Long ago afternoons.

Janu ammooma lived in a tiny thatched house, across the boundary of our premises at my amma's house. There was a long stretch of kaitha (screw pine) shrubs growing high, leading straight to Janu ammooma's house. On the left adjacent to it was my granma's vegetable patch, flourishing in gourds of atleast four types ( bitter, ash, bottle, snake) pumpkins, lady fingers and yam. Every day in the afternoon, after everyone had had their lunch and cleared the utensils and cleaned the kitchen, a blanket of silence would settle over our house. The elders of the house would go for a siesta. This was when I would sneak out and run to Janu ammooma's house.

It had all of one room, a tiny kitchen and a sit out. Janu amooma would be in the sit-out, hunched over making mats out of kaitha leaves, the sound of her knife shearing through the leaves at intervals. I would quietly sit on the tiny steps and watch her weave the long strips of leaves in and out, making a pattern of it. Once she noticed my presence, she would flash her betel chewing red smile at me and barrage me with questions. Enthralled by her weaving I would answer in hmm's and ha's. She didnt seem to mind as long as she talked.

She would tell me stories of earlier times, when the skies had rained fire-balls and scorched all the coconut trees in the land, when the winds had lashed storms destroying every crop, when famine had struck and there was never enough food for anyone. She and her children survived on one meal a day. Her eyes would go moist when she spoke about my grandmother who loaned her a part of the vegetable patch so that she could grow her own vegetables and for the mug of rice gruel every morning.

Her eyes would dance when she talked about her daughters in Madirashi and her chubby grandson. Every time she would color my world with new stories.

After about an hour or so my apetite for stories somehow satiated for the time-being, I would run back the long stretch of kaitha bushes, sometimes jump through them to make up for lost time and rush to my room and pretend to sleep, smiling inwardly, happy with what I had gathered for the day. Somewhere along the way I'd learnt to weave too , couldnt hold on to the talent though.

Amma called to say vadakele Janu ammooma passed away two days back.