(Continued from the previous
blog)
During the long summer school
vacation, when village children threw stones at mango trees laden with huge
bunches of the fruit, Kalayni walked through lanes, alleys and tarred roads.
When her frail figure, garbed in her customary white dhoti and jumper, emerged
in the distance, they waited for her, dropping the stones aimed at mangoes. The
bolder ones would stealthily walk behind her and would make sniffing noises to
mock her, expelling the odour of fish heavily through their nose rills. Kalyani
would, in a fitful rage, would pick up handful of little pebbles and chase
them. That was always enough to send the little scoundrels to run for cover
behind laterite walls and wild hedges. Kalyani mumbled words of disapproval
that nobody could ever here and walked away.
Ever since the fishmonger
descended on us with a hearty pressure sale, she frequented our household, and
after the initial wrangling with my mother, would settle into her normal
business with ease. She sliced fish, rolled the grinding stone over red chilly
and grated coconut for the marinating paste and cooked it with rich and spicy
gravy.
In the afternoon hours, she sat
on an uncushioned plastic chair reading the newspaper softly, close to my
mother, who would soon snooze off in the coir woven cot. Then Kalyani would
spread her customary frayed palm mat on the floor and follow suit and their
gentle snores blended into the warmth of the summer afternoon breeze.
When the breeze grew and broke
the twigs from the drying ends of rubber trees all around the house, Kalyani
would rise to her feet and walk out of the house. She would pick them all and
heap them up in the corner of the kitchen veranda.
She then had a reason to wake
my mother up, “I’ve got them all here. The pickers would have pounced on them
now. We wouldn’t get a piece to put in the stove. Why do you let people hang
around the yard?” Then the usual business commenced again. Kalyani lit the fire
and made coffee, very strong, for her and my mother. Sipping the hot liquid she
would let her words travel through the lingering memories of her childhood. She
would talk about a time when goodness prevailed in every heart and every
household.
It was time to go. She picked
up her basket, walked away down the flight of steps into the green paddy field
and disappeared through the ridges. When she left, a gentle breeze followed
guarding her from all ills of men.
