Final Departure:
“You hungry?” My mum askes as we near a small dabah built with large rocks; it somewhat resembles a cave except there are strong flavourful smells of tea and spicy food wafting out of the huge wooden door. We walk in slowly and are met by a waiter dressed in a dark brown kurtha and a slightly tarnished dorti and a room filled with oversized Indians greedily tucking into their food. I am immersed in shrikes of laughter and bellowing grumbles. Men with long beards sit in corners smoking what I’m sure isn’t SHESHA! He looks at us for a moment and judging by my facial features in particular and the colour of my light skin he gathers…we’re not locals. He smugly presents us with a tattered looking menu. Then with a very strong Indian accent asks us, “what you like eat mam?” as he shows us to a feeble looking table made from old wood. We order eagerly and then patiently wait for our lovely meal.
Within five minutes the waiter has returned now holding two huge metal plates steaming with hot food. “Two masala dosahs mam,” he announces as he places the plates in front of us and then says, “two chai teas.” He picks up two round metal cups and leaves them on our table and turning on his heel to leave still holding his toothy smile intact. We dig into our delicious plates; my hands masterfully tear the crispy pancake in half as chunky potatoes tumble out. I scoop them up and enjoy how the juices warm up my insides. People in India have eaten with their hands for centuries. Its only in places like Deli that you’d find cutlery, only places that have been conformed by the western society to be more ‘civilised’. I guess that’s the beauty of small places like here. Next I head for the coconut curry and chilli chickpea sauces. The meal could not be more delicious. Finally after about and hour of bliss we wash it all down with our hot glasses of chai. Divine.
We gather our things and pay the bill. As we leave fully refuelled the waiter runs up behind us and thanks us for the generous tip we snuck in with the bill. “shukria! Shukria!” He calls after us and smiles once again his very toothy smile. We wave and continue down the hill. We can see in now its nearing the Gangies lie waiting at the bottom of the hill, but we look away as though it hurts us and instead turn to the shop beside us. It’s shabby looking but has some beautiful jewellery; a little girl perched outside the shop jumps up, a grey eye patch covering her left eye.
She looks at me, just looks at me, like she’s taking me in. every scar, every hair…everything.
I drag my eyes away only to look back. She rubs her stomach and begs me for food. I think back to the dosah I had and my stomach does a backflip. I dig my hand into my pocket and give her some rupees while pointing to the dabah we’d stopped at. She thanks me and limps off.
I look at my mum and hold her hand, “it’s time I say.”
We continue down the hill this time without stopping. And there it is… the Gangies waiting as it flows past our feet. The current is soft and gentle, a warm breeze blows and my hair flutters. I exchange a painful glance with my mum as she petrudes he mums funeral urn. Tears roll down her cheeks as she carefully opens the lid. The silver dust rises and is carried away by the wind.
We stand, entranced, as memories fly by a beautiful departure of a truly remarkable soul that only India could set free.
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