"Fair, tall and without moustache" by Adhavan

 

This is an English translation of “Sivappaga, uyaramaga, meesai vachukkamal”, ( சிவப்பாக, உயரமாக, மீசை வச்சுக்காமல் ), a short story written by Athavan. Translated into English by Saravanan Karmegam.

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Fair, tall, and having no moustache – for some while, the dim image of the man who was likely to win Neela’s hands came through her mind very frequently.

She was a twenty-two-year-old girl. Her parents had started looking for a suitable bridegroom for her – with a suitable horoscope, ancestry, kulam, Godhra, job and salary etc. She, nevertheless, liked the care and concern behind those efforts. She was, however, slightly annoyed with her parents who didn’t show even a tinge of concern that she would also have some private opinions and views in her tender heart about those things. At the same time, she remained doubtful whether she could offer them a resolute solution if they ever asked her opinion about it. Just like the views of elders that were heavy, dimensional and serious about truth, her views also sounded like a riddle that she wouldn’t understand herself. Also, she feared that anyone who heard it would laugh at it.

He was a fair-complexioned man, the man who ruled her dreams. ‘Fair’ didn’t mean he was extremely fair-skinned. He was moderately, acceptably fair in complexion. He was tall – a couple of inches taller than Neela. Tall enough to lean her face comfortably on his chest. Tall enough to throw her into happiness and ecstasy as and when her down-looking, shy eyes were looking up to him. Lastly, but importantly, he had neither a moustache nor a beard. A fully shaven, clean face without any trace of stubble. She would roam along with him in her dreams again and again at such places she had known well, and some new places she had never seen before. Countless conversations that made them happy in pairs! But, the more he seemed to be closer, the more he appeared to be afar. She felt that she knew him as much as she knew nothing about him.

He was just a shapeless image wiggling on the water’s surface where the waves surged incessantly. It was the face she had seen near the window of a speeding bus. She had indeed seen him; she hadn’t too.

Neela worked in a government office – as a clerk. Many young men were working in her office. Why speak about others - she had a young man working in her section itself. All, in her eyes, were very ordinary, “cheap” fellows. Incapable souls who were ignorant about the value of a rare gem like her, as to understand and cherish her. Her dream man seemed to have taken this avatar just to free her from this cheap crowd.

‘O! My beloved! Where are you? As a man who is listening to the songs I listen, reading the newspapers I read, walking on the roads I walk, watching posters I watch, travelling in the taxis I travel, climbing up and down the steps I use, using the hair oil and toothpaste I use, drinking the beverages I drink, falling into ecstasy while watching the thrilling scenery after being intoxicated by the sounds and smells that have hit me, sweating under the sweltering heat, being fanned by the gentle breeze, drenched in the rain and moonlight, and being taken over by the same dreams, where are you? Come to me. Have me in you. Save me, from these men around me, these places, these things, and from myself…’

The heart where the waves of thoughts were surging restively.

Every morning at the bus stand, when she made herself one of the tiny parts of the long queue, an indescribable sadness and anxiety would creep into her heart – ‘Here, yet another day…I am standing in the bus stand. Travel in the bus amidst the same old sullen faces – she would ponder. Her eyes, filled with a sort of frailty, would chase and try to capture the speeding cars and scooters on the road. While travelling in the bus, her eyes would swallow the vehicles that overtook the bus and glance at the passengers sitting inside them. Embrace them. Those cars, scooters, those porticos, parking lots, multi- storeyed apartments, windows – the world that had all these in it was the world her dream man lived in. It was the world that stood beyond those bus queues and petty tiffin boxes. She would heave a sigh, perplexed how he would identify her who had been permanently imprisoned in the long queues and crowded buses. The portrait of the young man - who was stylishly cuddling a lady who looked like her, with his one hand and flicking a cigarette in another hand in a cigarette advertisement on the rear cover of the magazine she had brought from her office club - had some agreeable resemblance to her dream man. How lucky she would be if she were able to speak to the young men posing for the cigarette, shaving lotion, and hair oil advertisements. They must be the friends of her dream man. They must be aware of his address.

Later, she would toss the magazine from her hand onto Kuppusamy’s table, sign on the attendance register before occupying her chair. Some of her colleagues working in her section would have come by the time she reached. Everyone would take their seats one after the other. The work would then resume. The room that had remained silent all through the night would suddenly wake up, come alive like a drama podium after its screen was lifted. Mixture of voices, sounds, moves, men both walking and sitting, some common inanimate stuff that connected all of them, the non-stop clickety- clack of the typewriters, the sound of stiff crumpling papers, the fountain pens that were soaked in inks, wobbled to shed out their blue ‘blood’ on those papers to form scripts, the telephone that was frequently announcing its presence and significance very often with its ‘rings’, the registers that were thrown and opened with a thud, the sound of table drawers while being opened and closed, almirahs, the noise of chairs’ legs while rubbing on the floor, the sticking and parting sounds of the calendar and the nation’s map in the wind while rubbing each other.

Doing the same type of work amid the same types of noises and the same types of men – does this mundane work deserve this stringent discipline and urgency? “Miss Neela, in whose name was the deputation file transferred last?” “Miss Neela, has the transfer order been sent to the dispatch?” “Miss Neela, what is the next number to open a new file under P.N (Pension)?” – questions, questions, and only questions. She would ask herself these questions if they didn’t ever ask her - “Miss Neela, why haven’t you become a mad yet? Miss Neela, why are you sitting in this room on this chair? Miss Neela, what is your relations with these men?”

Different types of humans, with different tastes, behaviours, appeals and characters. Men who were living within a specific circle, at a specific level. Boring beings.

Dandapani was the oldest man working in her section. Vibhoothi smeared on his forehead. Tobacco stuffed in his mouth. Face that carried a permanent surliness. As he had no good opinion about women who came out for work, he never acknowledged that he was aware of someone called Neela who was working in his section. He would spit out the words so freely, which others found offensive in the presence of a lonely woman working there. He would then explain them as well. Neela felt that he spoke those words with the intention of belittling her.

Kuppusamy was of another type. He was running a ‘Magazine club’ in the office. He was almost like a magazine himself – a magazine that always looked for spicy stuff ranging from suggesting remedies if the peon Parankuisam’s wife suffered from leg pain, to throwing a piece of advice what Ganapathy Raman’s son should do after completing his school education, hinting at which western actor our local amateur actor Srinivasan could emulate, advising Kesavan who frequently came late to the office on how to adjust the daily time table. He would voluntarily approach everyone to offer counsel. He would advise Neela, too. When he approached her with his usual unsolicited friendly question, “I understand you are very early today. Right?”, she would be unduly annoyed. While Dandapani remained sly, Kuppusamy was just pretentious.

Ganapathy Raman, Srinivasan, Kesavan, and Parankusam – she hated everyone for different reasons. She didn’t like Ganapathy Raman because he always found mistakes in her work. She disliked him for his impudent way of teaching everything from scratch as though he was teaching a baby by holding its fingers. The phrases ‘If you don’t mind’ or ‘kindly’ Srinivasan used to throw while ordering her with “Miss, Neela”, she felt he had used those phrases not to show his respect for her, but to offend her, mildly though. Kesavan’s fake display of being a respectable man and his indifferent attitude towards everyone (including her) made her develop an aversion towards him. As far as peon Pasankusam was concerned, she felt that, most of the time, he was tossing the files and registers on her table with an unwarranted speed and clamor. She thought that he was sharing a mean joke about her with other peons while she walked in the corridor.

Though she didn’t like anyone in her section in general, Kesavan remained her most hated person among all. She couldn’t bear him being treated like the most pampered man, showered with all praises in the section. She would think that it was because of the undue attention they gave him, he had become a spoiled brat.

-‘Lucky fellow sir…no commitments…no worries…’

-‘How many movies would you watch every month, Kesavan?’

-‘Would you watch single? Or with some sweet company?’

-‘The chaps of this age are at least okay anyway. How much we enjoyed and had fun when we were their age.!

It was the tribute they paid for his youth and independent attitude. It was just an effort to recreate their youth through his appearance to be happy. Sometimes, she used to be jealous of him. It troubled her when he got all the special attention and status which she couldn’t get. She would deliberately wear indifferent facial expressions, with remarkable difficulties, to mask her jealousy and uneasiness from being visible outside – as if she wasn’t interested in all such things.

In one evening, when Kuppusamy was speaking to Kesavan, her face carried this usual indifferent look.

“How do you expect your future wife to be?” Kuppusamy asked.

“To be means?”

“I mean beautiful”

“Will there be anyone who doesn’t like his wife to be beautiful?”

“If she is very beautiful, it will become difficult to manage her”

Kesavan laughed his heart out. “I am not as experienced as you are in this matter, sir” he said. Neela sensed that his eyes had turned to her side when he uttered these words. But she was hesitant to look back at him to ensure he did it.

That day, immediately after she reached home, she went to the mirror to see her face – to know how the face he saw in the evening looked. It was tired. Sweaty. A little dusty. It looked dull without zeal and brightness.

‘Has Kesavan concluded that her face and beauty had only that much to offer?’ – the moment this thought came through her mind, she thought, “Does it matter how my face looks when he looks at me? Does it matter what he thinks of me?”. She tried to forget him. But, the next day, while leaving for the office, she decked herself with an unusual attentiveness and care. ‘Not for him. Just to satisfy herself through his eyes. To dissect his ego, to disturb his pride, to attract his attention and to establish my victory with that’ she comforted herself. This unscrupulous thought brought a streak of a smile to her face. That day, all through her journey in the bus, streaks of a grin kept appearing brightly and disappearing on her face.

When she entered her section, she saw Kesavan’s chair was lying empty. While occupying her chair after signing in the attendance register, she thought, “Has he cut the office today?”

He didn’t cut the office. He came to the office at fifteen to eleven. Overwhelmed by the guilt of being late, he hurriedly opened the files and resumed his work. Neela raised her hand and adjusted the bunch of flowers she had on her head. Her bangles jingled. He didn’t raise his head. She dropped the pencil from her hand and got up from her seat as though it was to pick up the pencil that was lying in front of the table. She bent down and collected the pencil. Muffled rustle. Again, jingling of bangles. No effect. He didn’t raise his head. She grew annoyed. Today, attracting his attention had suddenly become an important issue, a matter of honour. When she was seriously considering dropping a register, Srinivasan called her out.

“Miss Neela, if you don’t mind, can you get this compared?”

She rose from her seat. She went very close to Kesavan’s table as if rubbing its edges, as her sari rustled, bangles jingled, talcum powder exuded fragrance (she wore more talcum than usual) and reached Srinivasan’s table. Kesavan’s pen halted a second. She felt he raised his head and was watching her. “Look…look me well,” she thought and sat down on an empty chair near Srinivasan, collected the copy of the letter from him, and started leafing through. He then began verifying the draft in the original. She read the letter. She was fully conscious that she was reading it. It was unfortunate that her beautiful voice and pronunciation were going waste in reading that letter in that sterile office. But, Kesavan was on all his ears. The very thought of it kept her reel under an inebriation and zeal. After completing reading the letter, she glanced at Kesavan as soon as she returned to her seat. She could catch him swiftly withdrawing his eyes from her. ‘Doesn’t it mean that he has been watching her all this time?’ It was , too much for her to bear the pain of her egoistic bliss. That day, she walked around the office more than she would usually do. She watched Kesavan, with a sense of fulfilment, that his eyes were being pulled to her side very often – A satisfaction of proving her strength by subduing a neighbouring king who had been cheating without paying taxes. It was her victory in a small test of power to know her strength to wage wars against other bigger kings.

That evening, while drinking coffee with friends at Cannaught Place café, and after that while watching a movie in the background of stereophonic sounds, Neela’s image kept popping up in Kesavan’s mind. “Today, she seemed to be excessively seeking attention. She was trying to say something to me. Is it just an illusion?” he wondered. ‘Is it that she has fallen in love with me?”. This very thought brought him a smile on his face – a smile of magnanimity and compassion to treat her as a ‘poor girl’. ‘It is not her mistake. I must be looking attractive. That is the trouble.’ he thought.

Suddenly, his smile grew wider as he thought about her English pronunciation. ‘Silly pronunciation’ he thought. Adrey Hebburn was smiling like a child on the screen. Kesavan felt like kissing her. While buffing a cigarette after he came out of the movie hall, he was not on his mind. He was not in this country. He became Peter O’Toole and was walking on the streets of New York. He searched for Adrey Hebburn’ in all the women who crossed his way. Adrey Hebburn was his most favourite actress. Then came Sofia Larren, and then Sherley Maclain.

The probable image of his ideal wife was irregularly found scattered among the likenesses of these mesmerizing actresses. The models smiling in toothpaste, and sari advertisements also had some elements of resemblance to her. It was found in the faces seen in the corridors of Cannaught place, in some gait, in some laughter, and in some gestures. If all these elements were strung together, one could, perhaps, understand what his ideal lady would look like. But he had never tried doing that. He liked his uncertainties. He loved his independent attitude that permitted him to get drawn consciously towards the beautiful women who would occasionally fall into his eyes. He disliked setting a limit to his eyes and targets by becoming a slave to a particular image. He loved the romantic idea - love is something one would indulge in an incessant quest throughout one’s life. His parents might be happy with having a girl who could sing and make batter for dosai. But his life was neither about morkuzhambu and dosai nor seemantham and lullaby. It was something beyond all that. He might not be able to reach these superior peaks. It was a different matter altogether. But he needed to safeguard his freedom that would enable him to reach these peaks. It was very important.

“Miss Neela, I would say you are just wasting your time, if at all you have fallen in love with me” he thought.

From the next day, they began to observe each other with a hidden curiosity and edginess. Each monitored others’ moves. “Does Kesavan enjoy watching my beauty?” Neela wondered. “Does this lady watch me with any devotion?” Kesavan conjectured. Both believed that the opponent was unaware of being observed, and, at the same time, each ncould leave an effect on their opponent by keeping themselves safe and away from being affected. This belief made them happy and proud. The pride of success. The arrogance of success. For the first time, Kesavan could discover how many saris Neela possessed in different colours and designs. Kesavan began observing her very closely - The way she hid her ears behind the hairs, the way she tucked the hem of sari in the waist and dropped it running down her shoulders so that the exposed part of her stomach was not visible, the slight trace of lisp in her language, the childlike behviour and innocence that hadn’t lost their appeal in her eyes and gestures.

Kesavan was sure that Neela had put a lot of effort into attracting his attention. “Am I that sort to fall for her or what?” Kesavan thought as he was still watching her.

“Kesavan is looking at my side for at least fifty or sixty times a day” Neela surmised. She didn’t reject it as a petty offering from a simple devotee in appreciation of her beauty and lure, but accepted it instead. When she met her dream man, she would joke about this simple devotee with him. The more Kesavan kept ogling at her, the more her hope and desires about her dream man grew stronger. The power of her beauty and the possibilities were now crystal clear. She possessed an exemplary beauty that was capable of making anyone turn their head again. She possessed such curves. The dream man would never miss her anyway. How lucky he must be!

Even her anger toward everyone in the section had begun to recede now. It was because when she replied to their questions, when she walked to them on some pretext of some work, she in fact replied for Kesavan; she walked for Kesavan. The truths around her had suddenly disappeared. They had become the world she had been cherishing for her dream man.

Even in the eyes of Kesavan, the world had changed a lot. All of a sudden, he had understood his indispensability and importance. He felt that he had become aloof from the crowd where he was one of the nameless men who would clap his hands sitting in the gallery, one of the staunch fans of an actress, and one of those weak men who would collect the sprinkles of eyes and the scatters of colours of women walking along the pathways. He realized a beauty was blooming every single day just to seek his appreciation and discernment. It was a poem written exclusively for him; It was a painting drawn for him. It was music played for him. It was a movie with an exclusive script written and directed for him. What a unique matter to be proud of!

Sometimes, he felt that he wouldn’t be able to control his enthusiasm. He wanted to stop the unknown people he ran into on the road and tell them everything. Standing atop the multi storeyed buildings, he wanted to boast his secrets to the clouds. He was indispensable; different. Irrespective of the value, he had been the one who got an opportunity and honour which no one else hadn’t.

Kesavan began worrying.

He realized that he, once considered a free bird without any worries, had been imprisoned in an eccentric jail against his will. He realized that, he, once a boat that travelled across waters without a shore as per the whims of waves, had now been tied at a corner near the shore. He couldn’t accept this change wholeheartedly. At the same time, he was unable to release himself from its clutch. Viewing it from a particular angle, it appeared as a mammoth defeat and a decline. But there was an element of lure in that defeat. A mysterious depth and beauty were in it. Fearing fac that defeat, and at the same time being unable to retreat, he was overtly confused, and worried.

One day, he smiled at Neela when he met her in a movie hall along with her friends. She also smiled back. He was a little confident. Whenever they found themselves amusing each other with smiles and in light-hearted chatters and cacophony, their eyes were looking for each other. Their grins met. The uneasiness ran like an electric wave between them. There could be only one meaning to her sight. Her smile could carry only one meaning. Yet, he was unable to arrive at a conclusion. Then he finally concluded: ‘Why should I unnecessarily break my head when she was clear about her decision? Let her decision be the one taken for me as well. Why should I disappoint her? Is my quest for the perfect beauty bigger than the mental fulfilment of a woman? Would I be able to enjoy any beauty while carrying the curses of a broken heart in my conscience, and two accusing eyes in my heart? Would I be able to involve in anything wholeheartedly? Now I have been caught in a fix. My heart which was clean and empty had now been blocked by a particular image colossally. Now there was only one thing I could do’ Yes. Only one thing that I could do. Kesavan came to a resolute conclusion.

One day, when Neela left the office in the evening, Kesavan also left along with her. Seeing her face not showing signs of irritation, he grew comfortable.

“To your house?” he asked. Stupid question anyway.

“Yes”

“Can we have a cup of coffee somewhere?”

It was visible that she wasn’t prepared for this question. Her face became red. Regaining her composure, she said, “No. I think I can’t”

“Why?”

“I have some work”

“I don’t believe it”

She walked on without replying. Kesavan became uneasy. ‘Is that all for which I have been breaking my skull?’ “Please” he caught her hand, as he was visibly emotional. That was it. She yanked his hand, released hers, stared sternly at him once and sped away from there.

Kesavan stood there, watching her walk fast.

‘Chee! What an impudence!’ while standing at the bus stand, while sitting with a newspaper after changing her dress, she remained angry with Kesavan. ‘Idiot! What is he thinking of himself? What is he thinking of her? Having coffee? That too, with him? What a desire! How brazen he is! That too, by holding my hand!’

‘Che…Virtues have no value these days. How dare he take it wrong if she treated everyone selflessly with a smile just to drive away the stress and dryness around her and to spread the rays of her beauty everywhere? How dare he behave foolishly like this? She wasn’t even ready to forgive her petty devotee. She thought that he had breached the boundaries she had set for him. He, who was supposed to stop at the entrance shouldn’t have entered the sanctum sanctorum,’ she thought. Just because she had kept her windows open with a clean heart, he shouldn’t have taken advantage of it to jump into it’, she thought. All her thoughts were trying to establish both Kesavan’s mistakes as well as innocence.

He was guilty. He was guilty because he had misunderstood her clean heart. When she left for the office next day, she resolved that she wouldn’t speak to him anymore. But Kesavan didn’t come to the office that day.

‘Hmm…is he trying to evoke self-sympathy? Or is he trying to show his displeasure by leaving his chair empty? Or is he trying to garner my sympathy?’ she thought, as if she was still unconcerned. She tried her best to get away from thinking about him and being unaffected by his thoughts. But would anyone be able to control one’s thoughts? Would anyone be able to bear by distinguishing desire and hatred? She couldn’t avoid the thoughts about him flashing and disappearing in her mind.

Sitting back at her home, she was searching for the most plausible justification to reject the thoughts about him. She tried to ignore him as one of the employees working in her section and recreate herself as she used to be earlier. But she couldn’t succeed in it. Her mind had drawn a different picture about Kesavan in her heart that he was an individual with some specific temperaments and taste, and above all, he was deeply interested in her through his words and looks. She failed in destroying this image of him. She couldn’t throw him out again just like anyone who was faceless, nameless, and shapeless in a crowd who had no impact on her.

‘Will he also think about me, only about me now? May be. Who knows? What a strange inescapable phenomenon it is! At this moment, anyone who knew her might be thinking about her in different ways, without her knowledge, without her permission. She wouldn’t be able to know all their thoughts about her. Neither could she rein it nor change it. It was impossible for her to release herself from them.

What would Kesavan think now? Would he think she was arrogant? Or merciless? Let him think whatever he wanted. But…But…is he very sad about all these? Is he rebuking himself for his mistakes and toil in self-pity?’ These fictional thoughts held her in fear and embarrassment. “How can I be responsible for someone’s pain for thinking about me?’ she tried to comfort herself. She tried to divert her imagination in the love songs she was listening in the radio and the face of a young man she saw in an advertisement found in the newspaper. But, all of a sudden, they all appeared fake, lifeless, and meaningless. Her heart was still thinking about Kesavan again and again. He was a truth she had seen alive and active who had spoken to her.

The next day, Kesavan came to the office. But he was not old Kesavan; not the old enthusiastic Kesavan. Not looking around, not smiling at anyone, he remained serious in his work. Neela observed his changes but remained quiet as if she hadn’t noticed any of his changes. She expected that Kesavan would tell her ‘I am sorry’ whenever he found a ripe opportunity. But she was unaware that Kesavan had put himself into a severe test of soul purification during that one-day leave and had attained a state of emptiness by losing faith in women, their glances, their laughter, and the meanings of it.

That day, after lunch, he and she were alone for some time in the section. She expected that Kesavan would approach her to speak. But he didn’t. They had similar opportunities the next day and the day that followed. But Kesavan didn’t show any interest in using them.

“Must be very angry” she thought.

The heat of his indifference and his polite way of dealing with her without looking into her face even when he had to speak with her about office related matters looked interesting and funny. At the same time, when she could guess the disappointment and agony behind that anger, she felt pity for him. “Damn mad guy” she wondered. ‘Why couldn’t he understand my situation? She thought. She was a woman. She had to be careful about the possible slander society would throw at her. It isn’t a movie or a drama for a woman to go freely along with a man for a coffee’.

While she was seriously thinking that the very invitation for a cup of coffee itself was wrong on his part, she was trying to justify her action that she wouldn’t be able to accept his action even if it was right. Despite that, she was unable to come out of guilt and uneasiness. ‘Should I have used more refined words that time? Should I have behaved a bit more lovingly? I could have managed the situation wisely without hurting him while keeping myself away from that situation.’

It was she who was overtly thinking about him. He didn’t show any sign of worry about her.

He almost stopped looking at her side. He had started reducing the time of sitting on his chair as much as he could. His completely indifferent attitude didn’t disturb her night’s sleep anyway although she was greatly troubled by an emptiness shaking her up inside. She felt that a bulb which was burning brightly in her had now fused. She could move without that bulb anyway. Yet, she could feel the difference. The defect was very much visible.

She couldn’t take an interest in decking herself and make her look appealing like earlier. They just appeared as plain excuses to cheat herself. She couldn’t repose her earlier faith in her beauty which she thought brimming with a tejas, capable of bringing her dream man kneel in front of her. She was unable to be resolute and proud of its charm and influence. The foundation on which she erected a flamboyant bungalow had now become a dubious idea. “Was her charm this weak to be neglected? Wasn’t her beauty person capable of making one mad, permanently intoxicated from which he would never be able to come out? Was Kesavan’s love for her also accidental? Or was it just her illusion that she thought he had fallen in love with her? Was it that she had lost her chance like a mad person when he approached her, maybe out of a momentary emotion under a subconscious state? Would such chances ever happen in her life again? May be not. Then, she had to settle down with a bridegroom selected by her parents and the astrologer. How horrible would that be?

“I am a great fool” she rebuked herself. Kesavan had a moustache. So what? He was wheat complexioned. So what? He was Kesavan. Very much familiar to her. A person about whom no one would say anything bad. “Hmm…these women…” while nearing his office in the morning, Kesavan smiled exasperatedly, like a man of experience and wisdom. ‘They seek attention. But no one should see them. One can take concessions from them; at the same time, one shouldn’t take it too. The wind should be gushy, but the sari shouldn’t flap’, he thought.

‘These women are highly volatile. Cheats. Bitches. One shouldn’t trust them’ Kesavan entered his office as his mind was restless. Dandapani was arguing with Srinivasan about something loudly. Ganapathy Raman, for his part, was complaining about something to Kuppusamy. Neela…

Kesavan looked at her side nonchalantly. He was stunned. She was wearing the sari, the same sari she was wearing when he asked her to have a coffee. He glanced at her face. He observed the naughtiness and mirth found in her eyes. Pursing his lips, he lowered his eyes. No. He wouldn’t afford to face another disappointment. After marking his attendance, he went to his chair. Sat down. He opened a file. Again, the jingling of bangles. He didn’t raise his head. “Big queen or what?” he thought. ‘She expects I should dance to her tunes? Minutes passed as she was trying to get his attention and he was avoiding it silently. Suddenly, peon Parankusam entered the section with two coffee tumblers. He kept one tumbler on Neela’s table. Neela gestured to him to keep another tumbler on Kesavan’s table. Parankusam did it.

Kesavan raised his head, “What is this?”

“I ordered it for you” Neela said with a smile. “You like coffee. Right?”

Kesavan fumbled as he didn’t expect such a situation. He was not prepared to face such a Situation, if at all, one such thing ever happened. He felt retaliating with something harsh.

“Have coffee sir. It gets cold” Parankusam said.

Neela picked her glass, waiting for him to pick his, so that both could drink coffee together. Her eyes were full of confidence and hope. Kesavan could feel his defeat. He began drinking the coffee. He had earlier thought of getting angry with her for everything, and explaining certain things to her. But now, everything seemed unnecessary and meaningless. Being cordial in her presence would be better anyway, he thought.

“Thanks for the coffee” he said.

“Thanks for drinking it” she replied. She must have thought of telling him something more. But she hesitated to speak anything since she feared it might go wrong, and threw a smile at him instead. He also smiled back at her.

Both wanted to win over each other. But now they were sitting, after being defeated by each other.

***Ended***