Cold rain. Life sucking cold. Long cold. Dull Cold. It has been a long winter.
SHE closes her eyes. To dream of another place. Another lifetime. Another Life. Another Time.
A Life. Some Time.
It is a sultry day. The air is heavy; heavy with the possibility of an endless summer. SHE presses one foot down on the cool marble floor. Wiggling her toes to make her body draw some of that coolness. The other foot is perched on a cane chair. A bead of sweat drips from her forehead onto the parched page of the book. She wipes it with her forefinger, making a small wet smear on the page. SHE wishes she could sweat now. Somehow feel alive. Feel.
Hot sea breeze disturbs her untamed hair. SHE is thankful for it. There was a power cut an hour ago. The hum of the ceiling fan had stopped then. The room has settled into a dusty quiet. SHE pushes her hair out of the way and tries to tuck it behind her ears. There is the rustle of the coconut trees in the occasional breeze, soothing, calming. It sounds like foil being crumpled deep inside a well.
That is what it sounds like to her now.
The roar of an auto-rickshaw rips the silence every now and then. SHE hears the salt-seller in the distance. It breaks her concentration. SHE looks up, squinting at the slivers of sunlight glinting through the swaying palm leaves. They leave rippling puddles of orange on the dark floor. Seems absurd now. The hawking of salt in the street. But then again, everything about that life seems strange now.
The clothes washed earlier that morning are on the line; dried stiff. They dried moments after they were hung. Since then they have been baking and crisping. Colorful clips hold them on the line. A maroon blouse, too thin for its clip, has slipped away, and is lying near the empty well. The well that has been dry for years; built when water was not a luxury. The post-lunch stupor is wearing off, to be replaced by late-afternoon hunger. Soon it will be time for tiffin** and tea. SHE hears the doorbell and ponders if she should go and take a look. Paati* is in the backyard. Collecting stray coconuts,
or putting red chillies out to dry on an old Sari, or picking stones out of rice. Any one of the many things Paati did on summery afternoons. There was always something to be done. SHE lifts her skinny body heavily off the cane chair. The faded red cushion underneath is misshapen. It has not aged with grace, carrying the burden of generations. Mottled with vestiges of the years - stains of coffee, stains of tea, baby drool, adult drool, hair oil, yogurt, vermillion, kohl, tears,SHE registers the grin before she notices the person bearing it.
Anjalai has come a hawkin'.
Her sparkling rounded white teeth always visible. The singular red dot on her broad forehead, the only remaining sign of her attempts at vanity earlier in the day. The cheap talcum powder has conspired with her sweat and left long white chalky lines around her temple. Her Bright-dirty sari is draped carelessly around her plump dark body.
Anjalai lifts her enormous basket from her head and drops it with a thud, lets out a sigh. She then fixes herself a spot on the last porch step, bracing herself for yet another performance. Of the same dance. The hibiscus and Bougainvilleas framing the porch make small unnoticeable movements. They are ready for their watering. Paati walks into the scene. Anjalai's grin gets wider. Remarks about the heat are bandied. How much hotter it has gotten since last week. Everything is always worse off since last week. Except her produce. She always talks about them in the same doting voice a mother uses to describe her child; admiring, protective and defensive. She passes along gossip she picked up on her route today. She adds a new twist to her narration at each door, her careless embellishments to a new song. The tune was markedly different a few streets ago. Today, Anjalai is hawking mangoes. She chooses her best one and holds it under Paati's nose. Paati sniffs, expressionless, willing herself to frown. One must not give away one's true feelings, she would say. The air gets heavier with scent of mangoes. It always does in summer. Summer Air = Nitrogen+oxygen+carbondioxidewatervapourozone+ "SMELL OF OVERRIPE MANGOES".
SHE is antsy, waiting for Paati to close the deal. To take the mangoes to the backyard. To sink her teeth in. To feel the waves of sweetness crash against her palate. To let the yellow juice stain her white cotton skirt. Leaving a cheeky reminder of a sweet sweet sin. SHE waits till Anjalai and Paati finish their charade. Their dance to consensus. The performance has been perfected over the years. It follows the same movements. The up, the down, the challenge, the retort, the walk away, the call back. Lather, rinse and repeat. The price was fixed a long time ago. Before the fruit's existence. And by both of them. It was never about the money. "Haggling makes the fruit sweeter," Paati insists. Mangoes can sense when someone has fought over them. "Have you tasted a gloating mango?" Paati asks. "Sweeter than honey."
SHE stares out into the grey now. Mute. Relentless. Unforgiving. Boring. SHE misses things. Paati, Anjalai, that summer, those mangoes.
*Grandmother
** Snack
| Mango Semolina Pudding |
|---|
Serves: 4
Prep Time: 40 minutes
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| Ingredients |
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Semolina | 1 cup |
| Clarified butter | 4 Tbsp |
| Mango Pulp | 1 cup |
| Milk | 3 cups |
| Raisins | 1/2 cup |
| Condensed milk | 1/2 cup |
| Saffron | 5-6 small strands |
| Pistachio(shelled) | 1/2 cup |
| Cardamom | 5-6 pods |
Method |
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1. Roast the semolina in 1 Tbsp of the clarified butter till it becomes fragrant. Remove and set aside.
2. Boil the milk in a thick-bottomed pan. When it comes to a boil, add the semolina. Let the semolina cook in the milk till it is done (soft, eatable).
3. Bring it to a simmer. Add condensed milk and mango pulp.
4. Soak the saffron strands in a few tablespoons of warm milk, till they color the milk reddish yellow. Add this to the pudding.
5. Peel the cardamom pods and crush the little black bits and add it to the pudding. Save the peels for flavoring tea
6. Remove the pudding from the stove.
7. In a separate seasoning pan, add three tablespoons of clarified butter. When it warms a little, add the raisins and leave them there to plump up. Add the shelled pistachios. Let them sit for a minute and then add this to the pudding.
8. Refrigerate till it is time to serve. |
