Wednesday

Lakshmikutty – A Short Story

I can’t call this a short story, as it would not do justice to Lakshmikutty . I first saw Lakshmikutty when I was riding my bike(bicycle) between Division and Chicago Avenue. I had just had a lazy late Saturday breakfast at “Milk and Honey”. I must have been a little lazy that day, as I was biking on the pavement instead of the road. I rode past Lakshmikutty, thought  for a minute, and finally came to a full halt.

Wicker Park

I did not stop for any romantic reasons. Although, I admit the name sounds romantic, suitable for a short story. I stopped because she reminded me of my mother. She was old. Probably, in the later part of her 60s. A queer name for an old lady! She wore a baggy semi-Indian and semi-western wear, a kind you would not bother to crease. She was short and looked like a traditional Indian. Reminding me of the many Indian parents visiting their immigrant children in their new found homeland. I would have thought she was lost, if she did not walk so fast and sure. If you are from the city, you would know that the block between Division and Chicago houses a big community of gays, hippies and young professionals. You occasionally do see some young American born Desis(Indians) with their Caucasian husbands or girlfriends. So it was no wonder she stood out in the neighborhood.. She seemed a little over decisive and in a hurry towards her destination, for a person of her age in a foreign country.

“What if she was lost in the big city?”

I tried to dismiss that possibility as I did not what to disturb my somber routine for that day. Then a irritating thought came up, “What if she were my mother?”

I turned my bike and pedaled past an young white couple, went ahead of Lakshmikutty, so that I don’t startle her, and asked her politely if she were lost in English. She did not understand me immediately. And so I asked her in my broken Hindi, if she needed any help.

“No. Are you a Hindiwalla?” She seemed glad as only an old immigrant would be, to meet one of their kind in a far away land.

“No, am a Tamil”.

“oh Tamil! I am from Kerala”, She was enthusiastic in her reply.

“Are you from this neighborhood?”

She lived at the Hoynes intersection.  She spoke in a mix of old Tamil and Malayalam.  I must inform you that Tamil and Malayalam are sisters with similar dialect. She explained the route to her home, while I nodded my head politely hiding my disinterest. And where her son lived…

Relieved, I explained why I stopped her and was steering the conversation to an end. She enthusiastically asked me if I was an “Iyer” (an Indian caste). Taken aback, I said no, after quietly thinking how to react to her question. Not one to give up, She asked if I was a “Mudaliar”? I said no again.

She seemed attached to an India, she had left decades ago unaware of the changed Indian etiquettes. Moreover, she seemed innocent and enthusiastic to care about change.

“Appa yaaru?”(Then who?). She was not easily beaten back.

I mentioned my caste and she repeated it loudly once, trying to think. Soon she started recollecting her Tamil friend Krishnan and Shobha from New York.

Trying to switch topics, I asked her in a condescending manner you talk to an old woman, if she has been in US for long. She had been in US since 1981. Taken up by her enthusiasm, I said “Oh!”. And without my asking she said she had lived in New Jersey and New York. And started telling me about her family, first son, second son and his “American” wife, and her husband. She lived alone in an apartment in Wicker Park, close to her second son’s family. Her second son recently had a child. It was evident from her language that she did not feel her daughter-in-law was one of “us”. Mild curiosity creeped in and I asked her politely what her husband did.

“Avar universiy’la vellai senjaar! Pinnar Kettu poi”..

I was not sure, If I had heard it correct or meanings were lost in translation. She just said in broken tamil that he worked in University and later got spoiled. Although I must say I was intrigued, wanting to be sensitive I tried to switch topics again.
She was excited about the upcoming Indian Independence day celebrations in Devon St. She inquired about my family and took my phone number. She warned me multiple times about Chikungunya, if I was traveling to India. She wanted to visit India, but was afraid due to the disease outbreak. I asked her, if she used to work. She had worked in postal service. She had not worked until her husband left.

“What happened?”. I could not suppress my curiosity any longer.

“He used to work in University. I had gone to India on vacation with the children. I got a call from US that he was shot at work. They could not find who did it. I was shaken. I told my brother that I did not want to come to US. My brother and nephew brought me back for the funeral.

I did not want to come back. Later I got used to it. I got a job in post office, while my children went to school and college. I retired ten years ago”.

I did not run into Lakshmikutty after that. Couple of weeks after this I got a call in my mobile. It was Lakshmikutty. She wondered if I wanted to go to the Indian Independence day celebration that day and give her a ride. I sheepishly excused that I may not, as I had some other work.

By Ronin