"Ok? " I just about managed a doubtful ok . It was more of a sigh of resignation . I already knew what was to follow . I had just bought a pair of ankle -to-thigh woollen stockings for my aged and arthritic mother . My neighbour, Mrs S has just seen it peeking out of its polythene bag .
Acting childish , she is as old as my mother but is fit as a fiddle . Except for her runaway blood sugar which she doesn't help by sneaking on sugary treats . On insulin for the last 26 years , she treats her illness like a joke , and fate has been hitherto smiling . You never know when it might run out of patience .
I had bought two . Luckily . I offered her the brown one . Kept the black one for Maa.
She opened it , examined the washing instructions ( in impeccable chinese ) and asked me to translate . I professed ignorance . Result , plain indignation . "How can you not know ? "
"See carefully " "Read and tell me " .
I pretend to read an unreadable script and hum and haw about cold water wash , no spinning , no drying in sun ,etc . Concocting instructions out of thin air . She is satisfied . Looks borderline impressed.
"Is it nylon ? " "I can't wear nylon . I can wear only woollen . Nylon gives me allergies ." This from her aged sister -in -law , who had trundled into the room , pushing her wheeled walker ahead of her . Today is geriatric special day . She has a squint in one eye . The other eye blinks furiously behind coke bottle glasses .
Jumping into the stocking fray . She seeks to hold the stockings . She is denied by Mrs S., who quickly folds it and replaces it into its transparent cover , crinkling furiously. "Yes , it is nylon . You can't wear it ." The air is thick with unsaid hostile retorts . I feel like a BBC reporter at West bank. Ignoring her sister-in-law , she looks at me squarely , "How much ?"
"Hundred rupees." I stammer . The sister - in -law refuses to be outdone , holds the packet , feels the fabric from top of the plastic cover , and plonks it back on the table . Sniffing ominously, she declares ," This is woollen . Bring me one too . Take the money from me ." She holds her nose and dignity high up in the air and trundles off into the TV room ,.
Mrs S's face clouds over . I can hear distant thunderclaps . I grab my money and beat a hasty retreat.
Upstairs , in my home , my mother refuses to wear them .
I recount the war downstairs .
She says , " You give it to them . It is too tight for my thighs ."
I force her to wear . She declares it is snug and warm . Thanks me , somewhat meagrely .
Next morning , the coveted stockings are lying in a heap on the floor , and my obese , arthritic and old Maa , is happily snoring beneath her quilt , stockingless.
It was blazing . It had been like that since six am .
Actually rocky .And dusty . Dust bowl kind of a place . With outcroppings , sudden undulations . There was not even a clear road to follow , for Christ’s sake .
“How do you navigate this woebegone place ?” She wailed for the nth time .
“Here “. He tapped his head dramatically . ” It is all in here. All the maps you’ll ever need . All the weather charts . ” He smiled , a lips-caked-with -dust smile . Happy , nevertheless.
“How can you be so happy ? And so arrogant ? All the time ?” She skipped to keep up with him . Panting slightly . He was annoying but the only human in this vast waste . What was she doing here ? With a cro-magnon man for company ? Who didn’t mind dust and sun and treeless , lifeless moonscape they were trudging on .
Actually , he was walking . Steadily . Plonk , plonk , his huge stick hit the hard earth.
She was just surviving . Slowly following his lead , in his giant shadow.
He didn’t answer . He rarely spoke . Saving his energies . Another survival skill she lacked .
She spoke too much . She thought . She speaks too much . he thought .
A kite swirled lazily overhead. Slowly whistling . She shaded her eyes and looked up . If it was a giant kite , it could mistake us for rats. She looked at the outcrop looming ahead . A sun bleached , white , undulating , lifeless mass of caked dirt .
She wondered what the kite ate , in order to survive. That thought prompted hunger . Thoughtlessly , she ran a tongue on her parched lips . And immediately tasted the desert .Salt and sand and dust . “Ptooi” , she spat noisily . Another mistake . He had spoken on the necessity to not spit . Conserve body fluids .
“Water ?” He spoke finally . Framed against the outcropping , he looked askance at her . She shook her head . Being brave . Saving water .Precious , life giving fluid.
She looked up , and saw something terribly familiar , and terribly out of place . The unmistakable globe of a femoral head , white, bleached , gigantic , sticking out of the outcropping . The shaft concealed in dirt . Eroded but a bone , nevertheless.
“Mastodon bone !” She shrieked .
“Where ?” He whirled around startled as if she had seen a snake .
“There ” She pointed to the outcropping behind him .
“What ? No !! That be rocks ”
“No rocks .” Rejuvenated by the sight , she raced ahead of him . Dislodging pebble showers , she nimbly climbed up , cupped her trembling palms around the mound , triumphantly announcing ” I told you !!”
He sighed . He knew the signs . Trusted her instincts. Whisking out the walkie-talkie , he barked some commands . A team was on the way.