Saroja could see that he was upset because she didn’t seem to understand the value and taste of the gruel, but she could not even take it to her lips. The smell made her stomach churn. Belatedly, Kumaresan realized that she might have drunk it if it had been made with rice. So he did not force her any more, and instead drank it himself. In Tholur, where she was from, they never mixed ragi pap with water from grain meal soaked overnight. They only ate pap with kozhambu. They did make porridge, but not the kind Kumaresan was used to. They called broken rice ‘noy’. And they made a porridge by cooking noy with some flour. Here, in Kumaresan’s village, however, koozh porridge was made by boiling flour in water with some salt. Those who were indisposed drank it lukewarm. The porridge was supposed to fortify the body. It was even given to cows after they delivered their calves. Having concluded that Saroja had never tasted this gruel, he wondered what else he could offer her to eat. It did not seem like they had any cooked rice lying around. Even if they had rice at home, his mother was not in the habit of cooking it often. Finding rice was like finding gold. Once in two or three months when she cooked meat, she would carefully measure in some rice. Or perhaps during festivals like Deepavali or Pongal. But Saroja was used to eating rice every day.

He began to worry about how he would deal with the food situation hereon. So far, all his plans had been focused on managing his mother’s reactions. He had not given much thought to what else he would have to do once Saroja began living with them. How was he going to handle this? He was beginning to feel overwhelmed. He looked at her lying there like a dried leaf. Usually, her movements stirred and invited him; he always marvelled at how she managed to draw him in by merely knitting her eyebrows. But now she invoked nothing but pity in him. He could not think clearly. How am I going to take care of her here? What if she splutters and withers like a little sesame seed on this overheated rock?

Pavalayi, one of the women in the crowd outside, who had been watching his ministrations, said, ‘She must be lucky to have found a husband like him, who runs about trying to take care of her.’

Another voice rose in the crowd, ‘Hey, Pavala, once you go home, make sure you faint and make a scene. Your husband too might come running to take care of you!’ Every­one laughed.

‘Of course!’ Pavalayi responded. ‘Though I don’t think I am good at being so dramatic. Even if I do manage to faint, he won’t make me lean on his chest. Instead, he’ll give me a tight slap.’

Someone else chimed in, ‘Looks like we don’t have to walk four or five miles and pay money to watch a film from now on. All we have to do is come and sit on this rock.’