The Spell of the Flying Foxes by Sylvia Dyer

Author:Sylvia Dyer [Dyer, Sylvia]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9788184755794
Publisher: Penguin Books Ltd
Published: 2011-12-30T00:00:00+00:00

A Grave Tale

‘Ghoogni?’ Reggie grinned. ‘But the peas! Where are the tenderest, greenest peas?’

‘Come quickly, Man. Let’s find the peas.’ We raced him to the vegetable garden, where he showed us how to choose the tenderest green pods.

‘See here,’ he explained, ‘they should look and feel like this. Listen, squeak squeak. Yes! Now, toss these in your mouths and see how tender and sweet they are! English! Missbaba ordered them from Sattan [Suttons].’

We picked out the green pods, rubbing them together to make them squeak, filling our pockets and the lower reaches of Man’s dhoti, while Chumra walked among the upright rows, taking a nip here and there to be in tune with us. His upper lip curled in an arc as he delicately snapped open each pod to get at the tender, fat peas which he grew to like, for our sakes. As he looked up chummily at me, I caught his loose jowls, pulling the skin as far as it would stretch, and planted a loud smack on each hairy cheek: ‘Chumra, you mad dog, I love you!’

He looked up at me, and his eyes said the same thing back. He had grown accustomed to my madness by now. Man stood grinning, with a dhoti-full of green peas. A choola was hurriedly constructed under the laburnum tree, with a few stray bricks, as we sat shelling them. It was all presided over by Reggie with just the right touch of winding up for us. He derived a secret delight from observing us in action. In fact he was studying us, like a pair of rare and freaky life forms under a microscope—a pleasure he hid behind a poker face.

‘Oh the world’s best peas! Quick quick, the mustard oil.’

The mustard oil was heated up, with a good bit of coughing and sneezing in its vicinity. And then, after its fierce pungency was spent in the air, dried red chillies were tossed in, followed by chopped onions and the succulent green peas, stirred vigorously while eyes and mouths watered and the peas popped in the pan and flew about.

‘Can we stir too?’

‘Here, take the spoon, but no stopping.’

We sat eating the ghoogni with bread that Foster brought, hot from the oven, while Horsey looked on with a frown that seemed to say, ‘What is this green nonsense?’ We gave him a spoonful to clear up his doubts. He thought it was OK even for dogs!

The sun was setting and the cacophony of the evening bazaar came pleasantly muffled, over the air.

It was time for the birds and animals to come home. And here was Ramgolam, the syce, walking the horses back to the stables, with Queenie, a beautiful snow-white mare, in the lead.

‘Just look at her!’ Reggie cried. ‘Ay Ramgolam, did you ever see a whiter horse?’

He was an old man, and the eyes in his wrinkled face narrowed as his thoughts moved slowly back to the distant past.

‘Oh yes.’ He sighed. ‘I remember it well, Suno Starram. Its whiteness was dazzling, like the snow peaks in the Himalaya when they catch the sun.

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