Compromises
Colonel Shekhar settled into the comfortable deck chair on the roof top of Paradise Apartments. He sipped his first cup of filter coffee and inhaled the smoke from his first cigarette. He patted his impressive moustache in place. It was early. It would take some time before his neighbor would come up to water the beautiful orchid garden on the other side of the common roof top. Colonel Shekhar surveyed the tall palms swaying in the dewy dawn breeze. A mynah couple hopped and chirped in unison. He began to ruminate about his career in the Indian Army and retired life in Kerala.
Somewhere across the narrow street a motorcycle revved up noisily, momentarily breaking the harmony of the hour.
In his flat below, the morning hustle and bustle had begun. Mrs. Shyamala Shekhar was preparing an elaborate breakfast. Her brows knitted in concentration as she poured the appam batter into the center of a deep skillet. The batter sizzled and formed a thin lacy pancake, as she deftly swiveled the skillet. She then turned to add some salt and pepper to the simmering stew before brewing some more filter coffee. “Rachana!” she called out to her daughter. Rachana was sitting in front of the vanity table mirror, by the curtained window. She was carefully threading away the unwanted hair from her brow. Every now and then, she paused in her quick and precise movements to take in the aromas and noises coming from her mother’s kitchen. From the corner of her right eye, she observed a young man kick-start the motorcycle engine, before riding away. “Yes ma,” she said getting up to join her father, who had come down for breakfast.
“Adhe. Yes.” said Col. Shekhar answering the telephone call that interrupted their breakfast. “Oh. No. I do not want to talk to Pradeep,” he continued as Rachana and her mother exchanged knowing glances. “That was Pradeep’s friend,” he told them after he had hung up. “Pradeep’s wife delivered a baby boy this morning”. “Oh!” said his wife, rejoicing openly at becoming a grandmother. “How is the baby?” she asked eagerly. “How many times have I told you that there will be no talk of Pradeep in this house, as long as I am alive!” said Col. Shekhar coldly, his suppressed anger surfacing to choke him. He left the room, his breakfast half eaten.
Commanded by the Colonel, the Shekhar family, for many years, had marched through life in an orderly manner. There had been disappointments. Pradeep had quit medical school in his second year to pursue a career in dramatics, against his father’s wishes. He had then gone on to marry a divorcee and settle down in Chennai. Chagrined by the disobedience, Shekhar had disowned his son. Shekhar’s own military career had also taken an untoward turn, when his promotion to Brigadier was passed over. Spurned and insulted, he had retired before time.
Rachana helped her mother clear away the breakfast things. “I know Pradeep disappointed us, but your Daddy can be a little more forgiving,” said Shyamala to her daughter through her tears. “Will I ever see my grandchild?” she lamented as she threw away the carefully prepared appam, which the Colonel had left uneaten, into the rubbish bin. Rachana shrugged and shook her head. She had learned to be quietly apathetic to her parents’ prejudices. While she never confronted her aloof father, she sometimes tried to reason with her more approachable mother. “What has Pradeep really done, ma? Is marrying a divorcee so unpardonable?” she asked before leaving to ready herself for college.
That evening, Rachana joined her mother in the balcony with her book. Her mother prattled on about her day at home. At the sound of the approaching motorcycle, Rachana quickly patted her curls in place and looked down blushing to meet the interested eyes of the returning motorcyclist. “Your Daddy has found an alliance for you. A nice boy of our Ezhava caste, settled in Amerikya,” her mother was saying. “Are you listening?" insisted her mother, following her gaze. “We would like you to marry a boy of our choice,” she added watching her daughter’s cheeks redden as she locked gazes with the rider.
In the following weeks, Col. Shekhar busied himself with the task of strengthening the prospective matrimonial alliance for his daughter. He spent hours on the phone talking to various people related to the likely suitor. His wife spent her days bustling about the flat, doing her household chores, and intermittently pining for her estranged son. Very often, she listened in on her husband’s phone conversations, hoping to catch a juicy detail.
Meanwhile, Rachana’s smoldering romance with her reticent motorcyclist was kindled aglow by their chance encounter at the temple. They exchanged sultry glances in the flickering light of the many tiered oil lamp. The new lovers began meeting frequently in the sanctuary of the temple surroundings. Hand in hand, they walked by the lotus pond at dusk in the light breeze. Rachana laid her head on the young man’s shoulder. “My father will never approve of an intercaste marriage,” she said sighing.
One afternoon, Mrs. Shyamala Shekhar hurried into her daughter’s room. “Your Daddy just told me that some prospective in laws are coming to see you tomorrow,” she said pausing to catch her breath. “You know, that boy from Amerikya?” she added to pique Rachana’s interest. “You should wear that new red sari with the ruby set. Are you listening? Are you going out?” she continued, excitedly. “ Hmm? To the temple, Mummy. That’s all,” said Rachana, lining her eyes and applying a generous coat of lipstick on her full lips. “Did you hear what I said? I think I will make plantain chips and potato cutlets tomorrow,” planned Mrs. Shekhar. “Ok ma,” said her daughter looking in the vanity mirror to study her makeup before leaving home for her appointed tryst.
After coffee the next morning, Col. Shekhar decided to take a turn in his neighbor’s roof garden, before going downstairs to his flat to prepare for his visitors. The orchids were flowering in a profusion of cheery colors. They nodded in the morning breeze as he approached to study them more closely. He was particularly drawn to the large purple and white phalaenopsis variety.
As he looked into its complex architectural details, his eyes grew misty for he remembered his days as a young military officer in the Kashmir valley. A long forgotten brief romantic encounter with a beautiful Pahaari maiden in the lush Himalayan village flashed though his mind. “I will come back,” he had promised, handing her a large purple and white orchid. But he never returned. Instead, he had married Shyamala, the girl his parents had already picked for him, when he returned home to Kerala. He remained still, thinking.
The familiar sound of his neighbor’s motorcycle broke his early morning reverie.
Col. Shekhar drew in a long breath bringing his mind to the present. “Hmmm…,” he pondered. “I will ask Rachana if she has anyone in mind before I propose the perfect boy for her”. Col. Shekhar’s face softened as he took one more look at the happy orchid. His moustaches curled upwards slightly as he broke into a smile at his own resolution.
On the other side of town Rachana hugged her future husband tightly, as he steered the motorcycle, towards the highway.
Rama Shivakumar is a short story writer who has published her work in literary journals including Muse India, Cerebration and Word Masala. Some of her short stories have also been translated into Italian and will appear in an e-book showcasing emerging Indian writers. Hailing from Bangalore, Rama now lives in Bethesda, Maryland with her husband and three-year-old daughter. She works as a scientist in a biotechnology firm and has participated in workshops at the Writer's Center in Bethesda.
Colonel Shekhar settled into the comfortable deck chair on the roof top of Paradise Apartments. He sipped his first cup of filter coffee and inhaled the smoke from his first cigarette. He patted his impressive moustache in place. It was early. It would take some time before his neighbor would come up to water the beautiful orchid garden on the other side of the common roof top. Colonel Shekhar surveyed the tall palms swaying in the dewy dawn breeze. A mynah couple hopped and chirped in unison. He began to ruminate about his career in the Indian Army and retired life in Kerala.
Somewhere across the narrow street a motorcycle revved up noisily, momentarily breaking the harmony of the hour.
In his flat below, the morning hustle and bustle had begun. Mrs. Shyamala Shekhar was preparing an elaborate breakfast. Her brows knitted in concentration as she poured the appam batter into the center of a deep skillet. The batter sizzled and formed a thin lacy pancake, as she deftly swiveled the skillet. She then turned to add some salt and pepper to the simmering stew before brewing some more filter coffee. “Rachana!” she called out to her daughter. Rachana was sitting in front of the vanity table mirror, by the curtained window. She was carefully threading away the unwanted hair from her brow. Every now and then, she paused in her quick and precise movements to take in the aromas and noises coming from her mother’s kitchen. From the corner of her right eye, she observed a young man kick-start the motorcycle engine, before riding away. “Yes ma,” she said getting up to join her father, who had come down for breakfast.
“Adhe. Yes.” said Col. Shekhar answering the telephone call that interrupted their breakfast. “Oh. No. I do not want to talk to Pradeep,” he continued as Rachana and her mother exchanged knowing glances. “That was Pradeep’s friend,” he told them after he had hung up. “Pradeep’s wife delivered a baby boy this morning”. “Oh!” said his wife, rejoicing openly at becoming a grandmother. “How is the baby?” she asked eagerly. “How many times have I told you that there will be no talk of Pradeep in this house, as long as I am alive!” said Col. Shekhar coldly, his suppressed anger surfacing to choke him. He left the room, his breakfast half eaten.
Commanded by the Colonel, the Shekhar family, for many years, had marched through life in an orderly manner. There had been disappointments. Pradeep had quit medical school in his second year to pursue a career in dramatics, against his father’s wishes. He had then gone on to marry a divorcee and settle down in Chennai. Chagrined by the disobedience, Shekhar had disowned his son. Shekhar’s own military career had also taken an untoward turn, when his promotion to Brigadier was passed over. Spurned and insulted, he had retired before time.
Rachana helped her mother clear away the breakfast things. “I know Pradeep disappointed us, but your Daddy can be a little more forgiving,” said Shyamala to her daughter through her tears. “Will I ever see my grandchild?” she lamented as she threw away the carefully prepared appam, which the Colonel had left uneaten, into the rubbish bin. Rachana shrugged and shook her head. She had learned to be quietly apathetic to her parents’ prejudices. While she never confronted her aloof father, she sometimes tried to reason with her more approachable mother. “What has Pradeep really done, ma? Is marrying a divorcee so unpardonable?” she asked before leaving to ready herself for college.
That evening, Rachana joined her mother in the balcony with her book. Her mother prattled on about her day at home. At the sound of the approaching motorcycle, Rachana quickly patted her curls in place and looked down blushing to meet the interested eyes of the returning motorcyclist. “Your Daddy has found an alliance for you. A nice boy of our Ezhava caste, settled in Amerikya,” her mother was saying. “Are you listening?" insisted her mother, following her gaze. “We would like you to marry a boy of our choice,” she added watching her daughter’s cheeks redden as she locked gazes with the rider.
In the following weeks, Col. Shekhar busied himself with the task of strengthening the prospective matrimonial alliance for his daughter. He spent hours on the phone talking to various people related to the likely suitor. His wife spent her days bustling about the flat, doing her household chores, and intermittently pining for her estranged son. Very often, she listened in on her husband’s phone conversations, hoping to catch a juicy detail.
Meanwhile, Rachana’s smoldering romance with her reticent motorcyclist was kindled aglow by their chance encounter at the temple. They exchanged sultry glances in the flickering light of the many tiered oil lamp. The new lovers began meeting frequently in the sanctuary of the temple surroundings. Hand in hand, they walked by the lotus pond at dusk in the light breeze. Rachana laid her head on the young man’s shoulder. “My father will never approve of an intercaste marriage,” she said sighing.
One afternoon, Mrs. Shyamala Shekhar hurried into her daughter’s room. “Your Daddy just told me that some prospective in laws are coming to see you tomorrow,” she said pausing to catch her breath. “You know, that boy from Amerikya?” she added to pique Rachana’s interest. “You should wear that new red sari with the ruby set. Are you listening? Are you going out?” she continued, excitedly. “ Hmm? To the temple, Mummy. That’s all,” said Rachana, lining her eyes and applying a generous coat of lipstick on her full lips. “Did you hear what I said? I think I will make plantain chips and potato cutlets tomorrow,” planned Mrs. Shekhar. “Ok ma,” said her daughter looking in the vanity mirror to study her makeup before leaving home for her appointed tryst.
After coffee the next morning, Col. Shekhar decided to take a turn in his neighbor’s roof garden, before going downstairs to his flat to prepare for his visitors. The orchids were flowering in a profusion of cheery colors. They nodded in the morning breeze as he approached to study them more closely. He was particularly drawn to the large purple and white phalaenopsis variety.
As he looked into its complex architectural details, his eyes grew misty for he remembered his days as a young military officer in the Kashmir valley. A long forgotten brief romantic encounter with a beautiful Pahaari maiden in the lush Himalayan village flashed though his mind. “I will come back,” he had promised, handing her a large purple and white orchid. But he never returned. Instead, he had married Shyamala, the girl his parents had already picked for him, when he returned home to Kerala. He remained still, thinking.
The familiar sound of his neighbor’s motorcycle broke his early morning reverie.
Col. Shekhar drew in a long breath bringing his mind to the present. “Hmmm…,” he pondered. “I will ask Rachana if she has anyone in mind before I propose the perfect boy for her”. Col. Shekhar’s face softened as he took one more look at the happy orchid. His moustaches curled upwards slightly as he broke into a smile at his own resolution.
On the other side of town Rachana hugged her future husband tightly, as he steered the motorcycle, towards the highway.
Rama Shivakumar is a short story writer who has published her work in literary journals including Muse India, Cerebration and Word Masala. Some of her short stories have also been translated into Italian and will appear in an e-book showcasing emerging Indian writers. Hailing from Bangalore, Rama now lives in Bethesda, Maryland with her husband and three-year-old daughter. She works as a scientist in a biotechnology firm and has participated in workshops at the Writer's Center in Bethesda.
