What a sweet story. Bernice
Sent from my iPhone > On 06-Dec-2021, at 4:32 PM, Roland Francis <roland.fran...@gmail.com> wrote: > > Charudutt Acharya on the Old Bombay group. > > ‘LALICE' > ---------- > “Baba say my name?” > “Lalice” > “O le…kiti goad (Cho chweet). Say na Alice. Aael-liss?” > “Lalice” > “OK next time say OK?. Here! Take extra tadgola (ice apple) for you” > The year was 2003. > This was a weekly Sunday morning conversation between my three- year-old > older boy and 18 -year -old Alice who sold the freshest gourds, leafy > veggies, ice apples, bananas and coconuts her family grew. > They lived in Madh island and had small patches and groves. They sold > seasonal produce outside the fish market in my neighborhood. > Alice was East Indian Catholic. She spoke fluent Marathi, broken English , > and terrible Hindi. > She wore floral printed frocks, flowers in her hair, gold hoops on her ears, > gold bangles on her wrists and chewed gum. > Dusky and slender, she had the most transparent honey brown eyes in the whole > of Madh Island. > She had seen my boy when he was inside his mother’s tummy. > She had held him when I first took him to the market. And they had been at > this ‘Lalice Alice’ thing for a year now. > The boy was baba for her. I was dada. (Elder brother). She would tell me what > to take from her stuff. The freshest. And she always greeted me with a > handshake and the boy with a hug and a cheek squeeze. > In winters, she would occasionally supply me with fresh toddy her fiancé’s > father tapped. > Her fiancé Andre aka Andrya, didn’t tap toddy as he couldn’t. He was born > with just one arm. But boy! What an arm it was. The strapping 21-year-old > grew vegetables and fruits. > At the stall he was her handyman and he sliced coconuts and ice apples with > one hand. All the hard work had ripped him like no gym could. He never wore a > shirt. He never smiled. And they fought like snake and mongoose. > There would be days when, while entering the market, I’d see her shower the > choosiest of East Indian Marathi abuses hyphenated with an English ‘bloody’ > or a Hindi ‘saala’. > And after buying fish, on the way out, when I went to buy veggies from her, > Andrya would be affectionately planting bright red hibiscus flower on to her > bun, squinting and his tongue sticking out. When ever he made her laugh with > poker faced, under the breathe one liners, she would slap his arm, his > chest.. what ever came in range. > He always sat behind her, amidst his coconuts and ice apples, continuously > spinning his ‘koyta’ (machete) by the handle. He was like a bodyguard nobody > should ever mess with. > He always nodded at me and made a funny face at the boy. > But he took the toddy seriously. When he would hand me over the 2 liter > Sprite bottle, his entire being would beam with pride. > It was amazingly brilliant palm toddy. Fermented just right, it would give > you a mild lazy high and went well with fresh mackerel curry and rice. > Two liters was a lot. I’d share half with a Goan neighbor John uncle who > would never fail to get me ginger infused Feni from his village. > And the Sunday siesta that would follow, would be bliss. > Then one Sunday Alice blushed a bit when she told me she her stall would be > closed the next Sunday. She and Andre were getting married. I had shaken > hands with both and wished them well. She had happily hugged the boy. ” Baba > your Lalice getting marry re!”. > Two weeks later, they were back. > Suddenly from a girl, she looked like a woman, with her mangalsutra , more > jewelry and a more conservative frock. > Andrya was in a a formal half sleeve shirt over his shorts. > And a month or two later, my boy managed to say ‘Alice’. > She had teared up a bit and asked him to call her Lalice only. > Over the next few years, they changed. > They almost never fought. But they didn’t laugh much either. > They worked much, much harder. > She had stopped chewing gum. He grew a mustache and started wearing trousers > too. > Then I lost touch with them for a good ten years. > I was out of the city for a year and half, and in my absence the missus began > buying the fish and veggies. > The boy and boy No.2 grew up and stopped going to the market with her. > They had games to play on Sunday morning. When I returned, I never really > returned to the market. A new routine had been set. Then in 2013 or so, I > once went to the market because the missus told me they were breaking it down. > It was emotional going back. > I met Sangeeta, our regular Kolin (fisher woman). I met Kandakaka , the > regular white onion, Kokum and garlic seller. But there was no Alice. > I asked another girl Violet (her cousin) where was Alice. Her face fell. She > said, “Alice doesn’t sit here anymore’. I asked her what happened. She just > went silent. I was intrigued. I asked her again and she muttered, “Try Orlem > market.” > Orlem market was not too far. I just had to know what happened to her. > I went to Orlem market. > It was bigger and more crowded. But I spotted her. > When she saw me approach her, she got up and greeted me with her trademark > handshake. She had filled out some bit. She wore no jewelry or flowers. There > was not much life in her eyes that once shone and how! > I was afraid to ask, but I asked. “Andre?”. She bit her lip, trying not to > cry, when she told me he died a year back in a major hooch tragedy in the > nearby slums of Malvani. > He came from a family of toddy tappers. I had bought some of the freshest, > healthiest toddy from him. I remembered her telling me, before they were > married, that he was a teetotaler. “He only drink Fanta”. > I mumbled a sorry. It was one of the most miserable moments of my life. She > wiped her tears, smiled and asked me,” How is baba? And fat baba Number 2 ? > And vahini? “ (brother’s wife). > I told her all are well. Baba just finished school. “Show photo”. I had their > pictures on my phone. “Aaah! Kiti mothe zhale dada!”(How they have grown!). > I just did not have the guts to ask her if she had any of her own. And as if > she heard my thought, she just shook her head and began packing my veggies. > Six more years passed. > And day before yesterday, the missus sent me to get some specific veggies and > banana leaf to make some traditional dish. > As I set out, it was around seven in the evening and it was drizzling. And > when I reached our local vegetable bhaiyya, under a lamp post, I saw her > again. > She was getting out of a three-wheeler tempo with the longest snake gourds > that she was supplying to another bhaiyya stall. > She had her zing back. There was a flower in her hair and some minimal > jewelry and a East Indian Catholic Mangasutra. > And there was a man helping her with the veggies, who had also driven the > three-wheeler tempo. They worked in sync. And I had seen this sync before. > The moment she saw me, she smiled. Those eyes. That voice. That face wet in > the drizzle under the street lamp. > We shook hands and she did an affectionate half hug. I looked at her tempo. I > looked at her man. “Show baba photo” she demanded. I showed her a bearded > twenty -year- old. She just laughed doing a ‘hawww’. She said” Lalice” I > nodded “ Lalice”. > She said he must be twenty now. I said he is away at university. She looked > on for a few more seconds and then her man honked. She smiled and hopped. > “I am at Orlem and here and other places too. Tell me if you need any local > produce dada!”” she shouted out, as the tempo drove into the rain. > I hope to see more of her. Buy some stuff from her. > And I am so happy to see her happy again. > “Lalice” > > Roland. > Toronto. >
