sesquipedalien

I hate the book I am reading. But it clings to me. Clings and clings. Begging to be finished. My hatred is a sort of love for it. So I flip the page. And look up happily when the door creaks open.

It is she. Slowly moving, her knees loading the weight cautiously in measured steps. I watch. The sun folds gently into the creases of her sweet, sweet face. The swing creaks and she turns my way. Smiles. Her glasses somehow miss the glare. She reaches for the yellow plastic chair.

“Would you like to sit here?” I ask.

“Oh no no! The oil drops.” she responds, lifting the chair and placing it in the shade of the stucco column.

Oil. Baby oil. Ah. She washed her hair today. Like every Friday. I know, without knowing.

She places the little steel dabi on the cement, the yellow comb on her lap. Her legs relax, her toes painted in sunshine. Her fingers reach back lazily and undo the braid.

And what locks! Silver with traces of black. A queens wish. An envy of her neighbors. A possession her mother would have both cherished and feared for… I can see her, young, running on the dirt paths of her village, her mother yelling at her to not leave her hair out, drawing unwanted stares… I smile.

She pours the oil, her nimble fingers holding the dabi with a delicacy, her eyes measuring the amount falling onto her palm. She rests the dabi exactly from where she had lifted it. She hums. Her fingers, the same that had kneaded countless batched of dough, combed through innumerable plates of cumin, pinched uncountable grains of salt, the very same, now rub the oil into her scalp.

The shine spreads. Her humming is as natural as the green grass growing on the lawn. A part of this ritual as much as was folding a napkin after a dinner at a well mannered table.

I watch.

She takes so much pleasure… Sitting in a shaded spot, feeling the sun seeping through her sari, pouring oil into her thick, long, gorgeous silvering hair, humming, breathing, being…

She finishes. She combs gracefully, careful to not let the ends touch the dirt on the patio floor. Then she braids it, her fingers slow and practiced, as if taking time for the sake of taking it and having nothing to give back. She examines her work, her fingers running gingerly over her head, checking for bumps. There are none.

She catches me. Smiling.

“Why are you smiling?” She asks.

“For the sake of smiling, Grandmother.”

She laughs. Raises herself. Places the chair back in its rightful slot. She walks by.

And the door creaks again.

The page is forgotten.

And I sit. Just sit.

Smelling traces of oil in the still, still air.

Baby oil.