Chapter One

Changi Airport, Sept 11 2001 8:00 am

Ranjini Rangarajan crouched on the cashier's high chair, her legs pulled upwards and folded neatly into a crisp folded dosa like pattern, her tender torso bent towards the ground (succumbing to the gravitational forces) as her breasts slowly leaped outwards from her v-necked t-shirt, hesitantly taking a whiff of the sambar flavored air and the tinted glass light. At that moment, as she crouched, her breasts positioned themselves towards the old black and white monitor which currently was displaying the "Break fast Menu" at the Iyer Cafe. The counter on which the old computer wearily stood for years, was black in color, cleverly ensconcing the maavadu stains that over the years, seeped through the once impeccable and stain-free surface (the first few days). Juxtaposing the black and white monitor, was a hot-pink glass vase that contained bright red plastic roses with transparent dew drops-also in plastic(These roses were procured from Pondy Bazaar, Chennai where Mr.Iyer spent all of his afternoon under the hot sun, haggling and sweating, until the street vendor brought down the price to 5 rupees). In another corner of the counter, silently espacing the glare of the pink light reflected from the pink vase, few old and tattered copies of Kumudam magazine rested in solace. Until the unrested Terminal 2 peregrinator inspected each one of them, hesitantly lifted a few, quickly examined their contents, occasionally sliced through a film star's or a politician's picture (leaving behind a square shaped hole that now rendered incomplete, a previously completed, edited and published article on the other side) and then threw them back on the counter, in a care-free, non jolly attitude. Next to the Kumudam magazines, a brown tray (with a deep ash colored gash on the left side) held neatly stacked white plastic forks, spoons and knives. Paper napkins made themselves conspicuous in their absence- like a missing microphone from a politician's hand.Often, pages from the Kumudam magazine filled in for their non-attendance, thus shrinking the magazine's size in an atmosphere that usually broadened dimensions.

Behind this side of the counter, also behind the kumudam magazines and palpating the white wall dotted with grey soots, stood tall the bright red Coca-cola soda machine that spit frothy liquid into finger print stained green glasses. A light door (silver colored, like the wrap wrapping the silver colored utensils on the silver colored counters inside the kitchen) with no handles or bolts, that swung left-right, left-right when knocked-like a pendulum, separated the kitchen from this facade. The positioning of this door was supreme, for the customer standing in front of the black and white monitor, (browsing through the very few choices available on the menu and still remaining undecided-neutral, until the frustration showed not in their face but ironically in Ranjini's) couldnot play peek-a-boo with the kitchen, which was cleverly shunned away, from the customer's vision. Back to the four lines in the full paged Menu.By the sharp-witted door.

Inside the Kitchen, behind the silver colored door and among other silver colored things, Murugan was busy chopping the vegetables.With a silver knife that slivered mightly vegetables.His long delicate fingers, were covered in white, anesthetic gloves- that prepped the vegatables before they were chopped. So that the pain could be removed from a painful job. The sharp edges of the knife smiled under the incandescent light (like a blonde under a camera flash), eager to bite into the juicy tomatoes and the tender onions. And the white cutting board was splashed with juices oozing out of the tomatoes, carrots and cilantro leaves-reminding Murugan often, of the white shirt he usually wore on the day of Holi -the festival of colors. And at this peculiarity, he smiled. Silenty. Simply.His lips barely parted as he tenderly smiled. And thought of actions and their associations. He wondered why certain routine tasks always evoked certain distant memories? And why those memories faded away as soon as the tasks inviting them, were fulfilled. Outside the kitchen and away from the white cutting board, Muragan rarely thought of Holi -he occasionally indulged in the colors, while growing up. There were grander festivals for which he waited in frenzied anticipation. Like the 3 day festival Pongal, where on tiled roof tops, he ran bare foot, screaming in joy or shouting in disbelief as his kite either preyed on his neighbor's or became a prey. Alone in the tiny kitchen of his shared apartment in Singapore, he rarely thought about Holi, while again cutting the same blend of tomatoes,carrots and cilantro leaves- on a red cutting board. It was only in the kitchen of Iyer Cafe, that he fondly remembered the festival of colors and ocassionally smiled.....

Each day as he checked in, at 7:00 am, Murugan deligently washed his hands with a bar of Hamam soap, in the sink, adjacent to the boltless door. Green dabs of the green soap often slid under his brown finger nails.Like a mouse sliding through a hole. And left darker dents on a planar bar.Then, he dried his hand against the hot air blowing out of the hand dryer. He still remembered the first time he had to use one such dryer. It was at the Meenambakkam airport in Madras, on the night he journeyed out of his country, for the first time. In twenty-five years. Twenty five minutes before boarding his Air-India flight (where the blue chiffon Sari clad air-hostess selectively greeted "Namasthe" only to the non-Indian passengers) from Madras, to Singapore, he made a quick visit to the toilet. He was not sure if the flight in which he was about to board, had a toilet built in. And if there were one-he wondered, if it would also have a hole through which brown excreta would drop down onto the brown soil (eventually- after travelling through the stratosphere, ozone layer, traposphere and polluting the cotton-white clouds) like it did from the toilets in the second class train compartments in India. He had never heard of anyone complaining about a thud of human excreta dropping from the sky. So he concluded that there were no toilets aboard, on the Air India flight. And hence forth, he squatted and pushed his bowels hard, like a woman going through labor- trying to get the last ounce of food from the insides of his intestines. For 10 complete minutes. The point at which his legs began to go numb, he gave in. Disheartened and worried, he wiped his hole with his left hand and emerged out to wash his hands under the tap. And it was after washing his hands in the Gentlemen's toilet, where one offender not so gently, hurt his bowels, did he come face to face with the electric air dryer. That blew hot air onto his fingers, to dry out the droplets of water. At first, he was scared of this stanger. Often, most new things generated a feeling of discomfort within Murugan. He was never excited in discovering change. The only thing that excited him was familiarity. He gained confidence from knowing that all that needed to be known was already known. Unfamiliar surrounds baffled him, belittled his self esteem and made him unconfortable. So he stood there, in front of the hand dryer, hesistantly placing his hands against the hot air. Conceiving contrived notions of this machine sucking his fingers away,into god knows what was behind the exterior - like a noisy vacume cleaner. Petrified by his own imagination. That was away from reality. And then when that didnot happen, he let the hot air briefly rub against his fingers, too scared it might burn his skin away. After which, he hesitantly rubbed the remnants against his next-door-custom-tailored-terrycot black trouser, and ran towards the gate. Towards Change. Armed with a work permit, that show-cased rainbow colored dreams underneath the dark blue stamp. That came with an expiration day. It was ironic that a man afraid of change would one day spend all of his fortune, betting on Change....

Five years in Singapore, all bets were off now. All the chips off the poker table. Murugan was not a skilled worker.He didnot finish high school. He didnot see the need to.In his village, he delivered English newspapers on a borrowed bicycle. Whistling through narrow lanes, he pelted bundled up newspapers into front yards and balconies. He loved waking up early and stealing the freshness of the day, while the rest of the world was still sleeping.To this day, he still woke up by 5:00 am, bathed in ice-cold water(shivering,trembling and shaking-like a roc n roll dancer), offered his prayers and by 7:00 am was at Iyer Cafe. While delivering English papers in a Tamil town, he didnot bother to read on a regular basis, what was reported inside. Politics was beyond his appreciation. And the world outside his village was just an illusion. These worldly things that he carried along with him, wrapped up and stacked on the rod, stationary between his pedalling legs- didnot affect his world. Except for the Sports section on the last page. Where cricket stars posed strikingly in blue uniforms.So he quickly glanced through the Sports column and admired the pictures of these cricket heroes, before journeying his way across his village-literally throwing enlightenment.Over the years, his fluency in English plunged down the charts. Now, in a foreign land, his spoken English at his best effort, was still fuzzy. In the past 5 years, he had changed 15 jobs. He was a laborer and all of his jobs -temporary. One day here and the next day-no where. With his basic belongings stuffed inside a card-board box, he moved often. And there were times when he had to sleep on the streets of Little India. Alone. Surrounded by an army of pityful looks that brilliantly transformed contempt into pity.... Like most unskilled immigrants, his story was filled with ponds full of sorrowful tears.

Murugan has been working at the Iyer Cafe for the last 3 months. And this has been one of his more stable jobs.That also provided free food. While he had never aspired to be one of those high-tech engineers whose jobs came with higher perks (like paid vacation,sick leave, stock options), he still took immense pride in the free food that was given to him. He flaunted it freely, as an accountable perk-with his other blue collar room mates. And radiated in their envy, also saving enough to be able to call home weekly. One month prior to joining Iyer Cafe, he had lost his previous job.Unceremoniously. Like the one prior to this one. And the one prior to the one prior to the previous one.He spent the first two weeks roaming every corner of Little India, begging and beseeching for work.Imploring in front of kind faces with stern minds. Every where he went, he was greeted with the welcoming face of a desi merchant desirously waiting for a customer and was promptly shooed away with a " Sorry bhai, No Vacancy" and twirled eyes, once they sensed he was seeking employment. At the Chaat Cafe, there was one vacancy for a janitor. The pot-bellied Marwari Seth with his stern look and a kind heart, looked suspiciously at Murugan - and asked "Janitor ka kaam karoge? paisa milegaa" -all the while his betel leaf stained lips, spurting out burgundy colored saliva.Murugan looked straight ahead, onto the ticking clock on the white wall. He stood there motionless-staring distantly, onto the ever moving hands of the clock.His face was devoid of an expression. Pale and blank. Empty of excitement in finding a job. Vacant of vain, in being offered a position of a janitor. For 25 years he was conditioned into believing that he was a Maharaja-because he was a male and had a penis dangling between his legs. He never had to clean after himself, never had to wash his toilet-until the day he moved to Singapore. He was used to seeing his sisters do the menial chores - at home. And now his male ego was ridiculed. He was offered a job that derogated his manliness. That gave no preference to the presence of a moustache or the thing hanging between his legs or the absense of breasts. The vitals on his resume seemed inconsequential. But, at the same time, he was 15 days out of a job. He was tired of walking all day, along the same streets,inquiring the same people again and again of an opening. And now, he had a job offering that would quench this quest of his. So, he stood there with out an expression, staring blankly onto the clock. For 10 minutes. Not knowing what voice to heed to, which way to nod his head. So he stood there motionless, still staring at the in-motion clock hands. After a while he silently walked out of the store. The next day he returned, reason overtaking his pride- to accept the offer. And start working. Only to find the same " Sorry bhai,No Vacancy" response from the kind Seth with a stern face.

With little success and a provoked esteem, his pride began to chart its on course. Map its own map.He stopped looking for a job. He didnot want any. His heart knew he needed one soon, but he stopped listening to his heart now. He had stooped down to accept the offer of a janitor. All his life he was either a bicycle riding newspaper thrower, or a sweating-hardworking-construction worker or a temporary vegetable cutter (sous chef?) in a desi restaurant. But he was ready to make a living out of cleaning other people's dump. Only to find his decision mocked. So he decided....he would survive as long as his savings would allow him to. Then he would pack his bags and venture into a new territory. He was done with Singapore, he was done with the routine of imploring, and he was done with the STABILITY of his confines. Or so did he think, at a desolate moment. In rejection, for the very first time, he surprising found unearthly courage.He brassily challenged destiny to a game of chess and stood exposed on the checkered land. Without his pawns, with out his shield - he arose naked. Like the morning sun- arrogant in its' strength-knowing soon that it has to set.But instead of defeat, he found serendipity. Instead of his life, destiny chose his horse and took him to a girl riding a bicycle...

Each Sunday, Ranjini rode to the temple in her bicycle. Also, each Sunday, Murugan walked to the temple-on his legs.One circling her legs away and the other straightening them. Towards a common destination.One, offering to feed and the other, hoping to get fed. For four weeks in a row, Ranjini had seen a gaunt Murugan standing outside the hall, in the queue, under the hot sun-with his palms cupped and a waggling tongue.Waiting in hungry anticipation for the Priest to come out with trays of Puliogare, Thairsadam and Payasam and distribute them among the devotees. Murugan always stood by himself, with his head angled towards his feet-avoiding eye contact with the people in front of him or the ones behind.There were no friends or aquaintances accompanying him. Solitarily, he hummed old Ilayaraja songs to himself as he lingered around.His once robust voice has now become anemic. The tenors fading into the baritones and the baritones sliding into the bass. Notes that he could flawlessly render sometime back, now made him breathless. But he still hummed, looking down into the burying earth-unlike most artists who launch their talent onto the open sky. His head still nodded in approval of every little variation that was alive within the raaga-even when his notes tacked.He still appreciated the complexities of a raaga and the brilliance of the composer in weaving a song out of the swaras. So he stood there singing songs about the sensous love that a man shared with his woman, underneath the shadows of the gopuram. In his wrinkled white cotton shirt and black trousers, that he only wore to the temple.Until, the Priest emerged out of the hallway, with trays of Prasadam in both if his hands. At which point, Murugan would quickly out stretch his hands and grasp as much food as his palms could hold. With food in his cupped palms, he would briskly walk out of the temple and sit in the silent corner of the Singaporean road, slowly relishing the God's offerings.This was the routine into which Murugan's life began to evolve on Sunday mornings- four weeks out of a job.

On the fourth consecutive Sunday that Ranjini had seen Murugan perform his well practised course, a voice unknown to her led her to him. More like an instinct than an after-thought.Like the sound bleeding out of an alarm clock that leads you towards a new day. Or a ring leaking out of a telephone that leads you towards an unthought "Hello" -even when it is your enemy calling. As Murugan was siting at the silent corner of a busy street and blissfully enjoying a palm full of food, under a palm tree- a hesitant Ranjini walked cautiously towards him. Slowly. Guided by the forces of destiny. She was unsure about how she was going to ask, what she was sure she wanted to ask. As she slowly tip-toed towards her destination, her face transformed itself into a breeding ground for mixed emotions. Timidity, Hesitance, Chastity,Authority,Rejection,Reluctance - all vied for dominance. But none of them surceased her mere journey of 30 ft. She didnot think about turning back and leaving, or walking past Murugan. Inspite of all her mixed feelings, she still was sure about wanting to ask.Only unsure about the rhetoric. All this while, Murugan was busy finishing off the remnants of food from his fingers. He licked them until they were clean and sucked his fingers with great relish. Oblivious to the teenaged stranger approaching him with a very sure question to ask in an unsure manner...

"Vellai venugela?" A question coming out of a question marked face.
Falling onto the ears of an exclamation marked face...

For more than a month, the management at the Iyer Cafe ( Ranjini and her father- Mr Iyer) were looking to hire someone for the position of a "vegetable cutter". Not a fancy position like a sous chef. For Iyer Cafe did not even have a head chef - only one cook. Who now did not want to cut his vegetables. A prank thrown at his owner, now that his talents with the skillet have been recognized. So the search began for a clearly defined position with vaguely defined responsibilities.The "in-print" duties of the vegetable cutter were to cut vegetables, wash them and keep them ready before the cook walked into the kitchen. Arasu-the cook was very particular about the length and breadth of the chopped vegetables. Carrots had to be diced, onions-shredded into tiny particles, tomatoes -cut breadth wise, potatoes-cubed and green chilis-slit length wise. Apart from these underlined duties, there were also the unspoken ones.The unspoken duties included washing the kitchen floor, transfering the food from the kitchen into the buffet table, cleaning the buffet table, vacuming the carpet and also cleaning the toilets. A harsh truth, Murugan will learn later.For a meagre wage that was being offered, the takers were not many.So, on that fourth consecutive Sunday, tired of the cook's complaints and in Mr Iyer's absense, Ranjini approached Murugan -hoping that he was unemployed and praying that he would take up on this opportunity.

So in his convergence, an unsteady Ranjini looked steadily into Murugan's insouciant eyes and inquired.."Vellai Venugala? ". Her body shivered at her brutal intrusion. Ranjini hoped she would not be yelled at or considered cocky in her venturesomeness. As she waited for a response from a composed Murugan, who momentarily withdrew his fingers from his mouth and directly looked at her, she swayed from side to side, transfering her body weight from one leg to another..left,right-right, left-left,right-right,left-like an uncertain mathematical sequence.There was no logic involved in the motion of her body. Nor was there any in posing a question in Tamil, to a stranger in a foreign land.Ranjini didnot know if Murugan understood Tamil. On one ocassion she did hear Murugan hum a tune of a song she didnot recognise. Partly because that particular song was ahead of her times and not very popular. And partly because Murugan's rendition was not audible enough. So she had no way of knowing if Murugan was indeed a Tamilian - who understood and spoke Tamil.She just assumed he was. Assumptions which formed a palatial part of her. Which in the future would be blamed on her current age. He looked "Tamil" to her. In his thick black moustache courting his thick upper lip.Or the dark brown skin spread across his surface. So she enquired if Murugan was looking for a job..in Tamil, not once realising that the subject of her inquisition maynot even decipher this mode of inquiry.

However, on that particular day, good fortune was on Ranjini's side.
Because destiny could summon fortune and order her to take sides.
Because it was destiny that held Ranjini's arms that day and led her to a shabbily dressed man, savoring unearned food under a shady tree.

As she stood there, under the palm tree-infront of Murugan, swaying from one leg to another, unsure of an affirmitive answer, Murugan looked up and saw a perplexed Ranjini waiting for an answer... and all he said was a plain "Aama" ..and turned his head away. Away from Ranjini, Away from the street.

That was how Murugan had become a part of the Iyer Cafe. And how for the first time, a job had become a part of him. Over the next few months, he worked hard, cut the vegetables into perfect proportions, transfered hot food into the steaming buffet table, drained out the water from the buffet table at nights, mopped the floors daily, arranged the plastic cutlery in the brown tray and also cleaned the toilets. He left no room for complaints. Even when he was butt tired, there was no "but" uttered from his mouth. He held onto this job, as if he were holding onto life with a string. The job once again becoming a decilate string that fastened him to a life of unstable stability.

The time now was 8:10 am. Twenty minutes before the cook arrived-with a mouthful of obscenities targeted at Murugan. The cook Arasu, though pleased with Murugan's dedication, seldom praised Murugan in his presense. He said good things about Murugan to Ranjini and Mr.Iyer, but while he was around Murugan, he intermittently faked discontent. Especially in the early mornings as he came in, after the late nights( when Arasu's wife faked content inorder to get back to a peaceful sleep). As soon as Arasu arrived, he checked if the Idli's from the freezer were thawed and placed in the buffet table and if the vegetables for the poriyal were cut and ready to go. Murugan by now was done cutting the vegetables for the day and started heating up last night's Sambar. In a huge thick bottomed vessel. Soon he would transfer this Sambar along with the thawed Idli's into rectangular dishes and transfer them quickly into the red buffet table.
The red buffet table was positioned between the ragged kumudam magazines and the old black and white monitor. It replaced the old ply-wood custom made stand on which steel containers with flickering candles stuffed into their bottoms, once wickedly trapped fuming vapor vented out from hot South Indian delicacies. The new buffet stand looked uncomfortably sleek in a timeworn surroundings. It didnot belong here...where longevity was desperately holding on to its mutilated existence...
Like a 40 year old virgin still holding onto her faded wedding gown...
Like the Catholic church hosting Bingo games after the Sunday Sermon ......
A gown and a game showcasing without hesitation, a trophy of desperation..framed onto a wall, highlighted by a light, glowing behind stain-free glass doors.....
Few shops down the lane, ironically this new buffet table would have gone unnoticed....under the bright orange neons of Mr Chau's Shrimp Palace, facing the real palm trees set under an artificial water fall. There, its' red shimmer would have mingled fittingly with the oranges of the neons. Everything surrounding the table there would have been fresh, young ..jubilant. Bright blues on the walls, blues oozing out of the radio, blues chasing away its' existential blues...
But at the silent corner of the terminal 2, in the Iyer Cafe where no bright lights amplified its presence, their absence cynically created a discomforting amplification.

In the background, the tape recorder was playing aloud, an old reeled tape (with two brown wheels) from which, a charged rendition of Thiagaraja Kritis rendered by M L Vasantha Kumari breezed out into the facade. Ranjini, crouching on the high chair- half awake and the other half dozing away, clapped her had against the counter as she registered the keerthana- her fingers tapping to the thanam. She was exposed to Carnatic music since she was three and music was thus inside her-like an instinct, like a dream, like her sixth sense.... It became a part of her and grew with her-like her two eyes or her long, thick and cocunut oiled black hair- at times of which she was proud of and at other times, when she had subjectively loathed that particular object occupying a part of her. As she tapped her fingers on the counter that day, it was not very clear which part of her present state responded to the music - her half awake state conscious enough to recognize this particular song or her half asleep state reacting to the music more as an instinct-thus missing out on most of the thanam? The tape playing the Carnatic Music was a recorded version of the Madras Music Academy Kutcheri in December, 1978. Then, a young Mr Iyer, freshly out of college and newly inspired by Carnatic music, stood all day, patiently in a long queue- on a cold december morning. In front of the Madras Music Academy. Armed with a National tape recorder (borrowed from his best rich friend Mani) and a dozen blank audio cassettes, he stood tenth in the queue. There were hundreds of veshti clad men behind him and just nine ahead. But he was smartly dressed- in a khaki colored trouser and a blue shirt with brown parallel lines. He tucked his shirt neatly inside his trousers and wrapped it over, with a shining black leather belt. The night before, his mother polished his shoes with black wax from a round tin and scrubbed them till they shone. After thoroughly cleaning her hands, she also applied thick cocunut oil onto his thicker black hair, from a blue Parachute bottle and massaged his head. With an old towel on his pillow protecting the pillow cover from the oil, Mr Iyer slept beautifully-relaxed and ready for a long day ahead. So in that queue, Mr Iyer stood- polished, elegant, fresh and complacent with himself. In his ability to differentiate himself from the older crowd. He stood amused at the way people around him interacted- folding their vesthis to knee high and exposing cracked skin, scratching their things with one hand while eating with the other and spitting Phlegm onto the grass as they talked. He smirked and smiled at irregular intervals. Often haughty and at times entertained. He was the privileged son of an honest IAS officer and a dedicated school teacher. He was taught to say "Hello, How do you do?" and shake hands firmly rather than whisper a meek "Vanakkam" and fold his hands. He went to a convent school where people conversed in English and dreamt foreign dreams (till date, with his closest friends he still confabulates in English). He knew how to operate upon his stationary idlis and uttapams with a fork and a knife at the age of 8 and always ate dinner with a neatly unfolded napkin on his lap. Seldom with his fingers.And today, he stood amidst the hoi-polloi, waiting to procure premier seats. Arrogantly comfortable in his yuppiness.

As soon as the doors opened at 5.00 pm, he ran amuck- in a state of frenzy, like a young boy running behind his lost chick. Into the auditorium. There he procured a seat for himself in the second row- and clinged onto two more ( his hand-kerchiefs coming to his aid) for his parents to join him later. It was from this vintage point that he would record the entire concert, along with the noises coming from the seats behind him, the agitated cries of babies tucked under arms that were muffled with heavy Kanjeevaram saris, the squeeky sounds of protests from aging chairs-as heavy bottoms made them their acquaintances, the thunderous roar of applause after each charana... all mixed together into 12 brown tapes with black reels......with time 11 of them destroyed, damaged or lost..and the single survivor now playing what it had once recorded....

At times Ranjini wondered if the tape had a mind of its own, eaves-dropping into conversations that were not meant to be recorded and preserving them for posterity. Like an eager teenager pressing his ears against the closed doors' of his parents' bedroom and recording conversations that were not meant to be heard. And recollecting them at a latter stage in his life. From the tape, faint voices of concerned mothers' lingered in the foreground.
"Enna Rajasekhara?"
"inka kuntu nainā"...............making sure her son is safe and secure, trapped in her confines.
"Viraivāga Sell"
"Nerāga Sell" .....directions to the toilets?

In the background, facing the folded microphone, the artist's voice loomed large, scaling higher notes with relative ease. As if she were singing a lullaby instead of a complex Kriti.With a "never say defeat" attitude.

The microphone amplified the background voice, gave it the muscle and put it on steroids. In its presence, the foreground voices were reduced to a feeble noise. Of reluctant mothers tentatively whispering to their offsprings. In undecided, question mark ending tones. The offsprings usually neglected the uncertainity exuding out of their mothers' and continued to decide, to not alter what they were doing at that moment. The ailing foreground and the robust background created an aura of confusion within Ranjini. It redefined what definitions already seemed to define. And for the past few months, gave Ranjini an opportunity to question known definitions. Sitting on the high chair, and slowly waking up to the morning light, Ranjini mused at the apparent irony. How the background took control and dominated the foreground? Thus, relegating the foreground to the back of the back ground in her mind.

Ranjini had heard this concert before. Listened to it not once, but several times, over the past several years. Devotedly- like a human offering respects to a super human power. Also Dotingly - like a child chiding her parent. She had known what to expect when. Discovered clandestinely, what modulation to appreciate. And which way to nod her head. But even after all these years, listening to this rendition always brought along new surprises. New discoveries. And joy. That visited her, sometimes like a total stranger and at other times like an old friend. And at both times, left her wanting for more. She was inconspicously introduced to Carnatic Music at a tender age of three. Thanks to the intervention of single parenthood. A freshly widowed Mr Iyer, habitually listened to Carnatic Classics, while making dinner in their small, crammed apartment. Freshly cut vegetables, Freshly widowed Mr Iyer and a primitive reel playing pristine Carnatic Music created a magical concoction that would remain Fresh in Ranjini's mind -forever.In his euphoric state of mind, Mr Iyer often goofed up the measurements of the condiments that went into making dinner, paying more attention to he music than the cooking, thus fabricating disasters each night in his kitchen. Later on, these dishes would be savored over a savory musical rendition by him and his non-suspecting daughter.

A naive Ranjini, often held onto her father's trousers as he was cooking and stood erect on her two feet, behind Mr. Iyer, watching him make dinner and listening to the music coming out of the radio. Even then, when she could neither appreciate nor understand art, her little body raptured into thunderous jumps of esctasy. As she stood holding onto her support, she rocked her fragile body up and down, up and down- moved her head sidewards- left, right,left,right- and responded rhythmically to each pulsating beat coming out of the Mrindangam.In each subtlety of her motion, every nuance of the beat was captured. As her body moved unknowingly to the known complexities of the music, Ranjini began to discover a familiar joy, a known jubilation. In the Unknown. Thus knowingly creating a room for an unknown entity within her unknown self. That grew its dimensions, added doors, honed the colors and heightened the ceilings with age and self discovery.

As she grew older, Ranjini began reciting the complex raagas without any formal training. She replicated everything that was emitted out of the tape recorder. Like a chameleon, her voice changed grounds and inherited their royalty. It held onto the high and low notes with equal panache, thus swimming robustly through the high and low tides of the swaras. Mr Iyer (a connoiseur himself) , soon recognised Ranjini's inherent aptitude for Music and took her to the Indian Music Academy, located next to the temple, on Serangoon road. Thus, by the age of six, Ranjini began her formal training. And this was how her first love affair began. Adjacent to the old temple. And would remain as her only love that lasted a life time.

Every Monday, in the evening, after her school, Ranjini would arrive at the Music Academy, to take the corner row on the floor. While most of her peers leaned their backs onto the wall for support, Ranjini sat rigidly on the carpet, with her back upright and perpendicular to the floor and legs -folded. Her body needed no external support for it drew it's strength from learning. She learnt quickly, the slow paced thanams and then learnt slowly- the fast paced ones. Complexities could not intimidate her undaunted spirit. At times, when she couldnot reach onto the swaras of a varnam, she would go home and practise fiercely till late into the night, until her notes sounded impeccable. Spotless. Music took its turns to became an obsession, an occupation, a sibling, a companion and thus an invisible accomplice. Which followed her through the corridors of the day, into the vaults of the night. And demanded not to be shared. So at the music academy, she took the corner seat and sang in an muffled tone. Among scores of fulminating missed-notes-voices, her dotless voice often went unheard. Unrecognised. Like a righteous IPS officer, lost in the ocean of corrupt officials. But in the solitude of her home, this voice grew from the seeds of silence, into a mighty tree- green with the envy of her other self and burdened with the fruits of her labor. That reached out for the sky. And ended up stunted by the roof.

Back at the Iyer Cafe, hung side-by-side from the roof, projecting over the old computer, were the "Orders" sign and a wall hanging of a big-eyed woman (her head covered in pallu and eyes lowered in respect) with folded hands and joined palms. Across her palms, "Vanakkam" was tattooed, in bold blue. And placed on the carpeted floor, positioning itself between these two desi billboards, was the firang blue high chair on which Ranjini crouched.

Ranjini was not an unattractive girl. She had extensive black eyes with honey colored eye balls. In the morning sun-light they radiated. And in the evening moon light, they dreamt velvety dreams of another world- clandestinely, behind closed lashes. Inches above the windows to her soul, faint brows extended along side, like delicate strokes of an artist's brush, bordering those eyes to perfection and defining boundaries to an undefinable beauty. Her nose was pencil thin, delicate and artfully created. It rose slowly from the brow and by the time it reached the confines of her lips, gained a sharp angle. Until recent times, a heavy diamond mookkutthi adorned this fragile stem-resembling a gargantuan rose taxing it's tender base. But with age came rebellion. And with rebellion came courage- that questioned authority. And paved way to a nose without a nose ring and a fore-head without a red dot. Salwar-Kameez was out and low necked t-shirts were in (through which baby breasts leaped out from time-to-time, like baby whales-eager to take a whiff of the poluted air). Revlon was now on her lips, lips that were full - thick, luscious and baby pink(that day, depending on the shade), like strawberry jelly on a sunny day. When she smiled, her teeth shone a colgaty pearly white. Beautiful, delicate and minty white-each one of them took their assigned spots in the row and refused to move an inch here or an inch there.

However, in reality the toothpaste that she used was Close-up. Close up mouth-to-mouth. As their jingle went, so did Ranjini's imagination. Into wild pastures.....

At eighteen, like most south Indian girls growing up in an orthodox environment, Ranjini was still a virgin. Un-touched by a curious hand. Un-kissed by a hungry mouth. And Un-penetrated by a self gratifying penis. An "Un" preceding her every want. The wall, remaining intact-as a proof and also as a victim. Sex was still a taboo under the broad day light.The light that would make unprivate, her private thoughts and also her private parts. Thus, advances made by handsome strangers in the day, were shooed away. Under the radiant sun. Ridiculed and commanded to wait. Until the grey night spread wide open, her dark limbs, into which the sun disappeared.After which, Ranjini held out glossy invitations to those overtures. In the privateness of the dark. In the unconsciousness of her dreams. Where, she lay waiting, for those returning gestures. She welcomed them now and purged their seeds. Her unconscious mind now rekindled what was consciously rejected, thus feeding these thoughts, the food of her desires, until they grew wild. And Untamed. She dreamt vividly of things that were unknown to her, but yet felt known. Known from an unscathed scene in a censored Hollywood movie. Like a kiss on her lips or an ice-cube drawn against her light brown skin...light brown skin which draped her surface neatly, without any visible folds. Smooth and firm.Young.Youth was now on her side and in its company, her skin and her passion revelled. Confidence became her skin's moisturiser and each day, a satiny sheer possessed the surface, refusing to leave- like a spirit trapped in a body. Also each night, delirious dreams sought shelter within her fragile frame and each morning, her conscious recollections of her dreamy world only accumulated guilt.
Guilt that would soon explode onto an unknown stranger.Fierce,like the gusty wind that takes with it the rooted earth and the fluid river.......

It was her countenance that commanded attention, like a red dot on a woman's face. Or a veil covering one.Like billboards on Times Square.Or a red light on untimed ones....
Fleeting glances always halted as they encountered her visage (alike vagabond cars shifting through multiple lanes, until encountered by a Stop Sign).They looked deeply into her eyes, admired with envy the strong yet simple elegance of her nose and dreamt wicked thoughts about her parted lips (while still maintaining a noble demeanor). And as these curious glimpses probed for more amusement, her cunning body shooed them away- to other vista points...
A flowery trail down a woman's plait.
A bulging vein criss-crossing through a swollen arm.
Brown stockings traveling underneath a tunnel of crossed legs......

Her body still refused to grow up. Refused to bloom into the woman her mind aspired it to be. There were no contours to be discovered here. No mountains to climb up or valleys to plunge into.
It was a plain plane.
Flat like the runway ahead, on which flying planes landed. And from which curved air-hostesses emerged in clothes accentuating their wholeness.Ranjini often looked at them and gasped. She silently admired their shapes and secretly wished for her body to metamorphose into one of these barbies in stilettos. She sat at nights in front of her mirror and looked disappointedly at her feeble, needle thin body. Each night with a tape (smuggled from her friend Nisha), she measured her chest under the feeble bed light and each time it showed her the same number. 21.She stood 5 ft 2 # when erect and while most of her Indian, Thai and Chinese girl friends were not taller, they certainly were broader at the right places. Unlike most of her girl friends who visited the temple on Serangoon Road to offer prayers, hoping for good results in board examinations, cuter boy-friends or better health for siblings/themselves, Ranjini went each Sunday armed with freshly made payasam, to lure lord Ganesha ( the god who enjoyed a good meal) in the daytime into giving her the vital stats that she desired each night.

Ranjini turned eighteen last month, gearing up to sing the finale to her teen years. In complex Carnatic raagas. Soon a "tea" would replace her "teen" and then an army of one to nine would march along, again follwed by another "tea" and another "army marching ". Adult-hood would finally walk out of the closet, into the broad day light and grab her by the hand, sucking her into the whirlpool of responsibility. All this while, it lurked behind the large unaccessible tree-named wisdom and only cast its shadow. That changed with time and indited a mystical puzzle that generated curiousity within Ranjini.
Where would I be in ten years?
How many children would I have?
Would I be an architect or an engineer?
Would my husband be a doctor?
Will Aruna Chitti support me in California?
Will Appa go back to Chennai?
Questions that fell into their place with time and only completed the puzzle after her death. To be viewed by her off-springs, who altered the puzzle according to their judgement and liking.

Ranjini was now tired of this peek-a-boo play with Adult-Hood. With each passing day, she grew restless, of outliving her childhood days but not yet living her adult life. Everything concerning her seemed to be in a state of limbo. Suspended and waiting. Her life was at cross roads and she didnot know which direction to traverse. There were other cross roads encountered prior to this one, but then she was guided by authority. Like a manned traffic light. All this while, she walked straight, stopped at an intersection and waited for the light to turn green. And then she continued walking. She did not look to her left nor to her right. The road ahead was the road to take. But now there were voices within her that wanted to be heard. That implored her to not listen to authority, but listen to her wants. To look to her left and then to her right. And then decide if she still wanted to walk straight.....

Soon these voices would garner enough strength within her, to shun out authority. The coziness in once being guided would be lost. Into oblivion.Everything once told wrong, would no longer remain that way. And what once seemed right would now appear wrong.The black and white shades of life would soon merge and become gray....

Trust would one day walk out of the door, leaving her under the dark hands of suspicion. Suspicion that would implant dark thoughts in her and the people surrounding her.....
Dark thoughts in light skinned people.
Dark thoughts in dark skinned people.
Dark thoughts under the hands that rocked you.
And Dark thoughts under the hands that once held you.

The joys of innocence would fade away, thus making space for loss and pain. Loss that for the first time would become comprehendable, every particle of it now visible. And left pinned on the memory's dissection table. And surrounded in each direction by those memories that created this loss. Each one dissecting its own creation, until it bled.Helplessly. Under no anesthesia. Like a green frog being dissected by medical students in white aprons and whiter masks.
Loss of youth.
Loss of love.
Loss of a loved one.
Loss of a friendship.
Loss of trust.
Loss of senses.
Loss of memory.
Loss that always surrounded her and that augmented the survival of pain in her.

But this was all in the future. Some in the near and others, in the distant. When adulthood finally grabbed her and wouldnot let go. When her body eventually grew into a woman and brought with it the temptations of pleasure.

For now, her life still remained simple. For now, the time was still 8:30 am. Twenty minutes before Rajalakskmi chitti walked in and ordered a plate of idly. And thirty minutes before Arusu would wake up this morning and never wake up again.....

The Break-Fast menu usually comprised of plain-idlis ($4 for two-served with sambar soup), vadas($5 for two, served again with sambar soup) or two medium sized dollops of upma. Dosas only made appearance during the lunch menu, where they competed with the equally filling Vegetarian thali.