I have divided the days in small compartments . It makes the day pass in a frenzy of activity , one activity lagging or overlapping .. a sense of running all the time to keep pace , of running on the rollercoaster , of keeping mental tabs and all the time being haunted by the work piling up , by the schedules going awry all the time . This sense of so much to do makes my days go faster and at night I fall on the bed exhausted. The food tastes good now and I am beset with huge hunger pangs all the time . I eat large portions of rice with daal . The mound on my steel plate looks big . I make a well of rice gleefully , transporting myself to childhood days and watch chumki pour big ladle of daal into the well. Then almost ceremoniously I break the wall from one side and watch the daal flow out . I think of stories read longtime back of dams breaking and water rushing out , submerging villages . I watch with fascination at this small imitation of dam wall breaking and feel happy that it is in my control and that all the damage that will be done will be the precious bhindi, which chumki has traded from some one in place of two duck’s egg , getting soggy. But I don’t mind .
I eat huge mouthful of rice in one go , so hungry and so eager to eat that I almost don’t chew the first few mouthfuls. The rice sticks to my palate and sometimes I get hiccups so intense that my eyes start watering and my throat chokes. But soon as the water , brought hurriedly by chumki , pushes the grain deep inside my throat , I begin to eat. Now at a leisurely pace , enjoying the taste now , the basic wholesome goodness of food. The plate is always cleaned as I gather even the last morsel of rice and bhindi with my fingers , wiping it all in one last swipe and then licking my fingers . Nothing goes waste , nothing. Chumki watches indulgently as I finish eating. I look up at her and smile . She smiles back . She is happy . The food she cooks has been eaten with so much enjoyment . It is like a daily ritual , her asking if I want any more , knowing full well that I am full, full like a bloated toad , and my nodding head in decline. But still she asks everyday and I decline smiling everyday . And then I will say on cue ,
“ after half an hour then , for tea .Don’t you run away before that”
She will say then ,
“no no not half an hour , not so soon . Let the food go into your skin and body and mind before diluting it with chai” . Her village wisdom makes her smug and high.
Outside the bansuri strains beckons and the sun hovers tremulously on the tip of the western hills . The heat shimmers and shakes in huge transparent rolling sheets . Instead of taking an afternoon siesta I sit up charged for work. My fingers itch and I start writing the first words . The pile of sheets on the lefthand side of the table will slowly get thinner . Not now but one day soon as I start on the story , the story that I have to write , the story for which I have left everything and come here , the story of my life and my death and the time in between.
(olga fedorova water colour )
