The old woman lived in a house made from clay. I never really had the opportunity to admire the interiors of the house as I was always limited to the verandah — the Indian equivalent of porch.
The verandah was where Avva — the universal title of endearment for grandmothers in South India — conducted her business.
It was a simple business. Avva sold Idlis and Dosas on most mornings. I remember her doing that ever since I have been a little child. Idlis and dosas — scrumptious fermented rice preparations — that always left you craving for more.
Despite being a grown man, my childhood love affair with these simple delicacies never quite passed. So that morning when I woke, I forbid my mother from entering the kitchen and, on my modest scooter, drove to Avva’s humble hotel.
“Idlis for 50 rupees Avva!” I announced as I arrived, still struggling to park my heavy scooter.
Avva smiled in response. She was always happy to see a customer. The transaction barely felt like business.
The Idlis were already cooking on the chulha — a makeshift sand stove that used wood as fuel. I don’t know if it was Avva or the chulha that imparted the food its flavor, but I never could find it elsewhere.
“Just a few minutes! It’s quite cold this morning. The chulha just won’t stay warm,” Avva answered.
I waited, seated on the sole chair across the verandah that was intended for customers. Avva checked on the Idlis, rekindled the fire by breathing air into it. She had spent years breathing her life into the chulha.
“It should be done in 10 minutes,” Avva reassured me. She then picked herself up from the tiny stool that was directly in line with the chulha and ventured into her humble home to fetch the Chutney — the spicy condiment served with Idlis.
That was the only time I could peek into her house. The main door opened into a central courtyard, and a few rooms lined the farther end of the courtyard. I couldn’t tell how many rooms were there in all. It felt like the entire house was a courtyard. Whatever rooms there were, had to be tiny.
Avva returned from one of the rooms with a heavy bowl of Chutney. She moved slowly but skilfully, her old trembling hands used to the motions practiced for years. She adorned her little plastic throne again and continued to blow into the fire as she spoke.
“Are you from around here?”
“Born and brought up. I had to move away for my education.”
“A lot of children had to move away.”
“It’s the jobs Avva. The ones worth doing are always in the city,” I elaborated kindly.
There was a time when Avva’s little hotel was a bustling hub of activity. School children would bring little Dabbas — containers — and wait impatiently for Avva to fill them up with breakfast. Most of these little children had left the town now, in search of better jobs.
“I used to come here as a child,” I offered.
Avva cheered up, “I don’t remember you.”
“Yeah, you have many customers. It’s difficult to remember them all.”
“So are you working in the city?”
“For now, yes. Life in the city isn’t all that grand that it is made out to be.”
“I see.”
“Doesn’t anyone live with you Avva?”
“No, I am all on my own.”
I fell silent, choosing not to pursue that track any further.
“Doesn’t the morning chill get to you in that house Avva? The open courtyard must let in the mist.”
“I am used to these little annoyances,” Avva reassured.
I wondered if all the years that passed between my childhood and youth weren’t enough for Avva to upgrade her lifestyle. The chulha, the courtyard, the verandah — everything remained the same. If I didn’t know any better, I could swear that Avva hadn’t changed either.
“Do children not come to the hotel anymore Avva?”
“Not as many. Most of my customers were children like you who left town.”
The Idlis were cooked by now. Avva packed my steaming hot breakfast diligently and handed them over. In return, I paid her a measly 50rs.
“Thanks, Avva! I’ll be back another time.”
“Please do. Whenever you’re in town.”
I left with mixed feelings. Happy from procuring my favorite breakfast, heavy from concern for Avva’s future, and helpless from my inability to help.
As I drove away from Avva’s hotel, I wondered if the tickets for my trip to the city were booked.
The verandah was where Avva — the universal title of endearment for grandmothers in South India — conducted her business.
It was a simple business. Avva sold Idlis and Dosas on most mornings. I remember her doing that ever since I have been a little child. Idlis and dosas — scrumptious fermented rice preparations — that always left you craving for more.
Despite being a grown man, my childhood love affair with these simple delicacies never quite passed. So that morning when I woke, I forbid my mother from entering the kitchen and, on my modest scooter, drove to Avva’s humble hotel.
“Idlis for 50 rupees Avva!” I announced as I arrived, still struggling to park my heavy scooter.
Avva smiled in response. She was always happy to see a customer. The transaction barely felt like business.
The Idlis were already cooking on the chulha — a makeshift sand stove that used wood as fuel. I don’t know if it was Avva or the chulha that imparted the food its flavor, but I never could find it elsewhere.
“Just a few minutes! It’s quite cold this morning. The chulha just won’t stay warm,” Avva answered.
I waited, seated on the sole chair across the verandah that was intended for customers. Avva checked on the Idlis, rekindled the fire by breathing air into it. She had spent years breathing her life into the chulha.
“It should be done in 10 minutes,” Avva reassured me. She then picked herself up from the tiny stool that was directly in line with the chulha and ventured into her humble home to fetch the Chutney — the spicy condiment served with Idlis.
That was the only time I could peek into her house. The main door opened into a central courtyard, and a few rooms lined the farther end of the courtyard. I couldn’t tell how many rooms were there in all. It felt like the entire house was a courtyard. Whatever rooms there were, had to be tiny.
Avva returned from one of the rooms with a heavy bowl of Chutney. She moved slowly but skilfully, her old trembling hands used to the motions practiced for years. She adorned her little plastic throne again and continued to blow into the fire as she spoke.
“Are you from around here?”
“Born and brought up. I had to move away for my education.”
“A lot of children had to move away.”
“It’s the jobs Avva. The ones worth doing are always in the city,” I elaborated kindly.
There was a time when Avva’s little hotel was a bustling hub of activity. School children would bring little Dabbas — containers — and wait impatiently for Avva to fill them up with breakfast. Most of these little children had left the town now, in search of better jobs.
“I used to come here as a child,” I offered.
Avva cheered up, “I don’t remember you.”
“Yeah, you have many customers. It’s difficult to remember them all.”
“So are you working in the city?”
“For now, yes. Life in the city isn’t all that grand that it is made out to be.”
“I see.”
“Doesn’t anyone live with you Avva?”
“No, I am all on my own.”
I fell silent, choosing not to pursue that track any further.
“Doesn’t the morning chill get to you in that house Avva? The open courtyard must let in the mist.”
“I am used to these little annoyances,” Avva reassured.
I wondered if all the years that passed between my childhood and youth weren’t enough for Avva to upgrade her lifestyle. The chulha, the courtyard, the verandah — everything remained the same. If I didn’t know any better, I could swear that Avva hadn’t changed either.
“Do children not come to the hotel anymore Avva?”
“Not as many. Most of my customers were children like you who left town.”
The Idlis were cooked by now. Avva packed my steaming hot breakfast diligently and handed them over. In return, I paid her a measly 50rs.
“Thanks, Avva! I’ll be back another time.”
“Please do. Whenever you’re in town.”
I left with mixed feelings. Happy from procuring my favorite breakfast, heavy from concern for Avva’s future, and helpless from my inability to help.
As I drove away from Avva’s hotel, I wondered if the tickets for my trip to the city were booked.
Comments