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Thangamani who came to the porch after a little while stared at her daughter surreptitiously. The girl’s effort created an affection with pride within the mother. After watching the girl who was placing her fingertips and gathering letters together to form words to read, Thangamani rushed to her daughter to hug her.

Janaki muttered “Amma” and started to cry.

“Don’t go anywhere without telling me,” saying this Thangamani also cried. In a little while, she combed her daughter’s hair and picked up a new piece of ribbon and tied the locks into a style.

Towards evening she went with her two kids to the common public well to bathe. This was some distance away. The common well was situated between the railroad and the main road. If the place was crowded, Thangamani would sit to a side. Till her turn came she would rub soap on dirty clothes and bang them against a rock. The two little ones would play in the shade of a tree.

Sundaram always went to bathe later in the evening. He lived as if he were afraid of the world. He had never accompanied his wife and the kids to the common well. Though there were separate sections for men and women to bathe, Sundaram always went to the well alone late at night. When he came back to lie down next to her after washing away his sweat and weariness with cool water and scented soap, Thangamani also awakened in the darkness of the night. They pleased each other while the kids were in their own dream worlds. In this darkness they forgot all their troubles and sorrows. The damp moldy smell of the shed and the mud of the canal were all so far away from their beautiful world.

One day when Sundaram went on his second round to collect bottles and sacks, Thangamani was busy tying up old newspapers into bundles. She could hear the kids talking softly by the canal. As long as she could hear their chatter she would listen intently. When she heard their voices again her hands would quicken at her chore.

This day, the kids’ voices stopped abruptly. Then someone said something in a lamenting high voice. It was like a poem recited to a rhythm. In a moment the two kids came rushing to the shed and clung on to Thangamani.

From the outside came the continued recitation.

“Manalada puthey kiri dunney ma numbata?”

(Did I measure my milk when I gave it to you my son?)

While the kids hid behind her, Thangamani walked outside. On the canal shore stood an old bent woman. She wore a dirty white cloth and a ragged jacket but was pleasant and fair of face. In one hand was a bag made of reeds. On her other hand was a walking stick. A small red towel covered part of her silver hair.

“What do you want?” Thangamani asked.

“I am hungry, maam,” the woman replied. “I did not eat anything all day.”

With all these mansions all around, isn’t it amazing that his woman had to come to this spot, Thangamani thought.