ANOTHER SUNDAY (standard:non fiction, 2141 words)
Author: Gaspar Almeida	Added: Jan 23 2006	Views/Reads: 3912/2415	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
A story of a village life of a family in Goa, India

Click here to read the first 75 lines of the story

the contempt of a dog certain of its position. At the junction of the 
lane, Roldao stopped to poke his walking stick into a plastic 
bag--Dubai Duty Free-Fly Dubai--clearly written on it that some 
inconsiderate person had thrown into the hedge. Lifting it carefully, 
he carried it ten yards to the bin supplied for such rubbish, wishing 
that he could throw the mess into the offending person's garden. Litter 
was something that touched a raw nerve in him; he liked order and 
routine, with a place for everything and everything in its place. 
Nothing was ever wasted, pieces of string were collected, and plastic 
bags folded. Anything that he considered useless burnt in the backyard 
of his lovely red-Mangalorean tiled home, on days favored by weather 
conditions and direction of wind. Roldao was a cautious man, of habits 
developed from his early years when he had worked from before daybreak 
until after dark, to scratch a living from the land, to enable him to 
raise a family, and pay his way in life. Proud that he was 
self-sufficient, he asked for nothing and was in debt to no one. A 
God-fearing man, aware of his reliance on the elements and God, but 
critical of the administration of the village Church as well as the 
small chapel designated to the Holy Cross. Not that he voiced his 
opinions for all to hear, to anyone who knew him; He allowed his 
feelings to be known by his plain look, or silence which greeted 
certain subjects of conversation. The walk through the long, narrow 
road towards the fields and a small rivulet were thick with autumn 
leaves, and his tread was muffled, apart from the occasional twig 
snapping loudly under his heel. The dog with its tail and hind quarters 
just visible, could be heard scratching at the entrance of a 'Katanor' 
wild rat hole, which it had located with the smell of fresh earth, 
having been excavated by its inhabitants during the early morning to 
expand their subterranean home. As they came out of the woods, they 
stopped. The dog, Moti, taking a drink from the spring which bubbled 
away throughout the year, emerged from the ditch, shook the water from 
its head, and then to sat down to scratch its ear, trying to dislodge a 
sticky burr from its fur. From his vantage point, Roldao looked across 
at the motorway, an open wound across the countryside, carrying the 
noisy, smelly metal vehicles, moving like ants along the concrete 
ribbon, rushing with suicidal urgency through the peaceful rural area, 
unaware of the silent observer. Roldao had watched the road being built 
with interest, was sorry to lose his valuable land, but happy with the 
compensation paid for it. He had been amazed at the earth moving 
equipment, overawed by its size and capacity for work, puzzled by the 
numerous excavations, and finally, rather surprised at the results, 
after what had appeared to be total confusion. He reflected over his 
sixty years, remembering the view as it was in his youth, when fields 
and woods had been the only things that could be seen till the far ends 
of his neighbouring villages surrounding--Nagoa, Saligao, and the 
hilltop Monte-de-Guirim school buildings....as far as his eyesight 
reached. Many changes had taken place, but Roldao would not openly 
admit to it, that quite a lot had been for the better. The sound of the 
church bell calling people to morning service wafted clearly over the 
sharp air; with his right hand, Roldao pulled the large watch from his 
left waistcoat pocket to check the time, and gave the winder a few 
turns before returning it; then he proceeded to refill his pipe, 
carefully rubbing the tobacco between his palms, and methodically 
packing the bowl with practised fingers, and finally applying the 
flame. He puffed until he was satisfied that it was burning evenly 
before proceeding on his way. Outside the house door, he removed the 
thick mud from his boots with the metal scraper hanging on the wall. 
And then, using the stiff yard brush to remove the remainder, he went 
into the kitchen to sit in the 'Portugal' chair, just inside the door; 
removing his heavy boots, he placed his feet in the slippers he had 
been given at his last birthday. 

Dinner was placed on the table at twelve o' clock. Meals like everything
else were taken at fixed times, the word lunch was a term that was not 
used. Breakfast was served at eight, after the milking and feeding was 
completed. Dinner at twelve, teatime at four and supper at ten. Thus 
the day was divided into tidy and orderly periods, which varied only 
when visitors arrived to bring news or to pay visits. Sitting at the 
table, he picked up his knife and fork to tackle the first course of 
his Sunday dinner--a large golden piece of pudding, covered with thick 
steaming brown gravy. Following this, a joint of beef was placed before 
him; after sharpening the knife on the steel, which was placed next to 
his plate, he carved portions of meat for all present. There was a pie 
or selection of other things for anyone who required additional food,  
but usually Sunday dinner was enough for anyone, anyway. 

Teatime would be at four o' clock. After having a cup of tea, he went to
sit in the front room, with his back to the light coming from the 
window. Putting on his spectacles, he picked up the Sunday paper to 
read what the rest of the world was doing. He soon tired of the 
depressing communications and his head slowly dropped onto the cushion 
of the chair, as a drowsy feeling of wellbeing slipped over him. Roldao 
awoke to the sound of people coming into the house--the clatter of feet 
running down the hallway, followed by the door bursting open as two 
grandchildren pushing at each other, both wanting to be the first to 
thrust upon him their carefully wrapped parcel. He tactfully took them 
both at the same time, as they climbed onto his chair, kissing him, and 
wishing him a happy birthday. The problem of which parcel to open first 
was resolved with his saying "Ladies should be first." This drew a 
comment from the boy, "Grandpa likes to keep the best until the last.” 
As eruption of tempers ensued, he instructed both of them, "Change, and 
go and play". Laughter reached his ears soon afterwards as some new 
delight filled their minds and attention. 

The afternoon and evening were filled with the visitation of friends and
relations, bringing small gifts and greetings, until he heard the clock 
in the kitchen strike nine o' clock. He changed into his night pajamas, 
pulled his scarf from the hanger around his neck, adjusting it to ward 
off the cool breeze and performed his nightly routine of checking every 
latch at the windows, the long wooden 'addambo' to the main door. 
Through the kitchen door, he took his very important asset--a long 
Eveready six-cell torch, adjusted the lights, and checked on the 
welfare of all his stock. His ever-present dog 'Blackie' moved around 
step by step, a little ahead of him. The cold night air brought a flush 
to his cheeks as he looked up at the clear starlit sky, the moon 
lighting the farm buildings with a soft glow. 

Returning, he locked all the doors and made sure that everything was
secure. Then, turning to the kitchen table, he picked up a piece of 
paper covered with crayon drawings. Written across the bottom of the 
paper were the words "Happy Birthday Grandpa...Have a good Day." He 
considered the writing, reading the words slowly again, and then, 
smiling to himself he said aloud.  "By God! ...Yes!.....It has been a 
good day. 

Gaspar Almeida


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