Sachin's century

A short-story I wrote few months back. Originally wrote it in Tamil and later translated it to English for my friends (and as an exercise in translation).
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SriRamaJayam adorned the top of the page and then she dated it (wondering if it was the first or the second). ‘Safe’, she marked it in the right corner of the letter - an augury that the letter bore no ill news and that it could be read without alarm and then the salutation; Dearmost Mum n Dad. What an antiquated custom! Just as beginning something invoking the blessing of Rama; writing; hand-writing a letter to the ‘worried’ parents. And this even after two-three years of marriage. This in spite of speaking over the phone at least once a week, a conversation which would typically go, “So! What did you cook today? Lady’s finger is cheap this season”. An antiquated custom, a tradition indeed. Her mother, on her part would write twice a month. Without fail. (She loathed the computer with all her heart and all my efforts to educate her to use the internet to send mails failed miserably. I have given up now).

Twice a month. The first one would arrive promptly on the 10th with the standard question - “Any good news?” and the second one around month end would question exasperatedly, “What do you two actually do?” and then in a more concerned tone, “Is everything alright?”

And I will, without chafe, reply, “No!”, “No!”. To both letters. Father would at times scribble at the end, two lines - “Be happy my child. My blessings”

Today, writing a letter is not a tedious chore. It is a delight. For there is news. Happy news. Not just a mere “Fine and hope everything there is fine”. My cheerfulness dripped in the letter as ink. A joyous state that words cannot express. But I continued.

Bhuvana writes thus with fond regards. I pen this letter today floating among a million stars. Emotions unheard of, unfelt before, flood my heart, my whole being. A rare experience, I have lived through. And felt the feeling of completeness. Content that I was born and have lived this life. Ecstatic as being crowned the Empress of all world.

Marriage, I have understood. It’s meaning. It’s significance. Nope! It is not what you think it is. I am not pregnant. Yet. (But I think I AM ready for it now). The cause for my thrill is Sachin’s century yesterday. Fear not; I haven’t become yet another cricket fanatic (Is Babu studying for his exams in between his cricket? His semester exams aren’t far - ask him to work hard!) Well! Sachin’s century was no mere century. It was a miracle.

This is what happened. Sundar was watching the match on the Television, having bunked office. And I figured some snack to munch through the game would be nice and made preparations to cook pakkoda. Chopped the onions, set the pan with oil on the gas and made my batter when I realized that the salt in my dropper was empty. Our grocery carton had arrived the day before and was in the top shelf, beyond the reach of my puny self. And it was heavy. Really heavy. So what could I do. I just called Sundar to give me a hand, as I always did.

And he came. Immediately. With a big smile and a “Whats up?” He fetched the carton for me. Opened the salt refill, poured it to my salt-dropper, spilled it, cleaned the spill, teased me, cuddled me, tasted the batter for salt (praised the magic of my hands), asked if he could do more and then went back to his cricket.

Little did I realize until then that Sachin had been batting on ninety-nine. The cheer of the crowd and the loud voice of the commentator from my neighbour’s TV informed me that Sachin had indeed reached his century. That moment when the whole nation of a billion circket fans waited with bated breath to watch their hero attain the ton, that moment I had stolen from Sundar. And all for some salt. Salt that could have waited. Folly! Oh! What a wretch am I!

Still, without the slightest hint of hesitation, without pleading for another two minutes, without keeping his eyes, ears and heart on the match, and without just fetching the box and rushing back, Sundar had come. O! That moment. That gesture that proclaimed, “My silly girl! You mean more to me than anything in the world. What is Sachin and his century worth to me? Is cricket important? No. It is you, my love. You and your salt dropper. You and your onion pakkoda, the smile on your lips, and your happiness”.

In that moment I was enlightened with the vision of life. And of love. I understood the import of the word ‘intimacy’ in a relationship. That fleeting moment I caught the glimpse of a ‘soul mate’, my soul-mate. Buddha’s Bodhi tree, this Sachin’s century. I realized that a spontaneous deed, a spur-of-the-moment expression of love is more precious than a million rehearsed confessions of love; gifts, songs, poems, ‘love-you darling’s and ‘miss-you sweetheart’s. What can temper tantrums and morning bouts of yelling do to us now? Love. We love.

Anyway, shall talk to you on Sunday. Same time. Take care.

Regards,
Bhuvana

Saroja Ammal, proud homemaker of the last thirty years, laughed. Derision. “Sachin, salt-dropper, pakkoda* and intimacy. It is disgusting. More than two years since they got married and they can’t even have a child yet. Soul mates. Bodhi tree. What crap!”

Ramabhadrar, retired bank manager shed tears. His heart welled with pride as did his eyes. My daughter! He sent a prayer to bless her.

His wife carried on. “This generation! Bookish folks. They read some fancy philosophy and psychology books and keep blabbering about intimacy and soul-mates. My God! Only He has to save them. Enough!” and then ordered, “Sit down for dinner. It is about time for ‘Sorgam**’. Don’t want to miss the beginning. I’ll serve your meal”

* pakkoda - a snack made of besan and deep fried in oil
** Sorgam - a popular TV soap in Tamil Nadu