“Ammalu, Control the flow of fluid from your eyes, both eyes. I have decided to opt out from the post of your husband in the next birth. I’m sorry to hurt you, but I want freedom”
“No problem. I too would like to have some elbow space. Shall choose a much simpler man, not a hi-fi like you , who will sit by me on the door-step, facing the setting sun, holding my hand and sing along with me:
“KAthukuthi thakkai pottu, kuripArpen ammae”
“That korathi PAttu, LambAdi song, village folk song ? Where is music in it?”
“The music is within me. His soul will absorb it and sing along with me”
“But why on the door-step? Why not on a chair, sofa, bench, cot ? Even on the top of a tree if you don’t like to sit below it?”
“That was the place where my father used to sit along with my mom and sing during the early days, then along with me and my siblings and later with my children. A woman see, in her husband, her father, sibling, children and what I see in you is a scholar, writer, politician, magician and many more forms”
“Every beat, every tune, every vibration from your heart I will absorb, Ammalu. And this is a promise”
“You will be, then, my husband for another seven births”
“Promise?”
“No promise”
“Why Ammalu?”
“I’m not sure whether any music is left in me now to be carried over to the next birth, after living with you for so long”
“Don’t worry, Ammalu. You said I am a magician. I w’ll create a fresh spring of music in you, by kissing on your head. Stay there for a minute “
“Oh, I know, you can. You can”
“Good. Then let us go to the door-step”
“Not to the door step. On to the tree top. I’m so excited”