Old and gone

Giving an account of the inhabitants of Eldham may help clear things up. Perhaps it might explain my character and the things I have become accustomed to.

Our village is rich in gray-haired women, and we call them the venerable. Herculean men are seldom seen in the neighborhood. What is left of men are the lanky figures seen, and, mostly heard at dawn and sunset. One cannot miss their slurred speech, an unending list of their accomplishments, and the big thing they are about to do. We all love to listen to their muddled lyrics - something original. Their hum courses through my body like water flowing over rocks. The old brew tastes better – this they sing with an enthusiastic voice.  They are oblivious to daylight but work against the clock like a nocturnal when darkness floods the village.

Single ladies are an occasional occurrence. Appearing like the morning fog that sweeps across your face when you step out. With glum faces and desperate written all over their faces, they come back to the place they once dreaded.

I’m not satisfying anyone’s curiosity. They cry out. I decided to leave him…

But it soon all comes to light. After weeks of harboring the pain. They find it a relief to confide in the young ones.

What does he mean I’m not suited to the times?

We get to hear different stories every fortnight for our guests don’t stay long. A wink from a man passing through the village is enough to make these women blush. Such winks rob us of warm tea every morning, timely meals, and so much more. They leave with haste and we never get a chance to say goodbye most of the time. We whisper to the paths they take, see you soon. We have come to believe that whispers are enchanted for we surely see them after months.

I’m done with men.

This chant is common in our ears. This is muttered on the fourth or fifth return. Usually accompanied with a nipper strapped on the back.

And like that, we usher a new member to the village.

Oh, the things granny will teach you. You are in safe hands. This has become part of our incantations.    

In a place laden with old women and teenagers, rumor travels fast. An endless conversation at the junctions of two old ladies is the norm of the day. Basking in the sun, heads veiled, sitting on the ground leaning back on their arms, usually with little nipper wedged between their bony wrinkled legs.

The sight of an approaching teen fuels and jerks their minds into a stream of anecdotes. They glance around and ruffle their kimonos. But their ears, restlessly await a rectitude greeting from the passing teen. We have been trained how to greet elders. A little bow, a soft pitched tone hatching into a melody, beaming eyes, and a wide smile.

As the teen peters from their sight, hmms and ahhs resonate fanatically from the old ladies.

We have seen it all, back in our days it was unheard of, who dares to snatch my man…

Speaking of which, the other interjects. Peter’s mom dropped him here when he was barely 8 months old…

Was that Peter or James? She pauses as she ponders the names in her head. She knows many, many Peters, she has crossed paths with many named James.

They all look the same.

They sure do. They reassure each other

These eyes are not what they used to be. We natured their father, mothers, now these (their gaze fixed on the nipper resting).

A prolonged silence follows.   

Not many of these old singles are left. Each day they long to meet their better halves on the other side of life. We laid to rest the last grandpa of the village over a year ago. Major Phillips, a dried-up little man in his last days. Even on his deathbed, you could tell that he greeted Death as an old friend in an orderly manner. What is left is an area engulfed in tenderness with a touch of old. We knit, we have tea four to five times a day, large bare rooms, bits of old containers, wrappers, shabby covers, the list is endless… a woman’s house in every sense.

It’s tradition to bid the entire neighborhood goodbye before college. I can’t deny the fact that I will miss living in our little village. No one at college will use the words oh, little one, this poor soul, my dear Paul… such tenderness, and sweet words have pounded my heart to softness. I’m sure I’m ready to meet the cruel world with kindness. At least that’s what they all said yesterday. But what is still vivid is their story.

Old Margret recounted how she met Jean. She had carefully picked her words, pausing now and then as if to savor the sweetness of each word.

Jean, a charming young man, not many were like him, even after the war he still had a kind heart… I used to serve at this bar… He always came at five… back then impressing a man was quite simple. I can’t forget the day he asked me to dance with him. Such a good dancer. Here, see for yourself.

She handed me a framed photo of the two taken on their wedding day. Jean, a fair man with a smooth mustache, short dark hair, a forced smile with a piercing gaze.

Bernadette’s narrative had been cut short by the others. Never married, but she had crossed paths with three men.

Men often got into ferocious brawls. She recounted. She took out a moldy album, heavy in her wearied hands, and gently placed it on a table. Group photos invoked sweet memories and watered her eyes. She handed me a photo. Once a gorgeous young lady neatly dressed in a white linen dress, round beautiful eyes, curly brown hair, a warm smile that set a man’s heart ablaze. I shifted my gaze to look at her.

All that beauty! I said to myself. What is left is a face seared with wrinkles, sharp cheekbones - sunken cheeks…

Oh, that’s Thomas. She said after a long pause. A man with a debonair look clad in a serge suit.

Flashes of their faces fade as I lay in my bed. Mary had said something about her father arranging the marriage with the inspector’s son. She had no choice. Her father was rich and she led a lonely life.

I can’t recall all of them. But I know they are old. Yes, old, and one day they will be gone. Tomorrow I will leave. Slowly, I’m approaching the era when I will be old.