Omelette by the hillside
A wide spectrum of emotions hop about in the vast expanse of humanity, and we the travellers of life, shift and shuffle through those, as indifferent as nature herself.
If you find it difficult to breathe. Brace yourself for a warm welcome into the hillside microcosm of this neat little house. The air of mystique about it lends it the stillness, not so much the altitude. The blue tinge is long gone on a holiday from the face of the slate-sketched rooftop. The walls have divorced the plaster from patches, and creepers have infiltrated the bricks for acceptance.
Once built from scratch in the distant past with love and care, the bricks were held together not by cement but by prayers. The impounding valley ahead is silent and uneventful, the people uncaring and busy with their skirmishes with the domestic economy. It once echoed the cries of laughter in youthful childhood and for help thereafter and the new bride’s vows of silence in the sale of esteem. A deal women strike without informed consent since birth, one that is coerced by society. One educated and ear-tagged unto them. The bricks began to recite prayers then, not just dumbly listening, for the young lady to survive. Were they ever granted a base to thrive, was it not enough to survive?
The new bride is a frail old lady now, dutifully she goes about the mini terrarium she’s decked up with love. With her arthritic bony fingers, she dusts every inch of her abode and chides every spider and rat away. But those lowly insects have been more loyal companions than most sentient beings. She lives alone.
Gracefully whisking the eggs, like once the colossal gramophone did the disc. And with a hiss, the yolk flows onto the lustful pan to be fried. And even though the gramophone has broken its limb, the diamond pin. Yet she illusions its music perforating her ears. For it is this music that helped her escape the taunts of others about and family within.
And as we sat outside the brick cottage, sipping on the sweet warm tea, infused with jaggery, we would listen detachedly to her story. Finishing our omelettes, we settle our due and bid adieu. We glance back once to admire the beauty of the hillside and her resilience, and one last time we look at the grey-bricked skeleton, now hanging for its life. The lady smiles through her elderly facade and her silver grey hair fancy an end from the bane. Frowning upon the indifference of nature and its constant unsettling dynamics, you and I walk down the muddy road downhill into the valley. Leaving the old lady in solitude and solace, counting her gratitude till death redeems the soul, never to look back again. We hike further down the track, without a second thought about it. Much like the valley folks, decades ago.
~Divyosmi Goswami
