Serious Men

looked at him with a bright smile. They heard the faint voice of Sister Chastity barking orders.
    ‘What’s wrong with girls these days?’ she said, as she entered the room. She sank into her swivel chair and said angrily, ‘A girl has fainted. Her mother says that after she has a meal she goes to the bathroom, puts her finger inside her throat and pukes out everything she has eaten. She is twelve you see. So Madam came to school having puked her breakfast at home. What happens? She falls down in the corridor. That’s what happens. Lord, what’s wrong with these girls?’
    ‘Is she fat?’ Ayyan asked curiously.
    ‘She is a bit on the plump side.’
    ‘She wants to lose weight?’
    ‘Obviously.’
    ‘So she vomits the food she eats?’
    ‘Yes,’ Sister Chastity said.
    ‘You should give her one slap,’ he said.
    ‘She is all right now. We sprinkled some water on her face and gave her glucose.’
    ‘You didn’t understand,’ Ayyan said. ‘You should give her one good slap.’
    ‘No no, we don’t do that kind of thing here.’
    Sister Chastity called the name of the peon, thumping the bell on her desk. The peon peeped from the doorway.
    ‘Ask them to come in,’ she said. ‘OK, Mr Mani. Sorry for wasting your time. I’ve to sit with the quiz committee now. Adi, go to your class.’
    As the father and son left the room, they saw the three teachers enter. Cordial smiles were exchanged once again. Ayyan took his son to the base of the stairway that led to his classroom. He fished out a notebook from the boy’s bag and tore off several pages. Adi put his hand on his head. ‘What are you doing?’ he asked. Ayyan took a pencil from his box.
    ‘Adi, now go to the class,’ he said, giving him the bag. ‘And, remember, all this is our secret.’ Ayyan extended his little finger. Adi locked it with his.
    ‘But what is the secret?’
    ‘What I did in the room.’
    ‘Why should that be a secret?’
    ‘Adi, run now.’
    The deafening sound of the morning bell startled them both. They looked at each other for a moment. And they laughed. ‘Go now,’ Ayyan said.
    He watched as the boy made his way up the stairs. Then he put his mobile to his ear and poised the pencil against the pages he had torn from Adi’s notebook. As he walked towards the black wrought-iron gate, Sister Chastity’s room came alive in his ear. They were talking, and they were talking about the quiz. He stood in a peaceful back lane near the school listening to their conversation. But he could glean only six questions.

I T WAS AROUSING. Oja Mani’s hair was bundled into a thin white towel. The back of her red nightgown was wet. Her silver anklets lay feebly at her turmeric yellow ankles. It was a sight that always made Ayyan look furtively at what his son was doing. In the freshness of marriage, when he used to see her like this, he would pester her to take off all her clothes, except the towel. In time, she refused to yield. But that did not cure him. This post-bath image of the woman that disturbed his peace so easily was also the most enduring symbol of a housewife. He had seen it in the Tamil soaps that Oja was addicted to. Housewives shrouded their hair in a towel. Working women used hairdryers.
    Oja opened the steel cupboard, aware that he was watching. The hierarchy in the cupboard had not changed ever since she had established it. The lowest rung was for the grains. Above it were the spices and pickles and then there were special plates for guests. The top three rungs were for clothes. In a blue plastic box were her ancestral ornaments that always reminded her of her good fate. ‘It does not matter if it’s with me or if it’s with you, my child,’ her mother had said before her marriage, ‘it will be his when he threatens to burn you with kerosene.’
    Oja took out four of her best saris and showed them to him. He walked to her side to get a better look. She was surprised at how seriously he was taking this. He pointed to the only sari that did not shine. It was a blue cotton sari with small white squares.
    ‘There will be a lot of rich people,’ he said, ‘and rich women laugh at women who wear shiny clothes in the day.’
    ‘How do you know so much about rich women?’
    ‘And no fat gold necklace. What you are wearing is all right. It’s thin. It’s good.’
    ‘But it is an important day, you said.’
    ‘Important does not mean gold any more.’
    She frowned, but conceded. In these matters, he was