Dada
He
sat in a perfect squat, with a distinct arch in his back. He bent over
the variety of vegetables spread in front of him as he gently sliced
them all with his heavily wrinkled fingers. Chop, chop, chop he went on
stupendously, even with the teary onions. As his misty eyes spilled
onion tears not once did he look up or wait to take a deep breath
unless to wipe off the watery eyes at his sleeves occasionally.
I was fervently attracted to
observe the way he moved frenzied, his frowned forehead under his half
bald head and the ease with which he managed cooking for a family of
eleven.
This old man all of seventy five
whom we fondly called Dada, cooked our meals day in and day out and he
more than fascinated me over playing a game of marbles with the other
boys of the neighborhood. He was accompanied by his grandson who would
do nothing but wait near the kitchen entrance. No signs of restlessness
that was expected of a four year old. His head slightly slumped to his
right; his face carried a blank expression which made him (look) almost
non-existent.
Each morning Dada rode all his
way to our bungalow on a rusty, dingy bicycle, managing to balance
himself on that mean machine with his grandson tucked behind.
The next three hours then filled
the kitchen with the noisy cutting, chopping and grinding, as he would
put heavy vessels on the stove for various seasonings. Roaring fumes
and smoke from the vessels would almost make him invisible for some
time. Then with all his strength he churned and tossed the vegetables
with large spatulas, spoons and ladles that created the kind of sounds
that would make anyone go deaf for a few seconds.
One of the ladies of the house
would then offer him a cup of tea, the only time when he spoke a few
words. After my mother once asked him why he worked so hard at this
age, he calmly replied that he would die if he stopped working. All his
life he had worked very hard and didn’t know any other meaning out of
life and that he would want to die working, the last words echoed in my
mind like the temple bells did long after they had been swung.
Once in a while he started
inviting me inside the kitchen to taste various dishes and I had by now
become his little sample taster. He then narrated stories about his
childhood, his family, in between the gasps that interrupted his words.
By now I had managed to pull his grandson inside near the shelf but
his expressionless face still refused to emote.
After I had befriended Dada, I
often offered him a glass of water as he tried several failed attempts
to whiz out the cough straight from his lungs.
One May afternoon for the first
time after the seasoning ritual and after the fumes and smoke
disappeared slowly, I saw Dada not so frenzied. After the initial
chores he seemed weak, his pace was not the usual and his gasps more
frequent and intense. By mid morning he had slumped in a corner as his
grandson had moved a little closer.
But by the time I had returned
with my mother and father in the kitchen he laid still on the floor
where he once did the rounds like a 25 year old. My mother quickly put
off the stoves as I was instructed to leave the kitchen immediately.
That was the last time I saw
Dada, he had indeed died working. No one ever heard of his grandson or
his family after that. Many a cooks replaced him, but the kitchen never
roared like it did when Dada ruled it and never once did I feel like
giving up a game of marbles again to become a spectator of an ordinary
routine chore of a cook.
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