The Perfect Draw

 

I reached the stadium gates at 3:45 PM for a match that wouldn't begin until seven that evening.

Friends thought I was crazy. Why would anyone arrive three hours before kickoff?

They were asking the wrong question.

I wasn't there just to watch a football match. I was there to experience the FIFA World Cup.

When I bought the ticket a few weeks earlier, Cape Verde against Saudi Arabia looked like the safest financial decision of the tournament. It wasn't Argentina. It wasn't England. It wasn't Brazil. It certainly wasn't the final. It looked like one of those low-profile group games where tickets were still within reach of an ordinary fan. I wanted to tick the World Cup off my bucket list without emptying my bank account.

The maths looked friendly.

Then football did what football often does.

By the time I reached Houston, Cape Verde had already held mighty Spain to a goalless draw and matched Uruguay stride for stride for another point. The quiet little group game I had picked had suddenly become one of the stories of the tournament. One more point against Saudi Arabia and, if Spain did them one more favor, Cape Verde could book a place in the Round of 32.

Without realizing it, I had stumbled upon one of the most important matches of the group stage.

The first sight of the stadium came as we emerged from the metro station. Except it wasn't really the stadium I knew. NRG Stadium had disappeared. FIFA had renamed it simply "Houston Stadium," continuing its long-standing practice of removing corporate names during its tournaments. Levi's Stadium and Gillette Stadium have become remarkably good at turning this temporary disappearance into free publicity. Sometimes, disappearing from the signboards is the best advertising of all.

The walk from the station to the stadium felt more like joining a festival than attending a sporting event. Volunteers stood every few hundred yards, holding signboards, offering water, directing fans, answering questions and welcoming complete strangers with smiles that felt genuinely warm. It reminded me of arriving at a family wedding where dozens of relatives are waiting outside to make sure every guest finds the right hall.

Then I noticed the crowd. Not the size of it.

The people.

Grandparents leaning on walking sticks walked beside teenagers draped in national flags. Parents pushed strollers carrying babies dressed in tiny football kits. Wheelchairs rolled alongside supporters with painted faces and colourful wigs. Families made a day of it. Groups of friends collected memories. Solitary travellers quietly took everything in. Around me I heard languages I couldn't identify, accents from every continent and saw jerseys from countries that weren't even playing that evening. For those few hours, it felt as though the world had gathered in one place.

The fan festival outside the stadium was an attraction in itself. There were skill challenges, virtual reality games, sponsor activations, giveaways, photo opportunities with the official match ball, signed jerseys and even a chance to play virtually alongside Lionel Messi. By the time the announcements for kickoff began, I realized I had spent three hours there without once looking at my watch. Had the match not been about to begin, I would happily have stayed in the fan festival much longer.

Only one thing refused to cooperate - The weather.

Houston's summer heat was relentless. Every activity involved another queue under the sun. Hydration stations that had been easy to find on the approach roads were noticeably absent from the fan festival, where they were needed the most. Unsurprisingly, the concession stands selling drinks did brisk business throughout the afternoon.

After three hours in that heat, walking into the air-conditioned stadium felt like walking into another season. And it was a packed stadium. 

Nearly 69,000 people filled the stadium that evening. Looking around, it genuinely felt as though at least 60,000 of them had decided Cape Verde was their team for the evening. The chants of "Cabo Verde... Cabo Verde..." echoed around the stadium long before kickoff.

I found myself sitting among Cape Verde supporters.

The gentleman beside me told me his parents were from Cape Verde. He admitted he had never imagined seeing his country play at a FIFA World Cup, let alone one where qualification for the knockout stage was a real possibility. There was pride in his voice, but there was also disbelief and years of waiting suddenly finding a release.

Behind us sat another passionate supporter who spent the entire match coaching the Cape Verde players from several rows behind the touchline. Every misplaced pass earned her disapproval. Every attack came with instructions only she believed the players could hear over all the noise. When Cape Verde squandered a promising chance, she reacted as though a member of her own family had missed it.

That, I realized, is what the World Cup does.

Coming back to the game, there were no goals. But I didn't miss them as much as I thought I would.

Saudi Arabia and Cape Verde were evenly matched. Both created opportunities. Both defended desperately. Both knew exactly what was at stake. Nobody was willing to make the mistake that could end a World Cup.

Then, midway through the first half, the giant screen showed an update from the other Group H match.

Spain had scored against Uruguay.

For a brief second there was silence as people worked out what that meant.

Then the stadium exploded.

That goal meant Cape Verde would qualify with a draw if the score remained unchanged.

The roar was so loud that my Apple Watch vibrated on my wrist, politely suggesting that I move to a quieter environment because the noise level was unsafe.

I looked around and laughed.

The stadium had just erupted not because of something that had happened here but because of something that had happened in another country.

Not because they supported Spain. But because they supported Cape Verde.

The second half ended the way one had expected it might. The score remained 0-0.

For ninety minutes they had chased victory. Now they stood separated by the thinnest of margins, not on the scoreboard, but in what that scoreboard meant. Saudi Arabia's players sank to the turf, their World Cup campaign over. Cape Verde marched on to the next round. 

Cape Verde's players could have sprinted straight towards their dugout even as 60,000 voices were already celebrating them. Instead, many of them first walked across to their Saudi counterparts, offering handshakes, embraces and words that cameras could never quite capture. Only then did they turn towards their own supporters and begin their dance of joy.

In that quiet act of sportsmanship lay one of the finest moments of the evening. Football had demanded everything from both teams for ninety minutes. When it was over, it reminded everyone that opponents need not become enemies.

Watching Cape Verde celebrate, I found myself thinking about how different this World Cup feels.

For the first time, FIFA has expanded the tournament to 48 teams. Twelve groups of four teams each replace the old eight-group format, and a new Round of 32 means that not only do the top two teams from every group progress, but so do the eight best third-placed teams. On paper it sounds complicated. In practice it keeps more teams alive until the final round of group matches. Fans suddenly find themselves cheering for goals scored hundreds of miles away because those results might rescue their team or eliminate a rival. That was exactly what happened in Houston.

The expansion is not without its detractors. Traditionalists have questioned whether football really needed a bigger World Cup. They have a point. There are clearly teams in this tournament that would have struggled to qualify under the old format, and some matches have been decidedly one-sided. Critics also argue that the expansion makes commercial sense for FIFA. A longer tournament means more matches, and more matches mean more revenue through broadcasting rights, sponsorships and ticket sales.

They may be right.

But there is another side to that argument.

Without expansion, would Cape Verde have been here?

Would Curaçao?

Would Bosnia and Herzegovina?

Perhaps not.

For countries that have spent decades watching the World Cup rather than playing in it, this expansion is more than an accounting exercise. It is an invitation. Watching the gentleman beside me struggle to contain his emotions, I realized that the value of those extra places cannot always be measured in  quality of play. Sometimes it is measured in dreams fulfilled.

Asia tells a similar story.

With eight direct qualification places now available, Asia is represented by familiar names such as Japan, South Korea, Iran, Saudi Arabia, Qatar and Australia, alongside first-time qualifiers Jordan and Uzbekistan. Iraq had to take the longer route through the FIFA Play-Off Tournament before eventually joining them. The World Cup suddenly feels more representative of Asian football than it ever has before.

For an Indian, however, that one thought is impossible to suppress.

If Asia has never had a better chance to send teams to the World Cup, why is India still missing?

The answer is uncomfortable rather than complicated. Qualification places have increased. India's football has not improved at the same pace. The opportunity is larger than it has ever been. But the challenge remains just as real.

Football, unfortunately, never travels alone.

Politics arrived in this tournament long before the teams did. Iran's participation became entangled with visa issues for players, officials and support staff. Iraq faced its own difficulties. Even a Somalian referee found himself caught in the bureaucracy. The United States, one of the host nations, found itself trying to balance the demands of global sport with the realities of immigration policy and geopolitics. FIFA has always maintained that football should unite people beyond politics. Reality, as it often does, had other plans.

Yet once you stepped inside the stadium, none of that seemed to matter.

People were too busy enjoying themselves.

That enjoyment, however, came at a price. And I'm not even referring to the ticket. I was fortunate. I bought mine before Cape Verde became one of the stories of the tournament. By match day, resale prices had climbed into four and, in some cases, five figures, not just for this match but for many of the tournament's marquee fixtures. Getting through the turnstiles was only the beginning.

On a scorching Houston afternoon, staying hydrated wasn't cheap. A bottle of water cost six dollars. A beer was eighteen. Parking became progressively more expensive the closer you got to the venue. The FIFA Store was full of jerseys, replica balls, scarves, caps and every imaginable souvenir, all carrying premium price tags. Yet the queues never seemed to shorten. People queued for food. They queued for merchandise. They queued for photographs. They hadn't travelled halfway around the world to save money. They had come for an experience and, whether willingly or reluctantly, they were paying for it.

Despite the politics, despite the prices, despite the commercialization, despite all the debates that now surround the modern game, the World Cup still manages to produce evenings like this one.

Nearly 69,000 people came to watch a football match.

Many of them left talking about a country with fewer people than many Indian towns.

That, perhaps, is the greatest success of the expanded World Cup. It gives countries that normally live on football's margins a chance to occupy its center, if only for a few weeks.

As I walked back towards the metro station that night, I found myself thinking about the title I had scribbled in my notebook.

The Perfect Draw.

A perfect draw because the score was 0-0.

A perfect draw because the expanded tournament had drawn Cape Verde onto football's biggest stage and they justified their place.

A perfect draw because nearly 69,000 people had discovered that football doesn't always need goals to produce unforgettable memories.

And perhaps the most perfect draw of all...

I had bought what I thought was the cheapest ticket at the World Cup.

Instead, I had unknowingly bought one of its finest stories.

This is the English version of an article I wrote for Solvanam magazine. The Tamil article is available here. 

The Price of Possibility!

 

A few evenings ago, after my daughter committed to Texas A&M University, we gathered the mountain of college mail that had accumulated over the past year and spread it across our living room floor.

There were glossy brochures from every corner of America. Thick embossed envelopes. Personalized letters. Smiling students walking beneath trees that seemed permanently trapped in perfect October sunlight. Laboratories where breakthroughs were apparently occurring at hourly intervals. Residence halls that looked suspiciously like boutique hotels. And enough promises of leadership, innovation, purpose, and transformation to suggest that every university in America has independently discovered the secret to human flourishing.

At the center of it all sat her maroon hoodie. The decision had been made.

For months our mailbox had delivered this steady flood of courtship. Universities had pursued my daughter with a determination usually reserved for political campaigns and luxury car dealerships. Every envelope suggested that somewhere just beyond our front door lay the exact future she had always dreamed of, though admittedly several dozen institutions seemed to be offering precisely the same dream. 

Standing there, looking at that sea of glossy persuasion surrounding the sweatshirt she had chosen, I felt what every parent probably feels at this moment.

Pride, first. Relief, certainly. And then a question lingered.

When did education start looking so much like retail?

When I was younger, I thought of universities as solemn places. Libraries. Debate. Discovery. Serious minds asking difficult questions. I imagined professors who forgot what day it was because they were too busy thinking about the nature of truth. I did not imagine direct mail campaigns sophisticated enough to make luxury resorts seem understated.

And yet this is where we are.

For twelve years, we treat education as a public good. Society funds it because we understand that learning benefits everyone. We do not ask whether elementary school offers sufficient return on investment before allowing children to learn arithmetic.

Then, at eighteen, something curious happens. Education transforms into a consumer product. At that point, families are expected to make one of the largest financial decisions of their lives with less clarity than most would demand when buying a refrigerator.

And the numbers are astonishing.

Tuition rises faster than inflation with a consistency that deserves academic study of its own. Add housing, meal plans, books, transportation, technology charges, activity fees, orientation fees, insurance, and a collection of mandatory expenses whose purpose is usually explained in prose so dense that even lawyers might ask for clarification, and the total becomes staggering.

The dormitory experience is especially impressive. Universities have somehow persuaded families that paying premium apartment rates for a room approximately the size of an optimistic storage closet is both reasonable and character building. Meal plans are their own small marvel. Students somehow pay restaurant prices for food they will still complain about every weekend.

And still we pay.

We pay because this is our children’s future.

That simple fact explains almost everything.

We sit at kitchen tables with calculators and spreadsheets, pretending this is an exercise in financial analysis when in truth we are trying to assign a dollar value to possibility itself. How much is opportunity worth? What price should we place on growth, independence, friendships, intellectual challenge, and the chance to become who they are meant to become? No parent can answer those questions easily.

The pressure on our children is even greater.

At seventeen, they are expected to present resumes suggesting the discipline of accomplished professionals while still being reminded to enjoy their youth. They are encouraged to dream boldly while also calculating practical return on investment like financial analysts. They are told to discover themselves while making decisions that may shape decades of their lives.

And hanging over all of it is selectivity.

Admission itself has become a kind of national theater. The emotional burden this places on young people is enormous. Acceptance rates at many institutions have dropped so low that rejection becomes statistically likely even for extraordinary students. Teenagers who have spent years collecting achievements with the discipline of Olympic athletes are informed, often by algorithmically timed email, that they were simply not exceptional enough this time. Scarcity has become part of the product itself. Universities quietly understand that the harder it is to get in, the more desirable they appear.

We have somehow normalized this.

Parents feel it too. Every acceptance letter brings excitement, followed almost immediately by arithmetic. Can we afford this? Should we? What sort of life begins with this kind of debt? For students who go on to pursue medicine, law, or advanced graduate study, the numbers become so large they seem less like loans and more like geopolitical obligations.

And then there is the peculiar American phenomenon of college sports.

To much of the world, this requires explanation.

In many countries, universities are places where students sometimes play sports. In America, there are moments when one suspects the arrangement has been reversed.

This is only a slight exaggeration.

Across the country, public universities maintain athletic complexes so elaborate they could easily be mistaken for professional franchises with a modest academic side business. Stadiums seat tens of thousands. Training facilities gleam. Coaching contracts climb into the millions.

In several states, the highest paid public employee is not a governor, scientist, or surgeon. It is the football coach at the state university. Apparently shaping young minds matter, but converting third and long is more lucrative.

To be fair, athletics build community. They create identity, loyalty, excitement, and opportunity for many students. But it is difficult for parents writing tuition checks not to occasionally wonder whether they are funding a university with a football team or a football enterprise with some classrooms attached.

That question becomes sharper when one considers the enormous resources already flowing into higher education through alumni donations, research grants, public support, philanthropic gifts, tax advantages, and institutional endowments. American universities are not passing around a hat to keep the lights on. Many command resources that would have impressed small kingdoms. And yet families still feel squeezed. This is the contradiction at the heart of the system.

And still, for all of this, I cannot simply criticize and walk away. That would be too easy, and it would also not be true. 

American universities remain among the finest institutions in the world. They produce extraordinary scholarship, innovation, research, and opportunity on a remarkable scale. They change lives. They broaden horizons. They introduce young people to ideas and friendships that shape who they become forever.

I believe in that promise. That is precisely why my daughter’s decision fills me with hope. The maroon hoodie in our living room is proof that she has not surrendered to some vast marketing machine. It is simply a reminder of her hard work and of the life she is about to begin.

Like every parent sending a child to college, I feel pride and excitement for what comes next. But I also feel a quiet unease that we have allowed one of society’s most important institutions to become so entangled with branding, prestige, spectacle, and financial strain. Education should stretch young minds. It should not stretch family finances to the breaking point. It should expand possibility, not mortgage it.

The brochures are gone now. The choice is made. The next chapter begins. Like every parent at this moment, I am hopeful. I am proud. Somewhere along the way, possibility acquired a price tag. 

I am still wondering when we decided that was normal.

மர்ம மாளிகை

 

எங்கள் தினம் எழுதும் குழுமத்தில் ஒரு நாள் தரப்பட்ட தலைப்பு - பல ஆண்டுகளாகப் பூட்டிக் கிடக்கும் ஓர் அறை. அதற்குள் மனிதர்கள், விலங்குகள் என யாரும் இல்லை. ஆனால், உங்கள் கற்பனை நுழையமுடியாத இடம் உண்டா என்ன? அந்த அறையை மனக்கண்ணில் பார்த்து நுணுக்கமாகக் காட்சிப்படுத்துங்கள்.

எத்தனை நாட்கள் தனியனாக எங்கோ வெளிநாட்டில் இருப்பது? இளம் வயதிலேயே மனைவியைக் கேன்சருக்குப் பலி கொடுத்த பின் வேலை வேலை என்று இருந்தாகிவிட்டது. இன்றைக்கு தேவைக்கும் மேல் பணம் இருக்கிறது ஆனால் நிம்மதிதான் இல்லை. வேலையை விட்டுவிட்டு ஊருக்குப் போகலாம்தான். ஆனால் சும்மா இருக்கும் வயதும் இல்லை மனமும் இல்லை. 

ஊரில் இருக்கும் பழைய ஜமீந்தார் அரண்மனை விற்பனைக்கு வருகிறது என்று தெரிந்தவுடன் ஒரு முடிவுக்கு வந்துவிட்டேன். நேரில் சென்று பார்க்க வேண்டும் என்று கூட நினைத்துப் பார்க்காமல் முகவரிடம் பேசி வாங்கச் சொல்லிவிட்டேன். புலிப்பட்டி ஜமீன் என்றால் அந்தக் காலத்தில் அவ்வளவு மரியாதை. வீட்டில் ஏதேனும் விசேஷம் என்றால் தாத்தா அப்பாவெல்லாம் ஜமீனுக்குச் சென்றுதான் முதல் பத்திரிக்கை வைப்பார்கள். ஜமீந்தாரைப் பார்த்தாலே கையெடுத்துக் கும்பிடத் தோன்றும். அவரொன்றும் பட்டு உடையும் தங்க நகையுமாகவெல்லாம் இருக்க மாட்டார். சாதாரணமான துணிமணி, நெற்றி நிறைய நீறு என இருந்தாலும் அவர் முகத்தில் இருக்கும் ஒளி நம்மைத் தானாகவே மரியாதை கொடுக்கச் செய்யும். ஆனால் வாரிசு இல்லாமல் அவர் இறந்து போக யார் யார் கையிலோ அவர் சொத்து சென்றடைந்து அரண்மனை விற்பனைக்கு என்பதில் வந்து நிற்கிறது. 

சுற்றிப் பார்க்க அத்தனை இடங்கள் இருந்தாலும் தங்குவதற்கு நல்ல இடமில்லாமல் தொலைவில் இருக்கும் திருநெல்வேலியில் தங்க வேண்டியதாக இருக்கிறது. இந்த அரண்மனையை நல்ல தங்குமிடமாகச் செய்தால் செய்யத் தொழிலும் இருக்கும், ஊருக்குப் போன மாதிரி இருக்கும் என்பதுதான் என் திட்டம். ஒரு சுபயோக சுபதினத்தில் எல்லாவற்றையும் விற்றுவிட்டு மூட்டை முடிச்சோடு ஊருக்குக் கிளம்பிவிட்டேன். 

பரந்த இடத்தைச் சுற்றி பெரிய சுவர். உள்ளே நுழைய இரும்புக் கதவுகள். நுழைந்த உடன் அரண்மனை தெரியாத அளவு மரங்கள். அரண்மனையைச் சுற்றி அழகான புல்வெளி. பிரம்மாண்டமான நீள அகலத்தில் மூன்று மாடிகள் கொண்ட கட்டடம். இப்படித்தான் அரண்மனை என் நினைவில் இருக்கிறது. பராமரிப்பற்றுப் பாழடைந்து கிடந்தாலும் செப்பனிட்டால் பழைய கம்பீரத்தைக் கொண்டு வந்துவிடலாம். உள்ளே நுழைந்தால் பழைய படங்களில் வரும் பேய் பங்களாவைப் போல தூசும் ஒட்டடையுமாக இருந்தது. இருந்த அறைக்கலன்கள், கலைப்பொருட்களில் பாதிக்கு மேல் காணாமல் போயிருந்தாலும் மற்றவையாவது இருக்கிறதே என ஆசுவாசமாக இருந்தது. ஒவ்வொரு அறையாகப் பார்த்துக் கொண்டே மாடி ஏறினேன். 

ஒவ்வொரு அறையாகப் பார்த்துக் கொண்டு வரும் பொழுது அகலக் கால் வைத்து விட்டோமோ என்ற எண்ணம் எழுந்தது. நல்ல வேளை பணத்திற்குக் குறைவில்லை, யாருக்கும் வைத்து விட்டு போக வேண்டிய அவசியமும் இல்லை, நினைத்ததைச் செய்வோம் என்ற நினைத்துக் கொண்டே நடந்த பொழுது கால் இடறி சுவரில் முட்டிக் கொண்டேன். இடித்த வேகத்தில் பூச்சு பொலபொலவென்று உதிர்ந்து மறைக்கப்பட்டிருந்த ஒரு கதவு தெரிந்தது. இழுத்துத் திறக்க கைப்பிடி ஒன்றுமில்லாமல் அந்தக் கதவில் சாவியை நுழைக்க மட்டும் ஓர் ஓட்டை மட்டும் இருந்தது. அந்த ஓட்டையில் ஒரு கண்ணை வைத்துப் பார்த்தேன். 

அத்தனை பெரிய அறை எப்படி அங்கு இருக்க முடியும் என்றே புரியவில்லை. அரண்மனையின் வேறெந்த அறையும் அவ்வளவு பெரிதாக இல்லை. கிட்டத்தட்ட ஒரு மாடியின் அகல நீளத்தில் பாதி அளவிற்கு இருக்கும் போலிருந்தது. முதலில் கண்ணில் பட்டது அறையின் நடுவே இருந்தப் பளிங்குத் தரைதான். கருப்பும் வெள்ளையுமாகச் செஸ் பலகை போல இரண்டடிக்கு இரண்டடி கற்கள். ஆங்காங்கே கட்டிப் பிடித்தால் கைகளைக் கோக்க முடியாத பருமனில் மரத்தூண்கள். பார்த்தாலே பர்மா தேக்கு போன்ற உயர் ரக மரத்தால் செய்யப்பட்டவை என்று தெரிந்தது. நான்கு புறங்களிலும் தாழ்வாரம் போல அமைப்பு. நடுவில் இருக்கும் இடம் மட்டும் இரண்டு மாடி உயரம். எங்கிருந்தோ சூரிய ஒளி நுழைந்து வெளிச்சமும் இருட்டுமாய் அந்த அறையை பழங்காலப் படம் போலக் காட்சியளிக்கச் செய்து கொண்டிருந்தது. ஒரு திசையில் இருந்துதான் பார்க்க முடிந்தது என்றாலும் முழுவதும் எப்படி இருக்கும் என்று கற்பனை செய்ய முடிந்தது. 

இந்த தாழ்வாரத்தின் கூரை முழுவதும் மரங்கள் உத்திரங்கள் போல அமைக்கப்பட்டிருந்தன. ஆங்காங்கே அமர்வதற்காக நாற்காலிகள். இரண்டு நாற்காலிகளுக்கு இடையே ஒரு டேபிள், அவற்றின் மேல் கேடயம், விளக்குகள் என ஏதேனும் கலைப்பொருட்கள் வைக்கப்பட்டிருந்தன. சில இடங்களில் நீளமாகச் சாய்ந்து உட்கார்ந்து கொள்ளும் படியான நாற்காலிகள். பட்டுத்துணியால் கண்கவர் வண்ணங்களில் அவற்றின் இருக்கைகள் அமைந்திருந்தன. சுவர்களில் பெரிய பெரிய படங்கள். ஜமீன் பரம்பரையினரின் படங்களாக இருக்க வேண்டும். வலப்புறச் சுவர் முழுவதும் புத்தக அலமாரியாகச் செய்யப்பட்டிருந்தது. அவ்வளவு வெளிச்சம் இல்லை என்பதால் என்னென்னப் புத்தகங்கள் என்று தெரியவில்லை என்றாலும் நூற்றுக்கணக்கில் புத்தகங்கள் இருப்பது தெரிந்தது. நடக்குமிடத்தில் ஆங்காங்கே கம்பளங்கள் விரிக்கப்பட்டிருந்தன. 

கொஞ்சம் அண்ணாந்து பார்த்தால் நடுவில் இருக்கும் இடத்தைச் சுற்றித் தாழ்வாரத்திற்கு மேல் அழகிய மரவேலைப்பாடு கொண்ட உப்பரிகை போன்ற அமைப்பு தெரிந்தது. அதற்குப் பின் இருக்கும் சுவரில் மேலும் படங்கள். கொஞ்சம் வெளிச்சம் அதிகமிருந்ததால் அவற்றை நன்றாகப் பார்க்க முடிந்தது. ரவி வர்மா ஓவியங்களில் பிரதியாக இருக்கலாம். அவர் வரைந்த படங்களாகவே இருந்தாலும் ஆச்சரியமில்லை. நடுநாயகமாக ஒரு பெரிய ஷாண்டிலியர் விளக்கு சூரிய வெளிச்சத்தில் பளபளத்துக் கொண்டிருந்தது. இத்தனை பெரிய அரண்மனையை எப்படிப் பழைய கம்பீரத்திற்குக் கொண்டு வர, அதற்காகும் செலவைத் தாங்க முடியுமா என்ற கேள்விகளுக்கெல்லாம் விடையாக இந்த அறையில் இருந்த பொருட்கள் தோன்றின. ஒரு புறம் நிம்மதியாக இருந்தாலும் எதோ உறுத்திக் கொண்டே இருந்தது. 

அறையின் ஒவ்வொரு இடமாக மீண்டும் பார்க்கும் பொழுதுதான் அது என்னவென்று உரைத்தது. மெல்லிய தூசுப் படலம் இருந்தாலும் அந்த அறையில் வெளியில் இருந்த தூசும் ஓட்டடையும் இல்லாமல் இருந்தது. கைவிடப்பட்ட அரண்மனை போலல்லாமல் யாரோ கொஞ்சம் நாள் ஊருக்குப் போயிருந்த மாதிரி அந்த அறை காட்சியளித்ததைக் கண்டு திகைப்பாக இருந்தது. காற்றே நுழைய வழி இல்லாத அந்த அறையில் நட்ட நடுவாகப் போடப்பட்டிருந்த ஆடும் நாற்காலி யாரோ அப்பொழுதுதான் எழுந்து சென்றதைப் போல லேசாக ஆடிக் கொண்டிருந்தது. ஜமீந்தார் வரும் பொழுது எழும் திருநீறும் ஜவ்வாதும் கலந்த வாசம் திடீரென என் நாசியை நிறைத்தது.  

இதில் தரப்பட்ட விவரணையை ஆங்கிலத்தில் சாட்ஜிபிடியிடம் தந்தேன். அதற்கு அது வரைந்து தந்த படம் என் மனத்தில் இருந்ததிற்கு மிகவும் நெருக்கமாகவே அமைந்தது!