Fair of face and full of grace

“What a pretty girl!” said grandma, craning her neck to get a better look at Shoefiend standing at her gate waving goodbye to them. “Is she a dancer?”

“I’m not sure,” replied mom. “I know she’s a very good writer.”

“Then she probably is a dancer also,” said grandma, firm in the belief that goddess Saraswati usually imparts more than one asset to the gifted.

“You’re right,” said grandpa, taken in by Shoefie's traditional garb, complete with a diamond mookuthi that glittered in the sweltering Chennai sun. “She definitely looks like a dancer.”

“Look, I’ll send her an e-mail and ask her. OK?” said mom peevishly, starting to show signs of irritation at the prospect of visiting relatives with her parents that afternoon.

“Such pleasing manners also,” observed grandma, looking pointedly at her grim-faced daughter.

Chastened, mom had to silently agree that it’s not easy to find fault with a person like Shoefiend who is charm personified a few times over.

As bubbly as a bottle of uncorked Dom Perignon, the girl is also blessed with a voice that reminds you of water skipping over pebbles in a stream, and your eyes automatically scan her drawing room expecting to spot a veena or a harmonium in a corner.

Instead, as you allow your gaze to linger on the ethnic furniture, the ornate brass lamp hanging in the corner, the dark frames on the walls, the wooden jhoola and the antique chests doubling as tables, you realize that Shoefiend’s writing is somewhat like the room - tasteful, with no unnecessary frills.

“I wish you lived on this side of town,” said the genial hostess, tickling her baby’s chin. “There’s so much to do in Madras.”

Little Boot, who until a few moments ago had been livid with rage rooting for the nearest boob, let out a gurgle as if to echo his mom’s sentiments about nalla Madras. Unmindful of the long plane ride that lay ahead of him to London in a few days, he sat on his mother’s lap and smiled toothlessly at his guest, engaging her in goo-gaa banter before being distracted by his bracelet.

“Your friend has a kutti baby?” Kuki had asked that morning. “I want to come see the baby,” she said, convinced that mom was going to meet mumbaigirl (the only other person she’s met from London).

“Why didn’t she bring the baby when she came home?”

“That aunty doesn’t have a baby yet,” explained mom. “This is another aunty. She also lives in London.”

“London?” repeated the tween son. "Ma, don't you have friends in any other place?"

Hello? ... Anybody out there from Paris, Rome, New York or Milan?