Here.

The curtains fall on the lone woman sitting on the recliner, the wooden easy chair, and she is as compelling to look at as the rain drops on the paarijatham flower, and as glorious as the naachiyar in procession; she silently combs the wispy tufts of dust from off the hindu on the window ledge, and places the bridge of her spectacles on that nose that would put kili mooku maanga to shame. A jet black mane on the one side, visibly greyed by her wisdom in the front near the forehead, she breathes deep and smiles at the little child on the other side of the room , carelessly playing with some gadget, completely oblivious to the rain drops, the trickling noise of the water, the  beautiful ceiling of a hundred year house, with the rusty old ralli creaking as it slowly rotates,  and the incomparable divinity of a picture of krishna accepting fruit from an old woman.

There.

Amma, Is this where you grew up?
Let me look at that. Yes, it is...
what's this place like?

Its beautiful. Its a little town. 

So, you grew up there?
A little bit.

How long?

Fourteen years.

Why are you smiling?

Here.

Slowly, she caresses the folds of the pudavai, tugs at the ends of the most delicate silk, fawns at the beauty that she is on the mirror and completely satisfied, goes into the other room to find the keys to the huge wooden box with the kolu dolls. The smell of past overpowers her. She stares wide eyed at the maama maami bommai, the way she did when was six years old, when she was preparing for the navarathri with her sisters. She puts it back, silently shedding a tear.

There.

Everything is going to be different, she thinks. She climbs into the uncomfortable denim and reassures herself that everything is going to be alright. She steps out to face the bone chilling wrath of the colder climes, and wonders if anyone would have an andal procession here for the adi pooram. She walks past the milling crowd, to see the very many similar faces braving something for what, she wonders. What part of this madness was thrust on her, she silently asks herself. Then, she spots him. Life begins. New country. New people. New customs. The obligatory trip to a temple in a foreign land, with no soul, like the barren stretches of the mad winter. The socializing festivities with not a hint of the festive air. The numerous dinners on Indian food which has found newer perversions to its meaning. The two kids who are now citizens in a foreign land.  

Here.

The rain unleashes the few remaining drops of its fury on the beautiful kolam, and the little streams of the kolamaavu is swallowed by the open sewage. She walks past the door and her pudavai hooks onto the door. Just like the way her sister's paavadai once stuck to the same door. And they all laughed as her sister cried.

ayyo paavam, pudhu paavadai gaali. amma, kizhichita...
She walks into the koodam, as she spots her daughter and her husband.

Amma is nuts, she is not coming back. She has somehow found her stupid calling after this long.
That's alright, I am sure we can manage.
Don't be naive, the kids are really hard, and I need some help.
She is your mother, and I think you have to respect her decision.
Great. Let me just quit my job then.
That's not what I meant.
what is it about this stupid country that makes you all do stupid things?
Ask your amma.
Good, you stay in this stupid wonderland with her. I am going back, and I have a job. This is not even her country. She is a citizen back there. She does not belong here.
Ah, if only I could make you understand how much she belonged here...

She walks out, and looks at the people complaining about the country going to the dogs. She walks back inside, silently taking the coffee davara in hand, and rests herself in the easy chair in the verandah and smiles as the drops of water fall off the roof onto the thulasi maadam.