THUD, THULP

The thud of rain hitting the red terracotta roof, trickling down the crevices of each red tile and the soft thulp as the rain disrupts the surface of a growing mud and moss puddle, interrupts my holiday reading. I run to my bedroom window and watch as a trickle of rain seems to form a bridge between my roof and the green mossy ground.  A cool breeze grazes the skin on my face and I really  want to drop my "To Kill A Mockingbird ", run out into the rain and dance to its music. An old wooden window in the corridor,  creaks and slams shut. Like a signal, I hear my grandmother yell from upstairs, telling me to close all the windows downstairs. I quickly walk out to the corridor, to the window and put its old metal latch in place. 

The door is just beside the window. I stand on the doorstep and watch the rain form puddles in the soil. I watch as it rolls off the leaves of my grandmothers precious rose shrubs.' She won't need to water them today',  I think to myself and smile. Another gush of wind and a spray of cool water hits my face and arms and I finally decide to go play in the rain. Ironically,  I hear my grandmother telling me not to go out in the rain because I will fall sick. The rebel in me ignores everything she said and I kicked off my old slippers and ran. 

It only took a few seconds for my clothes to get soaked. The cotton clung to my torso and every hair on my arms stood up. With every step, my feet sunk into the wet mud and the smell of wet grass hit me harder. Before I knew it, I was dancing in the rain, to a tune that I made up. 

Almost like a distant dream, I hear my grandmother yell for me. I ignore it. Her screaming gets louder and I hear the wooden door creak as she stands on its step, the water still trickling down my face in tiny rivulets. 

cnn - Tales that keep on telling

Ammiyaar's Saree 

The summer evening in Pune called for some fresh fruit juice and two oranges were called to order. The small plastic juicer was uncovered, knives unsheathed and chop - the oranges were squeezed to its utmost ability. Conversation moved to old fashioned efficiency. My grand uncle, who has a story for every occasion and every situation pulled a story out of his bag and the story of Ammiyaar's Saree got woven into the conversation

As told by CKUS:

A few decades ago when all was good with the world but money was scarce, Ammaiyar was looking for ways to recycle. She brought out all her old 9-yard sarees. They had been worn down from years of use. She cut them into 3 parts and the Pattar began to use them as his 'mundu' (dhoti). After it had fulfilled its duty as a mundu for the next few years, it was then cut up into smaller pieces to be used as nappies for the baby. The baby grew up and the need for nappies were outgrown and the bits of saree were then further cut up to be used to line the idli thattu. When the Ammiyaar decided that the saree had done its time as a lining, she cut it up for the last time and used the fabric scraps to coat the dosa tawa with oil...a homegrown gridle brush. Have you ever heard of anyone more efficient with recycling.

What do you think... was the Ammiyaar a little crazy or just crazy efficient? 

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This series is a bunch of stories from different people in my family. May these stories serve as testimony for the past and as memory for their teller.