he needed a body sheath, given his hairy arms and chest.
‘Orunimishum,’ I said ‘what happened?’
‘Your son speaks Tamil?’ Shipra masi said to my mother.
My mother rolled her eyes.
‘No, I don’t. It’s a common word for wait a second,’ I said.
‘Now he belongs to them. They’ll make him do anything,’ my mother lamented
loudly.
‘Mom, please. Let me resolve this,’ I said.
‘What will you resolve? They will make us cook food also,’ my mother said.
‘Everybody, please sit in the dining hall,’ I said then turned to the chef. ‘Can’t
you make something?’
‘Who will make tiffin then? We have to serve it at eleven,’ the chef said.
I checked my watch. It was nine-thirty. My family would have medical
emergencies if kept hungry for that long.
‘We want something now,’ I said, ‘anything quick.’
‘What about tiffin?’ the chef said.
‘We don’t want tiffin. We’ll only come back for lunch later.’
‘Girl’s side wants tiffin. They came for breakfast at 6.30,’ the chef said.
Rajji mama came up to me. ‘Bribe him,’ he whispered.
I thought about the ethics of bribing at my own wedding to feed myself.
‘Wokay, I go now, I am busy,’ the chef said and mumbled to himself, ‘pundai
maganey, thaayoli koodhi.’
‘Anna, wait,’ I said.
The chef looked at me in amazement. How can a person with a heavy Delhi
accent toss in a Tamil word or two?
nora
(Nora)
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