December 10, 1930**

**Pollampallai, Madurai**

**10:00 PM**

**Dear Madhvan,**

I don't know how to begin. Nothing seems to make sense these days; my mind feels tangled and restless. Today, Meenu convinced Patti (that's Tamil for grandmother) to let us visit the Rajarajeswari Temple. We even managed to rescue a goat we named Chinnamma from Bandhu's yard, though I didn't tell you because you're allergic to goats. Remember when we used to sneak into the fields to steal chickpeas as kids? One day, a goat pounced on you, and you sneezed continuously for two days, with your nose as red as a chili. I still remember that day vividly, and how you fought with me over it. It's been nine years, six months, and sixteen days since then.

I still wait for you. When you return from studying abroad, I wonder how you will look. I hope you haven't stopped wearing vibhuti (holy ash), as Patten (grandfather) always says every traditional Tamil man should wear it, to receive Lord Nataraja's blessings. And yes, I've heard that these Englishmen wear stitched pants and English shirts. Our village now even has a missionary school, and Patten enrolled me there, though he believes that we should not let English culture dominate our own. But he feels we must keep up with the times, so Meenu and I are now enrolled there. I miss you deeply every day. I also go to the Thirumal Swamy temple, praying you return soon, though it feels like time is slipping away, and the days of hoping for your return are dwindling.

Today, I picked white jasmine flowers for a garland from Thalli's garden, which I'll braid into my hair tomorrow. I also bought a green saree with a mundu border from the Sunday market—it's your favorite color, isn't it? Patti suggested I learn some new kolam (rangoli) designs, so I can decorate the threshold and the Tulsi altar for Pongal. You'll laugh to know that I finally learned Bharatanatyam. Patti is thrilled and is urging me to prepare a good *bommalattam* (puppet dance) for Pongal. I still haven't come up with a theme for the performance. Tomorrow, after school, Meenu and I will meet to decide on a story for the dance.

There's much to do tomorrow, so I'll end here tonight. Half my time is spent just thinking about you—how you might look now. Did you forget me, or would you no longer like me? Out there, you must see many fair-skinned ladies. But you promised, nine years ago before leaving for London, that you would marry only me. Meenu teases that you've probably forgotten all that, that those fair-skinned English ladies must be signaling their interest in you. Why would you notice a simple village girl like me? But I told her firmly that you're not like that. Every Monday, I fast for Sri Gauri, praying for your health and well-being. Meenu laughs, saying I act like your wife. But that silly girl doesn't understand how love makes a person so helpless. Do you wear a veshti (traditional lungi) there, and the angavastram that our elders wear? Do you still wear your sacred thread (janeu)? I once overheard Madhavi Attai (aunt) saying you might now prefer English breakfast. But dosas, idlis, and vadas here are so nutritious and easy to digest. Do you even get such food there? When you return, I'll make rasam, avial, medu vada, dosa—all your favorites. And you must try *upma*; once you do, you'll forget all about English breakfast.

I've heard that people there eat all kinds of meat—cows, pigs, and who knows what else! Goodness! How unrefined. But I know you wouldn't do that. And is it true that they drink fermented grape juice? If so, they really are wild and barbaric people; they might even eat humans! Anyway, it's late, and I should go to bed.

Are you awake or asleep now? They say it's night there when it's day here, so you must be awake. I wish I had your address in London; I would have written you a letter. But sadly, I don't even know where to send it. So now, I write in this diary every night, recording all my thoughts before going to bed. My wait for you continues—will you return this year?

Yours,

Shubhu