The neighbourhood comes alive when Mrs. lalitha .A , comes back from U.S.of A . Apparently , she doesn’t get to talk there much . The son and his wife are off to work , and the neighbours speak english.
Lalitha, who had never set her foot off her motherland , who would never miss a single fast , puja , or festival , had to go festival-less for days . There was no one to guide her , her tropical flowers were missing , heck , even mango -leaves and “doob” grass for her daily offerings to the Lord Shiva were missing . Every day , she would fold her hands at the Ganesh pratima (this idol being the only one , on sale at the local Mart), and request forgiveness from His father , Shiva , for frequent and unforgivable lapses in her vrat-puja-tyohar routine .
Everyday , on her evening walks to the park , she would scour the trees for “bel” , or wood -apple , a sacred tree, the trifoliate leaves of which Her Lord loves . She would be disappointed every single day , and would return crestfallen . She pined for the yellow “kandel” and red hibiscus flowers , and the smell of burning “dhoop” , and the sights of home . In short , she was terribly homesick.
Once she and her family were called over to a dinner by their neighbours , a friendly african-american couple. Lalitha , who was determined to make friends , decided to help in the kitchen . There , she saw , to her amazement , the large Mr. Bob , throwing vast amounts of blood red tomato sauce onto a large plate studded with quite kachcha -looking leaves , on top a large roti . Hearing her gasp , Bob turned his swarthy bulk to give her a toothy , white grin .His gums were red . Lalitha flipped . She thought she had seen the male -version of kali . She made some excuses , ran home and threw up .
She never touched pizza , and never went to the Bob's either . Her son accused her of "racial thoughts " , her daughter-in-law sulked , and her poor , long suffering husband just shook his head , and smiled good naturedly . They returned home .
Laitha , now , is happy . And garrulous . She won't stop talking .
In the morning , she talks to her car -cleaning boy , and force feeds him tea and soggy , six-month old biscuits . He , pretends to listen to her , nods his head , and pours his cup , into the flower pot . Lalitha stopped feeding him biscuits , when she discovered the remanants of her parle-g s carefully arrayed on the edge of the large parapet of the club-house , apparently , to feed the pigeons.
Next comes the rakish doodhwalla, who doles out his frothy concoction , in an acrobatic fashion . He sits on the farthest end of the seat , and dangles his legs on the handlebars. A remanant of his feat in "Shabash India " days. Lalitha ji , somewhere between the second and the third "paua", involuntarily blurts out , ...."and you know what happened "Not one to be caught offguard, the doodhwalla comes armed , plugged with white apple earplugs and his i phone selection . He gives her a hazy , faraway smile and roars off , leaving her mouthing ..." Arrey! Suno toh sahi".
