What do you do at home, a neighbour asked. Rama and me celebrate failure. Enjoying failure is a satisfying art, a FB post said. Me liked it; am not sure about Rama. But failure is interesting as we slip from one day to another. We get up in the morning, brush our teeth, light the diya to the many, many god and goddesses littering Rama's kitchen plus agarbattis; Rama makes filter coffee with the fragrance descending from the seventh floor to the ground floor inviting sparrows, crows and myenas; sitting in our sofas we sip coffee, watching sparrows breaking their fast over Marie biscuits; today morning it is sheets of rain drops with the sky cleaning up its stock of soiled bedsheets. Rama has her sofa, me mine; never exchange. Warm and smelling of coffee, we walk up to Vazira Ganesh temple with our many desires; a week ago, we prayed for a mobile lost, previous evening, after a chat under the peepal tree; we found the mobile at the foot of the peepal. Comes the breakfast chat. Dosa, idlis or dry, overnight chappatis? Rama mood is the critical input. In the money, it is plates of vegetable upma plus chutney (as today) or chappatis rejected by stray dogs. But me takes it chewing in me sofa. Having retired, no fresh, Churchgate vada pavs. At long last, mobiles are pulled out, newspapers set aside. On her new mobile, Rama is into Malayalam songs, Pulimurugans of Mohanlal and of late...actor Dileep derobing, a 2017 take on Draupadi in Mahabharata; and Vinoo on Asianet News. By about 11, the lunch menu is scheduled for a discussion; or as is popular, a meeting; Rama scraps chappatis; me opt for avial and pappadams; Rama screams: no pappadams with triglycerides high; me into Zen silence; before she decides, she goes over the years, her mother (me mother-in-law) prepared sambhar, avial and pappadams for lunch at the college; the housemaid delivered it hot and Rama licked it all up. Tongues fall out. Many Sreevatsam stories get unreeled and today is the latest instalment. Rama was a tiny tot when her father, Hari Gopalakrishnan, thought of owning a cow; fresh milk in the morning for his kids; wife agreed. Gentleman Gopalakrishnan stepped out a Sunday morning and was back at noon with a brown-white cow. The cow mooed, the family responded. It was tied to a pole in the garden; free to chew up the entire garden. In the night, it rained being July. Hari Gopalakrishnan worried over the cow catching fever; he got up from his cot, took the cow to the kitchen and shut the door. Entire night cow mooed and mother-in-law could not sleep. In the morning, she pleaded for relief. Hari Gopalakrishnan escorted the cow from the kitchen to the market. None appreciated his love for a cow. Dont know about the cow. Our first Cow Bhakt, non violent, quiet and humourous. Sold it. It was a happening told to Rama by her mother, me mother-in-law. We laughed, had not laughed over a failure for long. Trapped in a good mood, Rama make avial, sambhar, rice and pappadoms. After lunch, snooze. Evenings for TV sport channels as Rama goes for her adda. Day is over. Failures are worth it. Laughing failures.
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