Steamed Dumplings
I never really liked her. I had known her as a child growing up. She was my neighbour’s sister.
My neighbour was a fat, rosy cheeked woman with a roll of jasmine in her hair at all times. She had a lilt in her voice whenever she called my name. And she called me often. Through the chain link fence that separated our homes she would pass every delicacy she cooked into my eager hands.
She always placed them on these gleaming oval plates of steel. To this day the memory of that plate brings a pang of nostalgia to my heart and a leap of eagerness to my stomach.
I don’t think she was beautiful. Looking back, her features were bland, her teeth too large and her eyes too small. But to me with all the enjoyment of childhood, her voice was the most musical thing I ever heard, her smile the most charming and the food she cooked worthy of a gourmet chef.
It was simple food. Nothing exotic. Our sleepy town was yet to wake up to cuisines beyond the state. Steamed dumplings soft as cotton wool and doused with a liberal helping of ghee and dusted with sugar. Jackfruit chips hot and mouth-watering with that little touch of sweetness to make it just right. Onion fritters gleaming brown and delicious – crispy on the outside and tantalisingly soft on the inside. I loved them all. And with eager, greedy childish hands I grabbed at everything she gave me and devoured it in my favourite spot on the crook of a tree in the bottom of the garden.
Many years passed by. I went away to study, got married and had two children. I returned to my home to live with my family. My parents had moved away, and I was mistress of my home. I called to my neighbour when I got back. She greeted me warmly and pinched the cheeks of my sons through the fence. A minute later she pressed plates of steaming dumplings into the hands of me and my sons. I was home, and nothing had changed.
When they told me she died, I went over to see her. I had never actually been in her home. At least, I could not remember it. I looked around with curiosity feeling strangely separate from the mourners around me. My eyes were drawn to her lying there. Her face was bloated and had that strange pasty complexion the dead always have. People were crying around me. I screwed up my face to force some tears, but they would not come. I thought I would feel sad, but I did not. The person lying there had nothing to do with the rosy cheeked lady who had given me a heaped plate of fritters just two days ago.
As I tried to slip away, someone introduced me to her sister. She was going to come and live there they said. I had seen her as a child and had thought she was very ugly. She was fat like her sister … but there the similarity ended. She was dark and had an ugly wart on her chin. And from that wart grew a hair that waggled when she talked. She had a low voice and piercing eyes. And she asked too many questions. What do you do? What does your husband do? Do you cook? Do you have a maid? What do you pay her? My blood was boiling. What business was it of hers, I wondered. I was still insecure in my ability to manage a home and family and prickly at the thought of every query and slight – imagined or otherwise. I mumbled a few polite words and slipped away.
I saw her almost everyday after that. I tried to avoid her, but it was almost impossible. She would stand at the fence and watch everything I did. When I played with my son. When I bought vegetables from the vendor. When I interviewed a new maid for a job. Even when I said goodbye to my husband when he left each morning.
If a friend came over she would be there watching. If I got a delivery, she would be there watching. And the questions never stopped. I started to resent her more and more. I railed against busy bodies and cursed the inquisitive. But nothing changed.
It was about a year later and my husband was travelling. Torrential rains kept the maid home. To add to everything else I was laid low with a viral fever. Two young and energetic boys don’t mix well with a viral fever. I was exhausted by the evening and could barely get to my feet when the doorbell rang. Cursing, I dragged myself to the door. I was feeling alone, abandoned and unloved. My mood did not improve seeing her there.
She pushed into the house uninvited and after placing a gigantic bag on the table, proceeded to tidy up. I watched her weakly from a chair. She did not stop talking. “I did not see you all day. I know your husband is travelling. Your maid did not come in and you did not pick flowers for the prayer. I did not hear the prayer bell in the morning.” As she spoke she quickly and efficiently cleared up the multitude of toys on the floor, washed and dried the dirty dishes and stacked them in the cupboards. I considered protesting, but I was too weak to say a word.
And then she opened the bag and from it she extracted two large gleaming steel containers of food. The boys came running at the smell. They had lived on a diet of milk, bread and fruits since I had fallen ill. They looked at her expectantly but first she filled a bowl with some hot rasam and rice and gave it to me to eat. The aroma of pepper tinged with mustard and cumin filled the air and steam rose lazily from the bowl. And then she took out two gleaming oval plates of steel. And on them she laid out steaming hot dumplings soft as cotton wool and doused with a liberal helping of ghee and dusted with sugar. As the boys devoured them, tears pricked my eyes. I brushed them away and looked across to her. She smiled down at the boys and tousled their hair, I saw the care and concern I had never noticed before. In my feverish state I could see my neighbour in her smile.
She came across to me. “My daughter lives far away,” she said. “I wonder who looks after her. Next time call me if you need help.” I nodded and putting my head down on her lap, I slipped into a dreamless sleep.
A Distant Memory
He looked at her photo in the paper. In the Obituary section. He could not believe his eyes. She was so young. He wondered what had gone wrong. A part of him wanted to reach out to the family, to ask about her and how she had died. But that was a closed chapter and there was no point in going there.
He turned his attention to the rest of the paper and the day. But the image would not leave him. It tugged at the corners of his mind causing ripples in his thoughts. He was distracted all day. His colleagues commented on it. His wife commented on it. Even his children commented on it. He tried to push away the memories and thoughts, but each time he tried they came back flooding his mind and thoughts, distracting him and demanding his attention.
As he lay down to sleep that night he finally allowed his mind to slip back to that soft and gentle evening over 35 years ago. He had completed his education and was in a good job, which naturally had become a signal for everyone to start seeking a bride for him. He was neutral. He had an easy-going nature and was fairly adaptable. He had heard of the fiery passions of love marriages, but never one to buck the trend, he was quite content to let his family suggest a girl. He would meet her, no doubt. He would have to like her… But for the rest, he was content to let things flow.
A family friend had had called his father a short while ago. They claimed to have found a wonderful girl for him. She was smart and sophisticated and highly educated. An intellectual. She was a talented artist and played the violin too. In his parents’ mind, it was perfect. The icing on the cake was that it was a known family from the same city. They were impatient to make a move, to approach her parents.
But it was not quite so simple. The friend of the family cautioned them. The girl was reluctant to marry someone through a arranged marriage. It did not matter how perfect the boy, she was simply not willing to have an arranged marriage. So the friends had hatched a plan. They would host dinner for the two families one evening and when the boy and girl met, she simply would not find any reason to refuse him. They came to him with the plan and he objected. She would be the only one who did not know the scheme. He felt uncomfortable with the pretence, but his objections were swept aside.
And so, the evening was planned. They met on the lawns of the club. It was a cool December evening and a soft breeze was blowing. The lighting was muted, and the ambience was perfect. As they had greeted each other, he had sought some sign that she knew what this was about, but she seemed quite natural.
He remembered her well. She was small made, petite would perhaps be the best word. She was not beautiful, in fact there was perhaps nothing striking about her. She had a soft, well-modulated voice and pleasing, gentle manners. She was intelligent and although she rarely spoke her comments were intelligent and well thought out.
He found himself thinking that he could make this marriage work. It would be pleasant, gentle and calm. He had not fallen in love with her. She was not the kind of person who would attract deep passions, he thought to himself. She was not someone whom people would gravitate to or would turn around to look at twice. Yet, there seemed a quietness about her, a gentleness that was pleasing and comforting.
Just as these thoughts were running through his mind, he sensed a change in mood. A stray comment had laid bare the conspiracy and she knew why she was there. She said little, but her tone was more clipped, her gestures more tight and her eyes flashed with anger. He was amused. He had not thought her capable of strong emotions, but her eyes betrayed her. In many ways he found her more fascinating. The hidden emotions and the cracks in her control made him believe that perhaps marriage to her would be a little more exciting.
They had enjoyed their conversation and he was sure she would get over her annoyance once the evening was over. And much too soon for him, it was over. As he drove home with his parents, he was clear that he liked her and would be happy to marry her if she felt the same way. His parents were happy and started planning the marriage. After all, he was considered a catch and she would never turn him down.
But she did. The friends called up to say that much as she had liked him, she was upset at being deceived and would never agree to the marriage in those circumstances. His parents were angry. How dare she turn down their son and for such a trivial reason. They were ready to find someone else. But he refused. He wanted to give her time – six months, he said. His family was flabbergasted. Six months? To wait for a girl in an arranged marriage? When she had already said no? It made no sense at all.
But he was determined to wait. He had examined his emotions. He had not fallen in love with her. His reasons were not motivated by passion. It just seemed wrong to move on and meet another girl on another day. If she still said no, he would move on.
His family were convinced that this would change her mind. But that was not to be. He could wait if he wanted, came the reply, but the answer was still no.
He was still determined to wait. And wait he did. They passed like any other six months. Nothing special. It was not like he spent his time thinking about her. In fact she hardly crossed his mind. He was quite unsure why he decided to wait six months. He just knew that he wanted to do it. At the end of six months, the families spoke again… but there was no change in her mind. So, he picked up threads of his life and moved on.
A few years later he met the most wonderful girl and married her. She was smart, charming and full of life. They had a happy marriage and two wonderful children. The soft and gentle afternoon at the club was a faint memory like a soft breeze that strokes your cheek once in a while – so faint you barely know it is there. He heard through friends that she never did marry, but he had moved on and the knowledge made no difference.
Yet that evening, he lay awake his still shocked that she had passed away and his mind drifting back to the evening at the club and what might have been.
Just One More Hanger!
He had died, and she could not believe it. Fifty-two years of marriage… and he was gone. It seemed unreal. They had gone for a drive that morning. Nothing exciting. He needed shaving cream and she needed shampoo. They had come back, and he had settled down into his favourite chair to read. She was pottering around the house putting away things when she heard a dull thump. She had peeked into the room and seen his book on the floor. He seemed to have dozed off. She had grinned to herself as she picked it up. “I will tease him about this forever,” she thought gleefully.
That had been the essence of their marriage. Jokes, fun and merciless teasing on both sides. Any slip up by either of them and the jokes would play out for days. Their friends watched in amusement unable to understand this crazy relationship. But it worked for them and they had loved each other dearly. Just that morning he had remembered something she had done years ago. She had mistaken one friend for another when inviting them home and for the longest of time could not understand what had happened. He had laughed uproariously while remembering it. Despite being annoyed at being reminded of her mistake she could not help smiling at his laughter.
It had not been a perfect marriage. They had had their ups and downs. Years of family responsibilities and the problems that went with it had strained relationships from time to time. But somehow their mutual ability to laugh, to find humour in everything helped sweep away the annoyance, bitterness and anger. They always manged to find their way back to each other. It was laughter that had bound them together, had helped them heal, had helped them cope and grow together stronger than ever.
These thoughts had run through her mind as she glanced at him affectionately. But something had caught her eye – a slackness in the mouth, a limpness in the arm that hung by his side. She had shaken him, trying to wake him up. But even as she did, even as she called the doctor and the ambulance, something cold gripped her heart. He had gone. She could not understand it. His hearty laughter still rang in her ears.
The unnatural efficiency of the funeral services took over. She had mechanically gone through all the rituals. He had believed in it although she never had. But not even the thought of his mocking grin that she was going through them so religiously could bring any animation to her face. There were no tears, no anger, nothing. She felt empty… like she had lost a part of her.
She could see the concern on the faces of her friends and family as they had tried to cajole her to talk, to cry, to eat, to do anything. But she had nothing to give. The shock consumed her inside and outside till there was nothing left. At the worst times in their life, he would find something to laugh about. Some droll remark, some irony that would coax a smile to her face. She needed him now more than ever before. She needed him to make her laugh till she cried so she could begin to heal and become whole again. But he had gone, and she did not know if anything could ever make her laugh again.
It was a few days later. She was going through her chores in the house. Chores she had done every day of her life for as far back as she could remember. Put the newspapers in a stack. Arrange the cushions. Straighten the rugs. Open the windows. Draw the curtains. There was a heap of laundry lying on the table, all pressed and ready to put away.
She mechanically picked up a pair of his jeans and opened his cupboard to hang them up. It was then that she burst into peal after peal of merry laughter. She laughed till her sides ached. Her friend who was staying with her, came running into the room wondering what had happed, but she could only point at the cupboard and break into a fresh fit of laughter. It was a while before she settled down enough to gasp, “There are no more hangers. He needs one more hanger.” With that she was off again – another fit of uncontrollable laughter. Her friend did not understand and shook her head puzzled.
Finally, she sank into a chair exhausted. “Let me explain,” she told her friend. “It is perhaps a little silly and no one else may understand, but it was very important to us. I guess all relationships have that – some seemingly trivial element but it becomes so significant and over the years its importance grows. This is just like that. Years ago, when we had just got married, we had gone shopping for essentials to set up our new home. We did not have too much money then, and carefully thought out our list. We had picked everything we needed and were at the billing counter when I realised I had forgotten to buy hangers. I quickly picked up two dozen and tossed them on the pile. When we came home and unpacked our things, he was horrified at the number of hangers I had bought. ‘Why do we need two dozen hangers?’ he asked me again and again.
“Ever since then he has had a thing about buying hangers. Every time we would argue about it and he would to convince me that he had enough hangers in his cupboard. Some clothes would be in the wash, some would go for mending, and sometimes he would even give some away. He always ensured there were fewer clothes than hangers.
“One day recently, we were arguing about it again and he gave me a deal. He told me that if I ever found that he did not have enough hangers in his cupboard he would buy more and then listen to me for the rest of his life.” She paused as the giggles broke out again.
“Look at the cupboard,” she said. “He needs one more hanger.” And with that the flood gates opened, and she laughed and cried. Cried for the loss of her partner, her friend, her confidant, her lover. And laughed at the joy and humour he had brought to her life.
It was like he had reached out to her from beyond the grave, reached out and given her another little humorous touch in their lives. Given her a chance to laugh, to cry and begin the process of healing.
“I was right,” she said smiling through her tears. “You need just one more hanger.”
Ripples Of Life and Time 