By the time the kids came clattering down the wooden staircase loudly demanding breakfast, almost half of Ayesha’s day was over. She had been waiting for them, pancake batter prepared, the coconut and jaggery filling steaming away on the side. Now she settled down before the wood burning stove and seasoned the cast iron skillet with a dollop of oil. The first pancake began to sizzle and her gnarled hands expertly flipped it into her grandson’s plate; he had quickly laid his claim to the first one.
Ayesha liked the boy; he was quick to appreciate her cooking and ate to his heart’s content dishing out compliments between mouthfuls. She did not much care for the girls—sickly little creatures that hardly ate and never without complaining. They also dressed in what she considered inappropriate clothing; they had bounded down to the kitchen in the little shorts and singlets they had slept in. They were almost teenagers; didn’t their mother teach them anything at all? But she kept her mouth sealed; their father, her own son had never disapproved of their clothing and she felt it would be prudent not to impose her own morality on them. After all it was only three weeks every summer that she had to change her routine to suit them; the rest of the year was hers to do as she pleased.
“Mom, why cant we have jam and toast like we have at home?” the younger one whined as soon as she saw her mother enter the room. Her pancake lay uneaten, congealing in front of her. “Why do we have to sit on the floor? Why can’t we get grandma a dining table?” the other one chimed in. Ayesha continued ladling out the pancakes; the boy was eating them all—even his sisters’ abandoned ones. Their mother gave in and dug out a box of cereal from somewhere giving her mother in law an apologetic look. The girls satiated were soon buried deep in their comic books, which they had brought, by the ton from Bombay. They didn’t like going out into the fields or playing with the other village children. And they never helped in the kitchen at all. By their age Ayesha could prepare meals for the entire family without any help. All they did all summer sitting on the large swing in the courtyard was burying their noses into books, taking breaks only for meals. They had refused a bath – all three of them. The well water was too harsh on their hair and their mother had let them off the hook for the day.
Ayesha had already hauled buckets of water for their bath from the well. She had done this after she had milked and fed the buffaloes, lined the courtyard with cow dung, plucked the mangoes that were ripe enough to eat with lunch and watered her little vegetable patch. She loved these early morning chores and even though she was almost seventy now she breezed through them effortlessly. Her son had been telling her for years that she should hire help but she had refused. She occasionally even climbed the coconut tree, sari firmly tucked between her legs, to pluck the coconuts but she would not do that while her son was here. Far from tiring her out this early morning routine energized her, prepared her to face the day ahead. It would be a shame to let all that water go to waste, she thought and pulling out a white cotton sari from a trunk filled with a dozen more identical ones, she headed for a bath.
She did not look at the trunk alongside filled with glittering silks covered with embroidery and gold filigree. She had given her jewelry away to her daughters and daughters in law at their marriages. But even though she had worn nothing but white cotton for half her life now she could never bring herself to part with the contents of that trunk. They reminded her of another lifetime, an illusory space so magical she was not even sure if she had actually lived it. It was as vague as a dream now, many details lost forever in the haze that was slowly creeping up on her.
Ayesha had been married at fifteen; she had no choice or say in the matter. The groom was chosen for her and she was thrilled as a child before a festival with lots of new clothes and jewelry and food to look forward to. Her husband was the oxford educated son of the largest landowning family in the village and as he laid his eyes on his child bride on their wedding night he fell in love with her. Ayesha at fifteen with her porcelain skin, wide naïve eyes and endearing prattle was a combination too deadly for anyone to resist. The couple left on a long honeymoon, unheard of in those times and they traveled by ship to London seeing the glittering lights of the city. They stopped in Africa, where he had some business interests on the way back and he bought her fine silks and exquisite perfumes and all the jewels her heart desired. When they came back he decided they would settle in Pune for a few years before returning to the ancestral village. His parents indulged him; after all he was their only son. Out of his hearing they did curse his bride who had bewitched him into abandoning his family.
She had loved living in the city; had it been more that fifty years since she had left. She could remember the exact details of the large bungalow they had lived in for those two years. She had loved the rose garden that she had tended herself; an old gardener had given her tips that she still used. She loved her morning tea on the verandah; she had instructed the servants to serve it European style in a tea -pot with milk and sugar separate just as her husband like it. She loved dressing up for him and waiting for him in the garden when he went out for polo with his friends or the occasional business meeting. He usually came back with a trinket or two or flowers for her hair. Then they would go to the races where he would always let her pick the horses to bet on. And the nights were an endless round of balls and parties where he had eyes only for her. She had seen the pretty English girls giving him encouraging looks but he never seemed to notice.
By the time their second anniversary rolled around she was pregnant with their first child. Just then he had to go to England to attend to business. She protested in her usual childlike fashion, not adult enough to demand he stay by her at this difficult time. “Take me with you,” she pleaded. But she was too far along in her pregnancy and the in laws and even her parents refused to let her travel. He promised her jewels from Bond Street and baby clothes from Harrods and he promised to be back in time for their anniversary and she reluctantly let him go. He never came back; his ship was torpedoed and sunk in the Mediterranean by a German warship. When Ayesha heard the news she collapsed; she was five months pregnant and the shock resulted in miscarriage.
There was no funeral; the body was never found. But Ayesha had to pack away all her silks and don widow’s weeds. She was not yet eighteen and a long empty life loomed before her. Her in laws were not welcoming and when the Pune bungalow was packed up she returned to her father’s house. He did the best thing he could for her. Again she was given no choice. She was married off to a man three decades her senior, a widower with children already married and settled. This time there were no new clothes, no festivity—just a simple ceremony and Ayesha went to live with her new husband just a few villages away from where she had grown up. She thought her life was over. Little did she know there was a lifetime ahead.
Her new husband was kind and generous and he gave her free rein with the house. She ran the house with precision; no one would ever complaint about her housekeeping skills. But she never loved him and they both learnt to live with that. He gave her four children, two boys and two girls before he succumbed to heart attack leaving her a widow again. This time she was prepared. There were no silks and jewels to put away. Dry eyed, she quietly broke her red and green glass bangles as was custom, removed her black beaded mangalsutra signifying her marital status and continued as usual looking after the children and house. Fortunately she had been left with enough to educate the boys and settle the girls. As for the rest the land provided all she needed herself. And then one by one the children left, at first to study in the city and then to marry and raise their own families and she was left with her beloved buffaloes and her rose garden and mango trees to tend to and she saw no reason to complaint. She had lived a full and eventful life.
Their lives had not even begun and already they were complaining, she thought of her grand daughters. But then as she expertly draped the white cloth over her damp body she felt a pang of regret for her harsh thoughts. They were only children; they would learn as she had. She found them in her room when she got out of the bath. For a change they were not buried in their books. They had opened her trunk and were rummaging through it. The older girl in particular was handling each piece of silk with great care and her eyes shone. Ayesha wanted to pull it out of her hands—her fifteen year old self screaming, “That’s mine—” but she stopped. She was no longer fifteen. The contents of that trunk were of no use to her anymore. It was time to let go. With great tenderness she ran her fingers through the girls hair. “They are yours now. I have been saving them for you.” And she was even if she didn’t know it. The girls’ whoops of joy resounded through the house and brought in their brother who as usual demanded, “Grandma can I have some mangoes now please.”
Samina Motlekar is a writer based in Bombay. She has just finished being part of the Summer Writers Colony at The New School, New York and is working on a collection of short stories. She can be contacted on saminam@gmail.com.
Ayesha liked the boy; he was quick to appreciate her cooking and ate to his heart’s content dishing out compliments between mouthfuls. She did not much care for the girls—sickly little creatures that hardly ate and never without complaining. They also dressed in what she considered inappropriate clothing; they had bounded down to the kitchen in the little shorts and singlets they had slept in. They were almost teenagers; didn’t their mother teach them anything at all? But she kept her mouth sealed; their father, her own son had never disapproved of their clothing and she felt it would be prudent not to impose her own morality on them. After all it was only three weeks every summer that she had to change her routine to suit them; the rest of the year was hers to do as she pleased.
“Mom, why cant we have jam and toast like we have at home?” the younger one whined as soon as she saw her mother enter the room. Her pancake lay uneaten, congealing in front of her. “Why do we have to sit on the floor? Why can’t we get grandma a dining table?” the other one chimed in. Ayesha continued ladling out the pancakes; the boy was eating them all—even his sisters’ abandoned ones. Their mother gave in and dug out a box of cereal from somewhere giving her mother in law an apologetic look. The girls satiated were soon buried deep in their comic books, which they had brought, by the ton from Bombay. They didn’t like going out into the fields or playing with the other village children. And they never helped in the kitchen at all. By their age Ayesha could prepare meals for the entire family without any help. All they did all summer sitting on the large swing in the courtyard was burying their noses into books, taking breaks only for meals. They had refused a bath – all three of them. The well water was too harsh on their hair and their mother had let them off the hook for the day.
Ayesha had already hauled buckets of water for their bath from the well. She had done this after she had milked and fed the buffaloes, lined the courtyard with cow dung, plucked the mangoes that were ripe enough to eat with lunch and watered her little vegetable patch. She loved these early morning chores and even though she was almost seventy now she breezed through them effortlessly. Her son had been telling her for years that she should hire help but she had refused. She occasionally even climbed the coconut tree, sari firmly tucked between her legs, to pluck the coconuts but she would not do that while her son was here. Far from tiring her out this early morning routine energized her, prepared her to face the day ahead. It would be a shame to let all that water go to waste, she thought and pulling out a white cotton sari from a trunk filled with a dozen more identical ones, she headed for a bath.
She did not look at the trunk alongside filled with glittering silks covered with embroidery and gold filigree. She had given her jewelry away to her daughters and daughters in law at their marriages. But even though she had worn nothing but white cotton for half her life now she could never bring herself to part with the contents of that trunk. They reminded her of another lifetime, an illusory space so magical she was not even sure if she had actually lived it. It was as vague as a dream now, many details lost forever in the haze that was slowly creeping up on her.
Ayesha had been married at fifteen; she had no choice or say in the matter. The groom was chosen for her and she was thrilled as a child before a festival with lots of new clothes and jewelry and food to look forward to. Her husband was the oxford educated son of the largest landowning family in the village and as he laid his eyes on his child bride on their wedding night he fell in love with her. Ayesha at fifteen with her porcelain skin, wide naïve eyes and endearing prattle was a combination too deadly for anyone to resist. The couple left on a long honeymoon, unheard of in those times and they traveled by ship to London seeing the glittering lights of the city. They stopped in Africa, where he had some business interests on the way back and he bought her fine silks and exquisite perfumes and all the jewels her heart desired. When they came back he decided they would settle in Pune for a few years before returning to the ancestral village. His parents indulged him; after all he was their only son. Out of his hearing they did curse his bride who had bewitched him into abandoning his family.
She had loved living in the city; had it been more that fifty years since she had left. She could remember the exact details of the large bungalow they had lived in for those two years. She had loved the rose garden that she had tended herself; an old gardener had given her tips that she still used. She loved her morning tea on the verandah; she had instructed the servants to serve it European style in a tea -pot with milk and sugar separate just as her husband like it. She loved dressing up for him and waiting for him in the garden when he went out for polo with his friends or the occasional business meeting. He usually came back with a trinket or two or flowers for her hair. Then they would go to the races where he would always let her pick the horses to bet on. And the nights were an endless round of balls and parties where he had eyes only for her. She had seen the pretty English girls giving him encouraging looks but he never seemed to notice.
By the time their second anniversary rolled around she was pregnant with their first child. Just then he had to go to England to attend to business. She protested in her usual childlike fashion, not adult enough to demand he stay by her at this difficult time. “Take me with you,” she pleaded. But she was too far along in her pregnancy and the in laws and even her parents refused to let her travel. He promised her jewels from Bond Street and baby clothes from Harrods and he promised to be back in time for their anniversary and she reluctantly let him go. He never came back; his ship was torpedoed and sunk in the Mediterranean by a German warship. When Ayesha heard the news she collapsed; she was five months pregnant and the shock resulted in miscarriage.
There was no funeral; the body was never found. But Ayesha had to pack away all her silks and don widow’s weeds. She was not yet eighteen and a long empty life loomed before her. Her in laws were not welcoming and when the Pune bungalow was packed up she returned to her father’s house. He did the best thing he could for her. Again she was given no choice. She was married off to a man three decades her senior, a widower with children already married and settled. This time there were no new clothes, no festivity—just a simple ceremony and Ayesha went to live with her new husband just a few villages away from where she had grown up. She thought her life was over. Little did she know there was a lifetime ahead.
Her new husband was kind and generous and he gave her free rein with the house. She ran the house with precision; no one would ever complaint about her housekeeping skills. But she never loved him and they both learnt to live with that. He gave her four children, two boys and two girls before he succumbed to heart attack leaving her a widow again. This time she was prepared. There were no silks and jewels to put away. Dry eyed, she quietly broke her red and green glass bangles as was custom, removed her black beaded mangalsutra signifying her marital status and continued as usual looking after the children and house. Fortunately she had been left with enough to educate the boys and settle the girls. As for the rest the land provided all she needed herself. And then one by one the children left, at first to study in the city and then to marry and raise their own families and she was left with her beloved buffaloes and her rose garden and mango trees to tend to and she saw no reason to complaint. She had lived a full and eventful life.
Their lives had not even begun and already they were complaining, she thought of her grand daughters. But then as she expertly draped the white cloth over her damp body she felt a pang of regret for her harsh thoughts. They were only children; they would learn as she had. She found them in her room when she got out of the bath. For a change they were not buried in their books. They had opened her trunk and were rummaging through it. The older girl in particular was handling each piece of silk with great care and her eyes shone. Ayesha wanted to pull it out of her hands—her fifteen year old self screaming, “That’s mine—” but she stopped. She was no longer fifteen. The contents of that trunk were of no use to her anymore. It was time to let go. With great tenderness she ran her fingers through the girls hair. “They are yours now. I have been saving them for you.” And she was even if she didn’t know it. The girls’ whoops of joy resounded through the house and brought in their brother who as usual demanded, “Grandma can I have some mangoes now please.”
Samina Motlekar is a writer based in Bombay. She has just finished being part of the Summer Writers Colony at The New School, New York and is working on a collection of short stories. She can be contacted on saminam@gmail.com.
