An untitled story

(This story is set in rural towns of southern India)

(I)
"I wouldn’t say she was my world, but undoubtedly it was the other way round….I betrayed her. She will not be able to stand it. Promise me, you will never let my fears realize. Please be there for her. That will be your last most precious gift to me. Promise me…please ..please.."

“I promise.”

Perhaps it was the usual sensation of some knot tightening somewhere in my stomach which shook me out of my reveries. But reality was far more perturbing for it made me realize something which had almost been foreign to me throughout these 28 years.
Responsibility.
A long, complicated word which I had always tried to shun.

(II)

After the not so sad demise of my father, I left my birth place, district Malakangiri, a less known part of North Orissa, in search of something which I could never name, until I reached Periyakulam, another less known district in TamilNadu.
Travelling is a prerequisite for a civil engineer which happened to be my profession. During my stay in that solitary village, I sensed a sort of familiarity in those old fashioned, reclusive streets. They reminded me of my home town, the only difference being the fact that there used to be a butcher-shop after every ten houses which here one can barely think of.
The village had a Brahmin majority; totally committed to their tradition. Despite their immensely strict regime, they took pleasure in following the day to day rituals with devout piousness with no signs of exhaustion. Their day commences without fail with a holy bath which they believe purifies their soul. Once they have had the bath, nobody who is so-called impure is supposed to touch them.
While taking a stroll along the streets, one thing I barely saw was a front yard without a kolam (intricate designs made with red and white powder). Every morning at the crack of the dawn, young girls and married women with long dark hair strewn with fragrant flowers gracefully, or rather skilfully, beautify their doorsteps with kolam. It wasn’t an altogether new phenomenon for me as even in my hometown one can see such embellishments in the courtyards, only they are called alpana there.

(III)



My analysis of a stranger starts with a negative assumption. I generally don’t trust people at a first brush. Only those who manage to change my hostile notions about them, gain my trust. People mistake my reclusion as arrogance. I never blame them, but never tried to clear their ideology about me.
My manager, Mr. Ramamurthy was one of those few who managed to get past the walls of reclusion set by me. He was, infact the only one made me blurt out everything about me and my life. It wasn’t easy for me as there was nothing I could gather about my life to be shared. Perhaps, this was the very cause of my restlessness.
“A soulmate is all you need at this juncture of your life, my boy!” used to be his usual comment after diagnosing that my ailment is nothing but my aimless life.
Somewhere, deep inside I agreed. Undoubtedly, there was a nameless void in my life.
One fine day, Ramamurthy handed over to me card with a broad grin.
“It is my son’s Upnayanam ceremony. And you, my son, are cordially and compulsorily invited.”
He explained that Brahmins wear a white thread called punal in tamil and janeu in hindi, as a mark of their caste. They think very high of their caste and proudly flaunt the punal around their chest. So the day a child wears his first punal, accounts for a celebration. I was cordially invited in the ceremony which was nothing but Rama’s true friendship as being a non-brahmin, I was in no way an anticipated guest. Inspite of my repeated attempts and excuses, Rama was stubborn to take me along.
I was left with no options…

(IV)
(It was the first Tamil ceremony of my life). But there was a striking familiarity in everything. Not that I attended a lot of festivities back in my hometown but simplicity was one factor, I could not help noticing, both the cultures share.
A simple pandal(tent) was erected. The fragrance of sandal and jasmine hung around. Ladies dressed in finest saris, made with gold filigree, draped decently in elegant pleats. The women in south India are more bothered about their saris and jewellery rather than their face and makeup. They wouldn’t care to colour their lips but flaunt their gold earrings with pride.
Rama introduced me to his wife and children. They didn’t seem to figure out my caste from my name, hence greeted me with open arms. It was there I met Kavitha…
We saw each other. At first our eyes lingered for 5 seconds; her pair of hazel with my pair of dark, the second time, it was me who gave my pair the delight of watching her play absent-mindedly with her jasmine strand, third time, she caught me eyeing her and I had to quickly look away.
A dry person like me had dismissed this random gaze-gaming and had contently taken with the normal course of life. But destiny had other plans.
Four months had passed. I had to visit Bangalore to meet one of my clients in a multinational firm.


(I am sorry for interrupting the reading here. But I am helplessly seeking a continuation plot for this story. Can you help?)