17
‘Swaminathan’, the name plate of Ananya’s small standalone house proclaimed in
arched letters. I pressed the doorbell even as a buzzing grinder drowned the ring.
‘Yes?’ Ananya’s father opened the door with a puzzled expression. I bet he
recognised me but feigned ignorance to rattle me. He wore a half-sleeve white
vest with a front pocket and a checked blue and white lungi.
‘Krish, sir, Ananya’s friend,’ I said. For no particular reason, fear makes me
address people as sir. I had brought a gift pack of biscuits, as my Punjabi
sensibilities had taught me to never go to someone’s house without at least as
many calories as you would consume there.
‘Oh, come in,’ he said after I reintroduced myself.
I stepped inside and handed him the gift pack.
‘Shoes!’ he said in a stern voice when I had expected ‘thanks’.
‘What?’ I said.
He pointed at the shoe rack outside the house.
I removed my shoes and checked my socks for smells and holes. I decided to
take them off too, I went inside.
‘Don’t step on the rangoli,’ he warned.
I looked down. My right foot rested on a rice flour flower pattern. ‘Sorry, I am
really sorry, sir,’ I said and bent down to repair the pattern.
‘It’s OK. It can’t be fixed now,’ he said and ushered me into the living room.
The long rectangular room looked like what would be left if a Punjabi drawing was
robbed. The sofas were simple, with cushions thinner than Indian Railways
sleepers had and from the opposite of the decadent red velvet sofas Pammi
aunty. The walls had a pale green distemper finish. There were pictures of various
South Indian gods all around the room. The dining area had floor seating. At one
corner, there was a daybed with a tambura (which looks like a sitar) kept on it. An
old man sat there. I wondered if Ananya’s parents were cool enough to arrange
live music for dinner.
‘Sit,’ Ananya’s father said, pointing at the sofa.