It had been a rainy day when my grandmother explained to me that Rajni was from a lower caste and we were from the highest caste. She couldn’t enter our kitchens; in fact, in the good old days, lower caste people wouldn’t even be allowed inside the house and Rajni would be untouchable, in every sense of the word. Things were apparently better now, Ammamma had said. “We Brahmins have become more tolerant, what with the days being so mordern and everything.” She hadn’t sounded too happy about the modern days.

I picked up our bags and helped Badri put the basket of mangoes on his head. My mother walked into the house like a queen as Badri and I followed like servile courtiers.

I smiled when I entered the grilled veranda on which a huge wooden swing swayed, covering it almost entirely-an obvious hazard for children. The swing had always been on the veranda. I probably wouldn’t recognize the veranda without it.

I removed my sandals and peeped inside. The living room was empty, but I could hear sounds coming from the womb of the house, resonating with my memories as if a tuning fork had been put into motion.

One could see to the other end of the house from the front door. All the rooms lay on opposite sides of my line of vision and I saw a smiling Sowmya step outside the dining area next to the kitchen.

She ran to me and we hugged.

The Politics of Giving and Receiving Gifts

My grandmother hugged me so hard that I almost cracked a rib. Ammamma had this strange notion that the harder the hug, the more the love. Despite the discomfort, the subtle smell of betel leaves and cloves that clung to her body pervaded my senses and I soaked the smells in. This was familiar territory and at that instant it didn’t seem so bad to be back.