|ANOTHER SUNDAY (standard:non fiction, 2141 words)|
|Author: Gaspar Almeida||Added: Jan 23 2006||Views/Reads: 2635/1508||Story 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 Click here to read the rest of this story (117 more lines)
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