WILD FLOWERS ON AN OCTOBER MORNING
CHRIS parked the Range Rover at the side of the main road on the East Coast and stepped out, pulling his cap down low so as not to be recognised. He stood there for a little while, looking at the place he had come to visit. It was a quiet, secluded area and taking a deep breath, he walked a little way to a narrow dam that the villagers called the old road. It led through a small village where he had lived as a little boy.

“This road I can never forget,” he voiced to himself, “My footprints are probably embedded in the dirt.”
It was a road he had walked as a little boy going to school with worn boots and wrinkled uniforms, a road where he had to hold his drunken father’s hand to guide him home.
“The suffering of those days,” he expressed, a wry smile on his face.
He walked further and saw the old house he had lived in standing still but in a neglected state. Nothing much had changed in the little village, nestled between silk cotton, tamarind and genip trees, a place time seemed to have forgotten.

He left when he was fourteen to join a cricket academy in the city, sponsored by an overseas sports organisation. He had been spotted at school competitions for his batting talent and that opportunity reshaped his life. He had visited home for short periods until his first call-up at the national level and from then on, he had never looked back. But he had promised one person to return one day after becoming successful and established, and he never forgot that promise.
It was a kind old villager, Aunty Sheila.

She had a small fireside under the tamarind tree, not far from her house and every morning she cooked delicious local food for customers in and out of the village. Chris had to pass her every morning on his way to school and since there was always insufficient food at his home, his stomach would rumble from the aroma of Aunty Sheila’s food. A few times he had paused, wanting something to eat but didn’t ask. Then one morning, she called him and asked, “Yuh hungry beta?”
He had nodded.

“Yuh doan get enough food at home?”
He had shaken his head and the old lady had clicked her tongue sympathetically, “Yuh need good food tuh grow and become a big bai.”
She told him to sit on one of the tree stumps, wrapped fried bora with shrimps, potato and tomatoes in a roti, and gave him a tin cup of lime tea.
Food, for Chris, had never tasted that good, like that morning.

It stayed etched in his memory and more so on that morning, wild flowers were in riotous bloom all around, making it a good day.
From that day on, she gave him food regularly, improving his strength and agility to get him selected for cricket matches and not be ignored for poor performances.
It was all through the kind act of an old lady that helped him to perfect his game and that talent opened doors of opportunities for him.
Today, that poor boy had become rich and popular, but the one person he wanted to thank was not there. The fireside from under the tamarind tree was gone and her house had gotten old and was in dire need of repairs.

“What happened here?”
He was sort of puzzled because he had been sending money regularly to take care of her health and her house, letting her know she was always in his thoughts. He stood there, trying to figure out what may have gone wrong, when a lady passed by pushing a fish cart. He stopped her, “Excuse me, aunty. Do you know the old lady that used to sell food under the tamarind tree?”
“Oh yeah,” she answered without hesitation, “She gone.”
“Gone where?”
“Don’t know, she jus gone.”
“Damn,” Chris muttered under his breath and called his mother.

“There’s something I need to know.”
“What is it?”
“I am at our old home in the village.”
“Wah yuh doing there?”
“I came to see the old lady who used to give me food when I was literally starving but she’s not here.”
His mother was silent for awhile then she said, “Ah don’t know wah happen to she.”
“Oh yes you do,” Chris said, a stern tone in his voice.

“You did not give her the money I sent nor did you visit to see how she was doing. You lied to me!”
“Chris, please, listen—”
“How could you do something like that?”
He cut off the call and sat under the tamarind tree, a distressed feeling in his heart. The wild flowers blooming all around gave him a little good feeling and getting up to go, he said quietly by firmly, “I will talk to the relevant authorities to get some work done to uplift the village and I’ll do my part as well.”
As he walked down the old road, he spotted a lady coming from church he recognised as Aunty Sheila’s neighbour and spoke to her.
She told him that Aunty Sheila had become sick and was taken to a home because no relative wanted to care for her.
“Which home?”

“Ah don’t know, son.”
Chris checked all the homes in the city, but she was nowhere and the next morning he drove to Berbice to the Dharamshala but she was not there either nor in the Corentyne.
“Where are you?” he whispered with growing desperation.
He would soon have to leave for a tour of Australia and his heart’s desire was to see her and spend some time with her before he left again. He sent out messages to friends for information on elderly homes and received three addresses but no luck until he reached the third one.

A long bridge across a canal took him to a white colonial-type house on a sprawling garden.
“This seems like a nice place, I hope she’s here.”
He spoke to the supervisor who summoned the young doctor who had opened that home just a year ago.
“Do you have a Sheila Singh here? I’ve been searching for her.”
The doctor smiled and said, “I’m happy you’re here. She has been hoping to see you too.”

Chris breathed a deep sigh of relief that he had finally found her. He was taken to a section of the living room that overlooked the garden and he saw her laying on a recliner. The distressed feeling in his heart dissipated and happiness surged through his being as he knelt down and took her hand.
“I’m sorry I took so long to return and sorry my mother did not take care of you like I asked her to.”
Happiness shone in the old lady’s eyes and she touched his hand, her arms now frail and feeble.
“Is okay, son, yuh follow yuh dream and ah suh happy fuh yuh.”

“She watched the CPL final,” the doctor told Chris, “And cheered every boundary you hit.”
“What?” Chris looked at her, surprised.
“You did great, son,” she said, touching his head and giving him her blessing.
He embraced her, tears in his eyes and stayed, talking with her until she fell asleep.
“How did she get here?” Chris asked the doctor, “And who’s paying for her stay?”
“I was at a mandir in Strasphey and a colleague’s friend told me of her story. That same friend created a fund for persons to pay for her treatment and comfort.”

“She had helped many and that good has come back to her. I will be making payment from now on for her.”
He visited her every day until it was time for him to leave on the tour and he said to her, “When I come back, we’ll go visit your old village and rebuild your house.”
She watched him go and whispered weakly, “Goodbye, son.”
Two weeks later, the doctor called Chris, “I’m sorry sir, she passed away.”
He brought her ashes to her old home and walked with them under the tamarind tree and among the wildflowers before scattering them in the sea, for he had promised to bring her home to visit her old village.
She had helped a poor boy to follow his dreams and his bat will now always speak her name.