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philtstone · 11 months

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Arunmozhi & Nandini smile

after 2 months of being too mentally exhausted to write anything i produce this in 3 days .... sometimes i impress even myself if the words "modern road trip fix it au" make sense all together in a sentence, that's what this is. sorry 2 all the mutuals who have not watched six hours of convoluted 10th century south indian soap opera historical epic tragic romance adventure story. but also you should do that, so we can all adopt new and delightfully insane blorbos together. also: this is not meant to be serious. which means the geography is a mess. apologies in advance.

“… so what is it? Two rooms or three? I can’t keep asking this front desk idiot questions, his little head will explode from all the brain power needed to answer.”

Arunmozhi wishes he hadn’t misplaced his favourite bucket hat back in Kodaikkarai. The sun is hot and directly on his head, which makes it harder to focus on the dual task of listening to the person on the phone, and keeping track of the debacle that has developed by the Pazhaiyarai route gas station bathroom, the door of which Kundavai is still attempting to lecture through.

“Well,” he says. “You’ll have to give me a minute to think about it. Something of a situation has developed.”

He has known Poonguzhali for just long enough that he can tell by the sound of her breathing how she feels about something. Now, for example, it comes across as distinctly suspicious across the mobile connection.

“Why do I get the feeling this was an entirely predictable situation,” she says.

Arunmozhi admits this might be true, though not aloud.

“The rooms, Madam Detective.”

“Look, it’s either one room with two beds or two rooms with one bed each. Idiots! You’d think they’d have three rooms available! No one but us wants to stay in this dump, I bet. Only a man such as this one would think so highly of himself to presume he had clientele.”

There is the faint sound of an older male voice protesting over the line.

“Even we don’t want to stay in this dump,” says Arunmozhi pleasantly, at the same time Poonguzhali deems it fit to remind him in a declarative voice, “I’m a private investigator, you know, not a miracle worker!“

He’s waylaid in coming up with a fun and possibly clever response because Kundavai has reached such a point of despair in her lecturing that she turns away from the locked bathroom door, pins her flashing eyes on Arunmozhi, and says,

“Tell your idiot brother to unlock the bloody door!”

Arunmozhi grimaces. Aditha is only ever his idiot brother when circumstances are truly clownish. Most of the rest of the time Kundavai is content enough to claim ownership of the both of them, no matter how useless she thinks they are being.

“Here,” he mutters sheepishly into the phone. “Talk to Vandiyadevan for a moment, I’ve got to deal with something.”

He hands over the phone to Vandiyadevan before either party can protest.

Then he surveys The Situation.

They are at a gas station on the road to Thanjavur, one of those with nothing but the gas and a little snack stand and yellow dust masquerading as the road. There are clucking chickens in front of the snack stand, and also occupying the poorly-tiled bathroom roof. The flies are terrible. Arunmozhi arrived this morning, traveling North from South, via Poonghuzali’s van — he had met her fortuitously while exploring the coast, and thought they could only benefit from the assistance of a private investigator whose own aunt he was trying to locate — and with a motorcycle in tow. It is he who orchestrated the rendezvous. Kundavai had been up due North to fetch their eldest sibling, and is now here in her rental, acquired because driving Aditha’s sports car down towards Lanka would be the opposite of inconspicuous. The rental is already a filthy disaster. In theory this should help them in their incognito quest, but Arunmozhi is willing to acknowledge that what he had originally supposed would be a hiccupless development in the journey might instead be putting their multipurpose attempt to save the family business and uncover the truth wholly at risk. At this point, dirty rental cars are neither here nor there.

In the quest, at the very least, they are all united: understanding the truth about their entangled pasts seems somehow significant to thwarting the various family members now vying for a slice of the proverbial Chola Incorporated throne, to say nothing of the lurking specter of their father’s old political rival, who seems to be in dire enough financial straits that he has been setting up easily traceable Zoom meetings with Chola Inc secretaries who are bored enough to be looking for drama.

Considering the circumstances, Arunmozhi is comforted by the idea that they have discovered a capable ally. The problem is, it won’t amount to much if they never leave this gas station.

He strokes his beard a little, the way their father sometimes does, and once again wishes for his trusty bucket hat. It is, of course, very practical — this is what he tells Kundavai every time she protests it — but he also thinks it is a brilliant piece of fashion. He’d much rather look like the normal hip youths than dress up fancily in the stuffy attire of an ailing business mogul’s son.

The business in question currently being in the throes of potential jeopardy. And there is all this sticky secretive stuff of past love affairs. Arunmozhi is convinced it will all come together somehow, if only they probe a little. He has really made great strides, armed with his Regular University Student’s attire (the bucket hat) and canvas backpack, a simple nobody traveling around to find himself after finishing his degree. All one has to do is consider The Situation in front of them, to see the clear fruits of his labour.

But, ah: The Situation.

It is, he supposes, his fault. He sighs and refocuses.

The bathroom is more of an outhouse, really, with only one functional capability (its locking door), and it is within this vestibule that Aditha, about fifteen minutes ago now, had dramatically locked himself. In front of the bathroom door stands their brilliant sister, her perfect bun starting to undo and frizz, her expensive t-shirt (Kundavai cannot help but look expensive, even when she is trying very hard not to) developing sweaty stains under the armpits, and her aristocratic chin inching higher and higher in consternation. Behind her, naturally to Arunmozhi’s side, is Aditha’s old university friend — Arunmozhi’s current best friend — Vandiyadevan. He wears an old Vanar Men’s Cricket jersey and sandals, and is unsuccessfully ignoring Poonguzhali, who has started in her favorite pastime of bickering with him over the phone loudly enough that the sound carries. He’s wisely chosen to remain silent about The Situation so far; even with his clever tongue he’d surely only make things worse. In between swapping insults with their intrepid PI, Vandiyadevan keeps peering with concern at the bathroom door, fiddling with the tangled fake beard he had used to sneak into the Thenupuriswarar temple that morning (it is still adorning his handsome face), and gazing mournfully at the passing cars and buses, as if the necessary choice to leave his ornery Tata Nano behind when they crossed the river is truly haunting him.

And, in the middle of them all, perched against the seat of her motorcycle and with her arms very tightly crossed, is Nandini.

When Arunmozhi ran into her in the Periodicals section of that Sri Lankan library, desperately clutching the same fading birth announcements column he had been looking for, she had appeared – he’d thought, not uncharitably – in true mental distress. Things could not possibly be more different now.

Unlike Kundavai, Nandini remains perfectly coiffed after multiple hours of travel in the heat and dust. Her braid is sleek and glossy, her jewelry sparkles, the delicate material of her floral dress flutters genteelly in the nonexistent wind, and every manicured fingernail — now beginning to tap impatiently against her arm — displays nothing but absolute composure. She wears dainty gold bangles on her wrists and a thick oversized motorcycle jacket that must be sweltering in the heat, and has her luminous face turned lazily in the opposite direction as the outhouse. One of the chickens clucks at her feet, rooting around for worms.

Indeed, since they arrived, Nandini has been so very good at feigning indifference that even Arunmozhi could believe her utterly unaffected. It’s only now that, after a full fifteen minutes of locked bathroom door, he can see her expression become less and less dignified and — perhaps to the detriment of the collective — more and more irate.

Hm.

Arunmozhi knocks on the bathroom door with a bit more haste than originally planned.

“Go away!” comes the expected growl from within. “Won’t you let a man shit in peace?”

He has to hand it to his brother: it has the expected reaction. Kundavai puts her face into her hands and Nandini cracks just enough to roll her eyes before determinedly reverting to lofty silence. Vandiyadevan, of course, wisely smothers his snort of laughter behind a cough; he’s taken to holding the phone an arm’s length away from his ear, while Poonghuzali, true to form, has now started interrogating the motel owner about tax breaks on the other end of the line.

Diplomatically, Vandiyadevan says, “Well, if he really does just need a minute …”

“Please,” says Kundavai, “Please, come out of the toilet. For once in your life, be normal about this.”

“I’m being very normal,” says the voice of Aditha. “I am meditating on the mysteries of life. It will take me a while, so I will stay here for now, and then meet you all again in Thanjavur later.”

“You’re being a coward!” says Kundavai.

“Oof,” Vandiyadevan winces.

“Vandiyadevan,” says Kundavai, as close to pleading as she will ever get, “you talk to him. You’re good with words. Here, I’ll take the phone.”

Vandiyadevan, who as usual seems to lose some of his easy suavity whenever Kundavai turns the full force of her general presence on him, manages to say, “I got my degree in journalism, not politics. My charms only work on the ladies.”

This is more than enough to unite the warring factions of the group; Kundavai, Nandini, and the tinny mobile voice of Poonguzhali all scoff loudly and in harmony. Even Aditha seems to make a mild noise of amusement, though that could just as well have been the harangued motel owner on Poonguzhali’s end of the line, so muffled is the sound.

“Useless then. Aditha, I’ll knock down the door with our terrible rental car.”

“Don’t do that; you’ll owe the insurance man. Look here, Kundavai, didn’t your illustrious cards say anything about this?”

“I am not in the mood to be teased, Mr. Journalist. Your beard is melting, by the way.”

“Will it really be that bad if you came out, eh?” asks Vandiyadevan, concerned for both Kundavai’s nerves and his handy accessory. He frowns as Poonghuzali says something over the phone. “Oh — the lummox wants to know whether we’re planning on renting any rooms at all. Ayyo, no, I meant the desk clerk —!”

“She clearly has you all under her thrall,” interrupts Aditha, melodramatically from behind his door, cutting through the irate exclamations emitting from the phone. “You don’t know her like I do! I don’t care what anyone says. She’s lying.”

“She hasn’t said anything yet,” growls Kundavai, still with more dignity and poise than majority of the population might have on a good day. She tosses an acid look in Nandini’s direction. Nandini glares back coolly.

“It’s all part of her plan. She’s tricking us into complacence. Or have you forgotten that the person sitting on that bike is actually a – a – a –”

Aditha seems to have run out of words.

“She-snake?” offers Vandiyadevan tentatively.

“Poisonous witch,” recites Kundavai in a tired voice.

“Demoness,” remembers Arunmozhi, “oh, that was a good one.”

Nandini, whose indifference has since fully morphed into glaring daggers at Kundavai, pauses now to hum in contemplation, like a woman good naturedly unable to deny her many titles.

Kundavai, on the other hand, has reached her wits’ end.

“Four,” she says, turning to Arunmozhi and gesturing very specifically at her hairline. “Four grey hairs. Can you see them? One, two, three, four. Dearest little brother, I hope you considered my four grey hairs when you concocted this plan. This is really it. We’re going to be stuck in this gas station forever, and our pathetic cousin will take over the family business.” She raises her voice, “Do you hear that, Aditha! And then who’ll stop that scumbag Pandian from buying out all of his shares and blowing our family’s legacy trying to create God via chatbot? The bloody thing keeps advocating for users to kill enemies of the faith! And it’ll all be your doing!”

Oof – Arunmozhi is the one who thinks it this time. As far as accusations go, that one is a little harsh. After all, it was Kundavai who meddled enough for the maligned couple to break up in the first place. Sure, Aditha then went and exposed a measure of Veera Pandian’s scumminess to the press a year later, out of spite, on Nandini’s birthday, which blew up rather spectacularly in his face. But there’s no need to be rubbing even more salt in old wounds, thinks Arunmozhi.

Giving Kundavai a look which he hopes she takes to mean Relax, I got this, Arunmozhi steps forward and knocks a second time on the bathroom door.

“I told you, I won’t be lectured into participating in treason,” comes Aditha’s muffled voice, admittedly somewhat more cowed than before. “Against me, no less. Wow.”

“It’s not Kundavai,” says Arunmozhi, “it’s me.”

A long, rather mulish moment of silence follows. “Oh.”

“Yes,” says Arunmozhi, taking this to be an opening. “Won’t you unlock the door? Vandiyadevan’s disguise beard is melting in this heat. It would be a shame to have to hold a funeral for it.”

“I don’t have any other disguise beards on hand,” agrees Vandiyadevan helpfully. “I’d have to call Nambi up for one, and then I couldn’t show my face in the office for a week.”

Arunmozhi quite likes Nambi, though he’d never tell Vandiyadevan that — they work for rival newspapers — and now wonders if perhaps involving the older, nosier man at this juncture is the right call, as Nandini seems to soften wistfully in demeanour every time his name is brought up. Then again, maybe that will complicate things further, and instead of making her more agreeable, will result in another reaction hitherto unexpected. Unwisely perhaps, nobody really believed that Aditha would take one look at his ex-girlfriend, go white as a sheet, and promptly barricade himself behind the nearest locking door.

Who knows what Nandini might do with her own version of a curveball.

“I can’t believe this is your fault,” Aditha says finally, referring to Arunmozhi but sounding like he’s talking to himself. “Of course, she’d never be able to poison you. I’m just very hurt, you know.”

Kundavai throws up her hands into the sky. Vandiyadevan pinches the bridge of his nose in two fingers. Nandini, on the other hand, once more raises her eyebrows as though contemplatively conceding Aditha’s point.

Arunmozhi sighs.

“Yes,” he says. “There is that. I am sorry, Anna. Only, don’t you want to hear what she’s got to say?”

“No,” comes the finite response. Then, more despondently, “I don’t deserve it. She’ll never forgive me. I will go back to Kanchi and continue in the only honourable profession I’ve ever had.”

“For the hundredth time,” says Kundavai, breaking her silence. “Children’s camp counsellor is not a profession. Anyone can do arts and crafts and coach football. If you got your teaching degree, maybe.”

Privately, Arunmozhi thinks Aditha is uniquely good at facilitating the diligent creation of bead bracelets amongst 5 to 10 year olds. He also gets very competitive about football in a way that inspires excellence. Observing Kundavai’s twitching eyebrow, however, Arunmozhi chooses to keep these thoughts to himself.

“I already have a business degree!” says Aditha, from within the outhouse.

“Which you refuse to put to practice!”

“This is my one use in the world, Kundavai!”

Vandiyadevan and Poonguzhali have recently given up arguing over the motel, and the former now solemnly holds the phone out microphone first so that the illustrious investigator can listen in on the proceedings. Kundavai begins lecturing again. Even the chickens seem to be clucking with exasperation rather than neutrality. It is here that Arumozhi chooses to look at Nandini. While everyone else groans at the reminder of Aditha’s derailed career trajectory, on Nandini’s face there is a sudden and even startled expression of tenderness.

It must be terribly difficult, Arunmozhi thinks, to show up to what’s become one of the more chaotic family road trips in Tamil Nadu's history, clasp one’s hands together, and say, Well, you see, I’ve only just found out that my adoptive father is my real father and he is really quite a piece of work, factually speaking, even putting aside his God-bot delusions and general tax evasion, and the only way to find my mother, who has been alive this whole time, is with your help. But she seems fully committed to it all. It is very brave of her.

More importantly – resourceful as Nandini is, Arunmozhi has no doubts that she already knew about the children’s camp, and the arts and crafts, and most definitely the football. So that tender little look cannot have been one of pure surprise.

He smiles to himself. Maybe he wasn’t so misled in his instincts after all.

“Anna,” he tells the door quietly, in a tone he knows his brother – ever his protector, defender, and supporter, ready to take him seriously even when in the throes of his own early-life crisis – will catch. “I really think if we all work together on this, we have a shot at fixing many wrongs. I really am sorry for springing this on you. Both of you – you know.” When there is no response, he adds, “Look – maybe there will be a silver lining. You keep complaining that you haven’t had anyone to play a good match of chess with in a while.”

There is another prolonged moment of quiet; Arunmozhi imagines Aditha, the mass of his long hair tied out of his face as usual, proud profile turned towards the wall, his arms probably crossed in a close mirror of Nandini’s far more delicate posture. Nandini’s own expression remains stuck on whatever momentary ache passed through her, but now morphed into a complicated middle ground, unsure of whether she wishes to remain thawed or to remember the many wounds that led them to this somewhat silly juncture.

“Alright,” comes Aditha’s sudden, gruff voice.

Vandiyadevan’s mouth drops open. Kundavai freezes still as a statue in relief. Nandini, still astride the motorcycle, straightens imperceptibly; if Arunmozhi were really looking, a faint, almost imperceptible quiver of hope passes through her brows –

“But first,” Aditha continues, “I demand she return my stolen property.”

Oh, no, Arunmozhi thinks, a split second before, in front of their despairing and disbelieving eyes, some intangible stronghold of assumed dignity snaps within Nandini’s depths.

“Stolen property?” she shrieks. The chickens scatter, clucking for their lives. An innocent farmer filling up his truck’s tank ten feet away jumps violently and covers himself in gasoline. Nandini’s beautiful face has gone the colour of chalk. “Stolen property?!”

“Yes! It is mine, and you are wearing it!”

“You gifted me this jacket, you absolute jackass!”

“Well, I am ungifting it!” yells Aditha, through the door. “Give it back!”

“I’ll kill him!” Nandini howls, springing to her feet. Her eyes shimmer with a sort of impotent rage. It’s not quite clear who she is talking to – the collective, perhaps, or the divine, or even her own self – “Do you hear me?! Your death will be at my hands, Karikalan!”

“So do it then!” comes the equally theatrical roar from the outhouse’s depths. “FINISH WHAT YOU STARTED!”

“YOU JUST TRY TO TAKE MY JACKET BACK YOURSELF, YOU GUTLESS WORM –”

As everyone scrambles to prevent physical violence (Vandiyadevan has the wherewithal to yell for Poonghuzali-on-the-phone to go ahead and book the one room, as they’ll probably all be dead before the sun sets anyway), Arunmozhi reconsiders his intuition.

… Perhaps making this work will be a little bit harder than he thought.

Rubbing a hand over his overheated head, he steps into the fray.

#my writing #ponniyin selvan #arunmozhi varman #aditha karikalan #nandini #vandiyadevan #kundavai #poonghuzali #aditha x nandini #vandiyadevan x kundavai #i wanted to include some lines about vanathi but there simply was not a good opening :(#but we do stan an anxious constantly fainting queen

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pinkhuman99 · 2 years

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Sans for the character opinions bingo

Okay, I will now explain everything I circled because I know a few will be confusing (and because I never want to stop talking about Sans, my #1 blorbo, my scrimblo, my scrunkly wunkus)

1. I am obsessed with his character arc. There is so much to his "backstory" that we just don't know. However, it's pretty clear from many limes of dialogue that he's lost and depressed and hopeless. However, during a pacifist route, he actively puts in the effort to take care of his family, his friends, and the Human. A lot of people say he doesn't lift a finger to help you, but at one point he supplies you with healing items, and he is always telling you something encouraging. By the end of the pacifist route he is willing to let go of (some of) the past and move on and be happy with his new family/friends. I cannot and will not stop thinking about this.

2. You know why I think he got done dirty by fans. Some people boil him down to funny ha-ha bone man. Some boil him down to angst and Bad Time. And some people so fundamentally misunderstand his character that they place him in AUs where they put an adjective or something in front of his name and ship him with different versions of "himself" that all might as well be completely different characters considering how they ARE ACTUALLY COMPLETELY DIFFERENT CHARACTERS.

3. Okay, let me explain. Do I think Sans is one of the best-written characters in Undertale, along with the likes of Alpnys and Toriel? Yes. Do I also just want him to get some love and comfort but Toby made several routes where he is trapped and hopeless and possibly he comes from Deltarune and if that's the case no-one can stop his inevitable trapping in the world of Undertale? Also yes. So thank you Mr. Fox, but also, screw you Mr. Fox.

4. I am constantly rotating him around in my head. He is all I think about. I think I am legitimately in love with this fictional character. Judge me if you want. But I wish he could be happy more than anything. I have so many theories and thoughts about this man.

5. Every song I listen to is about this man in some way. I will not elaborate on this. If you send me a song, I will find a way to make it related to him somehow.

6. I WANT TO STUDY HIM LIKE A ROACH. I AM ALREADY STUDYING HIM. EVERY NEW CHAPTER OF DELTARUNE BRINGS US (potentially) CLOSER TO UNLOCKING THE SECRETS OF HIS BACKSTORY. IS DELTARUNE HIS HOME? IF IT IS, WHY AND HOW DOES THE MACHINE PLAY INTO THIS? HOW DID HE END UP IN UNDERTALE?? much to think about!!!

7. What's wrong with him (affectionate)? He and Papyrus are so weird, and then @carlyraejepsans goes and makes a bunch of posts like, yesterday, that make him even weirder. And I cannot thank them enough for this. He is goofy. He can be terrifying. He has an angst backstory. He is full of hope. He is ha-ha funny man. He knows about quantum physics and may have been a scientist at some point. He fortnite dances. He can't go home. Is his accent fake? Is his name even "Comic Sans"??? Or is that a persona??

8. He will never have enough screen time. Toby could make an entire game only about him and it wouldn't be enough. I need more time with this man. He is fantastic. I want to know more about him, but not just the backstory. What is his favourite food? His favourite movie? What was his childhood like? I am going insane.

9. He has never done anything wrong. He kept his promise as best he could to Toriel. He is sweet to his brother, and in many neutral endings, his other friends. He helps you. He makes you laugh. Even when he kills you, it's for a reason. And in Deltarune, so far, he's just some guy running a small business.

10. Okay, I may be generalising the fanbase here. I follow many Undertale blogs with good and/or shared opinions of the man. But some of my thoughts and feelings, while not controversial, may be...a lot? Too much? Too weird? Like, maybe I just project onto this man or too much Steven Universe/Gravity Falls has given me theory brainrot regarding this man. And yet...

11. I circled this one in a different colour bc it is strictly a personal opinion, and you know what? Anyone can disagree with me. This is not a hill I will die on, but one I like to sit on while humming and picking flower. Basically, I won't fight to convince other people of my view of him. I love him, certainly, and I want other people to think he's great, too, but I won't argue that he's "better" than any one character. He's just the one I, personally, like the most. But I also love the other characters a whole bunch, too. They all have flaws, they all have strengths, and Mr. Toby Fox made them all wonderful friends or well-written and empathetic enemies. All said and done, I love every one of Toby's characters because they're all lovable in some way. Sans is just my little scrunkly, my scrumbus, my himbly humbly horcus. Uh...sorry. I just love him. 💀

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