Celebrating Sambhar And Rasam

Last night’s chatter had died down.

The excited squeals of his grandchildren, the booming laughter of his sons, the frivolous banter of his daughter and daughter-in-laws, all had faded. It was quiet now, and slow life had returned. Yet, his heart was still drumming in his chest, rejoicing after having met her after almost two decades.

The celebration had continued even after the celebration of his seventy-fifth birthday.

Sandra, the timeless beauty of St. Cathedral School in Shimla, had suddenly walked into his slow, arthritic life in Nashik. Not much had changed about the girl.

Ouch! Could he still call her a girl?

Forever, his heart replied.

That first flutter she had caused in his chest, like the gentle flapping of a bird eager for flight, had never been forgotten. How could he forget the way his spectacles slipped down the sweaty bridge of his nose when she stood next to him in the assembly? The memory of her stern glance catching him watching her foolishly bubbled up again yesterday when she entered the party.

The geeky guy had never mustered the nerve to forge a friendship with her. A Greek goddess would never kiss frogs living in pond scum. But he had made himself useful to her during exams and detention periods. She didn’t deserve to be bored by Raman’s light effects or Boyle’s gas laws. Premchand’s poverty and Tukaram’s tenacity shouldn’t bother her either. She was meant to flip her ponytail in a way that pleased his raving hormones.

The bounce of her skirt, playing peek-a-boo with her slender long legs, was all he craved.

Sandra, in all their school years, had never acknowledged Venkatesh’s existence.

He deserved it, Venkatesh thought. Yesterday, like mist lifting to reveal an ethereal beauty, she had sashayed back into his life.

Tongue-tied, he had watched her greet him and plant a kiss on his deflated cheek. Colour flooded his anemic face, and he excused himself on the pretext of taking his diabetes pill. What would Ramani, his wife, think?

His wife… nothing much bloomed in his mind after that thought. She was good but not great. Obedient but ordinary. A woman who forever wore Calcutta cottons or Irkals was, to him, just okay.

She looked, smelled, and even spoke ordinarily. Her thickly oiled hair never swayed in the wind. If a bit of her waist showed through her saree, she immediately wrapped it with her pallu. Ramani smelled of sambhar and rasam, a walking cabinet of Indian spices.

She made delicious payasam and dosai, but nothing beyond that.

In the fifteen minutes he spent regaining his composure, the birthday boy mentally chastised himself for drooling over his classmate. There was no thrill around Ramani, he decided, closing the door on his confusion.

Looking decent and composed, he crawled out of his hiding place. He spoke to Sandra, telling her everything he had secretly done for her back then except for how he had drooled over her fair skin and pearly eyes.

Fascinated, she listened. The evening ended on a high note, with Sandra promising Venkatesh that she would stay in touch.

This morning was certainly the celebration of that promise.

“Your coffee is getting cold.” Ramani’s quivering voice nudged him out of his cloud.

As a dutiful husband, he brought the cup to his lips. The hot steam didn’t erase the silly smile plastered on his face. He must have slept like a grinning donkey all night. Who cared?

As the stimulant awakened his senses, he realized he hadn’t asked Sandra how she’d come to know about his special day. The smile slowly faded, replaced by a worry line sharpening the corners of his mouth.

“I invited her,” Ramani said, sipping her tea without looking at her husband of thirty years.

The coffee suddenly burned his palms.

“You?” was all Venkatesh could mutter.

“Hmm… a gift from an aging wife to her longing husband.”

The quiet air suddenly felt suffocating. How had Ramani borne the knowledge of his childhood crush? Gosh! Now the colourful blanket of his life would start fading. The carefully folded truth was dancing amok. The dogs had been let out.

“Don’t worry,” she said from the kitchen. “It was only for the birthday that she came, on much request. Privileges look good only when they arrive and leave as guests.”

Ramani picked up their empty cups and headed inside. From the kitchen came her voice:
“Sambhar or rasam?”

Ordinariness returned to his life. The jitters were gone. Too much thumping wasn’t good for a seventy-five-year-old heart. But once in a while, he thought, he was going to celebrate the woman who had invited his first crush to his special day.

Aparna Salvi Nagda

Dr. Aparna Salvi Nagda is a consulting homeopath by profession and writer by passion. The Labyrinth Of Silence is her first full-length novel while previously she published Not So Grave, a novella, on Kindle. You can reach out to her at aparnanagda04@gmail.com