Is it the fate of my generation merely to spill blood, fight in the name of religion, and to become nameless corpses on the streets?
Brushing aside the fog that’s gathered without shedding a drop, Gowri would walk in, like sunlight emerging in the rain. Swishing the pleats of her zari lehenga, made from her mother’s sari, she came carrying a little tray filled with sesame seeds, jaggery and sugarcane. This marked the official start of our household’s Uttaraayana festival season. Her eyes were full of festive joy. I’d get the feeling that even Bhishma Pitamaha would hold on to his fading breath on his bed of arrows just so he could get an eyeful of her joy.
At the moment, Gowri’s excitement is about a wedding. Yesterday, in the morning, she came over with somebody’s sari and badgered me: “Akka, teach me how to wear a sari.” Forget about knowing how to wear a sari; even if someone helped me wear one, I’d be one of those dunces who would have trouble walking in it without stumbling. Searching all over the Internet and Youtube, I somehow figured out how to get the pleats right, but the sun had already set by then.
Gowri is the granddaughter of Chennappajja, a close friend of my grandfather. Theirs was a friendship spanning decades. Chennappajja seldom made…
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Published October 1, 2026