Trotter
TROTTERS (Willi Chen b. 1941)
Bent like her walking stick, Ma Abdool lived a frugal life, balancing her budget like the basket atop her head that floated precariously with straggly bundles of yellowing chive and pale ochroes which like her dry self had long passed the age of slime. Yet she planted, the only way she knew of, for a small income so meager at times that, after Choy Wing closed his shop, she would blow out her flambeau, knot the coins with her orhini, raise her eyes to the dark heavens as if in supplication, and walk the tired road home. Zobida, her new daughter-in-law, bright eyed but plump and smooth like ‘bigan’, lived with her. She cooked and kept house, collected coconut husks and, whenever the wind littered the yard, bent with one arm behind her back, the other rotating in rapid arcs with her cocoyea broom , heaping up the trash that went up later in dry leaf smoke.
Late one afternoon, Ma Abdool returned from selling.
“You na cookam yet, gul. And night done come.”
“Mai, ah done put the water to boil.”
“Wata…wata…what you make am?”
“Mai, Azard say he goh take some soup tonight.”
“Soop…soop. We is creoni? Only creoni does drinkam soup.”
“But Ma, it still have piece a sada roti.”
“Bete. I wantam choka, too. See you have am damadol and chonkay it.” Azard worked in the sugar estate. When he married Zobida, two of his best friends boycotted the wedding. They listened to the rumour that Zobida was ‘dougla’, even though the bride’s parents denied it. Later, many times sitting on the door step , as he rummaged her head on his lap, he would stop for long moments, his fingers probing the strands of hair behind her ear, and watch their natural curl as he thought of black pepper grains. He wondered what brand of lice fed on ‘dougla’ heads, but musingly smiled for he had loved Zobida and that was what counted.
She was so different from other Muslim girls. He like the way she carried the pitch oil pan of water on her head, her thick
Bent like her walking stick, Ma Abdool lived a frugal life, balancing her budget like the basket atop her head that floated precariously with straggly bundles of yellowing chive and pale ochroes which like her dry self had long passed the age of slime. Yet she planted, the only way she knew of, for a small income so meager at times that, after Choy Wing closed his shop, she would blow out her flambeau, knot the coins with her orhini, raise her eyes to the dark heavens as if in supplication, and walk the tired road home. Zobida, her new daughter-in-law, bright eyed but plump and smooth like ‘bigan’, lived with her. She cooked and kept house, collected coconut husks and, whenever the wind littered the yard, bent with one arm behind her back, the other rotating in rapid arcs with her cocoyea broom , heaping up the trash that went up later in dry leaf smoke.
Late one afternoon, Ma Abdool returned from selling.
“You na cookam yet, gul. And night done come.”
“Mai, ah done put the water to boil.”
“Wata…wata…what you make am?”
“Mai, Azard say he goh take some soup tonight.”
“Soop…soop. We is creoni? Only creoni does drinkam soup.”
“But Ma, it still have piece a sada roti.”
“Bete. I wantam choka, too. See you have am damadol and chonkay it.” Azard worked in the sugar estate. When he married Zobida, two of his best friends boycotted the wedding. They listened to the rumour that Zobida was ‘dougla’, even though the bride’s parents denied it. Later, many times sitting on the door step , as he rummaged her head on his lap, he would stop for long moments, his fingers probing the strands of hair behind her ear, and watch their natural curl as he thought of black pepper grains. He wondered what brand of lice fed on ‘dougla’ heads, but musingly smiled for he had loved Zobida and that was what counted.
She was so different from other Muslim girls. He like the way she carried the pitch oil pan of water on her head, her thick