Andria Antão: Bai and Baya Weaver's Constancy It was common knowledge that monsoons meant the mangoes of Casa Antão came down with the slightest gush of the wind.
Well, this knowledge was not limited to its residents alone but was known to the whole ward, since the tree loaded with ripe produce was bent slightly towards the road. And with every year's monsoon thus started the charade of old uncles and aunties starting their annual early morning walks, which lasted till the last succulent mango was devoured and chanced upon. Sure, it raised our sugar levels but it also made us good athletes as we raced to grab every fallen ambo. Although this tree was cut a long time ago, my memories of it will surely last a lifetime. Under this tree, as vividly as I remembered the tree, I remember the balcão. And being seated at the balcão meant hot tea served alongside biscuits, and if Bai was in a good mood, sometimes alebele, filos, shira or simply godshe. The last I disliked disdainfully as a child. Who is Bai, you ask? My grandma, who everybody called Bai, and upon picking that up I assertively refused to give up calling her anything other than that as a child until it stuck. Apart from the delightful snacks and lifting of my hands slightly above the usually appropriate height during the besav, which the elders would offer by saying vodlemmmm zavvmmm (`May you grow big/great'), only one memory of her stays with me till today. The memory of her telling... tales. Bai had an observant eye even at her advanced age which could not bear to see people going hungry. Even if one lied, she knew it immediately! And I detested having lunch, call me a fussy eater if you must. But my assertiveness could not match Bai's cunning. After one spoonful for Papa, one for Mama, one for granny — and when the unending exhaustive list of family relations was over — she decided on another technique. She started narrating tales. As I sit in my balcony sipping tea, a break from working on assignments and projects, the wind is gushing and gently rustling the leaves until suddenly something catches my eye. Dangling from a coconut tree, a baya weaver (called sherook in my tongue) is working laboriously on his nest. Bai was fascinated by these birds as she was with animals in general, weaving them into stories for me. One such story was about a jungle full of animals. This jungle had a ferocious lion who proclaimed himself the king as no one could match his might and his speed. Animals were terrified of him and all unwillingly obeyed him. He preyed on animals strong and weak and ate to his heart's content. One day the wise old sheep spoke to the whole jungle in the lion's absence, finally deciding that by next summer the lion would learn his lesson. It was decided that she would go to the lion and tell him that each day, one animal would willingly volunteer to be eaten by him. The lion thought it would be convenient for both him and the animal, a fair deal and an opportunity to be treated like royalty. As decided, the lion ate his fill without even moving from his place, fattening day by day. This went on for days, weeks, and months. Summer arrived and everyone gathered around the old sheep taunting her about her failed stratagem, fearing what awaited them. The wise sheep finally spoke. She said that the lion's dictatorship was now over. Upon hearing this, the lion became furious and decided that — as revenge — he would attack animals, waiting for them to quench their thirst at the pond and the river at their most vulnerable. But when he tried to run, the furious lion could not run fast enough. Struggling to even walk, his speed was no longer his asset. Unable to run, prance and prey, the lion perished. I loved this story as a child for it had colourful animals that spoke, a happy ending and.. and what else did it have? As I remember this story in retrospect, looking at the baya weaver's nest I know change and growth is the only constant. Bai, her story and this baya weaver's nest brings me inspiration on a windy day as the wind continues to rustle and tussle the branches and me. Well I have assignments and projections to complete. Back to work I suppose. Andria Antão is a student of English Literature. She writes: ‘When I pondered long and hard on what to write about, it suddenly occurred to me — Bai. Although her memory lingers on forever, I know little about this lady primarily because she was bedridden and her memory failed her before I was born. The story is purely about what I think she would say to me, what she would narrate. Bai isn't my grandmother; she is my grand-aunt. But I wish to remember her as my grandmother. She had no children but her huge arms bore testimony to the myriad of meals she had cooked to feed the whole ménage of the Antão family. The story is written in a simple manner, the way I think Bai would narrate stories. Her love lives on in us. The memories I could not create with her at nine years of age, I fabricate in this short story, for memories are a privilege not many have.’ SOURCE: All Those Tales, edited by Nellie Velho Pereira and Frederick Noronha.
