Half A House

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28-year old Madhav is visiting his wacky but lovable grandparents in the village (in South India). This is an excerpt from my work-in-progress. Would appreciate thoughts and suggestions.

Glossary

Tataiyya                      Grandfather

Nainamma                   Paternal grandmother

Garu                            Added after a person’s name as a sign of respect

Namaskaram               Traditional greetings

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Madhav looked at the early morning sunlight streaming in. Five more days of doing nothing! Sighing in pleasure, he jumped out of bed. He had a sudden desire to sit in the courtyard with his grandmother and drink his first coffee of the day. He hurriedly brushed his teeth, then went in search of her.

Nainamma was in the kitchen – no surprise there – stirring something over the gas stove.  Her hair was completely white, in startling contrast to the brown of her skin. Her skin stretched tightly across raised cheekbones. If Madhav hadn’t known for certain that plastic surgeons had yet find their way to Gopanpally, he’d have been very suspicious of his grandmother’s smooth skin. Every alternate tooth was missing, from use or abuse, he couldn’t tell, but all those that remained were stained red from the betel leaf she constantly chewed. The missing teeth, along with the huge diamond stud embedded in her nose, gave his grandmother a rather cute air, Madhav thought, though his grandmother would be mortified to know that. Her one concession to vanity was the crisply starched Venkatagiri cotton saris she favoured, the loose end tucked at the waist. 

There was also something endearing about the way she stood atop the stool – because she could no longer reach the top of the pan on the stove – stirring away vigorously, her multi-hued glass bangles, interspersed with gold ones, jangling in rhythm.

His stomach growled in response to the delicious smells. Walking to the counter, he put his hand out to snag a freshly fried vada.

Nainamma slapped his hand away. “How many times I have to tell you, I have to offer it to the Gods before you can have it.”

Madhav grinned as she continued to mutter under her breath about badly raised, godless city boys.

He breathed in the aroma. “What is that curry? Cabbage?”

Nainamma swung her head around, a look of disbelief on her face. “See what happens when you stay away for so long? Forgotten all our vegetables. Shamelessly hankering for English ones.” 

Madhav laughed out loud. Nothing had changed. His crusty old grandmother still refused entry into her kitchen to all vegetables ‘English’ – potatoes, tomatoes, beans, carrots, cauliflower and, of course, cabbage. Never mind the British were long gone, and their vegetables were now as Indian as anything else.

“Come and have coffee with me,” Madhav said, trying to cajole his grandmother.

“You think this is a 9-to-5 job?”

“9-to-5?” Madhav teased. “Granny, you’re zipping along in the 21st century.” 

She smacked him on the shoulder. “Go away, you manner-less boy. I have import-ment things to do.” For all Nainamma’s insistence on being traditional, she loved to sprinkle her Telugu with mispronounced English words. ‘Mod-run’ – for modern – was another favourite.

“Have coffee with me.” He wrapped his arm around her in a hug and was batted away for his efforts. “Please?”

“What is wrong with you youngsters? Always thinking you are only import-ment. Go away.”

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⏰ Last updated: Nov 07, 2013 ⏰

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