The Last Tamil Lesson.
At eighty-eight, Mr. Oswald was young for his age. He often wore shorts and round-neck T-shirts, and he was always neatly groomed. He wore shorts not because the Chennai weather demanded it, but because he had worn them all his life. He saw no reason to surrender to age merely because society expected him to. His shorts were often printed with floral patterns and looked almost girlish. Every morning, after a careful shave, he applied aftershave. Old Spice Musk was his favourite. He trimmed his full white French beard with cuticle scissors, almost to military precision, combed back his thinning silver hair, and inspected himself in the mirror. "Still presentable, Ossi," he would say to himself. The nuns working at St. Gabriel's Home for Senior Citizens found him amusing. The residents found him eccentric. Sister Maria, a nurse and nun, adored him. Oswald was one of the last Anglo-Indians of his generation living in North Chennai. He had worked at Royapuram Rail...
