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Schonali Rebello Honorable Mention story in the 2003 Nick Adams Short Story Contest |
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Return to: ... Nick Adams Contest ... Winning stories and authors ... ACM home page Note: This story is reprinted with permission. Copying this story without the express, written permission of the author is prohibited. |
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The water gushed into the pot from the rusty tap rising from the ground. Mary turned away from her task and began to saunter down the garden path. Idly running her fingers through her short, dark hair she walked to the garden gate and stood on tiptoe to look over to the street. Right across the mud and tar road from her was the dhobi's cart, a wooden table on top of cartwheels, perched precariously on the edge of the open gutter that ran outside the garden walls of all the houses in their town. Piles of clothes monopolized all corners of the wooden board and in the middle, on a dark red cloth streaked with black the dhobi ironed all the clothes in the neighbourhood. His ancient iron sat heavy and silent towards the side, issuing curly wisps of tangy smoke, from the hot coals that burned inside it. Mary watched him as he ironed, a task that seemed to require the strength of four men, from the way he adjusted his elbow before his strong brown fingers curled under and over its wooden handle and he swung his whole body into lifting it on to the next pant or shirt or skirt that needed unwrinkling. Back and forth, back and forth, the iron chugged over the pants and shirts and saris and salwars, flattening and smoothing and saturating them with the woody aroma of the hot coals that smoked inside it. After he finished a pant, he would fold it into three precise creases and add it to a heap of clothes, knowing exactly which clothes belonged to which pile. From time to time he would stop, put the iron down carefully. With his other hand he would whip out a once-white handkerchief from his pocket to mop his brow, streaked with sweat from the heat and exertion that went into his job. He would look up at Mary and wink, turning her dark-brown face beetroot-red. She would quickly turn her head away from the street to hide her smile, because Madam had given her a talk only two days ago. The water in the pot was running over when Mary glanced back at the garden tap. "Oh my God! So much water wasted, madam is going to be so much angry! Oojhooo what I'm going to do! Aiiyoh mama aiiee saiibaah chee chee chee! Stupid girl I am, looking out of gate when I have work to do, maybe madam did not see me. Please Mamma Mary I hope madam did not see the water wasting!" Muttering to herself, Mary picked up the pot and began to make a route around the garden's flowerbeds, bushes, trees and potted plants. The coconut man would be coming that afternoon to cut the coconuts off the gigantic tree that grew on the left side of the garden. There were actually two coconut trees in the garden, but only the one that curved out of the ground like an archer's bow produced respectable coconuts for what was needed in the house. The ripe coconuts -- compacted, hairy and chocolate brown -- would be snatched up by the women of the house and hacked open to start grating and collecting the firm white flesh inside. The desiccated remains would be used in their pungent coastal food preparation everyday. A heady concoction of chillies, turmeric, cardamom, cloves and black pepper in any meat curry was always complimented with desiccated coconut, to tone down the fire of the first taste, leaving a cooler aftertaste on the tongue so that the anticipation of the next bite was always there and not scared away by the searing spices. The servants of the house waited in a group at the side of the tree to tear off the coir from the ripe coconuts. Matted together the coir formed natural sponges, which they used with mud and water to scrub the pots, pans and other stainless steel utensils from the kitchen. The tender coconuts were Mary's favorite but she couldn't eat them this year. She had to stand with the servants of the house and collect the coir to make sponges. The year before she was allowed to drink the juice from the oblong green tender-inside fruits with a straw, with the other children of the house and neighbourhood. After they had sucked the last remnants of the sweet and salty juice they would throw away the straws and dig their fingers into the narrow opening, into the dark white hollow of the coconut. With careful and angular precision their nails scooped out big chunks of the tender, fleshy fruit, which they drew out slowly and placed first on the tip of their tongues. They would pull the fruit cautiously into their mouths and suck on it gently for a few moments, savoring the strong sweetness. Then they would chew, gently, slowly, trying hard not to lose the taste of the fruit as it disappeared down their throats. Each new chunk was given the same ritual, the same reverence. But this year Mary had to wait until all the children had their fill and only then could she indulge herself. She had to learn that the children of the house were no longer her equals, they had to learn that they were different people, from different places, with different lives. Her ward, Rhea, four years old and already learning that Mary was her maid and that she could potentially get Mary into trouble if she wanted to, would be unhappy this year that they couldn't share a coconut. She would have to make friends with somebody else who came in from the street, some little boy or girl who would be nice to her and share a coconut without any unpleasant fights. Rhea would learn that where she went Mary could not always come along and that sometimes she would have to disassociate herself from Mary completely when they were in company. These were lessons that the little girl had plenty of time to learn, but Mary did not. She was no longer a child. At sixteen she was now a woman, a wage-earner, a daughter who supported her family with the money she earned cleaning, cooking and baby-sitting for this middle-class Catholic family. "Maaaarrryyyyy! Where you went Mary! Mamaaaaaa! Where's Mary gone?" "Ahray that girl I say! Cannot sit quietly one minute also, always calling 'Mary come play, Mary come sit, Mary come do this, Mary come do that ...' No other work I have or what? What she thinks? I'm a toy or what? Just because I'm also 'enng1 girl she thinks I can play all the time? She doesn't understand I have to work otherwise madam will give me punishment? Oof! Really that girl I say ..." Mary smacked the side of her head repeatedly with the base of her palm as she talked to herself, the fingers spread wide in irritation. Setting the pot down at the bottom of the stairs she walked up the outside staircase into the cool, airy parlor of the bungalow where Rhea sat on the gray polished tiles, her face beginning to crumple. In her hand she clutched a large rubber flip-flop that was threatening to go back into her mouth where it had obviously already spent some time. "Rhea! Dirty girl! Give me that slipper! Don't put it inside your mouth or you'll get one tight rap on your face you understand? Hard one I'll give you!" As the slipper hovered closer to Rhea's soggy pink lips, Mary yanked it out of her fist and sounded two stinging slaps on her chubby upper arm. Creases gathered on Rhea's forehead and her wailing began deep in her stomach, rising to a pitch that made Mary begin to shake with fright. From the rooms behind the central open courtyard of the bungalow Mary heard an unmistakable yell that could only be Yvette ... madam ... Rhea's fiery tempered mother. "Mary! Why is Rhea crying like that? What happened? Did you hit her? What was she doing?" As Yvette's voice got closer, Mary's shushing and cooing got more intense, but Rhea was enjoying herself immensely and threw more backing into her howls and wails. Soon enough Yvette's face and body emerged from the darkness of the unlit corridors of the antiquated colonial bungalow and into the parlor where baby and maid sat facing each other. One had her head thrown back, almost toppling her fat body over with her incessant baying, the other sat on the floor across from her, holding her thighs to keep her from falling, while alternatively attempting to stifle her cries by holding her mouth. "Mary what are you doing! No sense you've got or what? She's a child; you can't cover her mouth like that when she's crying. She'll stop breathing and suffocate! Stop it you silly girl!" Mary quickly replaced her hands in her lap, hiding them in the folds of her bright orange and pink polyester silk skirt and looked up at Yvette with scared brown eyes. "Sorry madam, she was putting Papa's slipper in the mouth, so I gave her two tappas on her hand like this, see madam, because she was being naughty. Then she just cried like that madam; all fuss. You only told me no madam to give her tappas on the hand only or on the leg, if she's doing naughty stuffs, so that's why only I hit her madam. Sorry for disturb you madam from your cooking. I'll keep her in garden now." Yvette had picked Rhea up from the floor, momentarily jolting the girl out of her spectacular performance, so that she paused between howl and holding breath, then immediately started again. Suppressing the urge to laugh, Yvette twisted her face into a stern mask of anger. "Rhea…didn't I tell you that it was naughty to put chappals in the mouth? Remember your dada also gave you a rap on your knuckles with his pen when you did that the other day? Now why aren't you listening to Mary? You know the coconut man is coming today to cut the coconuts from the tree. Don't you want to sit in the garden and drink tender-coconut juice with all your other cousins? If you don't behave yourself, no coconut juice for you. Mama is very angry now so don't be a brat." Sobs subsiding, Rhea nodded her head slowly as her mother set her on Mary's hip. As Yvette turned to go back to the kitchen at the back of the house, Rhea yanked on Mary's hair and Mary yelled. Yvette's head whipped around and in two strides she was at Mary's side and had given Rhea another resounding smack on her hand and one on the side of her bulbous knee. "I'm warning you Rhea, one more naughty thing and no coconut juice when the coconut man comes." Rhea's soggy face collapsed into a crumply baby-scowl as Mary bounced out of the house and down the stairs with her straddled on her hip. They walked down the garden path through the trees, towards the water tank, where they saw that Yvette's brother Denzil was filling water from the hose. Rhea's face brightened and she began to laugh again. "Mary, look Mary! Denzilo's filling de tank for de coconut man! We can play in de water Mary, in vesht and panty! Den we can drink coconut juish, yummy yummy ... Less go to coconut tree ok?" "Rhea, you don't try and make nice-nice with me now ok? All this baby talking not working my dear. You just sit tight and shut up your mouth and when the coconut man comes, if you bad things doing, no coconut juice for you." |
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----- 1 'enng: colloquial South-Indian pronunciation of 'young.' ----- |
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Note: This story is reprinted with permission. Copying this story without the express, written permission of the author is prohibited. |
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