her terrace an entire floor higher than his building, separated by the ribbon of street running between them, and Dorai wished it was one of those full-moon nights so he could see her better, and he looked around in frustration, and felt like Madhavan at the train station in Alaipayuthe, like someone is filming this moment and has cranked the shutter speed up so it comes out in slow motion later, when he noticed the others — the terrace on his left, the one diagonally opposite on his right and the one terrace behind Neelaveni’s house — all of them, watching the same girl. At any other moment, he would have laughed at the absurdity of it all, but this wasn’t any other moment. This was a moment that had come after two weeks of lockdown. This was one of those Jack-in-a-box moments, him being the Jack and me being the one opening the box so the moment can pop out like the overenthusiastic clown. Of course I am taking credit for this, don’t roll your eyes. It is full mottai maadi action only.

His phone rang. It was Madan, his roommate. From downstairs.

“Machan, saw the news?”

“Ille da, what is it?”

“Two more weeks, extended da.”

“Sutham.”

Secretly, Dorai felt a rush of something warm bloom inside him, like a bud with the promise of a flower pushing its way out into the world. Two more weeks of mottai maadi visits, two more weeks of glowing anticipation running its course without the temptation of Instagram stalking or instant messaging, two more weeks of silent conversation, and two more weeks of finding ways to dodge the other guys and grab attention — yes, sir, he was going to hold his breath, get into the circle and say kabbadi.

As for me, it will be two more weeks of newfound romance. Shall we put another song here? Okay, not yet. Let’s wait.

Mottai maadi mottai maadi

Oh so tall

Who is the smartest

Of them all?

I have to say my Dorai. Oh wait, let me remove the evil eye with one Captain song, please. You have to imagine massive pumpkins in the hands of these women, with a tiny flame precariously perched on top that manages to stay put despite the wide circles, and an impossibly chubby Vijaykanth smiling into the camera.

(Play it. What’s going on? What? Copyright-a? Ot%$, appidina?)

My friends, I apologise for this minor technical inconvenience. Please, allow me to continue.

With Purpose with a capital P as blinkers (along with masks and gloves, we are aware, thankyouverymuch), Dorai started to visit the mottai maadi every hour or so to see if Neelaveni graces her terrace at any other time. He knew 8p.m. to 9 p.m. she sat there and watched her shows — and he wished so much he knew which ones! (and also a little anxious, just a little bit, that maybe she was watching porn and then where does that leave him and all that?) — but he also discovered, after two days of careful research and maintaining a logbook that finally put to use all the useless stationery collected over the years, because #writerDorai, that Neelaveni came to the terrace at 6 a.m. for yoga every alternate day. He also discovered that Malini Aunty from the ground floor came for her morning walk at 7a.m., the indisputable aunty of the building in her nylon sarees always with large flamboyant flowers, who knew everything there was to know about everything about the six families living in that building. So he had to time this perfectly.

He waited for the next Yoga day, rolled out his dusty, largely unused mat on his terrace, i.e. me, noted with glee as he did his warm up stretches that none of the other terrace competition folks were there, and tried to wing it with the little yoga that he remembered, trying not to look like Rajnikanth doing the thilana, remembering to breathe through the muscle cramps and general exhaustion of limbs doing too much work after hours and hours of Netflix and chilling (the younger folks tell me this has another meaning, but I am thinking it is same as a mottai maadi free show), and trying not to look too creepy while stealing glances at Neelaveni’s perfect asanas in those tight purple tights and loose black t-shirt and feeling a cheap thrill at the fact that her yoga mat was also blue. By the time Neelaveni finished 45 minutes later with an impeccable suryanamaskar, Dorai was drenched in a pool of sweat, collapsing into an equally impeccable shavasana.

Love is hard work, kids.

After two yoga days of this awkward dance, just when our Dorai was about to give up, because that’s all only stamina these days no, when everything can be had at a click of a button, just when our Dorai was about to give up, and because this is a story that we are imagining as a film, so please indulge me, she looked up and noticed him.

His heart fluttered up to his throat. And he quickly sucked in his stomach, in case she could see the beginnings of his beer belly through his sweat soaked t-shirt.

She did a frown and her hands floated up in front of her face and she moved them both to her left, like she was trying to adjust something, till Dorai realised it was him, and his knees almost buckled along with heart in throat, as he was stuck in a painful trikonasana, hands touching the floor, legs splayed, bending at the hips to one side — and he tried a half smile half wave, lost his balance completely and fell to the ground in an ungraceful heap. She covered her mouth and laughed, that same soundless wonder, and Dorai, still on the floor, somehow heard it, closed his eyes and grinned into the unforgiving Madras summer sun.

“Yennepa, Dorai? What is it? Did you faint?”

It was Malini Aunty from the ground floor.

“No, no, aunty, just, just doing yoga.” Dorai scrambled up and rolled up his mat.

Malini Aunty looked beyond him at the building opposite their house, and dropped her voice. “Yenne pa, love-a, in the time of corona-a? Naughty, naughty boy.” She laughed at her own brazenness, completely oblivious to Dorai’s mortification, like all good aunties are. And then she began her walk around their small terrace, going around in circles, talking incessantly, with an immobile Dorai at the centre, like a camera doing a circular pan around Nagarjuna and the heroine whose name no one knows from the film Geethanjali.

“Neelaveni she is, past her 30s, father retired banker, mother housewife, no siblings, only daughter, they haven’t been able to get her married because of her horoscope, the same thing Aishwarya Rai has pa. Some career type artist she is. She is on that Instagram pa, Nila25, that is yen eye el yay, got it, no? Good good, I will keep this completely under wraps,” and she cackled some more.

What do you think will now happen to this old-world new-age romance? Do you think Dorai will resist the charm of easy online stalking after one week of playing dumb charades with yoga? He already knew the colour of her skin, brown like beach sand, the length of her hair, till the small of her back but always tied up in a tight bun for yoga, how tall she was, maybe till his shoulders, her face perfectly sinking into his slightly flabby chest like the gentle thumbprint on methu vadais his grandmother made, and how her smile seemed to take over the entire expanse of her face.

Now he knew her name. Oh the dilemma. To stalk or not to stalk?

No, he would be like his favourite hero, Ultimate Star Ajith Kumar in the movie Kadhal Kottai where he falls in love with the heroine only through letters, they don’t even see each other till the end. Here, it will be the other way round. Aankh has become the chaar, the raat kali has become a yogini, and words have drowned in the silence of lockdown.

So he was surprised when halfway through yoga one day, she put the mask on her face, pointed to an imaginary watch on her wrist and gestured ‘one’ to him and then did a thumbs up to make sure he understood. He nodded vigorously, rolled up his yoga mat and sprinted down the two floors to his apartment, narrowly missing Malini Aunty who tried to come in earlier and earlier these days, but no luck yet, much to her consternation, at catching them.

In an ideal story, this is where my knowledge would stop, but this isn’t obviously that kind of story, no?

Okay, fine, some logic we will work with. Within apartment complex is not off limits, okay?

So Dorai barges into the house, almost tripping over his own feet, and goes straight to the bathroom. By the time he has finished his shower and generously doused himself with deodorant, Madan is up and making tea in the kitchen, and Sunil is watering the two potted plants they have in their balcony — one a jasmine plant that never flowers, no matter how much time Sunil spent talking to it, and the other an Indian Borage or the karpooravalli as we call it, the leaves often used to treat coughs and colds, #leavesforourtimes.

“Yenne da, where are you off to so early?”

“Grocery shopping.”

“Oh, how come? Your salary came through?” Madan stopped straining the tea into cups and Sunil came back into the living room.

“That’s great, da, get some maggi, rice, paruppu and salt, we are out of salt,” said Sunil, picking up his cup of tea and raising it up like a toast to Madan. He took a sip and winced. “And out of sugar too.”

“Salary hasn’t come through, da. I am just going, and will see what I can get.”

“Wait a minute, why have you showered and shaved and all for this? Social distancing ji, no one can smell you,” Madan said, and turned to high-five Sunil, who rolled his eyes and ignored Madan. “Oh wait, that yoga girl-a machi?”

“Ignore him, Dorai. It’s bad enough we are decomposing slowly in our lungis. Oh, and get some eggs also, and bread.”

Dorai nodded, grabbed his mask and grocery bag, instinctively ran his fingers through his hair by the mirror next to the door, and sent a quick message to his sister in Bangalore, who still had her IT job and was working an early shift.

“1000 you can send for groceries, pls?” and he added a monkey face with eyes closed for effect. At least for effect he must seem sheepish.

In two minutes the transfer came through, with no other message from the other end. This wasn’t the day (or the story) for family drama. This was the day for love and its undying light in his heart. He left with a spring in his step. This time he was Rajnikanth walking through the woods of love. Cheesy, I know.

Can love exist without physical intimacy? Or rather, how long does it take for love to perish without physical intimacy? Obviously I don’t have answers for everything, I am a mottai maadi for godsake, made of brick and cement. And red tiles in my case. But Malini Aunty has the answers to life, the universe, and everything else in it and the answer is not 42. Though she has to have the last word, so let’s bring the other secondary characters in first. Let’s ask Madan.

“Ji, what are you even saying. No touch, nothing much, bro.” He makes a lewd gesture and then turns to high-five Sunil, who rolls his eyes. “Ignore him. I think it’s possible if the two people consent to such a relationship and if they can look beyond the layers of patriarchy that continue to smother all of us.”

We are yet to receive a message from the sister, sorry for the inconvenience.

But enter Malini Aunty. “Of course it can. In our time, we would wait weeks for just a look, you know? Padmini can dance on stage and Sivaji Ganesan can play the nadaswaram six feet away from her — see, see, what I did there? — and she can ask him if he was well just through song and rhythm and music, you see? Music truly is the great leveller, isn’t it? It crosses all distance. Oh shhhh, here they are!”

This is what I see, me, the humble mottai maadi, because I couldn’t see what happened in the grocery store, whether they reached for the same packet of raagi powder but were careful for their hands not to touch, whether they stood at the billing counter six feet apart, acutely aware of the other in ways that you cannot be when you are holding hands, whether they wondered if anyone noticed that the items they were billing were similar — a packet of penne pasta, Brittania cube cheese packet, pasta sauce, chilli flakes, oregano — and if they walked home together, him on one side of the street, her on the other, stealing glances despite the mask, a slight nod of acknowledgment as they reached their gates, before disappearing into a routine of another, more dreary kind? Or if they simply exchanged numbers and none of what I say or imagine matters?

What I see is this. Dorai sitting on one of those Neelkamal plastic chairs, a cardboard box made into a make-shift table with a lungi as table cloth, a lone white candle braving the slight evening summer breeze placed inside a steel tumbler, and a plate of hot pasta with a glass of lime juice next to it. On the terrace on the other side, Neelaveni sits with a similar set-up, and under the moonlit sky, with the others watching — our secondary characters and nameless guys on other terraces, and you and me — they share a meal, they share some music, and they share a silence that allows a moment without the tassels of the past or the future attached to drift into the wind, carrying with it nothing but the promise of the present, wrapped with the flimsy strings of love.

The End.

I am the mottai maadi, and I always deliver a free show.

Praveena Shivram is a writer and editor based in Chennai. Read her work at praveenashivram.com