Lakshmi Narayan
Once upon a time there was a grumpy old lady — actually not grumpy, but timid — who had to leave her home and go live with her daughter in a distant place known as Amreeka. She hated every minute of it there and barricaded herself in their cramped flat when her daughter left for work. They didn’t live in a particularly swish area because her beti didn’t earn much.
The one time she had dared to venture out on her own, the neighbourhood kids — little goondas! — had followed her jeering, mocking her sari, her accent and the way she shuffled forward in her chappals. They’d thrown spitballs at her and tried to trip her when she tried to get past them. Worse, instead of chastising them, their mothers stood back and laughed.
There was a reason behind this. The old lady prided herself on her green thumb and had managed to grow methi, dhania and sarson ka saag from seeds on her tiny balcony as well as onions, ginger and tomatoes. But the little ruffians when playing a game called baseball, sent a ball speeding in and broke two of her pots. She’d screamed at them in Hindi. But instead of apologizing, they’d stuck their tongues out and run off.
When she complained to her daughter that evening, she dismissed it in her newly-acquired drawl, with, “Maa, don’t bother. Kids will be kids”. And now, her daughter was telling her about a ghastly festival called Halloween, when the little horrors would dress up like bhoots and land up at her doorstep, demanding candy! She shuddered at what would happen if she didn’t give them treats.
It reminded her uncomfortably of the equally abominable celebration called Holi, back in her village. She used to shiver when she heard revellers bay at each other in hoarse voices, throwing coloured water and slapping each other’s faces with purple, pink, yellow and green powders, making them look like ghouls from hell.
What was worse, after drinking their fill of thandai and eating bhang pakoras, her family would be lying supine on their charpoys outside, when a sudden shout — kale muh wale aa gaye (the black faces have come) — would send them scurrying to lock themselves in.
To this day she didn’t know who they were or where they came from. But they were goons who would forcibly enter their homes and spray everything with paint if they didn’t pay up. And now it looked like the old shaitan was revisiting them in a new avatar right here!
Looking at her stricken face, her daughter reassured her, “Don’t be hassled, Maa. They’ll only come if we invite them.” But the old lady wasn’t ready to take any chances and was determined to keep to herself in her room, with her windows and doors firmly shut.
That evening, to occupy herself, she helped her daughter bake a mac ‘n’ cheese burger for dinner and some large biscuits with nuts and raisins called cookies. This was their weekend chore, something she enjoyed doing. To make them more palatable, she’d tweak the cookies with a pinch of cardamom powder and a dash of rose water and liven up the macaroni with some chopped green chillies, onions and coriander leaves.
After dinner, while they were relaxing, watching an old. Hindi movie, the doorbell rang. One look at her offspring’s face and she realized with shock what her daughter had done. She’d invited the little thugs over! Before she could stop her, her daughter had run to open the door.
Even as she made a dash for the bedroom, the passage was streaming with monsters of every stripe and size — witches, wizards, werewolves, vampires. There were at least 10-15 of them. Her daughter was serving up the entire stock of freshly-baked cookies, which she had specially made for them, to the ragamuffins. If that wasn’t enough, she pulled out the leftover macaroni and asked if they’d like to sample that too.
But wait! The kids were so well-behaved! Seized by a feeling she couldn’t quite fathom, the old lady said, “Would you like to try some Indian sweets?” When they nodded, she brought out the assorted chikkis from her zealously-guarded cache, which they chomped on happily, exclaiming, “Hey, they are just like peanut brittle!”
With a little twinge of shame, she remembered their mothers had tried to become friends with her by initially bringing her food dishes. But she had rudely turned them away, refusing their strange smelling and possibly meaty offerings.
Soon, they were all relaxing and talking to each other. The kids spoke slowly, so she could understand. When she didn’t get the hang of a phrase, they guffawed good-naturedly. When it was time to leave, they pulled out a garbage bag, put all the paper plates and cups in it, cleaned up whatever little mess they’d made and took it away to throw into the trash can.
These days, when the old lady returns from the super-market, there are usually a couple of kids lounging about, who ask, “Can I help you with the groceries, ma’am?” Or, a neighbour, who’ll walk in and say rather bashfully, “This cake is eggless. Hope you like it.”
She’s much in demand as a babysitter because of the terrific tales she tells about flying chariots used to abduct queens or monkey gods who can set a city on fire with their tails or carry a whole mountain away with their bare hands. Hanuman is definitely more exciting than Superman or Batman!
Now she says that her neighbours are just like those from her village — helpful, generous, prying, gossipy. All part of one big family!
If you extend your welcome with your heart and your mind, gladdening things will come your way.
(Excerpted from Fables from Beyond, Authors Upront, 2020)
Journalist, author and animal activist Lakshmi Narayan is a former assistant editor of Femina and former editor of Eve’s Weekly & Flair
