Thulo Deema (Big Granny)
I would snuggle on her warm tall and lanky torso and put my arm around her waist. She would put me securely and scare me of Toksongbaa (notorious ghost) at the peep window. My heart would pound faster and jump out of my ribs......would talk to her in soft and meek voice and promise her to be a good boy. Without realizing I would fall asleep. She would pull Kasmari blanket over me and put her head on mustard pillow. A tall, strong and typical Rainee woman she was, with cup-seat size golden ear jewelries dangling hallways through and silver bangles almost like shackles. Her Nepali style scissor skirt of finest Malmal cotton up to the ankle secured by a yard of cloth belt.......typically white where she pegged her purse, keys and dried betel halves. She would wear Resam, the finest silk Choli, a midriff tugging blouse, cleverly fitting her upper torso. It would always bear two pockets, sexily hidden up to the fringe, tailored by Thatal Kancha, the infamous tailor who sat at his Singar and foot peddled his machine twentyfourseven-threesixfive, the sound of his tailoring machine gently piercing through the spool of reel and scissors searing the design would be heard from the footpath that ran from his flower garden. I would rush to his bamboo split water tap and drink till I burp my thirst away. I would body guard my Deema, just every where. She would put her faltering fingers in her choli pocket and fish dried coconuts dices, nuts or cardamom and give to me....I can see her segueing from feeding the birds to tendering the hog, the price possession of our family, or she would be plucking the millet tufts for the coming affairs. That day, I pester her upon giving me the biggest and the longest cucumber on the bamboo mesh, sort of barn. I convinced her that my teacher would be happy with this gift and so she lost her cucumber. I hid this cucumber on my way to school, neatly nested by grass blades and collected my best friends during lunch hour to feast on this salad, only to be dissatisfied to see that my white-lied cucumber was already plundered by my seniors. She would come out with a bamboo container and corns. Sit at the door side and loosen the corn out of its ear..... rows of kernel would fall, she would collect spikes for removing the bird sully or for the hearth. She would ask me to open the coo door and birds would splutter out like gushing beer, beating me with their wings and rushing for the seeds. Deema, would talk to these birds and distribute the seed.....all of them would get their share. The rooster would bully the chick, for which Deema would lash it with long bamboo line. In few minutes, the birds would vanish in the woods, Deema, would murmur in disapproval of these birds toilet habits. Kami kaila, the village black smith and one of the most important personas, would announce his arrival with his signature muttering of some divine songs. He is taken to be important for few expertise he bears under his belt. He is black smith shaping and making tools and cans, he is also a village witch doctor, shaman, if anyone in the village got sick, its his expertise which worked for ages. He is also good at pulling paddy nursery for plantation. Deema, would quickly prepare Waa-tshon (brewery of millet, squeezed and served) and deliver him at the edge of the foyer. The sweet potatoes are baring out of soil and they need to be harvested. She would prepare boiled sweet potatoes for the helpers at woods. She would sing me our Bantawa Songs, "Aaaiyaani kikkmoo.....", ever green romantic melodies of her youth. I would just shift myself and listen to her emotions. She would tell me how she used to go to jungle tendering cattle and fodders. She would talk of tiger and bears, deers and birds that populated her forest. Then she would lift big brass bowl of fermented millet brew and drag her conversation little longer. There is a loud thud at the yard, indication that mama is back from field with a load of firewood. The calves mows little louder and its time to give them water, she rushes out for the service. Deema, told me the stories that enticed me. I would fix my focus singularly and listen to her, word by word as she played the sound intonation, circumstantially. They were so real life that I would quiver and shriek and skew. She continued in dramatic encouragement. She would take out round gilt metal container, with Belgium mirror, with full of tobacco and the assorted and sized wrappers. She would neatly fold the edge of this paper at length and spread tobacco on this grove, roll into a sleek stick, seal the ends with lick and bury herself into the fumes of rustica. I grew up with my Deema, learned the wisdom of our culture and traditions, the way of life and the art of living like Shongbhen. The legends she taught, are but oral transmission of her greatness. She told me of her youthfulness, her man who protected and fed her, she rarely talked of this man, Deewa, but when she did, it was powerful and deep. How this old man of mine, courted her and carried literally downhill to marry her. She never dreamt of and now it feels like a dream itself. She would laugh away and say, my time was different after all. One day I caught pneumonia and got bed ridden for a week. I was in my fourth grade. Every thing would feel different and fever took me totally down. She was broken then, and now I understand what might ran in her life. She must have thought that I would not live to see this day, she would never leave me and constantly gaze at me silently, spread her head scarf to keep flies at bay. When she spoke, she was at the meekest and weakest trying to be courageous. "Boy, nothing would happen to you", I have prayers for you. She would summon all the deities and gods and beg for my life. I do not know if she cried silently, but now I know why her eyes appeared reddish and misty then.....
I would snuggle on her warm tall and lanky torso and put my arm around her waist. She would put me securely and scare me of Toksongbaa (notorious ghost) at the peep window. My heart would pound faster and jump out of my ribs......would talk to her in soft and meek voice and promise her to be a good boy. Without realizing I would fall asleep. She would pull Kasmari blanket over me and put her head on mustard pillow. A tall, strong and typical Rainee woman she was, with cup-seat size golden ear jewelries dangling hallways through and silver bangles almost like shackles. Her Nepali style scissor skirt of finest Malmal cotton up to the ankle secured by a yard of cloth belt.......typically white where she pegged her purse, keys and dried betel halves. She would wear Resam, the finest silk Choli, a midriff tugging blouse, cleverly fitting her upper torso. It would always bear two pockets, sexily hidden up to the fringe, tailored by Thatal Kancha, the infamous tailor who sat at his Singar and foot peddled his machine twentyfourseven-threesixfive, the sound of his tailoring machine gently piercing through the spool of reel and scissors searing the design would be heard from the footpath that ran from his flower garden. I would rush to his bamboo split water tap and drink till I burp my thirst away. I would body guard my Deema, just every where. She would put her faltering fingers in her choli pocket and fish dried coconuts dices, nuts or cardamom and give to me....I can see her segueing from feeding the birds to tendering the hog, the price possession of our family, or she would be plucking the millet tufts for the coming affairs. That day, I pester her upon giving me the biggest and the longest cucumber on the bamboo mesh, sort of barn. I convinced her that my teacher would be happy with this gift and so she lost her cucumber. I hid this cucumber on my way to school, neatly nested by grass blades and collected my best friends during lunch hour to feast on this salad, only to be dissatisfied to see that my white-lied cucumber was already plundered by my seniors. She would come out with a bamboo container and corns. Sit at the door side and loosen the corn out of its ear..... rows of kernel would fall, she would collect spikes for removing the bird sully or for the hearth. She would ask me to open the coo door and birds would splutter out like gushing beer, beating me with their wings and rushing for the seeds. Deema, would talk to these birds and distribute the seed.....all of them would get their share. The rooster would bully the chick, for which Deema would lash it with long bamboo line. In few minutes, the birds would vanish in the woods, Deema, would murmur in disapproval of these birds toilet habits. Kami kaila, the village black smith and one of the most important personas, would announce his arrival with his signature muttering of some divine songs. He is taken to be important for few expertise he bears under his belt. He is black smith shaping and making tools and cans, he is also a village witch doctor, shaman, if anyone in the village got sick, its his expertise which worked for ages. He is also good at pulling paddy nursery for plantation. Deema, would quickly prepare Waa-tshon (brewery of millet, squeezed and served) and deliver him at the edge of the foyer. The sweet potatoes are baring out of soil and they need to be harvested. She would prepare boiled sweet potatoes for the helpers at woods. She would sing me our Bantawa Songs, "Aaaiyaani kikkmoo.....", ever green romantic melodies of her youth. I would just shift myself and listen to her emotions. She would tell me how she used to go to jungle tendering cattle and fodders. She would talk of tiger and bears, deers and birds that populated her forest. Then she would lift big brass bowl of fermented millet brew and drag her conversation little longer. There is a loud thud at the yard, indication that mama is back from field with a load of firewood. The calves mows little louder and its time to give them water, she rushes out for the service. Deema, told me the stories that enticed me. I would fix my focus singularly and listen to her, word by word as she played the sound intonation, circumstantially. They were so real life that I would quiver and shriek and skew. She continued in dramatic encouragement. She would take out round gilt metal container, with Belgium mirror, with full of tobacco and the assorted and sized wrappers. She would neatly fold the edge of this paper at length and spread tobacco on this grove, roll into a sleek stick, seal the ends with lick and bury herself into the fumes of rustica. I grew up with my Deema, learned the wisdom of our culture and traditions, the way of life and the art of living like Shongbhen. The legends she taught, are but oral transmission of her greatness. She told me of her youthfulness, her man who protected and fed her, she rarely talked of this man, Deewa, but when she did, it was powerful and deep. How this old man of mine, courted her and carried literally downhill to marry her. She never dreamt of and now it feels like a dream itself. She would laugh away and say, my time was different after all. One day I caught pneumonia and got bed ridden for a week. I was in my fourth grade. Every thing would feel different and fever took me totally down. She was broken then, and now I understand what might ran in her life. She must have thought that I would not live to see this day, she would never leave me and constantly gaze at me silently, spread her head scarf to keep flies at bay. When she spoke, she was at the meekest and weakest trying to be courageous. "Boy, nothing would happen to you", I have prayers for you. She would summon all the deities and gods and beg for my life. I do not know if she cried silently, but now I know why her eyes appeared reddish and misty then.....
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