The third writer chosen for publication in today Quipu is the narrator unpublished Juan Osorio Ruiz, born in Huancayo in 1976. From date Quipu announced that their issues are no longer bi-monthly, so stories or poems winners will be announced by the network of blogs associated with the project not every other Monday, but every fourth Monday from now on, to facilitate the work of those responsible for evaluation.
also inform readers and participants that one of the offers we received at first, the print publication of the texts on the Identity supplement of the newspaper El Peruano, failed to keep up because of the limited space available at the paper, reasons beyond the power of those responsible for this project. About
need to remember the rules of participation, may see them on blogs Airlift and Quipu this week.
Ripucuchcaniñam ccamña allimlla
Juan Osorio Ruiz
My great grandmother came from Huancavelica few months after mother's death, half an afternoon in which the cold windows of rheumy permeated the room of my house. Came from the arm of my father, his grandson, wrapped in its innumerable skirts, wearing a gray hat decorated with flirty red borders, greeting us with tender phrases Quechua nicknames and filled with a tiny suitcase in which brought everything I needed: one that another piece of clothing, a bag of concoctions that only she knew how to use and the family photo album almost archaeological content.
Once installed in what was until then my room, my father called my sisters and me to ask to be always helpful and attentive to her by her advanced age. However, we soon discovered that my grandmother had the rare quality to anticipate everything, and everyone else: get up early and walking of one who has realized that there is a moment in life from which haste is useless because any time limit expires and all just prerogative, went to the kitchen to prepare the more viscous and more delicious Quaker milk in the world. And before any of us say "Hello Grandma" and she was arranging the pots and cutting vegetables bits of accuracy in mathematics to prepare lunch. And while the vegetables were cooked stews and color cast, sat beside the gas stove, he despised at first, to taste their pieces of bread pudding soaked in Quaker, with long pauses and giving gentle bites and newspaper which a priest in eucharistic offering, with a parsimony that was not the result of the decline of their forces, but his wise attitude towards life.
My grandfather, his son, had also come to our house a month earlier at the insistence of my father many years since you were taking a toll bohemia (including moratorium interest), and however reluctantly, had been placed a nearby clinic where he would try to cure him. Not even a week had passed since the arrival of my grandmother when we received the news that my grandfather's kidneys had stopped working. After a short agony died of kidney failure.
say my grandmother had nursed my father, his grandson, my grandfather, his son also had cared for her husband, my grandfather, and from a very young age, had been responsible for the care of his father, my grandfather . In light of the results, their whimsical good health has never been a precious gift for while the older links that endless chain which is a family, had been dying, she had chosen by chance kept standing firm holding the chain, burying the older and younger looking after without making any complaint.
Contrary to what we all thought, the departure of his son, my grandfather, did not affect too much, always seemed to be of good cheer, except some very early mornings, when I surprised her sitting in the garden indoors with staring and talking to herself with that tonito lull that only people of the mountain is able to pronounce, delicious, melancholy music.
After the death of my grandfather was us, his grandchildren, the recipients of his attention, his caresses became more prolific, most comforting meals, conversations in Quechua with my father were more subliminal to my ears and thick wool fabrics that we carry holster for the cold mountain had no comparison.
acrobatic
But soon the family economy was overshadowing our comfortable chalet darken as the afternoon before a severe hailstorm. My father was a police issue but a terrible businessman. And although initially not all the money was lost in the dislocated businesses started, her loneliness and leading up getting depressed all the boundaries of ruin.
They spent several months that something was changing at home. As which my father plunged into more debt, the affections of my great-grandmother were acquiring a different dimension, although it showed too maternal, we were already quite grown to accept as a replacement for our mother. Although it was not his fault, had come to our home too late, untimely. So soon her affections harassed us, the food lost the charm and even my sisters preferred to face the winter cold in the arms of a teen opportunist and not with wool sweaters knitted by my grandmother.
Then she, quiet and discreet, he did more thing to curl up beside the gas stove, which did not disdain therefore unbreakable en su intención de confeccionar innumerables prendas de lana con la esperanza de que alguna vez volviéramos a usarlas.
Así, nuestra anciana huésped fue paulatinamente convirtiéndose en un mueble confinado en un rincón de la cocina, aferrada a sus costumbres e imposibilitada de comunicarse con nosotros por las distancias del idioma y las insalvables brechas abiertas por el tiempo y las circunstancias.
Aquella noche mi padre había llegado borracho a casa y mi bisabuela, diligente como siempre, le había servido una gran taza de café cargado, lo había llevado hasta su dormitorio y le había intentado quitar los zapatos antes de recostarlo en su cama. Mi padre, obnubilado por el alcohol, se había empecinado to sleep with their shoes, something that my grandmother was unacceptable. "Leave me alone you are neither my wife nor my mother had imprecations. After a long pause, she just came to say: "Ripucuchcaniñam ccamña allimlla" and quietly retired to his room.
The next morning when I woke up, I found clothes lying along the dark passage leading to the interior garden, there, next to the door, found my grandmother sitting on a tiny bench that he was drowning in his skirts, cutting with the last few old scissors that had knitted sweater with tireless dedication. His lips murmured a tune half sad, half sweet I thought I recognized, perhaps in some remote time in which I did not exist.
walked to stand beside her, her delicate hands released the scissors and hair accommodated me giving me the usual nalgadita then turned into a caress. "Ripucuchcaniñam ccamña allimlla huahua," he told me too. Despite not understanding the meaning of that phrase unpronounceable to me, I assumed he wanted to leave her alone. As she resumed its unfathomable thought I sneaked up to the threshold of my bedroom where I could still see it. Her song ended several minutes later to give way to a toned whistle, alternating with delicious cooing made me smile. And calmly, as he had seen since his arrival, he rose and walked to his room, opened this tiny suitcase had arrived, took the photos and put them jealously guarded in their pedestal, but instead introduced the pieces garments of wool that had been cut, the closed slowly, put it under his bed and lay down.
The morning was surprisingly quiet and warm, pastel green walls of his room to see her body smaller and more distant. Have you heard the chirping bird left at the precise moment that I realized what would happen next. With
embedded in the ceiling look crossed holding hands, prayed with that cottony repeated whisper and when he had crossed over, took the quilt that hung to her waist and covered his body and then the face, to be exact position which are the dead. And then he left, he went in search of death that had forgotten at home.
