A New Year

Written by Sebastian John Chacko

Illustrated by Shiva Sourabh

Peering at the ad for a new general store in town, she struggled to remember what Christmas felt like.

Ammachi let her gaze track the singular moth that accompanied her newspaper reading session, flitting around until it rested on a photo. Framed with dusty mahogany and gold inlay, her son peered into the distance, resplendent on the battered table.

A box of medicines lay near his memory. Propping herself up, Ammachi opened up two tablets and slowly headed towards the verandah.

Are you awake yet?! I hope you’ve not forgotten how to WALK!

Hollering from the kitchen, the old man of the house chopped up some tapioca for breakfast. As the essence of freshly ground pepper and crushed ginger cut through the cold musty air, she stared blankly ahead as he sauntered into the verandah and gruffly served the darkest coffee the kitchen had ever seen.

Still thinking about people long gone?

Getting some eggs for an omelette shouldn’t take long. He will be back soon.

How many times have I told you to take your medicines on time?

I didn’t forget. You get your ointment.

Two years since a little virus took their son from them. Forty-five, he would have been in three weeks. The loss of memory wasn’t too bad still. Loss of a loved one’s memory - was a different thing.

Too gritty. Get better coffee next time.

Drink it while it’s still hot. You don’t want to get a cold.

The newspaper in front of them showed yesterday’s date. Ammachi was visibly confused- Was I reading yesterday’s paper? As the faint ringing of a faraway bell reached their ears, it dawned on the old couple - today was Sunday.

Sunday meant Church Day, and Sunday meant a late newspaper.

My knees ache. Why can’t we just skip today’s service?

Old man, you keep forgetting. Didn’t we promise to go see him today?

I thought you forgot- Ah..some excuse to keep walking. Fine then.

The last days of the old year, and the house was silent. Clutching her arm, he tottered to the table and plonked a plate down. Their granddaughter’s recipe - Pepperized tapioca- wasn’t bad after all. The morning sun streamed in from the window, yellow warmth welcome on a bleak day.

A bath, two arguments and three sets of outfits later, both headed off to church.

The pallu of her dotted blue saree dragged across the road as she clenched at her husband’s arm, wrinkled but still strong from his old lumber days. There were no cars, save for the empty trucks, and yet, crossing the road always scared the couple. The kids used to run off without looking for vehicles.

The church bell rang for mass, and as the congregation gathered for the last Sunday of the year, they peered at the nearby plot. The grass above their son’s head waved back at them.

We should go. He will come back with lunch. I heard today’s porotta is nice.

Alright. By the time he brings something, I’ll clean the house. A New Year with a clean house after a long time…sounds nice. Time to get these knees to work.

…..

The winter sun shone bright as they trudged back home from the new general store near church- a new broom in one hand, their partner’s hand in the other, a new smile on their face and some steaming hot porotta to take home.

Finally, My room will be nice and clean and-

You will clean your own room. I am done with your slacking off. What will he think if he sees his mother lazing around?

Fine. At least he will be happy..