*Friday Feature* | Heaven Lies About Us
By Asha Unni
Welcome to the Friday Feature where I showcase another author’s excavation story and a bit of the “story behind the story.” This week I feature a piece by Asha Unni. Enjoy.
Heaven Lies About Us
by Asha Unni
Eternity was at my doorstep before I grew up and became entangled in the world.
*
Eternity is not foreverness; it is nowness, outside of time.
*
The house was quiet, with a quiet that seemed to make time stand still. Not soundless, yet silent. From the kitchen where the grandmother was cooking, various noises drifted in. The clinking of utensils, the scrubbing of pots, the drip-drip of water into the sink, the bubbling of something on the stove, and the soft whistling of steam escaping from a pressure cooker, enhanced the sheltered tranquility.
In the dining room, a child of three sat on the floor surrounded by toys. Mini teacups with accompanying saucers, a tiny stove, miniature pots and pans, and blocks of bright red, deep blue, forest green, and sunlight yellow.
A doll with matted brown hair and a yellow polka dot dress lay to one side. The child was absorbed in pouring tea to imaginary friends.
A round black and white clock on the wall showed twenty minutes to eleven, and on the dining table lay a casserole of idlis and a pot of coconut chutney, remnants of breakfast. Outside, the sun shone abundantly, while a light breeze caused the coconut palms to cast dancing shadows on the grounds.
Presently, the girl got up. Dragging the doll with one hand, she ran into the kitchen.
"Ammumma, Ammumma, I want Kalkandam," she said, tugging at her grandmother's white mundu, stained with curry and soot from the coal stove.
"One moment, dear," said the grandmother, concentrating on lifting the large pot of rice with a lid and tilting it onto another pot at an angle to drain the water, a delicate balancing act. She was a portly lady with pillows of softness around her, where a child could cozy up.
The sugar candy was kept in the dining room cupboard, out of reach for the child, and almost too high for the grandmother, who was barely five feet tall. She stood on tiptoes to reach for the candy, exposing parts of her round belly between her mundu and neriyatha, an area that was exceedingly ticklish, and which the child often took pleasure in pretending to approach.
Candy in mouth, the child skipped outside, standing entranced for an instant by the glorious sun and dancing shadows. She gathered coconut shells from a heap where they lay discarded after the extraction of the meat and water. She moved to a corner under the shade of a palm and to begin piling mud. From time to time, she ran to get water in a plastic mug from a tap on the side of the house.
The girl mixed mud with water, tamping the mixture tightly into the coconut shells and then inverting the half shell onto the ground to create mud pies. So engrossed was she in this task that it took a while before the distant cries of the fish-seller penetrated her consciousness.
Just as the girl registered the cries, the grandmother came out with slow, shuffling steps, a basket at her hip. She also had heard the fish seller's cries: "Aila, Aila, Chemmeen, Avoli..."
The seller sang in a tune that started loud and petered out, then started again. Before long, grandmother and girl stood just outside the iron gate in front of the yard, one wing of it slightly open.
Behind the vendor's bicycle, dead-eyed fish were piled in a mound. The girl wrinkled her nose at the smell, hanging back and burying her face in her grandmother's mundu.
“Enda mole, varathu meen vende?” the seller asked, with an amused chuckle. “Child, don’t you want fried fish?” The girl didn’t respond but shook her head emphatically, indicating no.
No sooner than the moment the fish seller departed, and the grandmother had taken the basket of fish she had purchased into the house, a bicycle bell rang loudly, accompanied by cries of "cheera, cheera, pacha karri, nalla pacha karri." It was the vegetable seller hawking his wares of spinach and other fresh vegetables.
“Ammumma,” the girl shouted, “the vegetable seller has arrived.” The girl stood outside the gate, speaking to the vegetable seller, who smiled and humored her.
“So, what does Kochu Molu want today? Vendakka, Cheera, or Muringakkaya?” said the vendor. “Call your grandmother.”
“Ammumma!” shouted the girl impatiently.
Once again, the grandmother came out in her slow, unhurried fashion.
After carefully selecting the vegetables and bargaining with the vendor, the grandmother paid the man, and they walked back inside.
The girl was suddenly tired and thirsty. All she wanted to do was drink water and lie down, but the grandmother insisted on her eating lunch first. She began to fuss, saying she was not hungry. The grandmother mixed rice with ghee, an okra dish, and a little sambar. She continued making little balls with the mixture, gently persuading the girl to eat by promising her a story if she did.
After lunch, the two lay down for the promised story and nap. The girl snuggled up to her grandmother, the afternoon sun bright outside, the ceiling fan turning a breeze inside. The grandmother's voice carried her slowly to forests and kingdoms, princesses and kings. Occasionally, it lapsed into a gentle snore, from which the girl prodded the grandmother awake, demanding she finish the tale. Forgetting the thread once nudged awake, the grandmother would make up tales as she went along, but the girl kept track, reminding her of where she left off.
Eventually, the girl herself drifted off into sleep. Momentarily, the grandmother got up to eat her lunch, after which she sat on the couch, glasses on, reading the day's newspaper cover to cover.
Once more, a deep silence settled on the house.
The only sounds were the breeze rustling the palms outside, the fan whirring inside, and the occasional, distant caw of a crow.
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Idli - a savory steamed cake that originated in South India. It's made from fermented rice and black lentils.
Ammumma - grandmother (mother’s mother)
mundu and neriyatha - a traditional two-piece garment worn by women in Kerala, consisting of a lower garment (mundu) and an upper garment (neriyathu)
Cheera - spinach
Pacha kari - fresh vegetables
Vendakya - okra
Muringyakaya - drumstick
Nalla - good
Author’s note from behind-the-scenes: With this piece, I wanted to capture the sense of tranquility and security that I experienced in my early childhood with my grandmother. Even now, when I meditate or seek to drop into Presence, revisiting that memory is the easiest way to get out of my head. My goal was to convey a feeling of timelessness and beauty in that childhood state, a sort of unsullied innocent, and precious personhood.
About the Author
Asha Unni, originally from Kerala, India, is a long-time resident of New York City and currently lives in New Jersey with her son. She serves as the Library Services Manager at the main circulating branch of the New York Public Library. With a background in Indian classical music and dance, Asha enjoys group singing, theater, dance, and writing.
Thank you, Asha!
Reader: If you’re interested in submitting a piece for a future Friday Feature, please email me: kim@openbookco.com.
Upcoming (free) virtual workshop.
When: Friday, March 28th at 10am ET
What: Rest & Writing: A Yoga Nidra Practice with Oneika Mays (and hosted by me).
Why: We'll delve into the value of rest, exploring its impact on both our bodies and the creative process.
Who: All are welcome.
Where: On Zoom. Register here.
This is such a wonderful story, so beautifully evocative. I loved reading it!