Our Favourite Indian Stories

by Khushwant Singh

  Time passed. In the dry, desiccated branches there appeared bunches of green fruit. Soundara matured. One day she was seated and garlanded in the middle of the hall. Her smile expressed her shyness. She ate puttu and kali and the usual rituals were performed. All these scenes of Soundara and the murungai passed through my mind one after the other.

  When I took the cycle and started to go to office the murungai would wave its arms at me. It always appeared as though it was about to talk. Our conversation needed no words. Feelings were enough. Our eyelids became lips.

  When Soundara occupied the chair in the middle of the hall, so did the murungai. Between its legs shadows gathered. Father and I decided to lean our cycles against the tree. In the noon day heat I would place my easy chair below the murungai and lounge on it. In the soft breeze and the delight of the shade I lost all track of time. It had become a matter of routine for me to read and write under the tree. Until darkness set in, my reading and writing would continue under it. Away from it, I just couldn't perform these simple tasks.

  My college days were spent on the banks of the Kaveri. It was an ancient tiled house. I learnt Sanskrit here. Like the people of those days the houses too were big. There was a broad verandah and a courtyard in the middle. Inside the house, our teacher had a murungai tree. It was under this beautiful tree that I had my schooling. I always thought that if the tree had a tongue it would have recited Ramasabdam and Godastuti in a mellower tone and with a deeper devotion than I did. Sitting under its shade, countless students had been initiated into the world of learning.

  One day, our teacher told us that the murungai was actually a brahmavriksha. Its bark, roots, leaves and other parts add to man's potency — the vital force that has perpetrated the human race. Brahma is the Lord of Creation; so also is the tree. Hence, it is known as brahma-vriksha.. From that day onwards, whenever I looked at the tree I saw in it the four-headed Brahma.. The teacher and all the children grew in the shade of the brahma-vriksha

  A bridegroom was chosen for Soundara. She too liked him. The marriage was celebrated soon after. When she left the house with her husband she wept, as did father, mother, grandmother and I. Separation from relatives is always painful. I knew that among the loved ones Soundara would miss, the murungai tree would occupy the pride of place.

  As days passed, women began to frequent our house. They were women of mother's age—women from the opposite house, the next house, and the third and fourth houses. They were a varied flock. They would be mostly stout or very thin because of their age. When I entered the house they would pass me by in a hurry. Their body odour would hit me right in the nose. The pungent smell of chilly powder, the smell of coriander, the odour of dirt, the stink of unwashed bodies—the stench would assail my nostrils. Unfailingly, each of them would clasp in their hands either a bunch of leaves or a few fruit. Pretending that they had come for something else they would appear highly elated, laugh and chitchat until mother plucked the fruit and gave them some. Mother was not the type to go to neighbouring houses to gossip. She was not interested in that. Therefore, women had slighted her earlier. But now they came to her because of the murungai.

  All those who used the leaves of our tree told us that they tasted like honey and that the fruit was sweet. Mother would take it as a compliment to herself.

  The tree's aim appeared to be to touch the sky. It had neither a thick growth nor was it stout and strong. Even though its top now touched the sky, to me my murungai appeared to be a toddler.

  One day, several men, their hideous teeth popping out, came to cut down all the trees in our area. They put up stones one over the other and built houses and crematoriums there. As a result, all kinds of birds left their nests and flew over the sky. Our murungai tree became an abode for crows and sparrows.

  The sound of human beings and the roar of machines began to offend our ears. But that passed too and the chatter of birds became music once again for us. We could see the top of the murungai tree through the window of my room upstairs. I could see it even while lying in my bed. I become addicted to opening my eyes only after hearing the songs of birds.

  I loved seeing the first pale streaks of dawn when the rays of the sun had not yet touched the earth. I enjoyed hearing the chirping of a house sparrow, the cawing of a crow or the rare twitter of a mynah and the sound of a karuvaattuvali. We felt surprised at how people lived by themselves in their houses. It was the world of birds which welcomed our dawns with eagerness and joy. Their enthusiasm and playfulness would remind us of the romping of children in the maidan. They would spread their wings and hop from one branch to another. They would brush their chests with their beaks. In the evenings, they would appear to be different and call out in different notes. In their tones could be felt their contentment. Also, the peace and the anguish that the day had come to an end.

  When we looked at the murungai tree filled with birds and loaded with fruit. We felt that it resembled a grandfather jumping up and down with his grandchildren on his shoulders. All of a sudden it would heave a sigh as though it had completed a thousand years. That would be a sad sight. But immediately it would dance up in joy like a youngster.

  Not a day would pass in our house without a dish being cooked with some part of the murungai. We had murungai fry; murungai kootu, murungai sambar. The sambar had its own mouth-water-ing taste. I liked it very much. The fruit would be used to make a tangy sauce or fried. One such dish always adorned our dining table. We loved every produce of our tree.

  One day, a headmaster came and occupied the third house from ours. He was the senior most teacher in a very big school. He ignored us. It was as if we were insignificant creatures for him. On seeing us, he would walk straight ahead, looking up at the sky. One day, the man in the opposite house tied his cow to the pillar in the verandah of the headmaster's house and started milking it. The headmaster came out and began hopping up and down in a fit of temper. His hair was dishevelled and his cloth and towel fluttered around him. People of the entire street heard the grating in his voice.

  Another day he came to see me. He was in his official dress. We chatted about the declining standards of everything—from modern education, to cinema, to flour-machines, to family planning—all in Elizabethan English. No, that is wrong. He alone talked.

  Finally he exclaimed, 'Hey.. a murungai tree...' There seemed no need for me to confirm his statement. I plucked some fruit and leaves and gave them to him. He had a fine set of teeth.

  Monsoon arrived. It had now become impossible to sit under the murungai tree in the evenings. There would be a sudden downpour of rain. Nature did not fail in her duties. There was a chill in the air and it was more pleasant to sit inside the room. The mud road became wet and marshy. One had to be careful while walking. Often, the wind would roar and lash about, hindering daily life. Wild winds swept past our village.

  One day, as I was leaving for office, it started to rain. A strong whirlwind swept past. Windows rattled violently, making us afraid. And then, just as suddenly as it had erupted, the whirlwind stopped. There was perfect calm as I returned home for lunch.

  In front of our house I saw a huge crowd of children and old people. The murungai tree lay stretched across the entire street. Its twigs appeared like slender fingers, beseeching help.

  People flocked around it, tearing out as much as they could of the leaves, fruit and branches. Even while we were watching all this, the place where the tree stood was tidiness itself.

  Mother, father and grandmother were standing a little further away, their faces distraught. I took the cycle and stood it at its usual place— a habit I had acquired since the tree had come into our lives. The tree appeared as though its waist had got broken. Half of it was sunk under the ground and the other half was dirt-streaked.

  Only the next morning did I feel the impact of its absence. Yesterday it was there. Today it was not. Only the stump remained.

  More days passed.

  One day, I came down from upstairs for my m
orning coffee and as usual stood by the murungai tree. A miracle was waiting for me there.

  From the stump of my ravaged tree, a small sprout peeped out.

  It was life.

  Translated by M. S. Ramaswami

  DOGRI

  The Farm

  Chaman Arora

  It took me four days to take over charge of my new job. The beauty of the valley captivated me. What a lovely place! It seemed a far cry from our kandi where even a blade of grass did not grow, and which many rainy seasons skipped without shedding a single drop of water. Here I could see green fields and water everywhere—a rivulet here, a stream there and springs all around. No berry trees or brainkhads here—only tall pine trees and high rising deodars. No hot Loo here—only an invigorating coolness. The valley's beauty seemed opposite of what its name—Karsog (literally meaning, 'condole'), suggested.

  It was evening. But an evening in the hills is very different from that in the plains. Here the sun disappears behind the hills much before the birds stop twittering. In our parts, it is not evening till the sun, looking like a ball of fire has rolled down somewhere below the earth's rim and until flights of sparrows and crows have taken shelter in the leaves of banyan and berry trees. I noticed that in the hills the sun did not set; it just disappeared.

  Putting my signature on the charge-sheet forms, I looked at the babu whom I had just relieved. Suddenly, I remembered something and inquired, 'There are only three gardeners for an area of twenty acres. How is the work managed here? Is it easy to hire labour?'

  He hesitated awhile and then began to laugh. I noticed that when he laughed his eyes narrowed. He was also squint-eyed. 'There may be problems on other farms. But not here. Here we can always get labour and good labour at that. Otherwise these hill people would not care to even pee at a bleeding finger.'

  I was relieved, even pleased to hear that. Next morning I asked Milakhi Ram, the gardener, to get some labourers for weeding the rice field. Fifteen to twenty workers turned up. I noticed that there were more girls and women among them, their ages ranging between sixteen and fifty-five. I had never before employed women. I asked the gardener whether there was any problem in getting men. He assured me that if the women did not work properly he could throw them out. But they had been working in this farm ever since its establishment. He explained to me that otherwise too, in these hills women did most of the work on the farm and in the fields, except ploughing.

  'Sir, all of them are dependent on the farm for their livelihood and with them around we have never felt any labour shortage. That is why this farm is famous in the whole of the district. Every babu who has left this farm has now become an officer.'

  I nodded my approval. Milakhi Ram started assigning work to the labourers and I went across to my quarters. After breakfast, lighting a cigarette I looked out. Green fields stretched right up to the foothills of Kailodhar. Beyond them lay forests of pine and deodar and kail, and still higher, white snow rested on the tops of mountains and hills. What a lovely landscape! Then I turned my eyes to the fields. Red, blue and yellow scarves tied on the heads of the girls and women seemed to bob up and down. Shalwars tucked above their calves and hands busy weeding grass, the women presented an enchanting picture. The only sound came from the rising and falling of bhakhs. I felt light and pleased with myself. After watching this scene for many days I started feeling that the women were indeed indispensable to the farm.

  There were the older ones—Bilmoo, Seti, Malati, and the middle-aged ones—Murtu, Durgi and Papalu, who never missed a day's work. Then there were Bishno, Savitri and Kamalo who worked less but were more lively and full of fun. They were young and pretty and laughed uninhibitedly. In movement, their red, blue and yellow scarves looked like butterflies in flight. I felt like Kahna among gopies.. I would keep standing at the boundary on pretext of supervising their work. My eyes would sometimes wander to the collars of their shirts and at other times catch the beauty bursting out of their torn clothes. I would pull up one and get blessed by another. Thus my days passed. Bhakhs livened the weeding of rice fields and the digging of maize fields.

  One day Milakhi Ram said to me hesitantly, 'Sahib, you are still alone. Days pass somehow. I wonder how you pass the nights. If you wish, shall I make some arrangement?'

  I gave him the go-ahead signal but on condition that no one should get to know of it. The same night Savitri came to me. What I had considered as the most difficult act till my age of twenty-one turned out to be such a simple matter!

  That night I grew up from an awkward boy of twenty-one into a man. After that it was sometimes Bishno and sometimes Kamalo who continued to help me become a full-fledged man. In order to please them I would always give them something—sometimes hay, sometimes corn and sometimes money. It did not cost me anything. I was surprised that nobody talked about this matter. Savitri was the prettiest of the lot and it was she who kept me company on most of the nights.

  The rainy season had just got over. Crops started changing colour. They turned from green to red and then donned a golden coat until the plants started dancing in the wind. Their beauty was too much for them to hold on their own: it called to be reaped.

  That night it was Savitri. Somewhere near, a drum was beating; bhakhs were being sung and perhaps nati was being danced. Just then Savitri told me that a 'little babu' was on its way. The sounds coming from outside turned into a pandemonium. Each beat of the drum was like a hammer blow on my head.

  The crops were good that year. Therefore, every night there would be drum beating and bhakh singing, sometimes on one side, sometimes on the other. It always seemed to me as if a crowd was coming to my quarter, raising their voices and brandishing their arms. And then the pounding inside my head would begin.

  The paddy was harvested, but the hammer blows inside my head. I ceased to listen to the music of the mountain hills or enjoy the beauty of Nature spread out in front of me. The mountains now appeared to be like walls. I felt encircled by tall pines and deodars with no way to get out. The encirclement seemed to be zeroing in on me. I felt the noose rolling down from the tops of hill ranges, passing over the pines and deodars, coming down, stepping over the barbed wires around our farm, and closing in on my quarters. Sometimes, lying in bed I felt as though somebody had clutched at my heart. There was no respite from the hammering in my head and chest.

  I thought of my mother and of my younger sister. What would they think when they came to know of this? Why had I done it? How would I get out of it? Sometimes I consoled myself with the thought that Savitri was not involved with me alone, but must be having other lovers too. Yet what seemed strange was that nobody had said anything to me so far.

  Milakhi Ram seemed to have sensed what I was going through, as I had not sent for any girl for many days. It was an off day perhaps. I was reading the newspaper seated in a chair in the courtyard of my quarters when Milakhi Ram came in. He had with him three or four small boys. A handsome one— about five or six years old struck me. The little boy looked at me and smiled. When he laughed, his eyes narrowed a bit. I noticed that he was squint eyed. I beckoned to him to come closer but he didn't and continued to laugh from afar.

  Milakhi Ram said, 'Sir, can you guess whose son he is?'

  I remembered that I had seen someone who resembled him. Who was it? I could not recollect. Suddenly my predecessor's face flashed before my eyes. The same hesitant smile, the same squint eyes. The hammering in my head started again and my face became flushed.

  I looked towards Milakhi Ram. He was smiling. The blue gums over his yellow teeth gave me a strange feeling of revulsion. His upper lip was raised like a dog's.

  I turned white and blurted out. 'The previous babu?'

  The hunter was quick to grab its victim. 'Yes, sir! the previous babu... You have got it right. But why are you alarmed? You are not going to remain here forever. A year, or at the most two or three years. Then a new babu will come. This Murata and Durgi and Papalu, Kamalo, Bishno, Savitri, they are al
l products of this very farm. And they are all here to render services at the farm, whatever the form of service. This arrangement must continue, otherwise there will be a dearth of labour here also. After all, Sahibs must leave behind some memento!'

  Wheat began to be harvested but Savitri did not come. I learnt that she had given birth to a daughter.

  I could clearly see what Savitri's daughter was going to undergo fifteen- sixteen years hence.

  I wished I could get myself transferred to another place before seeing the face of the infant at Savitri's breast.

  Dislodged Brick

  Om Goswami

  A koel was cooing. But Kalo was silent. The bunch of boys was laughing. Kalo was quiet. Amman's corpse was empty but Kalo's eyes were full. Memories had become congealed like ice at a spot beyond thought — a wordless realm. There was a certain void in the mind which rankled somewhere inside.

  She cast a glance towards the park. Bapu was digging in the dahlia flower beds behind the saintha and mehndi plants. How thin he had become in a single day! Eyes swollen and a deep red — like the red petals of malwa. Hair dishevelled like the grass in the lawn.

  She wondered and kept wondering for a while how they would live without Amman. Amman, whom she had seen and lived with ever since she remembered. Amman would be sweeping the lawn with a broom and she would be holding the end of her dupatta which trailed along. She would watch the children playing in the park timorously. She felt like playing with them. Seeing her looking at the children thus, Amman would say, 'Kaffanus! the day has just begun and they've come to spoil the place.' Amman had got a tiny broom made for her, just like a toy, with a red handle and sticks of different colours tied together. She would sweep with great enthusiasm the interior of her little hut.