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When we go to Malakoodam, near Sultan Batteri, during summer vacation, mother allows me to do things that I am not allowed to do in Mysore. Going alone to shop in the main road is one of them. I wore mother's red leather slippers, carried Eswari aunty's umbrella, and took the green wire basket that mother made in Mysore for grandmother.

Pankaja, my cousin, wrote out a list in Malayalam. As I walked down the sunny street, I felt mother's slipper slap my calf, hot dusty winds pricked my ankles and arm, and sun scorched me through the umbrella. I watched for vehicles on both the sides of the street before crossing and proceeded to Narayana Kutty's shop hidden under the hanging gunny bags. Although the bags kept out dust, sun, crows and stray dogs, they did nothing to the flies. Ahead of me was an old lady; I could hear her clearly.

"How are you Narayana?" asked the Lady in Kannada. My ears stood up, as it is rare to hear people talk in Kannada here.
"I am fine Akkamma. How are you today?" replied Narayana Kutty in Malayalam with utmost gravity. Blinded momentarily as I entered into the shade, I located him by his voice. He is a short, dark man with a beard. I could see his white banian and yellow teeth when he spoke. He was leaning by his hip on the wooden desk, which had scales on the top and a drawer where he put money and pens.

With a tinkle of laugh, Akkamma declared, "My son will come. I need lot of things to cook for him." They spoke in their mother tongues.
"Did you not go to chanda?" asked Kutty with a frown.
"You know I never go there," Akkamma replied, peering into the open sacks with grocery and tasting the air. Afraid that flies would enter my mouth, I sniffed the air. It smelt of chillies, oil, and jaggery.
"What do you want today?" Kutty asked.
"I see you have fresh jaggery. Are they from Mysore?" asked Akkamma.
"No. Let me see your list," Kutty said.
Akkamma declared, "It is all in my mind."
"Let me hear it," said Kutty folding his arms across his chest.
"I need a lot of things," she warned.
"Let me hear them," he replied.
"I need ten bellary onions. Large," she said spreading her fingers to indicate the size.
"Savala," said Kutty standing like a pillar.
"Five batatas, large," she said ticking off the mental list with her bony fingers into her wrinkled palm.
"Aloo," he nodded.
"One chatak kadale."
"Channa? Kabul or Desi?"
"Kabul, I think."
Nodding vigorously, he repeated, "Kabul."
"Yardley powder."
"Small or large?"
"Small. Yes, small, for my son's use."
"What else?"
"I think that is enough for today."
Scratching his armpits, Kutty asked, "Do you want to know the cost?"
"May be."
"It will cost you one rupee and 25 paise."
"What are you saying?"
"The amount."
"No, no. I am asking about the cost."
"Yes, I am telling you. It costs one rupee and 25 paise."
"Why are you using new words?"
"New words?"
"You think I am scared of new words?"
"Yeeh?" said kutty crocking his head like a chicken.
"It will not cost more than 10 annas."
"Annas?" said Kutty laughing.
"How many annas?"
"We now use rupees and paise."
"Why? What is wrong with annas?"
"Our Government has decided to use rupees and paise."
"And nobody asked me?"
Kutty's mouth twitched, but he replied seriously, "I recall they did ask all of us. You must have forgotten."
"Forgotten? You are cheating me!"
"Akkamma, it is nothing like that."
"Wait till my son comes!"
"Has he written?"
"Of course he writes every week!"
"Postman Biju does not say so."
"He must be hoarding my letters!"
"He has never seen a letter for you."
A tear coursed down Akkamma's wrinkled cheeks. Her hand shivered as she gathered the torn saree over her bent head and stood mute.
"Alright," said Kutty packing some rice briskly, "Go home. All will be well."
Akkamma's dry sobs rose to breathless mutter as she collected the rice packet and trudged.
"Don't worry child," said Kutty addressing me, "It has been her routine for five years!"
"Where is her son?"
"In the army, stationed somewhere in the desert."
"Why does he not come?"
"Who knows his problems!"
"Will he come home soon?"
"Why not?"
"Why did you give her rice?"
"The village looks after her."

I felt tearful. I quickly looked down at the list; Pankaja's scribble swam in front of me. I hastily gave it to Kutty. I thought of Mysore, the big city. Would people be as kind? Kutty packed and wrote the cost in the list. One of the uncles or grandpa would stop by later to pay him. The basket was heavy and I could not hold the umbrella. The sun was drying my bones as I walked home. Mother's leather slipper creaked like Akkamma's dry sobs, driving me home faster.

That evening, when mother was plaiting my hair, I asked her, "Will Mysore take care of us?"
"What is in your mind Sashi?" she asked.
"Like the village takes care of Akkamma,"
"Who is this Akkamma?" wondered my mother giving my plait a final tug before releasing me.

How could she not know Akkamma? Perhaps, she was the only old, lonely, and hungry person in the whole village. Perhaps she lived in the hut close to the river, where she could fish and sail across the water in her own boat. She had birds and animals to play with and mountains for company. May be she cried because she wanted chocolates and Kutty gave her rice instead. I would too. I would howl and howl until he became deaf and then I could walk in and take whatever I wanted.

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