29-03-2026, 01:37 AM
After the commotion of the parade, Yazhini retreated to the edge of the veranda, her prize certificate clutched in both hands. She could still feel the ghost of Vanitha’s embrace, the way the older woman had squeezed her shoulders and whispered praise into her hair. Her mother hovered nearby, talking at her, not to her, analyzing the victory as if it were a chess match or an exam result.
"You see, I told you that maroon saree would look sophisticated on you,” her mother said, fussing with a safety pin. "Even the way you stood, so straight, none of that hunchback business. You made us proud.”
Yazhini nodded, only half-listening. Her mind was still in the center of the courtyard, replaying the moment when everyone had clapped for her. She felt lighter, somehow, as if her body was no longer a clumsy container for her mind but something that could belong in the world of grown women, with all its poise and power.
She didn’t notice Selvam at first. He approached with the slow, careful gait of a man who knew how to move through a crowd without drawing attention. He stood beside her for a few seconds, hands folded behind his back, before speaking.
“Congratulations, Yazhini,” he said, his voice calm but ringing with genuine warmth. “You made it look very easy up there.”
She looked up, startled. Selvam’s face was weathered, his smile unhurried, eyes dark but soft. She remembered him from her childhood: the rare ‘uncle’ who never pinched cheeks or asked her about marks. Back then, she’d thought of him as the quiet one, the uncle who always listened and never interrupted.
“Thank you, uncle,” she replied, feeling her cheeks heat again. “But Vanitha Akka did everything. I just stood there and tried not to faint.”
Selvam laughed. It was a low, rolling sound, almost a rumble. “That’s the real trick in life, you know. Stand still, stay calm, and let others fuss around you.”
Yazhini smiled, emboldened by his kindness. “Is that how you became such a famous health coach, uncle?”
His eyes crinkled at the edges. “Ah, don’t believe all the WhatsApp forwards. Mostly I sit at home and teach old men how to walk without falling over.”
She giggled, forgetting for a moment that she was supposed to be composed and dignified.
Selvam grew serious, lowering his voice. “But I heard from your mother that you finished college and pursuing your career?”
She hesitated, then shook her head. “Actually, I want to do architecture. Drawing and buildings, not just numbers and chemistry. My parents aren’t convinced.”
He nodded, understanding. “You have the hand for it. I could see even now, how you took in every step Vanitha was showing. Not everyone notices details, but you do.”
This made Yazhini’s heart stutter in her chest. No one, not even her own parents, had ever described her as observant. She’d always felt invisible, just another girl in a family of loud voices and louder ambitions.
“Thank you, uncle,” she said again, softer this time.
He looked out over the courtyard, where the post-competition chaos had devolved into snack eating and selfies.
“I used to think all these functions were a waste of time,” he said. “But now, I see what they give. A day to stand in the sun. A reason to be noticed, to feel special. Even if it’s only for a few hours.”
Yazhini followed his gaze, seeing the courtyard in a new light. The women who’d spent the morning gossiping and sniping were now laughing, posing for photos, their petticoats billowing as they chased after children or shared sweets. Even Vanitha, so perfect and poised on stage, now sat on the floor with her saree pooled around her, feeding a baby who wasn’t hers and grinning wide as a child splattered pongal on her lap.
For a moment, Yazhini wondered what it would be like to have a father like Selvam. Someone who spoke softly, who noticed the little things, who listened. She glanced back at the judges’ table, where her own father was now engaged in a spirited debate about cricket, his voice carrying over the fence.
She felt the difference as an ache, but not an unpleasant one. It was the feeling of possibility, the sense that maybe, just maybe, she could grow up to be something other than what her parents imagined.
Selvam must have sensed the turn in her mood. He placed a hand on her shoulder, careful, feather-light, a touch that asked permission to be there.
“Whatever you choose, make sure it’s your choice, ma. Don’t let anyone else’s dreams become your burden.”
She nodded, holding the advice close.
He smiled again, then turned to go, melting back into the crowd with the same quiet grace as before.
Yazhini watched him go, feeling a little taller than she had a moment before.
From across the yard, her father called out, “Yazhini! Come here, help me carry the sweets to the car.” His voice was loud, impatient, but somehow she didn’t mind as much.
She straightened her saree, tucked the certificate into her purse, and walked across the kolam-stained threshold with her head high, the sound of Selvam’s words ringing in her ears.
"You see, I told you that maroon saree would look sophisticated on you,” her mother said, fussing with a safety pin. "Even the way you stood, so straight, none of that hunchback business. You made us proud.”
Yazhini nodded, only half-listening. Her mind was still in the center of the courtyard, replaying the moment when everyone had clapped for her. She felt lighter, somehow, as if her body was no longer a clumsy container for her mind but something that could belong in the world of grown women, with all its poise and power.
She didn’t notice Selvam at first. He approached with the slow, careful gait of a man who knew how to move through a crowd without drawing attention. He stood beside her for a few seconds, hands folded behind his back, before speaking.
“Congratulations, Yazhini,” he said, his voice calm but ringing with genuine warmth. “You made it look very easy up there.”
She looked up, startled. Selvam’s face was weathered, his smile unhurried, eyes dark but soft. She remembered him from her childhood: the rare ‘uncle’ who never pinched cheeks or asked her about marks. Back then, she’d thought of him as the quiet one, the uncle who always listened and never interrupted.
“Thank you, uncle,” she replied, feeling her cheeks heat again. “But Vanitha Akka did everything. I just stood there and tried not to faint.”
Selvam laughed. It was a low, rolling sound, almost a rumble. “That’s the real trick in life, you know. Stand still, stay calm, and let others fuss around you.”
Yazhini smiled, emboldened by his kindness. “Is that how you became such a famous health coach, uncle?”
His eyes crinkled at the edges. “Ah, don’t believe all the WhatsApp forwards. Mostly I sit at home and teach old men how to walk without falling over.”
She giggled, forgetting for a moment that she was supposed to be composed and dignified.
Selvam grew serious, lowering his voice. “But I heard from your mother that you finished college and pursuing your career?”
She hesitated, then shook her head. “Actually, I want to do architecture. Drawing and buildings, not just numbers and chemistry. My parents aren’t convinced.”
He nodded, understanding. “You have the hand for it. I could see even now, how you took in every step Vanitha was showing. Not everyone notices details, but you do.”
This made Yazhini’s heart stutter in her chest. No one, not even her own parents, had ever described her as observant. She’d always felt invisible, just another girl in a family of loud voices and louder ambitions.
“Thank you, uncle,” she said again, softer this time.
He looked out over the courtyard, where the post-competition chaos had devolved into snack eating and selfies.
“I used to think all these functions were a waste of time,” he said. “But now, I see what they give. A day to stand in the sun. A reason to be noticed, to feel special. Even if it’s only for a few hours.”
Yazhini followed his gaze, seeing the courtyard in a new light. The women who’d spent the morning gossiping and sniping were now laughing, posing for photos, their petticoats billowing as they chased after children or shared sweets. Even Vanitha, so perfect and poised on stage, now sat on the floor with her saree pooled around her, feeding a baby who wasn’t hers and grinning wide as a child splattered pongal on her lap.
For a moment, Yazhini wondered what it would be like to have a father like Selvam. Someone who spoke softly, who noticed the little things, who listened. She glanced back at the judges’ table, where her own father was now engaged in a spirited debate about cricket, his voice carrying over the fence.
She felt the difference as an ache, but not an unpleasant one. It was the feeling of possibility, the sense that maybe, just maybe, she could grow up to be something other than what her parents imagined.
Selvam must have sensed the turn in her mood. He placed a hand on her shoulder, careful, feather-light, a touch that asked permission to be there.
“Whatever you choose, make sure it’s your choice, ma. Don’t let anyone else’s dreams become your burden.”
She nodded, holding the advice close.
He smiled again, then turned to go, melting back into the crowd with the same quiet grace as before.
Yazhini watched him go, feeling a little taller than she had a moment before.
From across the yard, her father called out, “Yazhini! Come here, help me carry the sweets to the car.” His voice was loud, impatient, but somehow she didn’t mind as much.
She straightened her saree, tucked the certificate into her purse, and walked across the kolam-stained threshold with her head high, the sound of Selvam’s words ringing in her ears.
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