Petty Tales and Pakodi: Life in Venkatapuram

The village of Venkatapuram was known for its mangoes, its temple festival, and most of all, its people’s unrivaled ability to compete over the most trivial matters. Life here was like a never-ending reality show, except there were no prizes—only smug smiles of satisfaction.

One crisp morning, Lakshmi was hunched over her courtyard, her hands deftly sprinkling rice flour to create a muggu (rangoli) so intricate it could have been mistaken for an architectural blueprint. The neighbors, as always, were watching.

“Lakshmi, what’s this?” called Gowri from her doorway, pretending to adjust her saree. “Are you practicing for a competition? Or are you just drawing lines to confuse people?”

Lakshmi didn’t look up. “Oh, Gowri! Just a small muggu to welcome the gods. You know, they say a house with a beautiful muggu brings prosperity. But I suppose you wouldn’t know that.”

The jab landed squarely. Gowri’s nostrils flared. She marched inside, muttering about showing Lakshmi her place. Minutes later, Gowri emerged with a bucket of rice flour big enough to feed the entire village and began her masterpiece. Lines, curves, and dots multiplied across her courtyard like an invading army.

By the time the sun was fully up, the street looked like an art gallery had exploded. The women weren’t just drawing muggus; they were fighting a silent war, their flour-coated fingers a testament to their determination.

When the muggus were done, it was time for the saree parade. Lakshmi stepped out in her best silk saree, the pallu swaying as if it had its own ego. She carried a pot of water to the street pump, her steps slow and deliberate. Every neighbor knew this walk—it was her way of announcing, Look at me, I’m better than you.

“Lakshmi, new saree?” Gowri asked, her tone dripping with false sweetness.

“Oh, this?” Lakshmi flicked her pallu dramatically. “Just something my husband picked up for me. He said, ‘Lakshmi, you deserve the best.’”

Not to be outdone, Gowri disappeared inside and re-emerged moments later in a saree so bright it looked like it was stitched out of sunlight. “My Raghu bought this last week. He said, ‘Gowri, you shine brighter than gold, so why not wear it?’”

Kamala, their quiet neighbor, watched the exchange from her veranda. A mischievous smile spread across her face. She casually walked out in a plain cotton saree but paired it with an enormous gold necklace that looked heavy enough to anchor a boat.

“Kamala! What a necklace!” Lakshmi gasped.

“Oh, this old thing?” Kamala said nonchalantly. “My husband got it for me on our anniversary. He says, ‘Kamala, you’re my queen.’”

The women fell silent, each plotting their next move.

While the women were battling over muggus and sarees, their husbands were holding court at the tea stall under the banyan tree. Ramu, Lakshmi’s husband, leaned back on the bench, puffing a beedi like it was a cigar.

“Last week, I sold five sacks of paddy,” Ramu began, his tone casual but loud enough to ensure everyone heard. “The merchant said, ‘Ramu, your crops are the best in the district.’”

Raghu, Gowri’s husband, smirked. “Five sacks? Child’s play. Yesterday, I bought my wife a gold ring. The jeweler said, ‘Sir, only a great husband would buy this.’”

Muniyappa, the self-proclaimed philosopher of the group, chuckled. “Gold and paddy? What’s the use of all that if you can’t enjoy life? Last night, I drank a full bottle of toddy and still woke up fresh. That’s real strength!”

“Strength?” Ramu countered. “You couldn’t even lift the sack of rice I carried last week.”

Before the debate could escalate, Muniyappa signaled the tea vendor. “Here, boys. Tea on me. Because I’m the only real friend you’ll ever have.”

The men laughed, but as soon as Muniyappa stepped away, Ramu whispered to Raghu, “He’s all talk. Bet he borrowed money for this tea.” Raghu nodded, though he was already planning to say the same thing about Ramu to someone else later.

Back at home, the women had moved on to chores, each working harder than the other for no apparent reason. Lakshmi scrubbed her veranda so thoroughly that the tiles looked newly polished. Gowri, not to be left behind, started pounding rice with such force that it sounded like she was summoning the gods.

“Oh, Gowri, pounding rice? You must have so much energy,” Lakshmi said, pausing dramatically. “I made biryani this morning. My Ramu loves it. He says, ‘Lakshmi, your cooking is better than my mother’s.’”

“Biryani?” Gowri scoffed. “Too oily. My Raghu prefers idlis. Soft and healthy. He says, ‘Gowri, no one makes them like you.’”

Kamala, who had been frying Pakodi quietly, smiled. “My husband says my cooking is better than the big city hotels.”

Lakshmi and Gowri exchanged tight smiles, mentally adding Pakodi to tomorrow’s menu.

As the sun set over Venkatapuram, the competitions simmered down—for the day. The women retired to their verandas, their children playing nearby, while the men stumbled home from the tea stall, still arguing over whose motorcycle was faster.

Lakshmi sat on her veranda, her fingers tracing the now-smudged lines of her muggu. For a moment, she wondered: What is all this for? The muggus, the sarees, the endless need to prove ourselves better? Is this life? She glanced at Gowri, who was humming a tune while folding clothes. Kamala was feeding her children with a smile.

Life in Venkatapuram wasn’t perfect, but maybe it wasn’t meant to be. The petty rivalries, the exaggerated boasts, the endless competition—they were all just a part of living, of belonging.

Lakshmi sighed, then smiled. “Tomorrow, my muggu will be even bigger,” she murmured to herself.