Why the babies cried...

She put the coconut and jaggery mixture inside the ada and carefully wrapped it with a plantain leaf. She was wearing the thin red bordered mundu and veshti which Manikutty had bought her during her last visit. The visit seemed to be years back now, even before she met Shivam.

It had nearly turned into a lighter shade of brown now, her veshti. The end of her veshti, which Manikutti now had a vague memory of holding while sleepily following her to the temple, now was ragged and torn due to the constant wiping hand that restlessly probed the kitchen utensils to find something delicious for Manikutty to eat and which probably would remind her of Naaniyamma’s love.

Naaniyamma was living in this out house attached to her family home now for a while. She used to do the household chores apart from the other servants. She was the one who looked after the children. Naani was a play-mate or maybe a play-thing for the children of the house. But now there were no children in the house.

Grandma always used to say while sitting at the corridor watching the serials

“Naani is the one who has known the pain of bringing up all my children, I’ve just had the pain of delivering them.”

Then Naani would be void of words but would smile with such pride that would lighten up her face.

She always used to sit by the side of Achamma while she watched the TV serials with her and narrated the story which Achamma couldn’t hear even with her earphones on. She would always point at every other baby that came up in the diaper ads and say “he looks just like Achu while he was of this age.” And wondering with a silent concentration that why do the mothers put their children in plastic bags which were called diapers.

Naani became a part of the family while she was just 12years old and that was when Achamma put on her delicate shoulders the responsibility of taking care of her first born while she herself was busy with the birth of her second child. Naani never got married and never had children of her own. But she knew better than Achamma why the babies cried. She had looked after Achan and all his brothers and when Manikutty was born she was her constant play-mate while she came to her father’s place.

Her father being the youngest of all the sons was Naani’s favourite and she always complained of not getting to see enough of him. Achachan had sent him away to join the Army at the age of 17 against his will. Naani was the one who cried the most. She used to show Manikutty the photos of her dad wearing heavy jackets and standing proudly with the Indian flag waving above his head. A warm tear would escape her eyes while she struggled to hide it under her creased honey coloured skin.

She ran inside as if remembering something and brought the ada wrapped inside the plantain leaf. She pealed open the outer leaf cover and put it into the brass plate still steaming. She ran to put on the fan while shouting “don’t touch it; you’ll burn your fingers.” Manikutty was reminded of being a 5 year old and how she had gobbled up hot tea and created havoc and how everyone blamed Naani for letting her have tea in her play cup.

When Naani came back tears were flowing from her eyes. Manikutty knew that Achamma’s death was a shock and apart from that they had decided to sell the old family house and Naani would be transplanted to Bangalore to look after her elder cousin’s children. She knew it was difficult for her but for such a strong woman like Naani, will she shed a tear for that?

She looked straight into her teary eyes questioningly as she always did as a child. Then Naani slowly wiped the tears and started to speak. Naani spoke unstoppably as if she hadn’t spoken for weeks or maybe months together. She spoke about the sisterly bond that she shared with Achamma and how they had planned to go for a pilgrimage together and never return, of how beautiful she used to be as a young girl and how Achamma bought her a new red saree and gave her money to buy kajal and chaanthu at the temple festival. Then she fell silent as if lost in a deep thought stroking her snow white hair, her fingers sliding gently to her cheeks wiping off the little tear drops.

Manikutty was too moved. She got up and gave her a hug. She was so tiny for a woman. Then she kissed her tight on her cheeks which had forgotten their dimples to the creases.

She roes to leave. Parting was difficult; breaking away the hug was even more difficult. Naani still held her fingers tightly wrapped on to her arm like a stubborn infant. She asked with tears flooding her eyes still holding her hand

“when is the baby coming?”

Manikutty turned red and tilted her head with a smile and wondering- how did she know? It was just the second month.

A smile grew on Naani’s creased face squeezing out the tears which flooded in her eyes and this time showing off her dimples.

While she bade good bye to her Naani, she didn’t know, what relation bound her with this woman. She was no one to her; not even a friend, but the meeting was eternal. And while she left, she felt as if she were leaving something that moulded her Soul.