Konkani: Wilson Kateel
Translation: Kishoo Barkur
The scorching noon sun bore down mercilessly, enveloping him in a wave of searing heat that seemed to boil his very being as he waited impatiently for the traffic signal to turn green. The tantalizing aroma of freshly fried omelets wafted through the air, carried by an invisible trail from the nearby petty shops, invading his nostrils and awakening the ravenous hunger that gnawed at his stomach as if his appetite had taken the form of a restless hen, pecking relentlessly at his intestines. At least I should eat an omelet once this tiffin box is delivered, he thought. In that instant, the signal turned green, and he accelerated his scooter, leaving nothing but a lingering trail of exhaust smoke where he had been moments before.
***
He rushed through the gate and made his way toward the elevator. Ascending swiftly, he checked the address scrawled on his chit and rang the bell. It was 1:45 PM, a half-hour late, and he braced himself for the customer’s wrath — a routine hazard he had grown accustomed to, steeling himself for the usual barrage of unkind words as he waited for the door to open.
Yet the door remained shut, even after a minute passed. He knocked gently, twice, until a mature, shaky voice called from within, “The door is open…”
Pushing it ajar, he was met with the sight of an elderly woman seated in a wheelchair, looking fragile.
“Madam, here is your order,” he announced, lifting the tiffin box slightly.
“Yes, son. Please wait a while. Can you do me a favor?” Her voice trembled with the gentle quiver of the soft skin hanging from her chin. “Today our servant is on leave. I don’t have the strength to serve myself. Please open that tiffin carrier and feed me the rice. I have to take my medicine. I was supposed to take it at 1 pm… now it’s almost 2 pm.”
The delivery boy found himself at a loss, his own hunger now overshadowed by an unfamiliar responsibility. He had never fed anyone before and felt trapped in the moment, reluctantly entering the flat, tiffin carrier in hand.
The apartment’s interiors exuded opulence, a testament to the wealth that adorned its walls. A gigantic television hung prominently, its presence accentuated by an imposing cross above it. A grand rosary, resembling a rope, encircled the cross, its beads glistening. In a showcase, gleaming utensils radiated brilliance, while a regal dining table stood adorned with perfectly arranged golden cutlery. A basket overflowed with vibrant apples, oranges, and bananas, accompanied by a beautiful knife hinting at culinary artistry. On the wall, a large painting of the Last Supper evoked a sense of spiritual grandeur. Next to it, a family portrait captured a man, woman, and young girl, their smiles frozen in time.
“I have no strength left in my limbs, son,” the woman repeated, her voice quivering with each word. “If I could feed myself, I wouldn’t have begged you. Please, son, just feed me two fistfuls. Don’t use the spoons or forks… Just feed me with your hands…”
Heeding her request, he washed his hands thoroughly. Then, gently opening the tiffin box, he poured a small amount of curry over the rice and inserted his fingers.
***
His mind drifted back to the hunger pangs that had plagued him from the beginning, a familiar sensation that had been a constant companion throughout his life. He vividly recalled his mother’s words, how he had refused to wean from her breast until the age of four. Yet, his mother had shielded him from the harsh realities of hunger. His father, a tireless worker in their paddy fields, had cultivated bountiful harvests, yielding enough rice to fill a couple of ‘Mudi’ each season. As the only son, he had been the sole beneficiary of his parents’ love and provision.
His father’s reputation had been built upon his unparalleled skill in crafting ‘Mudi,’ intricate spheres woven from rice straw, capable of preserving up to forty kilograms of rice for years. No one in the village could match his father’s dexterity in this ancient art form. Complementing his father’s prowess, his mother had been renowned for her culinary skills, her dishes tantalizing the nostrils of his schoolmates whenever he opened his lunchbox, which was always larger and more abundant than those of his peers. His mother’s gentle admonition echoed in his mind: “There may be other children who don’t have food, son… share some of yours with them too.”
His father, too, had instilled in him a spirit of generosity, imparting the wisdom: “Always cook a little more than is required. Anyone who may wander into our home should never leave hungry.”
***
“Enough, son… How long will you mix it?” The old woman’s voice jolted him back to awareness. She had noticed the trembling of his fingers as he struggled to deliver a fistful of rice into her awaiting mouth. His fingers grazed her lips, grains spilling onto her mouth as he guided the food towards her. In that fleeting moment, he felt a current coursing through him as his fingers brushed against her toothless gums, as if he had become the very rice being consumed. A little curry stained her cheeks.
“Sorry, Madam…” he uttered.
“No, not Madam, son… you address me as Mother,” she corrected, her words laced with gentle warmth.
“Mother…” The word escaped his lips, carrying the weight of a profoundly intimate bond.
As he gathered another fistful of rice, her voice halted his movements. “Wait, my son… don’t rush. I’m not able to chew that well. I have very few teeth left in my mouth. Mix the curry well into the rice. It should bloom in the curry, son… Remember, those who know how to eat well will know how to live well too.”
***
A sense of irritation stirred within him, tempered by the unfurling of unfamiliar emotions. Until now, his own meals had been hasty affairs, devoid of savor or appreciation. Time was a luxury he could ill afford amidst the relentless demands of his work. It would be more accurate to say that he hurled rice into his mouth rather than savoring the act of eating. Delivering tiffin boxes to customers in this bustling city, where vehicles slithered like worms through congested arteries, was a task unto itself. The struggle intensified when traffic jams brought the flow to a grinding halt, forcing him to open his lunchbox and consume dry chapatis in the midst of the gridlock, unable to ignore the pangs of hunger gnawing at his core.
Delays in delivering the tiffin boxes invariably met with the wrath of disgruntled customers and his unyielding boss, their ire raining down upon him like a relentless storm. Yet neither party ever deigned to inquire whether he had taken sustenance himself. At times, he found himself wishing that hunger resided in the eyes rather than the stomach, for then he could sate his cravings by merely gazing upon the juicy grains of biryani wasted by careless customers.
“What fish is this…?” the old woman inquired, her curiosity piqued as he placed a piece of fish upon the cover of the box, extracting a smaller portion to deliver into her awaiting mouth.
***
His father had fallen from the lofty heights of an aged coconut tree, his body plummeting towards the unyielding earth as dizziness overtook him. The impact shattered his form, reducing it to a grotesque semblance of shredded meat. As they carried his lifeless vessel in a coffin, it resembled nothing more than a tiffin box. In that moment, he realized a sobering truth – even the soil hungers, and one day, all must succumb to its insatiable appetite, reduced to mere sustenance, devoid of distinction between blood, fat, or bone – a cruel reality where the soil sates its cravings without complaint or remorse.
***
“Look, son… There is a mug on that table. Please get me a glass of water from it,” the old woman implored, her words stirring him from the depths of his contemplation.
With deliberate movements, the delivery boy raised the glass to her trembling lips.
***
In the wake of his father’s untimely demise, none remained to tend the fields, and the once-verdant paddy lands withered into barren expanses. His mother, shouldering the burden alone, ventured beyond the confines of their home to secure their livelihood. She toiled relentlessly, her efforts focused on providing for her son’s education, hunger, clothing, and books – a weight that exacted a heavy toll upon her health. The woman who had once fed an entire village found herself reduced to begging for a mere fistful of rice, her body ravaged by an unseen force that seemed to siphon the very flesh from her bones. Yet, she refused to relinquish the paddy fields.
The relentless burden eventually took its toll on her mental well-being, fracturing her tenuous grasp on reality. She began conversing with herself. At times, she would venture forth into the scorching sun, shrouded in makeshift protection for non-existent rains, while on other occasions, she would spread garments to dry beneath the deluge of heavy rains. In her anguished state, she would gather handfuls of soil, attempting to chew it.
One fateful day, no one could fathom the turmoil that gripped her soul, but in a burst of unfathomable impulse, she ran and plunged into a well. When her body was retrieved, all that remained was a heap of sodden clothes, devoid of life.
***
“Okay… that’s enough, son. Two more fistfuls, and that’s enough… By the way, have you had your food?” Her question hung in the air, unanswered, as he simply shook his head and brushed the fish bone aside, onto the cover of the box.
***
In the wake of his parents’ passing, the vultures descended in the form of family members, their greed laying waste to all that remained. An uncle, unheard from for years, appeared to erect a fence across his father’s beloved paddy fields, staking his claim. Other relatives emerged from the shadows, citing reasons such as, “We too have shares in this property,” and “We sent money to grandmother when she was alive.” Faces he had never encountered before materialized, their presence an affront to the sanctity of his home.
Each day, they brought new surveyors, their bickering echoing through the courtyard like a profane symphony. Their footprints, etched into the soil his father had once ploughed, obliterated the sacred markings left by his father’s toil. With callous disregard, they felled the coconut trees his father had nurtured. The paddy fields were defiled, littered with stones and bricks, the well filled with dirt and debris.
“I don’t need your property or anything,” he had declared, fleeing the village with only the moisture of his mother’s memories lingering in his eyes and the love of his father beating within his heart. Initially, he found work in restaurants and bars, until his current role as a delivery boy for a food company, confined to accommodations provided by them that resembled a prison cell.
***
“That’s enough, my son… can you please wash my face?” The old woman’s request pierced the veil of his recollections, revealing the tiffin box, still more than half full of rice and curry.
“Please eat one more fistful, mother… I’ll feed you. Open your mouth…”
Within that single meal, the boy learned the art of feeding without spilling a single grain of rice. Yet, as he delivered each morsel to her lips, his own mouth opened involuntarily, mirroring her actions. Oh! Not only eating, there is so much comfort in feeding too. Probably my mother was availing this comfort while feeding me and starving herself. Even I have not fed myself with so much compassion, he thought, drifting into a strange, profound sense of comfort.
With tender care, he fetched water and gently washed her hands. Rather than discarding the remnants in the tiffin box, he closed the lid, preserving the uneaten portions, and cleansed his own hands.
“Where is your medicine, mother? I’m getting late. I’ll give it to you before I leave,” he offered, his words tinged with concern.
“Medicine?” The old lady’s lips curved into a gentle smile. “There is no medicine, son. I lied to you… I longed to experience the comfort of my children feeding me with love. I availed it from you. The way you fed me with such compassion is medicine enough for me… No need for tablets. Let me tell you something that you must listen to carefully – humans have not understood the value of a meal… They eat not for hunger but for the sake of eating. They know only to buy food, not to consume it. When the whole family sits together and eats, no disease can linger. Today, you have become my grandson.”
“Mother… I wanted to ask you for a long time… Where are your children?”
“Oh, I have my children,” she responded, gesturing towards the photograph. “That’s my son, daughter-in-law, and granddaughter… They work for big companies. My granddaughter studies in an English-medium school… But there is nobody to converse with me. I don’t understand their language. I don’t like the food they cook at home… They have arranged for this rice and curry from outside, as I prefer this type of food. This rice and curry is supplied from elsewhere, but who is there to feed me? Is it possible for me to feed myself? Even when I was able to feed myself, my son and daughter-in-law were ashamed of me in front of their friends, as I ate with my fingers. Look at those spoons and forks on that table. They eat using them… I feel like they are abusing the food while they eat like that. I feel tortured when the servant feeds me with spoons… Sometimes, those forks stab into my gums, and I feel extreme pain… But today, when you fed me, I tasted your fingers too. It’s fine if I die now. I will die with the feeling of comfort that I had a good meal.”
“Don’t say that, mother… From now on, I will bring food for you every day and will feed you myself.”
***
At that moment, a well-dressed man, the son depicted in the photograph, strode into the apartment. In a single glance, he grasped the unfolding situation.
“What happened to you, old hag? Why are you calling these street dogs into our apartment? I have no option but to send you to some old age home,” he bellowed, his words laced with vitriol as he seized the boy by the collar, dragging him towards the door.
“Who gave you the permission to get inside? I’ll call the police now and complain that you have stolen gold from the house…” he threatened, punctuating his threat by pushing him out of the door.
“No…no, Sir… Please, Sir… My tiffin box is inside, Sir… Please give it to me, Sir…otherwise, I’ll lose my job… Please, Sir,” the boy pleaded, desperation clawing at his words.
With a look of utter disgust, the man hurled the soiled tiffin box towards the boy, who caught it with both hands, cradling it against his body as if it were his own beating heart.
As he exited the gate, his own hunger lay dead, a hollow echo within his being.
***
His scooter rushed forward, its speed escalating with each passing moment. A profound disgust consumed him – a revulsion towards the city, its buildings, vehicles, and roads… Everything. If one cannot eat a single meal in peace, then what is the necessity of earning?
His hands had trembled as he placed fistfuls of soil upon the graves of his parents. Today, they shook anew as he fed the old woman…
Slowly, he raised his fingers to his nose, inhaling the lingering aroma of rice and fish curry that clung to them. For a fleeting moment, the world fell away, his senses lost in that fragrant embrace.
Dhadd!
His scooter collided with a truck…
The road itself shuddered at the resounding impact.
Pieces of his being clung to the tarmac, grotesque remnants scattered across the unyielding surface.
Rrrrrooooy, the tiffin box fell, rolling between the unforgiving tires, its contents spilling forth onto the road…
***
Translator Bio:
Kishoo Barkur is the pen name of Kishore Kumar Peter Gonsalves. He hails from Barkur in Udupi District, Karnataka. Proficient in writing short stories, scientific articles, and poetry, he has a keen interest in music, drama, and cinema. His published works include the collection of poems Dhaktya Devachim Bhurgim and the anthology of short stories Rupnnim. Notably, Rupnnim was awarded the Best Book by the Karnataka Konkani Sahitya Academy in 2002. He has also translated Jeev Deevu ya Chai Marum, a novel by Jnanapeetha Awardee Damodar Mauzo, into Kannada, which was published by Bahuvachana Publications. An avid writer in both English and Kannada, he continues to contribute to literary and cultural circles. Furthermore, Kishoo Barkur serves as a trustee of the Kavita Trust, which is dedicated to promoting Konkani poetry, and is currently in his third consecutive term as its President. He also convenes The Expressions, a renowned cultural group in Udupi known for organizing high-quality cultural events. In addition, he is a Director at Daijiworld Media Company and heads the Udupi Franchise Office. He has been working at Adnoc Offshore Abu Dhabi for the past 30 years.
Photo by Anita Jankovic on Unsplash
