Read Online Island of a Thousand Mirrors by Nayomi Munaweera - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Nayomi Munaweera
Ads: Link
dress, she opened the gate. The woman
pushed the child forward and turned away to disappear. Our aunt was left with this
malnourished, dirty little thing. In the bathroom scrubbing the child, she found bruises
and lacerations everywhere, had to try hard not to break down and cry in front of
the girl. Now Poornam sleeps on a pallet outside my aunt’s bedroom. She wears dresses
that Mala Aunty sews just for her on the machine. Every fortnight, her father comes
to spew filth in Tamil at my aunt’s gate. When Poornam hears his voice, she hides
under the kitchen table rocking and holding her head. He screams outside the gate
that our aunt is a bitch in heat, that she has stolen his child, that she conjures
evil spirits and black magic. His breath is fiery with the local toddy. It is not
until Mala has passed over an envelope of rupees that he leaves and Mala is able to
extract the child from beneath the table, hold her while she convulses in silent terror.
But these days Poornam is our merry playmate. She shows us the varied delights of
the garden that she and Mala Aunty have made blossom. At the back wall, a row of coconut
palms waits to be plucked and in honor of our visit, Mala sends for the coconut plucker,
Alwis. Alwis is taut, composed of skin stretched over long bones He smiles and flashes
enormous gaps, bloodred betel-flavored spittle. He gathers up his sarong around stick-thin
legs, wraps his limbs around the tree trunks, hauls himself up as quick as a monkey
to send coconuts, heavy as bricks, bouncing on the lawn. His voice floats above our
heads, suspended in the midday light. “Careful, Baby Nona! Only one of these will
crush your head. Pattasssss! Like a smashed frog on the road. Then it won’t be Baby
cracking coconuts. It will be coconuts cracking Baby!” Laughter echoes as he slides
down the rough trunk. Earthbound, he grasps a coconut in one hand, smashes down with
the machete. A spume of liquid arcs skyward.
We drink sweet, fresh coconut water, cool as well water. Afterward, he hacks the coconuts
open, fashions small spoons of husk so that we can scoop out the inner flesh, gelatinous
as egg white, creamy as ice cream.
Alwis lives in the shanty colony behind our aunt’s house. Sometimes leaving her house,
we see him bathing at the single tap that spouts beside her front gate, his dark body
glistening wet in the sunshine. Fingers deep in the snow white foam on his head, he
gyrates precise parts of himself under the tap and waves a sudsy hand in our direction.
* * *
Lying in our shared childhood bed, I am awakened by the dawn that comes suddenly bursting
into our room. A curl of her hair lies against my shoulder as if claiming me while
she lay unconscious. La wakes, pushes me out of bed with her long curved toes, a finger
to her lips. We tiptoe outside to find Shiva. Together we wait for the fisherman who
comes bearing overflowing baskets suspended from the long pole across his shoulder.
His resonating cry, “Maalu, maalu, maaluuuuu!” summons Alice, nudging away the cats
with her slippered feet. The fisherman sinks onto his heels, his sarong pulled up
to reveal thighs like dark muscled wood. He pulls aside banana leaves, displays the
day’s catch, silver sea creatures, small bundles of fat-armed squid, live crabs, with
pincers raised in defense. Alice decides quickly and the fishmonger shakes his head
in admiration. “Alice Nona always knows how to pick the freshest catch.” There is
a brief bargaining war, then our dinner is wrapped up in newspaper. We carry these
bundles into the house like treasure. If Alice is in a benevolent mood, she will let
us help her prepare the fish or crab curry, if not she will tell us stories as she
does it herself. Either way these are magic mornings.
* * *
Rumor has always been the most trusted purveyor of news. Now the trade winds bring
strange tales southward.
pushed the child forward and turned away to disappear. Our aunt was left with this
malnourished, dirty little thing. In the bathroom scrubbing the child, she found bruises
and lacerations everywhere, had to try hard not to break down and cry in front of
the girl. Now Poornam sleeps on a pallet outside my aunt’s bedroom. She wears dresses
that Mala Aunty sews just for her on the machine. Every fortnight, her father comes
to spew filth in Tamil at my aunt’s gate. When Poornam hears his voice, she hides
under the kitchen table rocking and holding her head. He screams outside the gate
that our aunt is a bitch in heat, that she has stolen his child, that she conjures
evil spirits and black magic. His breath is fiery with the local toddy. It is not
until Mala has passed over an envelope of rupees that he leaves and Mala is able to
extract the child from beneath the table, hold her while she convulses in silent terror.
But these days Poornam is our merry playmate. She shows us the varied delights of
the garden that she and Mala Aunty have made blossom. At the back wall, a row of coconut
palms waits to be plucked and in honor of our visit, Mala sends for the coconut plucker,
Alwis. Alwis is taut, composed of skin stretched over long bones He smiles and flashes
enormous gaps, bloodred betel-flavored spittle. He gathers up his sarong around stick-thin
legs, wraps his limbs around the tree trunks, hauls himself up as quick as a monkey
to send coconuts, heavy as bricks, bouncing on the lawn. His voice floats above our
heads, suspended in the midday light. “Careful, Baby Nona! Only one of these will
crush your head. Pattasssss! Like a smashed frog on the road. Then it won’t be Baby
cracking coconuts. It will be coconuts cracking Baby!” Laughter echoes as he slides
down the rough trunk. Earthbound, he grasps a coconut in one hand, smashes down with
the machete. A spume of liquid arcs skyward.
We drink sweet, fresh coconut water, cool as well water. Afterward, he hacks the coconuts
open, fashions small spoons of husk so that we can scoop out the inner flesh, gelatinous
as egg white, creamy as ice cream.
Alwis lives in the shanty colony behind our aunt’s house. Sometimes leaving her house,
we see him bathing at the single tap that spouts beside her front gate, his dark body
glistening wet in the sunshine. Fingers deep in the snow white foam on his head, he
gyrates precise parts of himself under the tap and waves a sudsy hand in our direction.
* * *
Lying in our shared childhood bed, I am awakened by the dawn that comes suddenly bursting
into our room. A curl of her hair lies against my shoulder as if claiming me while
she lay unconscious. La wakes, pushes me out of bed with her long curved toes, a finger
to her lips. We tiptoe outside to find Shiva. Together we wait for the fisherman who
comes bearing overflowing baskets suspended from the long pole across his shoulder.
His resonating cry, “Maalu, maalu, maaluuuuu!” summons Alice, nudging away the cats
with her slippered feet. The fisherman sinks onto his heels, his sarong pulled up
to reveal thighs like dark muscled wood. He pulls aside banana leaves, displays the
day’s catch, silver sea creatures, small bundles of fat-armed squid, live crabs, with
pincers raised in defense. Alice decides quickly and the fishmonger shakes his head
in admiration. “Alice Nona always knows how to pick the freshest catch.” There is
a brief bargaining war, then our dinner is wrapped up in newspaper. We carry these
bundles into the house like treasure. If Alice is in a benevolent mood, she will let
us help her prepare the fish or crab curry, if not she will tell us stories as she
does it herself. Either way these are magic mornings.
* * *
Rumor has always been the most trusted purveyor of news. Now the trade winds bring
strange tales southward.
Similar Books
