Encounters

Lali was a fisher-woman who came every other day. She sat in her black abaya against the white wall of the house next door. A woven basket containing chunks of tuna, big pieces of king fish , pomfrets the size of plates , sat in front of her. She sat there from 9 in the morning until 12 . Cats walked up to her ,their eyes glazed over with pleasure from the smell of the fish. The housewives , a mix of Indian and Pakistani expatriates and Omani-Baloushi  women, trooped to where Lali sat. But this was not just a business. It was, for Lali and the women in the neighborhood, a place to exchange gossip about everyone living in the homes under the great acacia tree.

I think my love of fish dates back to that time.I can see her still in my mind's eye as if it were just yesterday. The fish was bought fresh each morning at the Muttrah fish market. And it actually smelled -good even before it was made into all the fragrant curries in the different households. Odd thing to say about fish I know. But it really wasn't smelly. The basket smelled like the sea as did Lali herself. I sometimes wish I could draw her. There was something wonderfully interesting about her face. She seemed of indeterminate age. But now that I think of it she could easily have been middle-aged or near enough. Her plump happy face framed by the black hijab with the sun-browned skin and the big silver nose stud and the twinkly eyes immediately invited one to spill whatever secrets one may or may not be carrying. Her smile was wide and her teeth crooked and yellowed. I wonder what kept her so happy. It could not have been an easy life.

Another thing- she was always good tempered. Even when the haggling began with her customers who invariably quoted ridiculously low prices she never once lost her temper or shouted back. Then again, her voice was loud and booming enough to be heard without her having to shout/shriek/scream. She was nice to the cats. I remember that too. No matter how annoyingly close they got or rubbed themselves up against her -ingratiating themselves to her no doubt in the hopes of having a piece ( or wonder of wonders- an entire fish!) thrown at them.

I always wondered about her. Did she have a family? Where did she go when she wasn't sitting there? I don't think anyone asked. My mother, one of the most curious women you'll ever meet, never knew much about Lali except that she was a Baloushi woman. Did no one ask her? I wish sometimes I'd been old enough to ask. How did it all play out for her- life, love, family, I wonder...

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Another encounter a couple of decades later- this time in the 2000's. I was in Jebel Akhdhar in Oman. It must have been sometime in November. I went trekking there with my parents. We came to a point where stone steps had been cut into the side of a steep hill. The way down was dotted here and there with walnut and almond trees- bare at that time of year except for a few leaves. Somehow , slipping and sliding over the lose stones, we managed to get down to the wadi which was dry and filled with tan colored boulders and rocks of various sizes. I found a ledge to sit on and rest a bit- taking in the pleasant silent solitude of the place. In the distance on the mountains lining the other side of the wadi there were ruins of some old settlements. And then we heard it - a slow steady dull thud of something hitting the rocks in the wadi. It came closer and closer until suddenly round a bend close to where were sitting, a wizened old man in a dishdasha and muzzar came by on crutches. His left leg had been amputated above the knee. But he seemed perfectly balanced on the wooden crutches and deftly negotiated the rocks in the wadi.

Source: Here

Seeing us , he flashed a nearly toothless smile and came closer and struck up a conversation with my father. Dad being fluent enough in the language sussed out that the old gentleman was on his way to a village nearby to meet his friend. The friend's village was five kilometers away from where we were and his village was about seven kilometers in the direction he'd just come from. Further questioning revealed that he'd lost his leg in the war in the 1950's that the Omani forces had fought with the British forces against the invading Saudis. He had apparently been a young lad of 17 or so at the time. There had been shelling and his unit had been hit. He had survived but they had had to amputate the leg. The story was punctuated with lots of  Allah Kareems ( Allah is Merciful) , both by him and my father. We then asked him why did he have to walk to see his friend- it seemed an exhausting thing to do. He said he enjoyed it- the weather was wonderful at that time of year and he couldn't wait around for his children to drive him down as he had already put off the visit for too many weeks. He was his best friend you see- this one that he was going to see. We talked some more and then he was off.