Malu and her Son

Malu was this mountain girl who came far, very far away from home to the sea-town of fish and oil and ships. Malu is also a tree that lines the hills and its leaves look like the palms of a mother’s hand. If you love someone desperately in the hills you call her Malu.
Malu was the most loved in her family and fed on a diet of milk and curd. Her skin was the smooth of butter and her eyes like the shade of a gentle cow. The mountains then were green and rain-fresh and Malu would always remember them that way far, far away in the sea town of fish and oil and ships.
The sea town would ring with the song of the mountains and it would never leave Saral, born in the sea town of fish and oil and ships, the plaintive song of the mountains- plaintive for distance and longing, would never leave him, O leave him never, never.
When Malu was big with Saral, they said she would die. She did not eat a morsel and saw the sky in a swirl. Malu was often alone those days, and though she could read little, would want to write the story of the poor poet and his life. Malu did not know then that words are dangerous, and that they suck up men and scenes and happiness. They can take the shimmer from a flower and love from a heart and pattern in a poem or a tale.
When it would thunder at night, Malu would hold her son tight, cheek against cheek and both would look out of the window in fright and delight. There was this crow that came to the kitchen window everyday and Malu and her son would call him Blackie and blackie would come everyday and everyday was a happy day- a new word learnt, a new lie learnt.
The mangled chain of words and pain and longing and mountain-fret tied Malu and her son like a noose around a dead man’s neck.
Though Malu was a mountain girl she cannot forget the sea now. The sea town and the ships, now far away, where Saral was born. And she cannot forget the first words learnt and she cannot forget Blackie and cries now because she wanted to write the story of a poor poet and his life.
Malu and her son.
Malu
And
Her Son.
Malu is still nineteen though she is grey and old and frail. With her legs stretched on her bed she only speaks of the time when she was big with Saral and how she almost died. She tires people with her jabber and bores them with stories of Saral and how he learnt a new word everyday.

Saral learnt the words very well. Words that carry the ring of the mountain song and the chatter of the bird that came to the window sill everyday and the warmth of a cheek in a wet, rainy night. Words that pattern a poem and suck love out of one’s heart.

Though words change much and words change all but even now, the malu lines the way to the hills and its leaves still touch like the palm of a mother’s hands.