Words are Weariness

Green, Yellow and White,-the girl wearing the waitress's uniform was a refugee, could be an Indian or a Lankan refugee; could be even Guyanese. Black skin, black eyes, black hair, black eyes..even her lipstick and nail polish were black. Her name should have been long with many vowels, she had shrunk it into 'Rathna' in her badge that she had pinned to her dress. She stood at the right distance from the table, not too far removed to see, but not too close to hear the conversation around the table, just as the rule book of waiting at tables says. She knew many other rules of the book. When you serve at the table, you must serve from the left side of the seated guest - Rule No 12. When left overs are removed from the table, you must remove them from the right side of the seated guest - Rule No 11. While adjusting the chair before the guest eases in, you should approach from the left - Rule No 26. If the napkin is folded and kept to the right of the plate it means...

It all happened like this. A Jewish woman had called us for dinner. You may ask me, what was unusual about it. I had been to many gatherings and celebrations with dinner hosted by all kinds of people,- Hindus, Christians, Muslims, Buddhists, but never a Jew. As a result, I and my wife were looking for the appointed day eagerly. Our host's husband was a writer. The novel he wrote was an interesting one , though the writing was not up to the mark. The whole story happens inside a moving train in Siberia. Though he had approached many a producer of films with his story, nobody was courageous enough to make a movie out of it. When we went to Ora's ( that is her name) home that night, her husband was away. She was alone with her mother. It was also for the good, after all, writers need their escape once in a while. She showed us our seats and said that her mother was in the kitchen and would soon join us in our conversations. The dinner table was nearby. We ...

A word smith from Srilanka I have seen from experience that best writing comes from the lands riven by contradictions and strife. You can see that in sub-continental literature, whether from India, Pakistan or Sri Lanka. One of my favourite Srilankan Tamil writers is S. Ponnudurai, generally known by the abbreviated name 'S.Po'. S.Po was born in 1932 in the Jaffna peninsula in a small village called Nallur. He studied in Madras Christian College, Madras and graduated in English literature. He went to work in Nigeria in 1962 as an English teacher and left that country when sectarian clashes convulsed the African state. He migrated to Australia thereafter. Frequently, he spent years in India where from he wrote and published novels and short stories. I have a special liking for his short stories. Often the stories will be entwined in strands of both hope and angst which will make you reflect on the irony of the situation. His 'The Elephant Story...

How could you call a house without a chair a home? So it struck all of us in the house the same time. This issue was immediately placed on the agenda for family discussion. Just the day before we had a family friend visiting us. He was a sub-judge and as our luck would he have it, he came not dressed in Veshti and Shirt but fully suited and booted. All we had in our house was a three-legged stool, which was itself just three-fourth of a foot high. Our grandmother used to sit on it when she whipped curd. Since our grandmother was a little 'broad at the bottom' our grandfather had asked the carpenter to make it a little broader than usual. For want of any alternative we had requested his good self to take his seat on this three-legged affair. The sub-judge himself was a little thick-set; that caused him to place one hand on the edge of the stool before setting himself down on it . The problem with the stool was that if the weight fell on it not in line with...

The maid had not turned up again today.  Her husband was immersed in the newspaper as usual.  Even the phone ringing at the most inconvenient moments __ when she was preparing the omelet for swetha, ironing her school uniforms or somebody knocking at the door, did not seem to have any effect on him. “It is for you”, she said. “Say I am not there”. “I am not used to starting the day with lies” “There is no auspicious time for lying, Savithri”, he said. There was again a knock at the door. He deigned to look who it was. It was the man who bought old newspapers.  “Newspaper Fellow”, he announced, reverting to bury his head into the papers. Everything had to revolve around her. “Not today”, she was speaking to the man at the door, “Had I not asked for your wife to come for work”. “She is already working in 6 other houses”, “might come from the first of next month after she gives up on one of these houses”. “First of next month?” How will I manage till th...