That Jaipur Cup

"Where’s the second identical cup?" my husband asked. I told him that I’d left behind it in Chennai.

The two of us had won one cup each at a tweeting contest at the Jaipur Lit Fest and the cup was really nothing more than a whimsical thingy one might pick up at a garage sale when a homeowner was trying to offload the unbearableness of his home onto others. The cup was a white one with line drawings of Jaipur scenes. On one side it said, in orange lettering: “A word after a word after a word is power.” I could have said that too. But it had more power because Margaret Atwood had said it.

Last night, while my husband continued to argue about the cup, I told him hat he had been making much ado about a ceramic cup that I could recreate anywhere anytime and that I could not believe the puerility of the conversation we were having.

I told him why the whole thing was abhorrent to me. “Like this isn’t a Wimbledon Cup, you know." My husband persisted. “But now, you see, whenever a writer comes home, you cannot both drink tea out of each of those Jaipur cups,” he said. I broke out in a sweat.

~~~To see the reactions to this post on Facebook, go to http://bit.ly/JaiCupFB

Take Me To Jaipur

From February 16 until June 4th, I called my father’s home every day. Vinayagam would hand the phone to Daddykins who would ask me two questions. The same two questions. For 108 days.

“When are you coming here? Will you take me to Jaipur?”

My answer would always be the same: “On June 6th. Yes, Daddykins.”

By the time I landed in Chennai on June 6th, nine days before his death,Daddykins declared that he was too weak to travel to Jaipur. “You do not have to take me to Jaipur anymore. I cannot do that,” he said in a feeble voice. Then he paused, inhaled heavily and volleyed one that I will never forget. “But you do need to take me to Singapore. For two days.”