Charudutt Acharya on the Old Bombay group. ‘LALICE' ---------- “Baba say my name?” “Lalice” “O le…kiti goad (Cho chweet). Say na Alice. Aael-liss?” “Lalice” “OK next time say OK?. Here! Take extra tadgola (ice apple) for you” The year was 2003. This was a weekly Sunday morning conversation between my three- year-old older boy and 18 -year -old Alice who sold the freshest gourds, leafy veggies, ice apples, bananas and coconuts her family grew. They lived in Madh island and had small patches and groves. They sold seasonal produce outside the fish market in my neighborhood. Alice was East Indian Catholic. She spoke fluent Marathi, broken English , and terrible Hindi. She wore floral printed frocks, flowers in her hair, gold hoops on her ears, gold bangles on her wrists and chewed gum. Dusky and slender, she had the most transparent honey brown eyes in the whole of Madh Island. She had seen my boy when he was inside his mother’s tummy. She had held him when I first took him to the market. And they had been at this ‘Lalice Alice’ thing for a year now. The boy was baba for her. I was dada. (Elder brother). She would tell me what to take from her stuff. The freshest. And she always greeted me with a handshake and the boy with a hug and a cheek squeeze. In winters, she would occasionally supply me with fresh toddy her fiancé’s father tapped. Her fiancé Andre aka Andrya, didn’t tap toddy as he couldn’t. He was born with just one arm. But boy! What an arm it was. The strapping 21-year-old grew vegetables and fruits. At the stall he was her handyman and he sliced coconuts and ice apples with one hand. All the hard work had ripped him like no gym could. He never wore a shirt. He never smiled. And they fought like snake and mongoose. There would be days when, while entering the market, I’d see her shower the choosiest of East Indian Marathi abuses hyphenated with an English ‘bloody’ or a Hindi ‘saala’. And after buying fish, on the way out, when I went to buy veggies from her, Andrya would be affectionately planting bright red hibiscus flower on to her bun, squinting and his tongue sticking out. When ever he made her laugh with poker faced, under the breathe one liners, she would slap his arm, his chest.. what ever came in range. He always sat behind her, amidst his coconuts and ice apples, continuously spinning his ‘koyta’ (machete) by the handle. He was like a bodyguard nobody should ever mess with. He always nodded at me and made a funny face at the boy. But he took the toddy seriously. When he would hand me over the 2 liter Sprite bottle, his entire being would beam with pride. It was amazingly brilliant palm toddy. Fermented just right, it would give you a mild lazy high and went well with fresh mackerel curry and rice. Two liters was a lot. I’d share half with a Goan neighbor John uncle who would never fail to get me ginger infused Feni from his village. And the Sunday siesta that would follow, would be bliss. Then one Sunday Alice blushed a bit when she told me she her stall would be closed the next Sunday. She and Andre were getting married. I had shaken hands with both and wished them well. She had happily hugged the boy. ” Baba your Lalice getting marry re!”. Two weeks later, they were back. Suddenly from a girl, she looked like a woman, with her mangalsutra , more jewelry and a more conservative frock. Andrya was in a a formal half sleeve shirt over his shorts. And a month or two later, my boy managed to say ‘Alice’. She had teared up a bit and asked him to call her Lalice only. Over the next few years, they changed. They almost never fought. But they didn’t laugh much either. They worked much, much harder. She had stopped chewing gum. He grew a mustache and started wearing trousers too. Then I lost touch with them for a good ten years. I was out of the city for a year and half, and in my absence the missus began buying the fish and veggies. The boy and boy No.2 grew up and stopped going to the market with her. They had games to play on Sunday morning. When I returned, I never really returned to the market. A new routine had been set. Then in 2013 or so, I once went to the market because the missus told me they were breaking it down. It was emotional going back. I met Sangeeta, our regular Kolin (fisher woman). I met Kandakaka , the regular white onion, Kokum and garlic seller. But there was no Alice. I asked another girl Violet (her cousin) where was Alice. Her face fell. She said, “Alice doesn’t sit here anymore’. I asked her what happened. She just went silent. I was intrigued. I asked her again and she muttered, “Try Orlem market.” Orlem market was not too far. I just had to know what happened to her. I went to Orlem market. It was bigger and more crowded. But I spotted her. When she saw me approach her, she got up and greeted me with her trademark handshake. She had filled out some bit. She wore no jewelry or flowers. There was not much life in her eyes that once shone and how! I was afraid to ask, but I asked. “Andre?”. She bit her lip, trying not to cry, when she told me he died a year back in a major hooch tragedy in the nearby slums of Malvani. He came from a family of toddy tappers. I had bought some of the freshest, healthiest toddy from him. I remembered her telling me, before they were married, that he was a teetotaler. “He only drink Fanta”. I mumbled a sorry. It was one of the most miserable moments of my life. She wiped her tears, smiled and asked me,” How is baba? And fat baba Number 2 ? And vahini? “ (brother’s wife). I told her all are well. Baba just finished school. “Show photo”. I had their pictures on my phone. “Aaah! Kiti mothe zhale dada!”(How they have grown!). I just did not have the guts to ask her if she had any of her own. And as if she heard my thought, she just shook her head and began packing my veggies. Six more years passed. And day before yesterday, the missus sent me to get some specific veggies and banana leaf to make some traditional dish. As I set out, it was around seven in the evening and it was drizzling. And when I reached our local vegetable bhaiyya, under a lamp post, I saw her again. She was getting out of a three-wheeler tempo with the longest snake gourds that she was supplying to another bhaiyya stall. She had her zing back. There was a flower in her hair and some minimal jewelry and a East Indian Catholic Mangasutra. And there was a man helping her with the veggies, who had also driven the three-wheeler tempo. They worked in sync. And I had seen this sync before. The moment she saw me, she smiled. Those eyes. That voice. That face wet in the drizzle under the street lamp. We shook hands and she did an affectionate half hug. I looked at her tempo. I looked at her man. “Show baba photo” she demanded. I showed her a bearded twenty -year- old. She just laughed doing a ‘hawww’. She said” Lalice” I nodded “ Lalice”. She said he must be twenty now. I said he is away at university. She looked on for a few more seconds and then her man honked. She smiled and hopped. “I am at Orlem and here and other places too. Tell me if you need any local produce dada!”” she shouted out, as the tempo drove into the rain. I hope to see more of her. Buy some stuff from her. And I am so happy to see her happy again. “Lalice”
Roland. Toronto.
