ROSEMARY FOR REMEMBRANCE

(A Story)

By G. A. Kulkarni, M.A.

(Rendered by the Author from Marathi)

WITH an old striped bag in her hand, and leaning confidently on a knotted stick that looked as if it was wriggling with some intense pain, the Black Grandma came out of the cheap grain shop.

Old age had made her almost transparent, and her lean twiglike hands trembled eternally. She had to use extra strength to drag her feet as if they suddenly became laden when thus moved. She put one foot almost touching the other, and even then after every ten steps, she stopped for breath. Her thick lower lip always quivered which gave the impression that she was talking to herself. Perhaps often she did talk to herself, remembering something of the past, trying to touch one shadow out of a vast crowd gliding silently through grey mist. But because of this, the little girls in that school at the corner pointed at her with glee and mischievously called her mad grandma.

For the last so many years, there was not the slighest change in her dress–the same dark blue socks with innumerable holes, a frock that had all but lost its cheap black colour, and on that something that looked like a jacket but was so loose that it almost became a short overcoat. The man who kept the restaurant near the school swore that he was seeing that dress since he opened his restaurant and that was saying a lot. Her battered hat looked like an abandoned nest and tried pathetically to cover her thin flaxen hair.

There was a time when the restaurant man saw her only once a week–on Sundays, crawling towards the white little church among a few drooping trees. But since the war started–she did not know where–she, could be seen twice a week dragging her slightly swollen feet towards the cheap grain shop. When the sun was yet young and yellow, and shadows stretched gracefully long on the wet grass, she could be seen walking on the extreme right of the road. After some time, she returned with her weekly ration of rice in the striped bag, her only demand on an indifferent world.

Some two or three weeks back, Domingo Fernandez closed for good his stationery and grain shop. Till then Grandma rarely bought anything outside. But now, Domingo told her, there was yet another war. “How many wars these men fight, I do not know!” she said to herself in her bewilderment. Some five or six years back, or may be ten, there was one war and here came yet another!

“I have nothing, Grandma,” said Domingo, shrugging his shoulders, “I must close my shop. I have absolutely nothing here. I have not sufficient rice to feed a sparrow. Kerosene? Don’t talk of it. I am using old moth-eaten candles which I would not have even thrown at that dog there. I tell you Grandma, this war is terrible.” He waited for a moment as if he wanted to deliberate before he delivered his final judgment about that war, shook his head and said, “Simply terrible!”

Grandma heaved a sigh and returned. She did not know how she was going to get any rice at all. But she was afraid to ask Domingo about it. The next day Domingo came and flourished before her a long red card.” Here Grandma, you can take this coupon to the cheap grain; A shop near the school, and you will get rice–perhaps a little wheat flour too!” he said.

Grandma was really glad. Her frozen, glass-like eyes lighted a little. You merely show that coupon, and you get rice and wheat flour! Now she could save some money and in good time too! The money in the small sandalwood box was slowly disappearing, and she was always afraid that it would not last till the last day of her life. Like an ailing person who thinks the night choking and eternal, she thought that her dead dry life also stretched unendingly. She was utterly tired of it; but it would never snap, not even through sheer time’s decay. But now God sent that coupon, and you had merely to show it to get rice and a little wheat flour.

Domingo pushed back his shapeless cap and laughed heartily. Grandma felt so ashamed and thought she ought not to have spoken at all. “No, Grandma, you do not get them like that; you show the coupon and also pay,” he said.

Show the coupon and also pay! Then why this nuisance of a coupon at all, she could not understand. But now she did not say anything and she quietly put the coupon in the box.

The cheap grain shop gave rice and wheat flour on Fridays. On these days she got up earlier than usual. She dressed without hurry for, she was afraid that those flimsy threadbare clothes would give way if roughly handled. Usually she took half an hour to dress, but on these days, she dressed even more carefully. She liked to dress like respectable persons. She would have died of sheer shame if somebody had turned his head to have a second look at her dress. She wanted to live also like respectable persons, without attracting anybody’s attention. Then she took the striped bag and started. Many houses in the lane were yet closed and looked sleepy. But then it was not necessary for those people to get up early. They came after her, and returned before she even reached the shop.

Leaning on the stick she walked on. Colossal military cars roared past her. Her heart thumped so much that she often laid her hand on it, as she hurriedly moved almost in the gutter, till those monsters disappeared in a blaze of red dust. Slowly the dust settled down. She gave a gentle shake to her clothes, and moved on. Often the road was full with insolent looking buffaloes with long pointed horns, and her heart became as small as a sparrow as she threaded her way through them. But all the time, only one thing existed for her–that cheap grain shop. She always feared that the shop would close before she reached it. Many people stood in a long queue before it, often fretting at the delay. Grandma patiently stood at the end, clutching the bag and mechanically moved one place till she reached the counter. But her knees ached, and she wanted to lie down. She always heaved a sigh of relief when she got her quota of rice and smiled gratefully at the man. But he was always very busy and never even looked at her. On her way back, she was happier. There was no necessity to hurry to the shop. She moved slowly, looking here and there. Every week, she saw the same pieces of life scattered about her.

At a little distance from the shop, there was that Girls’ School. Whenever she was passing by it, she always saw a few girls on the play-ground, running, and jumping wildly. When they saw her, some came near the fence and shouted: “Mad Grandma! Black Grandma!” Grandma looked up vacantly, almost unaware of their existence, and walked on, as if such painful moments were all dead, lying across her life, like dead beetles on the road.

Just near the school on the left side, there was a very beautiful bungalow, all surrounded by slender trees standing like tall proud maidens. When the breeze moved, the rustling sound among the leaves slowly came down filtering through the branches. There was a red gravel path which mysteriously disappeared at the very first turning. The bungalow was always unbearably quiet. She never saw anybody picking those gorgeous flowers nor moving on the parrot-green lawn. Yet the whole picture was perfect–those graceful trees that always quivered with some strange ecstasy, the garden almost burning with colour, and the grass that looked so green that one was almost certain that the fingers would become green if they touched it. Everything seemed to be patiently waiting for something to happen, for somebody to appear...outside the fence. Sometimes she saw a few girls collecting fuel, twigs that were dropped down by the giant trees, perhaps out of sympathy for those tiny creatures below....

On the right at some distance, could be seen the railway station and a few goods wagons that were always there. On the lane that wound towards the station, there was an avenue of trees, a long green chain which was suddenly broken by one stray Gulmohor tree. If there was any strong wind on the previous day, the lane was strewn with green leaves, and the space below the Gulmohor tree was red with petals. The purple gold patch in the ribbon like green lane looked like embroidery on a piece of green silk.

Often from those railway quarters came out young girls, supple and very proud of their youth. Grandma always felt an exquisite pang whenever she saw them moving gracefully in high-heeled shoes. She remembered her Rosemary. She also would have been of the same age, would have walked with the same young pride and grace. She would have even laughed the same full warm smile for no apparent reason at all.

After this, however, her journey was quite bleak. On both the sides only waste land stretched and before her went on the endless red road. Many pointed stones jutted in the middle of the road, but the sides were covered with soft dust. A strange thought often teased her like a fly. When she was gone, the footprints would tell, at least for a few minutes, that she had passed that way. But there was nobody left in the world to tell that, she had lived there for many indifferent years, had her full share of misery, and perhaps of happiness too–! She had not left any footprints in her life which was as drab as the landscape around her now. There was not a single patch of green that could cool the burning eyes. There was one memory only; but even that seemed shattered like a crystal vase. Only a few fragments remained...the memory of her Rosemary....

Every day she saw the same sights, the same movements. Her life continued without any change like a log that lies without any hope of sprouting. When she laid her aching body on the bed, she always prayed that she should not be made to see another day. The candle in the niche should die when she was still praying, and she too should close her eyes as the vast darkness closed round her. But the next day, when the morning sun filled mercilessly her sordid room, she sighed with utter anguish, took the bucket and went out for water.

Today she had come a little earlier from the cheap grain shop, She came near the bungalow with tall waving trees. She stopped there a little and looked lovingly at the flowers and the path that so shyly disappeared. A wave of breeze came out, laden with intoxicating fragrance, and lingered round Grandma for a moment.

Grandma was a little surprised and she looked more carefully. A young girl came on the gravel path from somewhere, approached the gate and smiled at Grandma. Grandma felt something electric pass through her frail body. Breathing hard, she moved forward and fixed her eyes on the beautiful girl for whom perhaps the trees, those gay flowers, the lawn were all waiting patiently.

The girl looked exactly like Rosemary. The same eyes looking a little frightened; two pigtails tied with ribbons whose red almost burnt the onlooker’s eyes. The girl came out, and smiled once again at Grandma. Her lips opened like a rose and her delicate teeth gleamed. She smiled also exactly like Rosemary.

Grandma felt that all her strength was suddenly ebbing away, and the bag in her hand fell down with a thud. She recklessly sat down on the road without caring that her clothes would be soiled, and beckoned to the girl. Her lips quivered and her throat seemed to contract suddenly, crushing the few words that were struggling to come out. Exactly like Rosemary! It was as if the dark opaque curtain of so many years was suddenly rent and the past stood before her once again. It seemed that the eternal flux of time had suddenly stopped, and one moment out of it stared at her. It was like a monster’s opening one of its million eyes, paralyzing her with its gaze. Grandma ran her hand on the girl’s soft hair and looked at her with eyes like two berries that had seen the spring and were ready to drop down.

But the girl laughed loudly throwing her pretty head back, and called her friend somewhere in the garden. “Look at black Grandma! Now she is telling herself a long story! Poor mad Grandma!” She laughed once again and disappeared inside.

Grandma woke up as from a dream. Time’s flux had once again gained its ruthless mobility. The moment that looked like a crystal where Grandma had seen pieces of her shattered dreams, thawed and disappeared, and the world regained its rhythm of placid life. She stood up and carefully dusted her clothes and picked up the bag. A handful of rice had fallen in the dust which she put back in the bag. She wiped her eyes and moved on without looking back at the long line of footprints she was leaving behind.

Once again the same sights, the same unending life...

Back