Under The Mangrove

                                        

One remembers the powerful reminiscence of her romantic youth by Mrs. Rose played by Kate Winslet with the help of a sapphire locket in the film ‘Titanic’. The locket helps her retrace her love life beset in the back-drop of an epical ship wreck. I have no memorabilia to fall back upon. My memory thrives on its own strength.

It was a hot summer afternoon. The university had closed for the vacation. So I ventured out with my girl- friend to a nearby village. About three kilometres from the campus, through undulating verdant pastures, nestled in a dense mangrove at the foothill of Barpahar, Mahua was an ideal picnic spot. As we reached the outskirts of the village we were greeted by heavily laden mango trees, their branches swaying in gentle breeze while warbling cuckoos set music in the air. At the head of the sleepy hamlet, which apparently had a cluster of about twenty cottages, was a humble little thatched house. I knocked at its door and waited. No response. I knocked again, this time louder. Slowly the door parted and a very old woman peeped out. She must be in her eighties, bent double with age, in silver white hair, face liberally wrinkled, eyes drooping. She had an eye-full of us and before we could speak she ushered us in, more by gesture than by words. Inside, it was surprisingly cool with no articles worth the name. A rope ran between the mud walls and a few clothings hung from it. In one corner an earthen fire place and some pots hinted of a kitchen. That summed up her household. But the mud walls and floor were cleanly done. She pointed at a place and bid us to sit down. I could not comprehend her language but her gestures bore all the subtle nuances elemental to human hospitality.

As we sat down, the old woman, with mumblings of approval, turned to her ‘kitchen’. It took her a few minutes to spread out her dishes of love—two bowls full of water-mixed rice, some pickles, salt and chilly and two ripe mangoes. The rice must be two-three days stale for it was stinking badly. She sat in front,  fanning with one end of her saree, casting loving glances at us. My friend felt miserable at the sight and smell of the dishes and told me point-blank that she was least interested in the food. My mind was however working at a different plane. I was immensely touched by the motherly affection of the old woman and was trying to figure out the possible secret of her bonding for women her age would need all the cares and attention of the world for themselves. I looked at her. Eyes filled with love, she was now asking my friend if the food was not to her liking, pleading all the same to accept it as that was all she had for us. I told my friend, rather rudely, that she had no business to hurt the woman’s feelings, that she should appreciate the warmth of her heart rather than judge the material value of her offerings. She must, I warned, not only accept whatever was offered but also finish every bit of it. With great discomfiture, she finished her share before we got up to leave.

As we were about to part, I asked our host if she had any mango for sale. With faltering steps and trembling head she turned to the corner again and after some manoeuvrings brought some golden green mangoes wrapped in her sari, her hands shaking. When my friend offered her money, she promptly shook her head, her hands raised in blessing posture. All our persistence failed before the force of her love that was beyond measure. As we left our octogenarian host with a bow at her feet I could see tears welled up in her eyes. There she stood, one hand holding her door for support, the other waving at us, the tears of joy doing the rest.

As we walked back to the campus the face followed me behind, the thought of her extraordinary hospitality overpowering my heart and soul. Call it language barrier or her failing faculties, I could not ask her about her family. But as we parted I could clearly notice her eyes had a mystic eloquence like the one the old lady in ‘Titanic’ had as she peered at her blue locket. But despite the mystery surrounding the Mahua woman, her unique hospitality that hot summer afternoon convinced my conscience that amidst all the ravages of poverty and deprivations, the vicious drudgery of the daily grind gnawing around her, she was the richest of all I have come across.

A few days later, I made yet another attempt to reach out to this noble soul Laxmi,  as the villagers would fondly call her, who had now dominated the realms of my consciousness, by sending her a money-order. After nearly a month, the postman knocked at my door to deliver the shock of my life—the return money-order in his hand read the addressee was no more!

Thirty long years…the face is still etched in my memory. From behind Time’s photo-frame I can still see Laxmi’s loving old looks and the shaking hands showering ineffable blessings…

                                                                                                

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