“Are you from the south?” the old lady asked me. I was waiting for the bus to the University. The lady too was there for the same reason. I had seen her previously during my daily commuting in morning hours. During that period there used to ply only one bus towards the University from our locality. So it was quite common to see every day those same faces, who would commute to their places of work using the city bus. Other days, I used to board from a different stand, a little ahead of the place, where I was waiting then. Every morning I used to be in the bus earlier than the old lady, and would see her getting inside with the help of a young man. In that morning also, the same person came with her. He appeared to be in his late twenties - a little short and bulky, wearing a baseball cap, a loose tee-shirt and knee long shorts. He had been pulling a bag with wheels over the cemented surface of the side walk, and after reaching the spot kept it on a side. Though we were co-passengers of the same bus in every morning, we had not talked previously. The old lady used to take a seat just behind the driver’s place. I preferred to keep myself aloof at some corner of the bus. But that morning, the moment she saw me, she came forward, and dragged me into the conversation.
She could be in her seventies. Like the young man, who came with her, she was also short and bulky. However, unlike him her complexion was brown. She had a hat on her head, and dressed herself by putting on something similar to an apron which almost touched the ground covering her feet, and on top of it she wore a sweater. She had been walking slowly with the help of a stick, and drawing heavy breath at every step. In fact after reaching the spot, she took some time to regain her strength and breathe normally. Then she turned her attention to me.
“No. I am from India,” I replied curtly.
“Oh! Indian! Oh yes! You also look like an Indian. My son-in-law is also an Indian.” Though she was speaking English fluently, from her accent I could sense that it was not her native language.
“Are you an American?”
“No! No! Mexican,” was her immediate reaction. After a while she explained, “But you can take me also an American. After all I am living here for so long.” She paused a little and then continued, “My grand son and grand daughter are Indian. Well, they are American too!” Once again she stumbled at her own narrative riddles of nationalities, but kept on talking, “My grand son’s name is ‘Satya’, and grand daughter is ‘Aruna’ - Aruna Ortega. I am Pentis Ortega. We are Mexican. When my daughter was only nineteen, she met my son-in-law. She was going then to the University. There my son-in-law was teaching Maths. You Indians are very good at Maths! And also with Computer! Like a ticking clock, you are fond of fingering ‘tick’ ‘tick’!” She laughed while making those sounds, “My grand son – a kid of fourteen – the same he is! All the time ticking with a computer! My son-in-law fell for my daughter the moment he saw her. He asked her so many questions. Where did she live, what her parents did? A lot many, hundreds of questions! One day, he came straight to our house and proposed to marry her. Now he has grown a long beard. Everyone calls him Guru. Says ‘Namaste’ (a gesture for showing respect to a stranger) by raising and folding palms.”
“Where does his family live in India?” I asked her.
Instead of uttering a name of a place or a state of India, she took me in a short mental trip over a hypothetical map of India. She pointed her stick in the direction of the bag kept on the side walk and said, “Suppose that is Madras. You arrive at Madras, and then..” she drew the stick towards North (It appeared to me so!), and brought it to rest at some point on the cemented floor with a firm conviction, “here – this is the place, where my son-in-law’s family stays.”
“In which language do they speak?”
“Telugu. Their children can also speak that language.”
“Where does your son-in-law live now?”
She told a name of a near by place. There her son-in-law was teaching Mathematics in a college. Previously they had spent four years in India. After a brief stay, they came back to America, and settled there for ever. While this conversation was going on, the city bus arrived at the stand, and its door was flung open for our entry. So far, the young man, the companion of the old lady, was standing there without uttering a single word. I was also not sure whether he was listening to our conversation. The moment he saw the bus, he became active. He kept the bag on the foot-stand of its front door. The bus-driver on his own came forward, took the bag inside, and kept it on a platform just behind his seat. The old lady also followed him carefully with her sticks and heavy steps. She put two quarters in the vending machine, and took the ticket from it. Then she occupied the seat just behind the driver. I had to take the next seat beside her, as it was empty. The driver then closed the door, and the bus started moving forward. The young man, who helped the old lady boarding, waved his hands, and remained standing there looking at us through the window screen.
The driver’s name was written in the front of his seat – “Yerni”. He was an old acquaintance of the lady. No sooner she took the seat, she started conversing with him. After exhausting all the details to be known, since they last met, she again turned her attention towards me and asked.
“What are you doing here? Did you come here to study? A PhD student?”
“No. I am a visitor. Not much of a work. I came here for two months.”
“Only for two months!” she appeared to be disappointed.
“But, to me it sounds pretty long!”
“Oh! Are you home sick? Where do you live in India?”
“In its eastern part. Near Calcutta.”
“Oh, Kalkutta! The famous Kalkutta! I heard its name. It must be a big city.” She exclaimed. After a while, she again asked me, “What do you do there?”
“Teach.”
“Mathematics? Computer?”
What an intelligent guess! I had to nod my head in agreement. She gave a smile of victory, and said, “I knew it! You Indians do all the time Maths and Computers. Always ticking before the dumb screen. Satya Raju, my grand son, he does not want to leave his Maths book. You know Yerni, my grand son and grand daughter also went to junior schools in India. They spent four years there. Everyone in India took them as foreigners.”
The driver commented, “As Mexicans are treated here.”
I asker her, “Did you ever travel to India?”
She replied, “No. I never went there. But, my mother went once for attending my daughter’s marriage.”
“Was the ceremony held here?”
“No! No! It was in India. In my son-in-law’s village.” She continued, “The members of his family took great care of her. But they were strange. They would not allow my mother to touch anything. If she wanted to carry her luggage, they would say, “No! No! No!” If she wanted to get a spoon on her own, the women in their house would run towards her and cry out nervously, “No! No! No!” They would not let her touch their utensils. Nor permit her to enter the kitchen. My mother got very upset and angry too. My daughter consoled her, “GrandMa! You are their guest. That’s why they do not want to give you any trouble.” It was both a shock and a surprise to her!”
She took a pause and then told Yerni, “You know, Yerni! In India they do not use tables and chairs for dining. They would sit on a floor to take their food.”
He asked, “How did you know?”
“I saw the photographs. My mother was quite fatty and heavy. It was hard for her to sit. It was funny for them too to see her trying to put herself on the floor! Then, everything for us was kept separately, from utensils to bed sheets. Even if you ask for water, they would serve it with a small spoon, and pour it into your glass a number of times, as long as it gets filled up, or you asked them to stop. It was so strange!”
Yerni replied, “In India, they have cast systems. They will not allow you to touch anything, if you are an outsider.”
“Oh God!” The old woman could not suppress her disappointment.
Yerni told her, “Pentis! You could have visited India. There are so many sages and hermits in India. They know many tricks and magic. They could have treated your diabetes and arthritis.”
“Is it?” she asked me.
I said, “Not at all! In India there are also many patients like you. I have not seen anyone getting cured out of those exercises.”
“Look at my legs.” She showed me her legs which were covered under her apron. They were badly swollen, and wound up with clothes and cottons. “It is so painful. Wuh..Wuh..Wuh!” She made a groaning sound to make us feel for her sorrows and sufferings, “I have arthritis from my childhood. It’s so painful. Especially if it rains, it almost kills me!”
I asked her, “Were you born here?”
“No. No. I was in Mexico. I studied also there. Of course my father and uncle lived here. It is quite easy to go to Mexico. From here Texas is about three hours’ drive. From there you can easily cross the border.” Then she pointed her finger to Yerni and said, “Take this boy, Yerni! He is also a Mexican boy. But he would never marry an American girl? What do you say Yerni?”
Yerni answered, “Don’t listen to her.”
She objected, “No, No I am speaking the truth. These Mexican boys would go to Mexico for searching their wives. My brother once went there for a week. From there one day she rang my grandmother saying, “Grandma! I am married now! I am bringing my wife to your place.” See, how professional he was! It took only one week to finish his business.”
“How do their wives come here so quickly? Do they get Visas so soon?”
“Visa? Are you crazy? They just come and stay here with their husbands. It would take around four to five years to get a legal paper. But if you have a child born here, you may accelerate the process. By birth the child becomes an American citizen. So the mother also gets a preference.”
In the mean time, our bus reached the University stop. So we got down. She was helped by Yerni, who dropped his bag on the pavement. I asked her, “What do you do here?”
She told me, “I work in the Library. Professors here put forward their requests to me to get different books and journals. I make a list of them and buy those books in the Library. Sometimes, I help them to search a book from the catalog.” She gave a little pause, and then said in a melancholy tone, “My son also came to this university to study. But he could not withstand the pressure. He lost his mental balance, and could not recover from the depression. You have seen him; the man who came to see me off in the bus stand, he is my boy. He has also crossed forty now. For him only, I have to work, even at this old age. Otherwise who would look after him?” Then she suddenly changed her topic not giving me any chance to say any word of sympathy to her, “Anyway! It’s nice to meet you. You must be taking the road by the side of the administrative building. I watched you other days walking in that direction. I will walk diagonally across the field. Come and visit me, when you are free. Have a good day!” I also wished her good day. She took leave from me, and moved forward dragging her feet with the help of the stick. She was also pulling her wheeled bag. She had to carry it on her own in this part of her lonely journey.
18/01/2012
