Ruth Sequeira

One fine May morning, many years ago, I befriended an old aunty, whose name I no longer remember; who gifted me something, I now mourn over. That May morning, Old Friendly Aunty and I decided to visit her ancestral house. It's ironical to think that a person can be afraid to head back home, however, after so many years of being apart, I could sense that Old Friendly Aunty was indeed very frightened of the memories that would hit her.

The house, like most other abandoned houses in Goa, had caved in. The wood work had gone thin over time, while the owners overseas had grown plump with new wealth. Cracks crawled over the walls and shame crept over Old Friendly Aunty. We had not returned to a home, or a house, but to a ruin. Old Friendly Aunty had returned with the hope of fixing and renovating, but this home was not something that could be mended and restored. I felt bad for Old Friendly Aunty, but she was stronger than she looked. She walked ahead with a new purpose, to salvage whatever was not already destroyed. She picked up random objects that were scattered around the house, picking up random memories as well.

So here we were, Old Friendly Aunty and Young Girl, who didn't know what to do. Mama says the best thing to do when you don't know what to do is; to be quiet and still. Of course, I did exactly the opposite. I went about snooping around and making small talk with Old Friendly Aunty, just to keep her distracted. While I went about investigating, I stumbled into what must have years ago been one of the most frequented rooms- the Pantry. There among the termite infested wood, I saw her. While everything else was scarred with age and negligence; her beauty, though hidden behind a thick layer of mud, was still intact. A beautiful black kettle with a garland of bright pink and orange flowers around her middle. Old friendly Aunty came around and examined her as well. She casually said I could have it. I was going to, even if she denied me the permission, such was my awe for the object.

The black kettle, stood proudly on my Mum's carved antique black table for years. Any one who visited would come pay homage to this beauty. I soon took it for granted though, I was now accustomed to the usual praise and it soon merged with the rest of the house. After 3 years in Bombay, I returned home to discover, that my brother David, with his carelessness had accidentally dropped it down. My mother has still saved the broken bits in the backyard. One look and my heart was broken just like the black ceramic pieces lying on the garden floor.
I finally understood, what Old Friendly Aunty went through that fine May morning. I too had once cherished the kettle like she cherished her home, but over time I had taken the kettle for granted, assuming she would always be there, just like the first day I saw her. I had left her behind, gotten so involved with my world, that it was such a shock to return to find her in bits. I knelt there, beside the remains of my black kettle, picking up random pieces, remembering random memories.