The stories in this collection span continents, traverse time and enter the realms of fantasy. But they are rooted in this world, which sustains us all. These are tales of men and women caught in the play of time and the dilemmas of life. They make moves and countermoves to emerge stronger and wiser. From the promise of young love to the fulfilment of more enduring relationships, the women in these stories seek love in all its myriad forms. The men in these narratives include one who seeks solace in alcohol, another in his work; a young soldier freed of his past, a sportsman welcoming his future, and another seeking his roots.
Human perplexities are endless, its enigmas are complex and multiple. All these protagonists, on voyage to self-discovery, find their own solutions. And, in the end, they discover that happiness is webbed into our lives like the roots of a tree. It lies within. We only have to listen.
Vatsala Warrier is an author of various short stories and feature articles which have been published in leading national magazines. She is deeply involved in cultural activities involving all creative art forms –music, dance and theatre. She is also a talented actress with wide experience in English Theatre. She has directed several cultural and literary programmes in East Cultural Association, Bangalore, The Rotary Club, All India Radio, Television and Raksha, a community ladies association.
Educated in Mumbai, Delhi and the United States, she has done B.A. (Hons) in English Literature from Delhi University, B.Ed. from Bombay University and Masters from The University of Florida, U.S.A.
AWAKENING
“Ma, you can’t be serious! Marry a man I’ve never seen! It’s preposterous!” said Sanjana, looking in astonishment at her mother, Savitri Shetty. Sanjana was a tall, pretty, vivacious girl who had just completed her Bachelors in Economics. Dressed in jeans and a baggy sweater, she looked like a typical American teenager. Born and brought up in New Jersey, U.S.A., she sometimes could not reconcile her two worlds - her western education and lifestyle and the eastern values that Savitri tried to instill in her, at home.
Mother and daughter were having a late lunch of soup and salami sandwiches in their kitchen. A delicious cherry cheesecake leftover from the previous night’s dinner was to be their dessert. As they ate, the old familiar conversation went on.
“It’s time you got married, had children and a home of your own. It’s time you settled down.” Savitri said earnestly.
“Settle down! Sounds dull, like dust settling down on unused furniture!” Sanjana said in exasperation.
“We will find you a suitable boy who is charming with a good job and from the right sort of family.” Savitri was resolute.
“Suitable! It’s such an old fashioned word, Ma! I don’t feel like settling down. I want to fly a little, spread my wings, see the world,” Sanjana said gaily, spreading her arms wide and almost knocking her soup off the table.
Savitri sighed. She wanted only the best for her daughter and she believed she knew what was best for her. It was concern rather than imposition that prompted her actions. But she couldn’t convince Sanjana.
“Parents only have the welfare of their children in mind when they make these decisions, Sanju. We look into the family background, social and educational status, compatibility and so many other factors before we arrange a match. Sanju, why can’t you understand?”
“What about love, Ma?”
“Love is not a passionate, rose-tinted view that sweeps you off your feet like you see in the movies. Love comes only with time and age and everyday life together. True love is that which has endured grief and suffering, a love that has nurtured and matured,” Savitri told her daughter seriously.
“Oh, come on Ma, do you have to wait till you are old and grey to discover you love each other? What a waste!” Sanjana was aghast. “Anyway, it is not the end of the world if I don’t get married immediately. Give me some time. Why do you want life to be neat and squared off – conventional and safe? Life’s an adventure!” Sanjana laughingly told her mother.
Savitri did not answer immediately. Instead she stared out of the window, at the snow-covered garden beyond. It was already spring, already April, but the ice had just begun to thaw and a few green shoots were beginning to show themselves. Spring was slow in coming this year. It had been a long, cold winter and Savitri longed for the sun.
Sanjana looked at her mother with love in her eyes - her gold earrings and bangles that she always wore, her smoothly coiffed hair, her slender elegant figure. She looked vulnerable but Sanjana knew her mother had a will of iron and inner core of steel. Sanjana had never seen her mother’s features express anything but sound emotions like cordiality, amusement, kindness, sympathy and now and again a flash of wholesome anger. But today she seemed unhappy, soft and blurred, like an unfocussed photograph. Conflicting emotions flitted across her face as she looked out of the window. Anger, concern, disappointment and exasperation were writ large on her otherwise calm face.
“What are you looking at outside in the snow, Ma?” Sanjana asked her mother tenderly.
But Savitri did not see the snow. She saw the sun-drenched landscape of her native land in India. She saw the mango tree laden with fruits outside her house in Mysore, just beginning to mature. How she missed India in spite of living in the U.S. for nearly twenty-five years. She missed the colour and liveliness of her native land, as much as she missed the rich traditions and culture of India. Savitri was on a trip down memory lane. Images from the past pushed into her consciousness, changing the vivid landscape from cool snow to the hot streets of Mysore.
Getting nostalgic, she remembered her home with the balcony overlooking the street where she would sit with her mother in the evenings, whiling away the hours in those days, when there was no television to pass your time. While her mother plaited and oiled her long hair and strung a sweet scented strand of jasmine in it, they would sit together exchanging small talk, all the while watching the people scurrying down the road. They watched the vendors of fruits and vegetables, sellers of plastic and aluminum kitchenware with their distinctive slogans. The old marketplace with its labyrinth of cloistered shops and narrow streets, resonant with the din of peddlers and redolent with a thousand aromas. Amid all that chaos there was the sound of music, the tinkling of the ice candy man’s bell, or the song of a lonely beggar trying to get his paisa for the day. Festivals were awaited with longing and the kitchen and pooja room were hubs of activities. Hordes of relatives visited, exchanged gossip, and consumed enormous amounts of home made delicacies. Savitri remembered her maidservant Munniamma telling her stories as she ground the batter for the morning breakfast.
Savitri was realistic, she knew that the India of her childhood had vanished and life in the big cities was as commercial and mechanical as life in the West, but she wished Sanjana could experience the simple pleasures of those innocent days. The aching emptiness of Western civilisation led to an intense yearning for her homeland.
“No Indian girl would question the wisdom of an arranged marriage.” She said sadly to herself.
Why, at twenty-one, Sanjana’s age, she was already married and Sanjana on the way. She had married Sekhar, her husband, after seeing him just once, when he came to her house with his parents. She managed to steal a quick glance of him amidst steaming cups of coffee and bonda, and hot rava kesari, dripping with ghee and almonds.
“God, I even miss Indian food,” she thought, as she stared with distaste at the now cold soup and sandwiches in her plate.
“Sanju, if you don’t want to get married then what do you want to do?” she asked Sanjana at last.
“Mom, I’ve already enrolled in graduate school for my M.S. then I’ll get a job and work awhile. You know all that, I’ve already discussed this with you and Dad before.” Sanjana said impatiently, devouring the cheesecake.
“Umm…! This is delicious. You are a great cook, mom.” She hugged her mother delightedly.
“That is one more thing I want to discuss with you,” Savitri exclaimed, disentangling her daughter’s arms from around her neck.
“You have to learn to cook proper Indian food like sambar, rasam, pulao and payasams. You can’t eat just hamburgers, pizzas and hot dogs for ever!”
“Why not Ma? All my friends do!” Sanjana laughed. “What’s wrong with it?”
“It may be okay for you, but it may not suit your husband, especially a man coming from India. You have to learn Indian cooking.” Savitri said decidedly.
“Oh, Ma! There you go again. I told you, I don’t want an arranged marriage.” Sanjana said stubbornly.
Savitri realised the cultural and emotional conflict in Sanjana’s mind, the dichotomy, where she had to strike a balance between Indian ideas and a Western lifestyle. So many Indian-American youngsters like Sanjana, hung in a cultural limbo neither East nor West. Were they destined to be pilgrims of Eternity wandering across deserts that were as much within as without, seeking an oasis? Were they destined to be misfits existing in a cultural vacuum?
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