One of the first sounds I would wake up to in our town house, was an intense conversation between Gita Bai, the vegetable hawker and Ammi on life and such.
Gita Bai, the hawker who got the freshest produce in town made her first stop at our house. She would talk about her sons and daughters, their lives and miseries, the son who has ran away to the city, the daughter who has not been able to conceive a male child yet and the crops that are not doing well. She would explain how she quickly, which I suppose was quite relative, wants to finish selling the vegetables so she could attend the road construction. Yes, attend, so she could get her name on the list of workers of the day, just so she could get paid but didn't necessarily have to work on the road. Ammi would listen, often losing her debate on what's really the right thing to do against Gita's theories of survival, being the only earning member in the family.
Sometimes I would sit next to Ammi, pick up the pea pods from a wooden weaved basket that was lined with floral but rugged cloth. Opening the tender bright green pods and discovering how many little balls would come out of it kept me amused and entertained. They were always sweet, the ones Gita Bai would pick up and hand me that is.
