Shame, like failure, had two faces. She had been ashamed of her son. But she was also ashamed of herself. She despised her inability to come to terms with his dreams. She loathed her inability to stand up for him. But much as she hated herself, she could not bring herself to talk of him causally.

She knew she had failed whenever she heard Pratap’s name mentioned. She knew it when women talked of proposals. She saw it in her husband’s quiet consternation. But none of these would have scared her had she never seen it her son’s eyes. In his quiet way, Mahesh had let her know that she had failed him.

Footsteps echoing through the rooms devoid of the sound of human voices, computers booting late into the night, the pungent smell of alcohol in parties, cigarette butts still warm in the ashtrays, the aroma of cologne in the bath, wardrobes with silk ties and golden cuffs, the smell of new furniture, the sound of new tyres screeching on the driveway – this was Akshay’s world. And Shalini fit into the scheme of things like icing on the cake – she was the beautiful wife he was envied for; the diva every man hoped he had.

At 5:45 on a Monday evening, as she watched her five-year old son swim under his instructor’s critical gaze, it came to Kaavya that everything about her was mediocre – she was a mediocre home maker, living a mediocre life, in a mediocre suburb in America.

The following has been inspired by the true story of Caster Semenya, a South African middle-distance runner and world champion. Semenya won gold in the 800 meters at the 2009 World Championships in Athletics with a time of 1:55.45 in the final. Following her victory at the 2009 World Championships, questions about Semenya’s gender were raised.

I heard the word Karuppu for the first time, when I was three. Perhaps I remember it, because it was spoken with such disdain- such disappointment. A pale, bony finger hooked my chin, lifting it upward. Creases spread around the pink lips as they twisted into a frown, trembling as a sigh escaped them. I don’t remember anymore.
My grandmother, to whom the finger, the creases, the frown and the sigh belonged, died just before I turned five. I don’t have memories of her, except for that one. The only photograph that we have of her was taken as soon as my father, her son, turned ten. She stands behind my grandfather’s chair, her sari neatly pleated, a demure smile on her lips, her hooked nose pinched as if she were holding her breath and dark mai decorating her bright eyes. But it is her skin that I look at as I peer into her picture. Fair and radiant, it glistens from the black and white picture.

A strand of my hair falls across my forehead, and between my brows, my large red pottu bears semblance to the setting sun at the distant horizon. I watch it disappear beyond the paddy fields and wait until the world hangs precariously between day and night. The vestige of light that remains belongs nowhere; like me.

It’s time to let my world turn again. Sometimes it’s ok to give in.

 
There was that half-smile that lit up his face. She could not ignore it. It made him look over-confident, even arrogant. But she could not forget it.
 
She should never have gotten the door. He stood outside, his tall figure bent, as he removed his shoes and put it on the shoe rack. He was dark. [...]

The faint whistle grew louder. She saw the reddish-brown blur coming closer. It came to a stop in front of her. Her ailing eyes made out the outline of the train – the three o’clock. It was time. Her grandson would come anytime now.
Others told her that he had run away with the gypsies. But [...]