Chitra sat through the ponderous talks. She smiled and waved at a few people she knew and looked around. The Speakers had a stilted style and were quite oblivious of trespassing on another Speaker’s time. Some were insensitive to reminders from the Chair, to wrap up their talk. God, how did they grow such a thick skin? The entire session was an endurance test.

​

A few late comers were ushered in obsequiously.  They were the ‘honoured’ invitees, no doubt with high-powered political connections. They were seated in the front row.  A few others occupied the left end corner of the same front row. They looked like writers, academics, critics and journalists. One man looked familiar.  Chitra tried to recall where she might have met him. Or had she seen his picture in a magazine? She couldn’t quite remember. His cheeks were sucked in, and his smooth, bald pate reflected the lights shining above. Some others who just walked in, greeted him before moving on to the back rows. He returned their greetings with a broad smile which is when she noted that he had very little teeth. That probably accounted for his sunken cheek, she thought, while wondering why she was noting all these depressing details.    

Chitra was amused by the unspoken hierarchy that ruled over the  ‘front row’ and the ‘back row’. She was always comfortable with a back seat. It gave her the liberty to whisper to a friend and exchange words without catching anybody’s attention. But it invariably made some people uneasy. They would instantly request her to move up to the front as if it was very wrong to seek privacy in a public event.  

​

An anthology of stories translated in English from Tamil was on, as a ‘work in progress’.  Chitra was helping the main editor with the nitty-gritty of permissions from authors, acknowledgement regarding when a story was first published and so on.  Written permissions from authors were also needed after the ‘final’ okay given to his/her translator. It was a tedious work that came with ‘back stories.’ Why don’t we compile another collection that had only ‘back stories,’ she mused, for readers interested in glimpsing the lives of writers?  

​

The team of editors had moved on briskly, along with their publisher. The writer Chellappan was one of the few authors who had eluded their grasp. Strangely, he didn’t have an email ID or phone. His friends couldn’t help, because they didn’t know. The publisher wanted one of Chellappan’s early stories, written perhaps when he was young. So, they requested Chitra to attend this event on Tamil fiction as they were sure he would be invited as a senior writer.

​

Over the tea break, Chitra asked the organisers about Chellappan.

​

“He has come, Madam. We’ll take you to him,” offered one of the academics.

At last, thought Chitra. I’ll take Chellappan’s contact details, and then leave for home. She must remember to take his written permission as well, she told herself.  

​

They took her to Chellappan. It was the same man. No wonder he looked familiar. She must have met him a long while ago when she visited Chennai from Delhi. Perhaps a decade has rolled by? 

 

“Vanakkam, Sir. I’m Chitra Natarajan,” she introduced herself, hands folded.

 “Aahh…Vanakkam. You’re Chitra Amma? From Delhi?” he asked.

“Yes Sir. The editor is very pleased to select your story for this Anthology in English translation. Could you kindly give us your written permission, please?”

He looked at her up and down for a moment, and then tore a page out of a notebook on which he scribbled his permission and signed it with the date.

​

“Thanks very much Sir. Kindly write your phone number and email ID as well, so that we could stay in touch.  We’ll send you a draft of the translation for your final okay.”

​

He smiled. Chitra looked away for a moment, shocked to see his pokkai vai revealing the cavernous emptiness inside.

“Chitra Amma, I don’t have a cell phone, and don’t use email. I generally post my letters,” he explained.

“Very well, Sir. Then please give your postal address under your signature. That would do fine.”

“Alright.”

He wrote his postal address on the same slip of paper.

“Thanks very much, Sir.”

“Heh…heh…” he laughed. “I’ve read your works in Tamil. They are so progressive. I remember your photos too. I thought you were a young woman.” He made no effort to cover his disappointment. 

 “Well Sir, I guess one grows older with time,” said Chitra.

“But I never thought of you as anything but young. Your writings are so youthful,” he said, his sunken cheeks moving for yet another attempted smile.

“Nandri Sir, for this permission. Vanakkam,” said Chitra, hands folded together. She left the venue with the slip of paper.

 

Chitra unlocked the door of her car, sat down and inserted the key in the ignition. She adjusted the rearview mirror and glanced at herself.   

​

Grow old along with me                                                                                                           

The best is yet to be,

The last of life, for which the first was made: 

Our times are in His hand

​

said Robert Browning famously, in the poem “Rabbi Ben Ezra”.  

 

She recited the lines and started her car.  

​

She had enjoyed teaching this poem to her young students who learned the lines ‘by heart’. How pleasantly surprised she was to see their easy acceptance of ageing in the poem. The lines had floated back to her at the different stages of her life.

​

The car slowly moved out of the parking lot, got on to the street and sped very fast on the road.

               

                                                                                       

Nandri Thanks, in Tamil.

pokkai vai Toothless mouth, in Tamil

Vanakkam Namashkar, in Tamil.