Pure Slush

flash ... without the wank

The Gift

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by Sivakami Velliangiri  A Walk through Midtown  >

 

That man Asokan is dead.

So I will not talk too much ill of him in my note.

I won't say Asokan was a reptile. I like reptiles.

He was the general caretaker
of the guest house. As if this gave him the right to stand and supervise our
partaking of lunch and dinner. He was diabetic and everything else that a doctor
says, "no this, no that,'' to. So he satiated his appetite by watching us
eat.

He had a way of salaaming my husband; he would lean forward a few degrees and smile, imitating the natural curve of a chameleon’s mouth.

Besides this, he would lure great dignitaries with his incessant speech and divine anecdotes, to a certain dancing Swamiji who
claimed he was the Lord incarnate.

That is how my husband landed up there at
this dancing Swami's(no ji) Ashram.

He wanted to take our children too, but I
said “no”. The kids were too young to make up their own mind. They went, I
stayed at home. I prayed that my husband should come to his right senses.

The Paper Mill my husband works for is at Pugalur. The Head Office is at Chennai. The day the newly appointed Managing Director arrived, he transferred forty people from the head office to the site office.

There was a gift from Asokan which we received by courier. My husband was also transferred to the factory on the same day.
We opened the gift only to find an unimpressive, burnt-sienna pair of Bata shoes bought at a reduction sale which did not fit my husband's feet.

 

published 26 February 2011