No lingering

A resident of Matharpacady decides to reclaim his peaceful Sunday mornings

- Nandita da Cunha

Myron would have flung his door open to the visitor, but then, in his gaothan, Matharpacady, he was one of the few who still left his door open.

“Come in, come in,” he said, attempting a smile. That soon faded, seeing that the young man had already swept in, and made himself comfortable on Myron’s lion-headed, Burma teak armchair.

“Uncle, why so much trouble? Who can eat all this?” the visitor asked, helping himself liberally to the spread before him. Flaky patties and aloo chops. Crisp murukku and vadi.

“No trouble, Rihaan, it’s what I do,” mumbled Myron.

“Call me Rio… I’m Rio to friends” he replied, mouth full.

Myron still had to pack that morning’s orders; better find a way to get to the point.

“I’ve been wanting to have a word anyway. So when you called—”

He trailed off. “Rio” wasn’t listening. “Too good!” he was declaring, smacking his lips. “How did you guess?”

“Eh?”

“Guess why I wanted to come?” Rio gestured at the feast before him and waited with such gleeful expectation, that despite himself, Myron found himself fumbling to find reasons why this impostor—whom he should have been telling off that very moment—should choose to visit him, that Saturday morning.

“To approve your…walk thing? Son, I’m no longer head of our association—”

“No, no. We got all permissions. The agency is super excited—our ‘secret village’ walk! And you’re going to join us.” Myron stared blankly. “Shall I tell you how?”

“If you’d please,” mumbled Myron, crossing his arms.