She looked like a sun dried tomato. Her puckered skin, dry
and rough, made me wonder what I had seen in her twenty years ago, I must have
been really silly. She came towards me licking her parched lips, pushing them
out and pulling them in. Her hair was wispy, underneath it her scalp shone in
the mid-day heat. The Kerala sun was far from merciful, and I was thankful for
my Adidas cap.
“Here,” she said, “I saved
these for you.” She opened her light
brown palms, etched with lines. There were some dried herbs in her small hands.
Her hands were green-veined and brown from working the fields. That’s what she
did now. I noticed her bent back.
I grabbed the dried
leaves and brought them to my nose, and smelt once again the chicken coconut
curry. I rubbed the leaves against my mouth and nose as if willing the aroma to
remain on my skin forever.
In a frenzy, I grabbed her hands and put them against my
face.
The leaves were dried and crushed with time and fell like
green ash. Her hands against my face were hard, unable to shape themselves against
my skin. She pulled them back, embarrassed. At one time, she had cupped my face
in her hands every day before sending me off to school.
Hair of black water running down skin of moonlight, eyes that
lit up the nights when she sang me to sleep. Smell of chicken curry spiced with
herbs from her body as her small hands stroked my hair, damp with sweat. She
took care of me while father taught what being a Christian meant to the people here,
hoping to change them and mother wrote
from England, hoping I was being well looked after.
*****
© ABHA IYENGAR, 19th May 2013 http://flashmob2013.wordpress.com/
