Served with love

With her head propped on her hands Shona was feeling dull and listless.She wanted to lock the door and go to her neighbour’s house to play some board games with their daughter who was a few years younger than her. But her mother had told her to  be at home and wait for an old lady who was coming to make a throw for the mellow winter months which were just about to set in. Winter rituals were common in most households eagerly waiting to bask in the winter sunshine after the merciless summer heat. Quilts which were stuffed at the bottom of the airless bed storage space were pulled out and put out in the sun for the whole day to get rid of the musty smell. Her mother told that sun was a natural disinfectant and just by being outside they would be spruced and fluffed up. It was considered the ultimate luxury to wrap yourself in sunbaked quilt. During this time, many artisans would do rounds of the houses to enquire if they wanted to make kaatha, a throw made of old saris. Shona’s mother favourite was an old lady. She would come every alternate year to make throws out of her mother’s used saris. In the morning when her mother left for work she told Shona, “the buri ( old woman) will come today. I have kept a few saris on the bed, ask her to make two throws one for you and one for your sister. Serve her tea and biscuits or mudi( puffed rice). By the time she finishes I will be home to pay her.”For Shona, the buri came from a parallel universe, poverty stamped all over face. It had been a couple of years since she saw her, she seemed to her the oldest woman in the world. She went to the terrace overlooking the road to look out for her. Then she saw her approaching her gate with a gunny bag on her shoulder. She was a thin as a reed, her skin brown as walnut, and Shona had not seen so many wrinkles on a face. When she smiled at her, she could see only two or three teeth in her mouth as a result her cheeks had caved inwards, her collar bones jutted out.  With her legs drawn up closely, she sat on the terrace floor as Shona laid out the saris for her. Blue, red, orange, pink, it was a mayhem of colours. She stroked the soft folds of the saris and Shona could see a longing in her eyes. Yes, she had touched and felt them against their skin in her work but she never owned such beautiful saris. With a heavy sigh, she fished out her box of threads and needles and started her work. Shona watched as the buri laid one sari on top of the other, keeping the best one for the top most layer and then with her deft callused fingers she needled her way across the saris. “No one wants to make kathas anymore, there are so many options available these days in the big stores. This year I only made kathas for four families. I don’t know how I am going to survive. I am looking forward to death, but it comes on its own time and till then I have to eat and live. Don’t you have anyone to look after you? Any children? Shona asked. “I had one son. He left home to find some work in some big city and never came back. “ Shona felt a lump as big as tennis ball on her throat, a pall of gloom descended on her, she left the buri to carry on with her task and went inside. She was restive. She knew couldn’t do anything to alleviate the condition of the buri, yet she just couldn’t brush it off, she knew eventually it would go away but now it bothered her like a pesky fly. She went to the kitchen, there was some farm fresh vegetables in basket, should she give this to her along with some rice and lentils, that would suffice for two or three days of meal. But then she decided to treat her. Her culinary skills were limited. Tea and omelette, that was all she could make, other than that she was fledging cook. She decided to make Kichidi. That shouldn’t be so much fuss. She took two handful of rice and two handful of lentils and soaked it in water. Then she cut some vegetables and lit up the fire. In hot mustard oil, the zing of which tickled her olfactory senses, she dropped the vegetables and gave it a good stir. Then she put in the mixed rice and lentils. 20 mins and the kichidi was ready. She took a spoonful and put it in her mouth, the hot kichidi singed her tongue, it was edible but she realised she had missed some spices.  But she had no clue. Next she cracked two eggs and made a fluffy soft omelette. The food was now ready. She took out a gleaming steel plate  and ladled generous amount of kichidi on the plate with the omelette on the side and covered it with another plate to keep it warm. It was noon, the buri raised herself up and gave her body a shake, and asked Shona if she could take a break. How about your lunch? Shona asked. I had mudi and tea, that is enough. Shona’s felt something twist inside, like a wrung dishcloth. You wait here, she said. And went into the kitchen and brought out the plate of kichidi. When the buri saw these her eyes were moist with tears. She was choking on her words. “Before you thank me , sit down and have your food. It is getting cold. This is the first time I cooked a meal so forgive me if if it tastes bland.” Shona watched as the buri sat on the floor and polished off the plate, scraping it with the edges of her hand so that nothing remains on the plate. It was after years I had such a good meal. I don’t have enough words to say thank you. May God fulfil all your wishes.” Shona felt a warm fuzzy feeling enveloping her, the feeling you get when you do a good deed. 

When her mother came home, before she could spill it out, the budi told her about the home cooked meal her daughter served. There was a twinge of pride in her mother’s eyes and she said, Shona, hope you were safe around the kitchen. 

In the following winters, the budi never came back. When she snuggled up on the bed with the comfy katha, her frayed and fragile image came to her mind. Where was she now? Had she passed on to another world where she was put out of her misery. The questions came fast and flying. The answers to which she never got.