Meeting Gowri’s parents.
“Gowri! Thank goodness you’re safe. I was so worried with this weather,” her mother called out, hurrying toward them with an umbrella.
Gowri quickly introduced him. “Amma, this is Eeshwar, my colleague from office. He was the one who referred me to his company. He gave me a ride because of the rain. He also volunteers at Ragigudda every Saturday, which is where I first met him.”
Her mother, a petite woman with kind eyes and slightly greying hair pulled back in a neat bun, immediately broke into a grateful smile. “Oh, son, thank you so much! In this weather, I was so worried. Do you live nearby?”
“Yes, aunty. Just about ten minutes from here.”
“Please stay back for dinner. Gowri had already informed us, so I have prepared food for you too” she insisted with the kind of maternal authority that brooked no argument. “It’s already so late, and you’ve been so kind to our Gowri. At least let us feed you properly.”
Despite his protests, Eeshwar found himself being ushered into their modest but warm house. Gowri’s father, a retired bank manager with a gentle demeanour, welcomed him with the same warmth. He was reading the newspaper when they walked in. The dinner was simple, rice, sambar, rasam, vegetable side dishes, and homemade lemon pickles, but there was something about the atmosphere that he’d never experienced before.
The conversation flowed easily, with Gowri’s parents asking about his work, his family in Mysore, his adjustment to Bangalore life. They shared stories about their own daughter, her achievements, her involvement in the temple, her artistic pursuits. There was a comfort in being welcomed into this family space, a sense of belonging that he’d never quite felt even in his own home, where his parents’ worry about his future often overshadowed their interactions.
“Eeshwar, you must visit us again,” Gowri’s mother said as he prepared to leave. “Any time you want a home-cooked meal, just call.”