Topic started by vj on Mon Dec 13 18:10:15 .
All times in EST +10:30 for IST.
Her Legacy
I find myself stretching my arms in the backyard of my Grandma's spacious house in the village. I am wearing loose white clothes below the waist leaving my puckered nipples exposed to the crows flying above noisily. The backyard is cloistered by four tall walls and its top is open, through which the Sun dances, almost everyday, for a brief while before going to the other side. Clouds, sometimes, acting like stage screens, come together and cover the Great Dancer leaving everything in and around us, downcast. Just for a short while, for soon they give way, spread apart, as She comes out again, fiery as ever. It was during one of these downcast moments, I was stretching myself, when my Grandma suddenly appeared by the black slab of stone, holding an almost cylindrical grinder stone between her 100 year old hands. Green flowers lay on the black slabstone and she was ready for the rhythmic roll of her grindstone, to and fro, to and fro, wipe the stone, to and fro, to and fro, till the creation of a paste. As the sound of the two black stones against each other started, I had before me a huge round silver plate, flat .. dazzling under the aura of the Great Dancer. On the plate, rested two chunks of highly viscous fluids. One a dark red, the other yellow. I was to mix them up in beautiful proportion as part of the creative process called Life. I started my activity with great enthusiasm and using both hands scooped out portions of the pastes and kneaded them together, watching with childlike fascination the new emerging color. After many moments, my Grandma, having washed the stones, crept towards me, with her 100-year-old hump, carrying the green paste, squeezed tight, held in her right hand. Within seconds, we stared at the work I had created to which she added the green paste. Four hands blended this mixture and with a sheepish look, my Grandma dabbed a piece of the paste on my hair. As my hair caught fire and glowed, she turned joyous and flew away with her hump and everything, straight up, beyond the stage screens, right into Death. The glowing hair is the only thing she left behind for me. Her legacy. I cherish it and with Time, the shine is wearing off and in certain dreams, I visit my village, float into the backyard, expose my puckered nipples to the crows, spread out the red and the yellow and wait for her to come in, carrying the green flowers.
(c) Vijayanand Subramanian
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