Cross and naughts

Sarita Lall folded the tabloid so that only the color picture of the ancestral Tambaram abode was visible. The village home of the illustrious Tambaram family. Synonymous with telecom, infrastructure investments and frontline politics.

Someone with a good eye for architectural detail had taken the photo from the entrance, doing justice to the vast central courtyard with carved teak pillars lining the sides. The stone floor of the open courtyard was polished; the doors of the rooms that led off the balcony were somberly painted. Old money and culture. Traditional South Indian culture: vast estates, women in rustling silks, jasmine strands and diamond ear-rings.

“ Not good enough for the servant’s quarters”, Sarita mocked the tiny paying guest accommodation that she shared with two other girls; a room and a tiny balcony that almost touched the tenth floor balcony of the flat opposite. Green paint, large strips of plaster peeling off, posters of Bollywood stars on the walls. Standard issue metal furniture, cheap square-patterned bedsheets bartered off a hawker. A far cry from the Tambaram’s, for sure.

Positioning. Creating an image, a past that didn’t quite exist. For their eldest son, they’d seek a good girl with a public school education at the very least. A convent education or similar. A good background. Maybe a diplomat’s daughter. Or an expatriate doctor’s. Someone who had the polish, the breeding, St. James and Champs Elysees. Someone who could fit into the family, light the lamp at religious ceremonies and still hold her own with tinkling glass and gleaming lights.

Positioning. Something that her army background with its frequent postings had taught her. Show, don’t tell. Show just what you need to, traces and wisps and leave them wondering about the rest.

She’d find a way.