Girija Aunty

The 3+1 seater sofa set in her house is lovingly adorned with a white ( now almost cream) latticed lace net sitting steadily over its curvatures since the last 20 years …. it used to seat four, but now seats only one , and sometimes two on Sundays when Pramod drops by for his ritualistic one hour visit to check on unpaid bills , unbooked gas cylinders and to revisit his childhood with his mother’s hand made obbattu ( a jaggery and coconut stuffed flatbread) .

The Godrej almirah in her room gracefully distressed by age , came into the house and their lives on her 2nd wedding anniversary , shared its space - two equal halves , one side for Raghavendra Uncle’s safari suits and the mirrored side for her Band Box pressed Kanjeevaram sarees . She chose to keep two of his suits , the one he wore on their daughters wedding and the other from his retirement party .Both gray .

A television set sits neatly in the rectangular space within the confines of the inbuilt wall cabinet .The other occupants of the cabinet are a Cauvery emporium sandalwood Lakshmi , a miniature Vallam kalli (traditional Kerala boat ) , a certificate of appreciation from Canara Bank , a now abandoned doll house(with only a bed left behind in one of its rooms) and a picture frame from a family trip to Tanjavur in 1998.

The window in her bedroom faces the Jacaranda lined 5th cross .The morning sun peeps in through the open curtains making sunlit patterns on the jute rug besides her dresser ,bathing her Bata chappals in a warm yellow glow . On her bedside table is a stainless steel jug of water , her pill box , a copy of her Hanuman Chalisa , a tiny phone book with neatly scribbled phone numbers and a bottle of Ponds cold cream .

In the kitchen , a pressure cooker whistles away each morning performing its daily Sambar duties while Komalamma her cook, confidante and caretaker (in that order) steams hot idli’s and gets the coffee decoction ready . Sometimes Girija Aunty indulges in some deep fried maddur vada and Mysore pak , much against her diabetologists advice . Of which he never gets to know anyways .

Her life has revolved around the spaces in the house , between the bedroom, living room , kitchen and verandah ,where she sits every evening to read a book and chat with her neighbor and old friend Shanthi .

Shanthi sometimes brings kosambari ( a cucumber and soaked moong dal tempered salad ) or majjige ( buttermilk) . They talk about their old days teaching at Vijaya college . They laugh over good times that have passed with a a few tear drops here and there …. knowing that time cannot be bought back .

Time has come to a standstill for her .

The circle of life has drawn circles within itself .

Somewhere within these circles , her whole life has passed .

The grandfather clock in the living room is a daily reminder that time and her are both ticking away …. Or she is moving away from time in another direction .

So is a 2015 Bangalore Press calender tucked away behind the kitchen door . She never changed or removed it after that year . It stayed as a comforting constant .Every time she looked at it , the last ten years became a blur . As if she never really lived them .

She rarely steps out. She did go last month .

Her grand daughter’s college graduation .

But there is one place she goes everyday .

Gajanana Stores .

The kirana angadi (little shop)around the corner .

Wrapping a shawl over her gown , off she goes on her little daily escapade .

She talks to Murali , the storekeeper about milk and vegetable prices , his daughter Megha’s MBBS entrance exams and the highly unpredictable Bangalore weather ( reminding him on multiple occasions that she never used the fan in the first twenty summers of her life) .

Often she packs some Obbitu and khara baath for Megha ,in return he hands her the weekly copy of Sudha Magazine and a packet of her favorite Good Day cashew biscuits . This little barter system is now into its sixth year and so is their beautiful friendship .

A good twenty minutes after she has hung around , picked up some bananas , a milk packet and some southekai (cucumbers) , she heads back home humming an old kannada folksong to herself , taking in the cool evening breeze as she watches families walk past her .

Her heart is full and she silently thanks the good lord for a good life .

Girija Aunty’s world is small now .

It is her own though . And she likes it this way .