I remember her, and the night she tended to a lonely kitten very much in want of something fresh to eat.
“Did you say something about a cat, Ali?” The shopkeeper gets her answer a second later as she spots me. “Brahm’s breath. I’ve seen you before, little one, ji-ah?” She stoops to scratch the side of my head.
I allow it, knowing this is not the time to take umbrage. Not with Sarika’s needs still unmet.
“Here for another bowl?” The woman’s eyes drift back to Sarika. “And what’s with you, little one?”
The girl has no words, this time merely pointing my way.
It is Ali then who fills the silence with an explanation. “She came in with the kitten, Maanvi. But, look at her. She’s in rags. And doesn’t look like she’s eaten a good bit in sets.”
The woman looks Sarika over and realizes Ali speaks truth. “Come here, girl. We’ll get you sorted, and your kitten.” She speaks in the voice of someone who is never argued with and does not expect that to change any time soon. Maanvi turns and moves toward the kitchen, and I follow.
Sarika, however, lingers behind. Doubt once again clear along her face.
A heavy hand lands on her shoulder and jars her a bit. But it is Ali’s touch, and he gives her a gentle shove forward. “It’s all right, girl. Maanvi sounds meaner than she is.” He grins and grabs one of his earlobes, pulling on it in a manner many do when indicating a light joke. “But she is a good cook, and we make soup to spare, ah?” One of his hands claps to his belly, giving it a heavy pat. “Though, maybe some of us have a bit too much of it.” Ali laughs, and it brings Sarika to smiling.
She follows as the server leads the way to the kitchen. We come into a place packed far past comfort. Elbows brushing elbows, and fires fed full to warm to pots of soup and stew. A woman grabs a bowl and ladles it full before leaving.
Maanvi moves past another server, eyeing two women preparing ingredients. “Two bowls. Goat, sides of rice, and extra spice!”
A chorus of, “Ji,” greets her back. Maanvi does not stop, though. She moves to a pot, tasting its offering before addressing the room once again. “More star anise, and white pepper!”
Once again, “Ji,” echoes through the room.
“Tables are full, customers are waiting. Move-move.”
“Ji!”
Several people leave the room giving Sarika and I the space for privacy with the shopkeeper.
The older woman rounds on us and thrusts her chin up. “So, what is it, little one? Why do you look like you haven’t had a good meal in a while?” Maanvi doesn’t wait for an answer, though. Instead, she gestures to two large pots that have been simmering away. “One is stew: chickpeas, lamb, mountain rabbit, and spiced enough to keep the cold from your bones for many nights.” She smiles. “The other is a lentil soup: turmeric, cumin, coriander, and more. It’s light and filling. Very good. Which would you like?”
Sarika shuffles from foot to foot, her gaze falling to the floor. “I can’t pay.”
Maanvi gives the young girl a mother’s smile with all the warmth and patience as well. “I didn’t ask if you could, sweetling. Now, which will be, hm? Oi, Ali, why are you standing there watching—ah? You’re not paid to do that. If you’re going to linger here, get the girl a bowl and get a ladle, ji?”
The man knows enough not to say anything other the appropriate response. “Ji-ah!” And he moves to do as he’s been ordered.
“Then the lamb, please. It has meat, and that means…” Sarika’s words fall apart, but she manages to look my way, making her intention clear.
“Oh, don’t worry about this one, ji? I remember this little flame.” She reaches down to brush the knuckle of one finger against my nose. Not a place I particularly enjoy to be touched, but given the kindness she is showing Sarika, I will permit it.
Humans are often ignorant of boundaries, and more so on matters of invitation, but they have hearts of kindness if you give them chance to show it. And for that, they are mostly tolerable.
This is one of those moments.
Ali brings a bowl of lamb stew and sets it on the counter near us. Maanvi all the while picks meat from another bowl, shredding it fine with her nails before placing it atop a wooden board.
“I think I have some clotted cream here as well.” The shopkeeper fetched that as well, pouring the contents of a shallow pan into a bowl. She laid the assembly of food before me and reached out for another affectionate touch.
Given what she has offered, I feel an acceptable exchange. Her nails dig into my fur just behind my throat and she scratches somewhere that needed soothing. “Now, tell me what is wrong…” Maanvi stops short, leaving the question hanging in the air. The obvious invitation for Sarika to offer her name.
And the little girl does just that. “Sarika.” Her name comes out nearly mangled as the girl struggles with a piece of all too hot meat.
I, knowing well enough the proper order of things, try the cream first. It is more than satisfactory. My compliments, cook. “Mrrrl.” The shredded lamb it just hot enough for me to nurse a small worry of burning myself, but its taste makes up for any discomforting heat.
“So, what is it then, Sarika?” Maanvi fixes the young girl with a mother’s stare. A weight of inquisition as much as gentleness.
Sarika swallows and takes a breath. “My mama is sick. I don’t know what’s wrong, or how to make her better. We don’t have much. Not since papa…” Her words fall apart, but Maanvi understands what goes unsaid.
“Oh, child.” The shopkeeper crosses the distance and wraps her arms around Sarika, holding her tight.
I know Maanvi’s heart, and though many people are not given the chance to show the fullest of theirs, this is a moment when hers will shine through. I know it. And it is why I have brought Sarika here. To prove to her a hidden truth I have learned.
That despite the cruelties that man can be capable of, there is a warmth of love within you lot as well. It just takes the right people to show that to you.
And in a world as large and wide as ours, there are always the right people. You just need to know how and where to find them. Which of course I do. After all, a cat is nothing if not discriminating in finding the perfect things no matter the situation or need.
“Before your mother took ill, was she a good cook? Did she work needle and thread?” Maanvi fetches Sarika a mug of something warm and spiced, promising to take any chill away.
The young girl bows her head. “Good cook. But she never—”
Maanvi doesn’t wish to hear anything further. That answer is more than enough for the matron of the soup-shop. “Never you mind, Sarika. Wait here. I have some customers to speak to. Customers I’ve given much love to and never asked a spare chip from for any extra consideration. Now there’s something I need to bend their ear for.” The woman marches off at that, and I follow in tow.
Though my stomach and palette yearn to savor more of the food, I cannot leave Sarika’s future unknown. So, I must hear what is happening next.
We make our way back among the crowded tables where elbows jostle, soup splatters at times across wood, and someone occasionally laughs.
“Oi-ya.” Maanvi’s puts a hand to her mouth, ensuring her cry echoes far through her shop. “Is Mender-sahm here? Where’s Mender Katar, huh? Where are you?”
A man rises. He is the sort of lean that is much apparent with just how much his winter robes hang off his frame. The man could be someone’s grandfather with how white his hair has gone, and the lines along his face, but there is a brightness in the gray of his eyes. An invitation and warmth that matches this place—the same as Maanvi’s.