Miththam

There were iron bars across the miththam ,and the rains fell through them onto the floor. At night, when the rest would be watching T.V. after dinner, she would stand in the moonlit miththam, her feet playing with the small puddles of water. Those days the floor was made of stone, and stepping onto it then, onto that miththam-cool and quiet after the evening showers- would make her feel almost pure. She would drape her mother's saree hanging there to dry around herself, burying her face in its folds.
She would be like this, her eyes half-closed, dreaming, when her mother would call out to her to drink her milk. She would run away then, breaking the bond with the thoughtlessness of a child, not hearing the soft sigh of the saree behind her.

High and dry!

We have exhausted our bottle of Bril ink. One of us will eventually step out of the house, walk upto the 'round-tana' and purchase another one.
Until then, we recommend reading 'Chandamama's.
There is a 'potti kadai' on Village road, Madras, opposite Ananda Bread House, that still sells them.

The Kumaran incident

That afternoon at Kumaran, I was trying to select a salwar. Two men beside me were purchasing a saree, apparently for their sister. Since I was of a similar build and colour, they requested that I permit them to 'test it' on me. One man draped the saree across my shoulder, while the other ran around to the other side to adjust it. Then, just like that, their fingers began roaming over my chest. It took a few seconds before I realised what was happening. I wanted to scream, complain to the salesman; but I found I couldn't speak, just like before; and I stood there with tears in my eyes, staring at the floor, willing my body to move.
Probably it was the salesman's voice - mildly concerned, floating towards me - that jerked me out of my helplessness. I broke away from the counter then, running madly for the door, not caring if people saw my tears.

- what she said.

The "doom" light

I used to sit on the front steps in the evening when I was younger. Pati would spread her sari for me, and the two of us would sit there while the light faded from the sky. She would narrate stories of crows and sparrows while the evening wind wandered among the branches of the huge tree. That time, the car had not been bought; and so, from where we sat, we could see the front gate with its S-shaped bars, and the street beyond. Pati would often point out a familiar person on the road, but I would be gazing at the leaves fluttering against the garden fence. When it grew dark, mother would turn on the light in front, bathing us in a yellow glow. The bulb was inside a circular metal frame covered by a metal-glass dome that had four curved protrusions placed symmetrically. The frame was old and rusted, but it fascinated me. I held it in my hands just once, when they took it down and threw it away to a servant.

-excerpt from an unfinished manuscript.

Bangles

She says these bangles are causing rashes on her skin. It happens this way when they are not gold. She had found them thrown away in a corner of the almirah. She does not want to remove them and leave her wrists bare. People would talk. She had worn only one gold pair all these years; the ones that were so tight it hurt her everytime she had to slip them on. It was the only one that had been spared. He had said he would bring them back soon. She laughs, but her voice trembles.

metti oli

Most assuredly, this is not about that obnoxious serial touted as being second only to T.Rajendar's offerings in sentimental value. Anyone who has flung off their blinkers and gone foraging in the wilderness of off-beat movies will definitely know what I am talking about. There are no fierce deities, or barmy elephants, or langourous lions,or wild women, or, hell, drunk Roman soldiers readying for ambush; none of this ludicrous habber-dashery.
The title of the post is a song from one such movie: Metti. Directed by Mahendran -who, incidentally, gave us Mullum Malarum - the movie revolves around a handful of characters, holding hands with Ilayaraja's intoxicating music and Balu Mahendra's soothing camera. The song itself is an asareeri sung by the Maestro himself, suffused with that subtle pathos only he can generate. It begins with Janaki and Ilayaraja humming, overlapping and extrapolating each other,until the flute slides down the pitch scale in short bursts, when Raja resurfaces.
Set in Jog ragam-which is quite uncommon in Thamizh - the song boasts of exquisitely crafted interludes. The violin in the first one is superb as it leaps like a lamp-flame to the roof. Janaki's high-pitched humming in the second interlude is an expression of pure happiness and is, somehow, strangely nostalgic. It is only Raja's genius that allows him to incorporate that heavenly flute-piece -blending hope and melancholy- immediately after this.
The old lady returns with the youthfulness of a 'pen mullai' . After that delicate smile in response to "..en kanmani..", Janaki gasps sensuously at "...paarvai patta kaayam..", leaving you filled with admiration for this versatile, and ageless, singer.
Truly a great song.
The movie was sadly submerged under a wave of change, though.