Crystal

Ahh! Look, Sarasa’s love scene” cried Nuri in excitement. I gave her a, ‘don’t be stupid’, glare and turned back annoyed.

We had just started a game with five smooth stones, where one stone is thrown up and others are picked one by one from the floor. I was already vexed as I broke my glass bangles, running into a pillar on our veranda. Nuri took out a candy and placing it between the door and frame, crushed it gently by closing the door. She carefully removed the pieces and shared it with me. I know that is her special way of consoling me. Then she went to the window to throw the wrapper and was stuck there.

“He is the bangle seller”. Nuri whispered in an utmost secret tone with a twinkle in her large eyes. That was enough. I joined her. Not knowing the complexities of adult life, 10 year old curiosity sprang up instantly.

We peeped down from the first floor at them in the side alley. Sarasa was talking to the bangle seller with an impish smile. Her saree did not cover her ample bosom but was carelessly roped in a sensuous twist like a river winding through valleys. Deftly she spat out her half chewed betel leaves and walked into the house with him, laughing. We looked at each other gasping in disbelief.
The door closed lazily. I stood there with pounding heart and twirling the locks of hair dangling by the ear.

The bangle seller comes once a month, a middle aged, short man with his large bag on his shoulder, screaming in a song like “Valayal….valayal …kannadi valayal, attracting the female customers. His bag had 2 halves hanging on either side of his right shoulder, connected by a strap in the centre. This strap rested on a black shawl which he spreads to display his lustrous circles of joy in a multitude of colours.

I liked him because he glided the bangles gently on the hand without causing pain and he talked cheerfully like the delicate, tinkling, radiance in his bag. But we never guessed he had a fling with Sarasa.

Sarasa was a nasty piece of work; very curvaceous with a teasing twist on her betel stained lips which made her look like a temptress. Her large red nose-stud and thick jewelery on the tanned, taunt skin made her seductive. Abusive fowl language flowed out of her mouth like water in the municipal bore well tap in front of her house when she indulged in those feline fights.

She holds the copy right for all the Tamil bad words I know. Having the license to sell kerosene in our area she considered herself to be some oil baron as the commodity was scarce in those days. Her husband was a hairy man with large, long hands and they had no children.

We forgot our game and waited in anticipation. Seconds ticked off. Some tired autorikshaws passed by. A whistling boy on a bicycle rode without holding the handle bar. Few crows were analysing the garbage and two lazy cows were cud chewing in the haze of the afternoon sun.

“What is happening?” I was impatient. Nuri gestured to remain silent. She was my early sex educator. She passed on valuable information like, if a boy kissed a girl, and lights were turned off, a baby will be born, apparently knowledge from movies and we talk about such things giggling secretly for hours.

As we stood there, we saw the most terrifying sight. Sarasa’s husband was walking toward the house. He was a big, beefy guy who never spoke much, a labourer in a cotton mill. He walked briskly and looked like returning from a trip carrying a cheap plastic baggage. He entered through the open door and I took in a sharp breath.

Nuri’s sister shocked us from behind, "What are you two up to? Nosey little devils!", and pulled us by the ears. We cringed and whined. We had, the most horrified look on our innocent faces. She looked out at a normal afternoon on the road and turning to me said, “You better run home …your mother was looking for you…and Nuri get ready, aunt is on her way to pick you for shopping.”

We rushed out with a little guilt. From the staircase we stealthily looked at Sarasa’s door. It was closed. We were expecting a murder or at least a wrestling match but…it was calm. We neither did the normal sliding down the railing nor had the courage to go out and check the consequences.

I got a good tongue lashing from my mother for leaving the broken glass pieces on the veranda and for my chalk art on the floor and was confined to the house the whole evening. I was dying to know what happened to Sarasa.

Next day, we saw Sarasa screaming and shouting at the street tap in here usual robust tone. Tinkling on her wrist were red, glass bangles.