Prayer Beads and Samosas
Prayer Beads and Samosas
Flash Fiction
I am delighted to share another short (flash, this time) with you, which has recently been accepted by the Flash Fiction Forum. Additionally, I’ve been invited to read this piece at their upcoming 10th anniversary event next month.
An original version of this story was selected for publication by the international literary journal, Ariel Chart, last May.
Prayer Beads and Samosas
Flash fiction by Reena Kapoor
The man appeared suddenly at the door calling to her, Mataji! In that age and place calling an older woman by her name would have been considered loutish, even insulting. He was addressing my grandmother who sat cooking at a coal-fired stove, prayer beads in hand, reciting from her prayer book, with her dupatta covering her head. She always prayed as she cooked.
It was summer and my family was visiting my grandmother in Haridwar, a small town where the Ganga gushes into the plains of north India. We sat on the floor of her spacious kitchen that doubled as a dining space, eagerly awaiting lunch. She was sitting on a low stool stirring a very large pot of daal with her right hand. Her other hand continued its hypnotic course over the prayer beads. She would put down her beads from time to time, but somehow I knew she never lost her spot in the count when she resumed.
When the young man spoke, she slowly turned towards him. My father made a move to stand up at the sight of a stranger inside the house, but she motioned for him to stay put. The young man stood in the outer doorway to the kitchen.
He repeated urgently, Mataji, may I speak with you?
She tilted her head, Who are you, son?
Then she carefully put down the lid on the noisy pot, adjusting her dupatta to fully cover her head. She stood up and as she went towards him he bent down to touch her feet. She put out her hand to bless him, Blessings! Who are you, son?
He gave out a sob, Forgive me Mataji! I came to ask for your forgiveness. She looked at him and then at us. We all looked blank. The man stood there wiping his tears, his eyes lowered. He pleaded again.
She answered hurriedly, Yes son, I forgive you but what have you done that demands my forgiveness? He wouldn't answer but gave out another sob, touched her feet and left.
She shook her head and adjusting her dupatta, returned to the stove. She stirred the pot and then began to ladle out the daal on top of the anticipatory mounds of rice on our plates. We started eating at once, wondering who the young man had been but never quite arriving at any plausible theory. After lunch we all proceeded for our customary summer afternoon nap.
That evening there was a knock at the door. My sister and I ran to open it with great excitement. Few guests came to visit my grandmother but when they did she would send off for samosas and other savories from the market. This time we found a middle-aged policeman at the door. We stared at him speechless, as my father arrived and invited him in. The policeman asked to talk to my grandmother. When she came, as always making sure her head was covered, he asked her if a young man had come by.
She looked surprised,Yes, but who was he?
The policeman relaxed, Ah you don’t remember, Mataji! You saved his life. He was the thief who came to rob your house last year! Remember? When he was caught, your neighbors gathered and wanted to beat him senseless with rods and hockey sticks? They would’ve killed him or at least maimed him for life. He told us that you brought him into the house to save him from the mob — without any fear for yourself! Well, he spent several months in jail reflecting on his deeds — realized he could’ve been killed that day but for you. When he was released he wanted to ask for your forgiveness.
My grandmother listened, then nodded slowly and went back to her beads. The samosas arrived with perfect timing — just after the policeman left.
This piece of flash fiction was inspired by a true incident in my grandmother’s life. I wasn’t there when it happened, only learned of it much later. But it fired up my imagination - and admiration - to think about who she was and the code of courage and dharma that guided her.
I would love your reactions and thoughts! I always appreciate your comments and likes no matter when you respond.
Enjoyed the story! And your narration!!
"Her other hand continued its hypnotic course over the prayer beads. She would put down her beads from time to time, but somehow I knew she never lost her spot in the count when she resumed."
I love this image, Reena.
Beautiful story. Always a treat to read your fiction.