I now live in a village.
So every Sidhappa and Jayamma who saunter by hold forth on how I should oil my hair and coil it into a sinister snake to rest in the nape of my neck.
Are you married, they ask, peering closely at my unadorned neck. Their unhurried gaze rests on my barren forehead and narrows in collective doubt.
Where is your husband, they ask, peering over my shoulder into the recesses of my house.
Tour, I say. He has gone to foreign lands.
Does he have house and zameen there, they ask.
Now, that is a thought.
Then there is Irfan who comes to my doorstep and repairs my cooker under the cherry tree. As also my mixer-grinder. Are you Muslim, he asks. Again my neck and forehead!
Last week Imlabai who temps as domestic help took me aside.
You are losing a lot of hair Akka, she said. I agreed sadly.
Read the Bible, she said, it will stop falling. Only Jesus can save your hair, she said and gave me a copy of the Bible in Kannada.
And the Village Drunk comes by once again. He wants me to buy the stones he took from me last month. Only four rupees per stone, he says, just for you.
I see a baby cobra slide by the compound wall and the Drunk cannily slithers away.
Like I said, I now live in a village
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