Short Story - 2007

Winner - July/August Short Story Contest

Cornelia Feye

Indian Crossroads

When our paths cross for the first time, Mrs. Fernandes wears a starched, blue cotton dress. I wear jeans clinging to my legs, and a heavy backpack. The path is dusty, dry and leads from Goa’s Baga Beach to Calangute, the “Queen of Beaches”, of this Southern Indian province, as the Lonely Planet travel guide promises.

“House looking?” asks Mrs. Fernandes beaming, and swings her white purse like a pendulum. Due to her diminutive size, this middle-aged Indian woman wears a girl’s dress, which stands in stark contrast to her determined attitude. In response to my nod, she continues:

“Come in, come in, I have house!” Even though I don’t expect much from her offer, I allow her to pull me into the shady dwelling willingly, and sit down gratefully on one of the fragile wooden chairs at the dining room table. It is a pretty house: A large room with white-washed walls, and a thatched roof that covers the porch as well as the interior. The porch is almost as big as the living room and two carved stone benches, connected to the house, frame each side. Goa has many houses in the Portuguese colonial style like this one. Since the early 16^th century the Portuguese have put their imprint onto this area of India: Outwardly they shaped the architecture and clothing of the people from Goa, and inwardly they turned them into faithful Catholics through thorough missionary

work. One entire wall of Mrs. Fernandez’ living room is covered with brightly colored pictures of saints, complete with flower offerings. Mrs. Fernandes is Catholic, that’s obvious. She also likes to tell stories about her tenants, her guests and about her son. At the moment she expects guests from Canada. She has known them for three years, the woman has blond hair, the husband is a musician, and somewhere she has a letter from them. Yes, they announced their arrival and sent a photograph as well. She looks for the letter. In the meantime my tomato red head has cooled down a little and I am able to look around more carefully. The little house is quite charming.

“Do you rent this house?” I finally ask her point blank.

Surprised that I still did not understood, the landlady tells me again from the beginning.

“Friends come, from Canada.” Oh, yes, the house is reserved for them. I sink back into waiting mode. My upper body, which reached forward expectantly, falls back into a slump. People have time in India. Enough time to eat a coconut before asking the next question, which is a little bit more complicated: Where is the house she wants me to rent? The coconut is not quite ripe and the meat tastes a bit fatty and bland, but it has a lot of milk, and it is my first coconut in India, a special occasion. I eat it with a solemn face. Mrs. Fernandes checks her watch. An unusual gesture for an Indian woman, but Mrs. Fernandes is an exception. She takes her business as real estate agent very seriously.

“Go other house now, I think.” She says and motions me to follow. Behind the house we first have to cross a river. Mrs. Fernandes in her blue girl’s dress marches ahead at a brisk pace. Surprisingly she wades through the river without hesitation, naturally and even gracefully, which seems to contradict her urban pace and proper Western clothing. I follow sluggishly and climb out of the water with soaking pants sticking to my legs, steam in the heat, and seem to weigh a ton. In contrast Mrs. Fernandez rises out of the stream untouched and fresh, correctly dressed as if for a stroll downtown. I have to keep up for quite a while with Mrs. Fernandes’ eager steps: along the river, past the ferry boat landing, past small white houses with shady porches, along the winding path, between palm tress, over wooden planks, bridging narrow ditches, which empty out into the river. The river itself is sparkling, slow and shallow. It separates us from fields where buffalos plough. I have no eye for them now, in fact I feel like a buffalo myself under the weight of my travel bag. Mrs. Fernandes, still crisp and energetic, constantly affirms that we are almost there.

“Not far now!” she repeats encouragingly. It feels like we have walked for miles. Finally Mrs. Fernandes veers off the path to the left and steers towards a picture perfect little house on the hill. Five steps lead up to the porch, which is currently populated by four chickens and one rooster. I am so glad to sit down in the shade that Mrs. Fernandes manages to charge me the price for a full month rent, even though I am not sure I’ll stay that long. The prize is very reasonable, but compared to Indian wages, Mrs. Fernandes is doing very well. Exhausted I stretch out in the hammock on the porch, under the suspicious glances of the chickens and the rooster.

On the first evening in Goa, Mrs. Fernandes comes to visit and we sit on the candle and lantern-lit porch. One story leads to another; in the end she shows me pictures of her son, who works in Dubai. Finally she asks, if I want eggs and tea for breakfast or maybe an omelet. Did I hear that right? In the middle of the jungle I did not expect breakfast a la carte!

“Thanks, I’d be delighted to have eggs for breakfast!” I suddenly look a bit more kindly at the chickens sitting at our feet. After I am thus in Mrs. Fernandes’ debt, she articulates her real request:

“Friends from Canada in my house. I need bed for myself. I take for this one. Quite comfortable.” She explains. I need to clarify this:

“You mean you want to take my only bed from this house?” I ask incredulously.

“Yes, very comfortable!” she confirms pointing at the bed, a simple, narrow wooden frame with vertical and horizontal ropes and a thin mattress.

“I haven’t even had a chance to try it out yet!” I say, but the irony is completely lost on Mrs. Fernandes.

“I sleep in back. I keep for this one!” she starts pulling at the bed frame.

“Wait a minute, Mrs. Fernandes, where should I sleep?” I try to negotiate.

“You just one person, have whole house!” she points out, neglecting to mention that I paid a handsome rent for the privilege of using it.

“Am I supposed to sleep on the floor?” I am not ready to give in.

“You sleep in hammock. I give mosquito net!” she suggests.

The hammock is on the porch and it is cooler out here, so her proposal has some merit. Mrs. Fernandes uses the pause in our conversation to repeat:

“I keep for this one!” pulling the bed all the way out onto the porch.

“Okay, Mrs. Fernandes, you take the bed. I’ll keep the mattress! Deal?”

She looks at me quizzically, and then nods:

Tea is served promptly the next morning. Mrs. Fernandes has been up and about since 5 AM. Like every morning she went to church up on the hill at dawn, and then got fresh bread and flowers on the way back.

“You want come church with me one day?” she asks. Why not? Mrs. Fernandes is pleased. While we sip tea together she assures me that she cannot make breakfast every day.

“Just for beginning.” She explains. A welcome gesture, in exchange for the bed! The bucket for the well in front of the house is likewise just a loan. I will have to get my own, eventually. But before I can acquire one, the borrowed bucket promptly falls into the well on the first day. There it swims plastic-blue in moss green depths! Guiltily I look into Mrs. Fernandes enterprising eyes during our afternoon chat:

“Sorry,” I begin hesitantly “the bucket….” But instead of the expected accusations, she burst into peals of laughter.

“The bucket!” she hoots, barely able to contain her mirth. Yes, the bucket is gone, I agree with relief, and laugh with her.

Mrs. Fernandes has no vices. She does not drink, does not smoke and goes to church every day. As promised, I accompany her one morning. Silently we walk along the river, which has donned its silvery morning dress. A few Indian women already wash clothes on the banks in the early morning coolness. The path leads towards the ocean, forks off uphill to the monastery, which is situated on top of a small peninsula. Up there we see the sun rise blood red out of the jungle. The ocean and the beach below look shady and blue. Out of misty distances, small wooden fishing boats emerge and glide towards the beach. In front of the church we meet Mrs. Fernandes’ friend, Yhoti, another older Indian woman, wearing a sari. The three of us, in addition to two nuns make up the whole congregation at mass, which begins without delay and is conducted efficiently and without unnecessary pathos by the barefoot priest in the simple church without benches or decoration. The only adornments are three murals, painted by one of the nuns, illustrating the life of Jesus. Mary Magdalene under the cross wears a sari, and the apostles fold their hands in the Indian greeting “Namaste”, which means “The god in me greets the god in you.” In another mural a dark skinned Jesus just rose from the dead into a tropical landscape. He swings his funeral linens in a clockwise circle around himself and looks like the dancing Shiva, surrounded by his flaming orb. The similarity between the gods is further strengthened by the fact that Jesus holds his hands in the mudra position of “no fear”. After mass, we briefly chat with the priest. He shows off the rooms of the monastery, the terrace with ocean view, the monks’ cells. They are not inhabited by monks, but instead by participants of a conference, which uses them for occasional retreats. Satisfied Mrs. Fernandez descends the hill next to me. The priest was very friendly to her. She picks some white flower and beams at me so broadly that the mole on her left cheeks folds into wrinkles. I am also satisfied by the experience, and pleased to see that despite thorough missionary zeal, the Indians did not betray their own gods. They just continue to worship them under a different name: Christ, Shiva, Krishna - the differences blur. They look the same, (apart from the negligible fact of Krishna’s blue skin color) and they are all there to help with the daily drudgery and with the business of death and rebirth! Really, the differences are insignificant. On the narrow path in front of me, I observe Mrs. Fernandes’ and her friend Yhoti talking to each other. Yhoti in her sari moves graciously and seems to blend into the landscape seamlessly. In contrast the 50-year-old Mrs. Fernandes with her knee-long, blue-and-white striped baby doll dress looks out of place.

“Why don’t you wear saris?” I ask her.

“I don’t like. Sometimes my husband brought me sari, but I cut and make dresses.” She giggles as if about a particularly successful prank.

“Where is Mr. Fernandes?” I ask.

“Good husband, but now is gone.” She answers cheerfully.

While I try to think of a tactful way to ask, whether Mr. Fernandez has gone to another country, another city, or to heaven, she clarifies for me:

“Beautiful grave in cemetery!” I nod gravely and mumble how sorry I am, but this Indian woman with a European soul does not need to be consoled. With undaunted cheerfulness she admirably straddles two cultures, dealing with Eastern and Western values alike. She loves the baby-blue, kitschy picture of the Virgin Mary I bring her from an outing to Old-Goa. She makes tea and chapatis almost every morning, and once in a while we have home-cooked pakoras. Sometimes I have to tell her that I need a little privacy, or else I would not have time to take these notes. Even the chickens on the porch try to prevent me from writing. Constantly I have to chase them off the table in an ongoing power struggle. Get out of here! For today they win, so I relinquish the table to them ….