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ANOTHER SUNDAY (standard:non fiction, 2141 words)
Author: Gaspar AlmeidaAdded: Jan 23 2006Views/Reads: 2635/1508Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
A story of a village life of a family in Goa, India
 



Another Sunday 

- by Gaspar Almeida 

The morning air, crisp with frost, greeted him as he opened the door to
step out onto the stone-flagged floor leading into the fold yard of his 
neighbourhood. His ward had his family name, being the only five houses 
whose residents had the popular family name, Braganza Vaddo. The old 
hand pump, standing next to the house door, long since discarded for 
the modern tap water, had a long icicle hanging from the leaded spout. 
The attached well has been drained out due to carelessness, even though 
it was not silted. 

Roldao Braganza bent down and, grasping it between his fingers, broke it
off and lifted the frozen stalactite up to catch the rays of the weak 
morning sun which was just appearing in the east. The light caught 
within the prism gave off a rainbow-like brilliance. The small gate, 
which clearly displayed the words Braganza Villa, creaked as it swung 
on its hinges; the noise alerted the beasts awaiting him in the yard 
and brought forth comment from those that seemed to think that feeding 
time was always overdue. Roldao stepped off the cobbles of the path 
onto the thickly packed straw covering the ground, feeling the hard, 
frozen, uneven surface made by the cloven hoofs during the softer 
weather. Crossing over to the stone building on the east wall and 
opening the door, he was greeted with the bleating of calves and the 
warm heavy familiar smell of animals. 

The galvanised bin top clanged against the wall as the lid was thrown
open, and a flash of brown fur erupted past his hand as a small rat, 
taking its morning meal was disturbed. His lips formed a soft curse as 
he struck at the rodent with the scoop that he used for measuring the 
feed. The next hour was filled with routine jobs that he performed at a 
measured pace with nothing forgotten. He enjoyed his morning tasks and 
the familiar duties gave him a feeling of satisfaction. Roldao was not 
a man for showing a lot of affection, but the calves licking his hand 
as he provided for their needs and the cat rubbing its back against his 
leg were treated to a gentle touch, which disguised an inner 
tenderness, not easily recognised by the majority of humans. By the 
time he had finished his morning tasks, the sun had gained strength, 
scattering the shadows away and beginning to burn the white dew drops 
from the roofs, the trees in the garden and exposed areas. He felt good 
as he stepped into the warm kitchen and smelled the rich aroma of the 
sorpatel gently heating over the small flame. Sitting at the table, he 
looked into the fire and enjoyed the sweet hot taste of strong tea. 
Reaching into his pocket, he took out his box of matches, which he 
always kept in a small leather covering and proceeded to fill and light 
his first pipe of the day. This action matched the slow and easy pace 
that governed his existence. Clouds of light blue smoke filled the air 
as the careful ritual of lighting took place. The fire in the stove 
having formed a bridge while burning dropped with a clatter and brought 
his mind to everyday things. He had been day dreaming a little in the 
warmth of the kitchen, after having been out in the cold. Someone would 
have remembered today, he thought, but nothing had been said at 
breakfast...nothing much was ever said at breakfast. How long was it 
now? Is he sixty or sixty one? He could never remember. "Well," he said 
softly, “if I can't remember, why should anyone else?” He stretched his 
legs and stood. Walking across to the coats hanging on the pegs near 
the door, he put on his jacket and picked up his stick that was 
standing in the corner and clasped it his hand like an old friend. 
Roldao walked out the door and across the road and surveyed the 
surrounding countryside. How this small village of Parra, has changed! 
Things were barren at this time of the year, but he knew that the 
dormant life within the land would break forth again when nature worked 
its annual miracle. He turned and, with a measured pace, walked down 
the road a short way to where a black and white hare was waiting with 
anticipation at the prospect of its daily run. The dog ran among the 
trees in the groves with the first burst of released energy; it sniffed 
at various scents that greeted its nose, and after investigation, 
passed on to new delights. 

The dog Blackie stopped, its ears lifted as if to catch the sound of the
familiar tread of boots along the road, a clear sound in the morning 
air. With another burst of energy, it exploded into action to join his 
master and follow at his heels, pausing only to check any interesting 
piece on the roadside. Lifting its leg, it marked its territory with 


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