Susamma squinted hard at the distant road. Was that the postman on his rickety cycle? Achuthan had promised her that he would deliver the letter as soon as he got them. She went back to cutting the grass on the slopes of the hill near her house. She had half an hour to get a bundle together for the cows, or her aunt would let loose a string of the choicest abuses. Her hair kept coming loose and she had to keep pushing them back behind her ears, she smiled when she heard her younger sister call her Mala Sinha, the new star in a Hindi film that year. She had seen the pictures of Mala Sinha in the coloured magazines that her cousin had brought when he had come back from Pune. He was a mechanic in the Air Force Station there and when ever he came she spent hours listening to his stories about how beautiful that city was, and was fascinated when he said that they could see “Saaip – white man” movies in an open theater there.
She gathered the grass together and carried it across the new canal that cut across the village. The red lateritic edges could be seen; nature had not yet reclaimed the intrusion from a million pickaxe cuts. Carefully balancing the load on her head she climbed down the steps that led to the bottom of the canal. It was early for the water to be let into the structure and she could safely use it to cross onto the other side. A thin shimmer of sweat formed on her face and as she turned into the small cluster of houses made of mud and thatched with coconut leaves. She could see her father cut wood for her mother who coughed away at the mud stove, slowly pitching in chips of wood. She smiled at him and took a cup of black coffee, strong and sweet for him. He took it and sat down, asked her with his eyes, had the letter come yet? No she smiled back at him.
A few minutes later, her brother came in from the small patch of land that the family tilled and grew paddy. The bunds that divided the land and marked the boundaries had a few coconut trees. Mathew had convinced his uncle to give him a few coconuts from one of the trees that originally belonged to his father, but now was claimed by the uncle. His father had tried to argue and had given up when his brother’s wife had joined in and the request had turned into a small slinging match. Susamma went to wake up her three sisters, Sara, Maria and Molly. Molly the youngest was barely six and had started whimpering; Susamma deposited her next to her mother and then handed a worn out Bible to her father.
Kunjacchan Abraham was a preacher and a farmer. More a preacher, who spoke about the words of god, less a farmer who left his land at the mercy of his brothers, who then ensured that there was just enough for the family of seven to survive on. Susamma knew that she would have to soon hear from her aunt a long tale of how she was kind and understanding enough to let go of a few coconuts for the chutney for the stale idlis that she gave away every other day.
If the letter came by soon announcing the day when Susamma had to join the
Susamma walked towards the Othara Typing Institute after a glass of kaapi and kanji. She shivered in the hot tropical sun. Not due to the cold, but at the thought of her not getting admission into the nursing college. She dressed simply, a half saree, which was a gift from last years Christmas and a paavada. Her hands were dainty but had the signs of the work she had to do all day. The one-hour of typing on the rickety typewriter was a relief. A pain shot through her legs, a thorn had pierced the rubber chappals she wore. They had worn out and had become thin. Bending she picked out the thorn and threw it aside. What would Pune be like? She smiled and turned into the small room that doubled as an institute adorned with a black board that stated that it was government recognized.
Halfway through the one hour typing class, Sara and Maria ran in laughing and shouting. They had an envelope made of brown government type paper. A typist had spelled Kerala wrong but it had her name and the name of the institute that wanted her to join the college the coming month. She smiled and without even asking the typing instructor ran home with the two sisters. Her mother was there, crying already, she was happy for her daughter and sad that she would have to go away.
Many had left their small village and migrated to the cities in the north. Some to work in the small industries in the large industrial estates and many more as typists and clerks in private and state offices. Susamma had worked hard for several years to get the marks that would get her away from the drudgery of an existence as a village girl, she wanted to be in the big city, where she could earn enough to send money back home to help her poor father. She would be a nurse, a fine pretty nurse. Mala Sinha would have been proud she thought to herself.
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