Meena sat in the corner, invisible to the guests flooding into her living room. They walked straight to her younger brother, Walter, to give their condolence to him and his family who were trying hard to look mournful. The children stood quietly beside their British mother who rubbed the rim of her eyes every now and then to make elegant tears flow. But Meena did not judge them for this. How could she? One cannot be expected to shed real tears at the death of someone they had not seen for twenty-five years, could they? Even if it was one’s, own mother.
Meena tried hard not to look at the coffin in which her century-old mother had been placed early this morning. She had sat with her mother’s corpse the entire night, contemplating what she would do with her life now. With her mother, her sole purpose in life had also passed away. Bed-ridden for five years and ill for several years before, everyone had been surprised when Meena had arranged for a humble party at her mother’s hundredth birthday, less than a month ago. Everyone had congratulated, Irene - ‘Mamma’ to everyone in the neighbourhood - for living to the great hundred. But no one had congratulated Meena for having cared for her ailing mother for almost as long.
“You can stay here, Bai. We will keep sending money to you,” Walter had announced, loud enough to make some of the guests aware of his generosity. Only Meena knew that this was a small investment in return for a quarter acre of land that he would acquire after her death. But she did not resent her brother. She had chosen this life herself, the life of a spinster for the sake of her mother. In her mother, Meena had found her family and that had been enough.
At first, before Meena’s mother had to be bound to a wheelchair, she had been a good partner. The duo together had created a garden, planting coconut, jackfruit, mango, custard apple, chikku, and papaya trees among many others. There were also banana plantations and over a dozen vegetables in the backyard. Rows of jasmine, rose, chrysanthemums, periwinkles, and marigolds lined the front of the house. Away from the hustle of the main road, Meena’s house was nestled in the soothing womb of mother nature. Irene had taught Meena how to lead a sustainable life. The income generated from the garden yield along with the milk from the two cows they owned and the eggs from their hens had been enough for them to live comfortably.
After the near-fatal fall that bound Irene to a wheelchair, Meena learned to manage everything on her own with guidance from her mother. Years passed and one day Irene was bedridden. With growing age and unable to afford help, Meena gave away the cows and the garden slowly turned into wilderness. Helpless, she turned to her brother Walter who agreed to pay for his mother’s medical and general expenses. An unspoken deal was sealed that after Irene’s death, Walter would own the house.
As the coffin was lifted from the ground and taken out of the house towards the cemetery, Meena retired to her room. She could not see her mother being lowered to the ground. She did not want that to be her mother’s last image in her mind. Instead, she sat down on her bed and placed her mother’s photograph next to the cross on her nightstand. She prayed to the Son of God to remind her mother to laugh again as she did in the photograph, as she had not in several years.
Walter and his family left for England three days later. On the fourth day, Meena woke up to the sound of two stray dogs fighting on the street outside her compound. She walked outside holding a long wooden stick and saw two strays had cornered a pup. She yelled and banged the stick on the gate. The dogs scrammed in fear while the pup escaped into the no man’s land next to the church compound with its tail between its legs.
Walking back into the house, she glanced at the neglected flower beds and the papaya tree that had dropped all its flowers. Meena did not have the energy or the will to work on the garden. What was the point of spending her final years toiling in the garden or taking care of the house which would be sold to a stranger and probably demolished within weeks of her death? Would the Builder, who had offered Walter two flats from the forty he planned to build on her land, care for the delicate gherkin vines or the sweet fragrance of the jasmines or the half a century old coconut trees that had never failed to produce enough despite her neglect?
A loud grumble from her stomach reminded Meena that she had not eaten anything since the previous day’s lunch that a neighbor had provided her obeying the Church Padre’s words. After the funeral ceremony at the Church, the Padre had called some of Meena’s neighbors to one side and requested them to take turns and provide meals to Meena while she mourned her mother’s loss.
On the first day, the meals were hot, and fresh and delivered to her just before meal time. She had accepted them gratefully and had shared her garden produce with the neighbors in exchange. On the second day, the meals arrived late, probably leftovers after everyone had eaten but Meena did not mind it. On the third day, there was no breakfast and lunch came at sunset – fish curry with no fish and slightly stale red rice. Meena however did not complain. To her, there was nothing called Bad Food, having had her share of sleepless nights on account of a growling stomach during her childhood.
But Meena was relieved when no one brought dinner to her doorstep last night. It meant she could finally accept that she was alone and plan on how to take care of herself. It would certainly be easier not having to take care of her delicate, ailing mother but now there would be no routine. Routine and discipline were what had kept her mother thriving well over eighty and routine was what would keep Meena sane. But did she really want to live that long? Who would take care of her if she ended up in a wheelchair?
That day, Meena tried to make a quick breakfast of Upma but could not eat more than a few spoons. From the kitchen window, she spotted the brown puppy she had rescued, tip-toeing into her compound, and decided to give the rest to it. To her surprise, the young one – not more than three months old – gobbled up everything and licked her feet gratefully. Meena scrunched her nose and withdrew her feet. She was not a fan of animals, especially needy ones like a dog. She had partly been relieved when she had to give away the cows and chickens a few years ago. She also did not have the energy or will to keep a pet. What was the point? It would start as a pet, then a friend and a companion, slowly become a dear child and one day grow old and pass away in front of her eyes leaving her alone once again. Meena did not have the strength for that.
Meena did not cook for the rest of the day and survived on fruits. The next day she went to the bank and took out some money from her savings. After a thorough calculation, Meena realized she had a little over three hundred to spend on breakfast and meals every day. If she stayed within this budget she would survive the month at the end of which Walter would send her money for the coming month. There was no need to live frugally and save her brother’s money. He had enough and she had no one to pass it on to. So Meena took inventory of the kitchen, gave away most of the groceries, and decided to never cook again. She would live like a queen, spend her brother’s money, and pass away peacefully knowing she had tried her best to spend her share of the ancestral property.
So now, Meena had a routine. Three times a day, she walked a kilometre from her house to Bhat’s Canteen which was first started as a part of a well-known Nursing Home and was now equally famous for its service to those who could not afford to spend a lot. If you walked past Bhat’s Nursing Home in the morning, you would be surprised to see dozens of people walk into the hospital compound but not into the building. Instead, the majority of them took a left turn and walked to the little shop enchanted by the sweet aroma of buns, puris, and filter coffee.
After breakfast, Meena made pit stops randomly at one of the houses in the neighbourhood for a quick chat. With practice, she found ways to keep herself entertained by drawing juicy gossip out of people. Slowly she used pieces of information she had accidentally become privy to, to bring out more gossip from others. Before she knew it, Meena had become the reason for estranged relations between neighbours and had earned the title of BBC. People scrammed from her path for fear of sharing something that would lead to trouble. Children pointed and giggled in her direction having heard parents say mean things about the allegedly insane old woman. But it did not bother Meena. She loved the attention.
Three years passed and Meena had become an outcast. People blamed her uncontrollable tongue and questioned her mind’s stability. Many reached out to her brother requesting him to admit Meena to an old-age home or mental asylum. But Walter did not agree, for either would cost him a lot more than the meagre amount he sent her every month.
At seventy-three, frail and weak, Meena longed for companionship. She missed her mother dearly and regretted not getting married or adopting a child when she had the opportunity. She spent most of her day alone in the vast land, now too big for her aching legs. Except for the brown puppy – now a full-grown dog – that had made her garden his home. A schoolboy, John from the neighbourhood had taught the dog a few tricks and named it Poppy.
Meena sometimes put out scraps, biscuits, and her half-eaten lunch for Poppy but was careful not to get attached to it. She never addressed it by its name. Poppy, however, refused to leave the compound and sat guard at the gate every night. Meena did not shoo away the dog because the neighbours had recently reported several incidents of robbery in the area. The dog was of average build and soft-natured but with a bark loud enough to wake up the entire neighbourhood. Knowing it was there helped Meena sleep better but she refused to admit it even to herself.
Meena wished for human companionship. Someone whom she could talk to, and share her pain and feelings with, not a voiceless animal whose response to everything she said was licks and wags. So on her seventy-third birthday, Meena tried to rebuild her relationship with her neighbours. She skipped lunch for a few days and used the money to hire a man who plucked the ripe mangoes and jackfruits from her garden. She then packed them in paper bags and each day walked to one house in the neighbourhood, gave them the fruits, and tried to make amends. While some refused to open their doors, others were polite enough to share a few pleasantries before closing the door in her face, not before accepting her peace offering. Some gave her money in exchange but refused to sit with her for a chat. Eventually, she decided to give up the pursuit of companionship and save herself the humiliation.
As days passed Meena turned bitter and grumpy. She walked grudgingly, angry at her aching calves and the lack of sympathy from people. Then one evening, Meena’s biggest fear came alive when the throbbing pain from the angry blue veins on her feet became unbearable, and before she could call for help the varicose veins burst, pulling her into complete darkness.
The next morning, Meena woke up in a hospital bed, dull throbbing in her leg and needles poking into her wrist. A kind nurse, Meena recognized from the church, explained to her that John heard Poppy’s agonized cry and called for help when Meena did not answer the door after several calls. John’s father broke the door down and rushed Meena to the hospital. Poppy had saved her life in exchange for her half-eaten meals and half-baked affection. Meena let out a weak laugh realizing her true companion had been by her side all this time while she begged for companionship from strangers.
Today Meena walks to the Bhat’s canteen and back home every day with a smile on her face and a leash in her wizened hand. Poppy walks slowly in front of her, matching her pace and occasionally stopping to let her catch her breath. They sit at the outdoor table of the canteen, savouring the delicacies and basking in the morning sun. On weekends, Meena takes Poppy to the park where children pour their affection on the well-behaved Pupper and Poppy laps it all up greedily. Sometimes John joins them and shares stories about his school friends and bullies. Meena learns that like her, John too is lonely, a motherless child left in the care of a good yet stern father who works round the clock to make ends meet. Meena, Poppy, and John make an unusual albeit happy group whose friendship the ordinary folks of the town fail to understand.
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