The mound contained the ruins of a certain king’s palace. It was neither possible nor necessary to recall the name of the king who had built it, or whether he had been of the solar or the lunar dynasty. What was frequently recalled was that he had dared to cut down a few branches of the tree to make room for his palace. Perhaps he had planned to cut more, perhaps even to totally destroy the tree, but before he could do so a terrific storm had broken out. The palace collapsed. The king and his family took shelter under the tree and were saved. The king clasped the tree and wept. The storm subsided.
Further back in time, it was said, the tree had taken off and flown to the Himalayas and other such holy places, at the behest of a certain great soul who lived under it. But that was in the Era of Truth, and in the absence of some concrete evidence like the mound to support this legend, elders of the present generation spoke relatively less about it than had their predecessors.
The trunk that had once been clasped by the king had decayed and disappeared long since, after sending down numerous shoots which had formed new trunks. The tree with its branches spreading over an acre resting on these trunks had become an institution long ago.
At the foot of one of the trunks rested the tiny ‘banyan goddess’. She had no regular priest to attend to her. Whoever so desired could approach her and sprinkle vermilion on her. In the course of generations the vermilion crust had come to account for the greater part of the goddess’s body. Devotees ordinarily did not prostrate themselves to her, but everybody, while passing before her, bowed enough for her to take cognizance of his or her devotion. In matters complex and formidable in nature, the villagers prayed for the intervention of famous deities of distant temples. But small issues were referred to her from time to time. Children in particular found her quite helpful in regard to crises arising from undone homeworks or the ill-humour of the pundits of the primary school.
The area before another trunk was the usual site for the village meetings.
Relaxing beside a neighbouring trunk, eyes shut and jaws moving in a leisurely rhythm, could be found the much revered sacred bull of the village.
In the afternoons of the bi-weekly market days, an old woman coming from a village on the horizon sat leaning against another trunk with a sack half-filled with greens or sometimes, drumsticks. The market, still two miles distant, was her goal, but her knees, she would declare with a quiet toothless laugh, had refused to serve her any more, obliging her to sell her wares sitting there. At sunset she would rise and offer a handful of whatever still remained in her sack to the sacred bull.
In a hollow at the foot of another trunk resided a family of snakes which had earned the reputation of being conscientious and harmless. And, in the branches above, rested a legion of birds.
The tree was taken to be immortal by all without anybody having to be told about it. Immortality being an attribute of the gods, the tree was also deemed godly. Nobody would easily flout a decision that had been arrived at in a meeting under the tree, for even when the decision was unpalatable to a party, it knew that behind it there was the seal of some power, invisible and inaudible though.
The rain stopped, though not the wind. The first touch of awe and excitement passed. They could all go back to their homes now—to return again in batches in the morning. It was more out of respect for the river—to show that they had taken due note of her changing mood—than from any fear of the flood that some people must always gather at her edge.
A crashing sound stunned them. Suddenly the earth seemed to rock. A few who were nearest the river were splashed; had they been standing a few feet farther they would have been gone forever. In the dark no one had observed the crack that had developed on the ground before the huge chunk of the bank slipped into the water.
Nirakar Das, the retired head-pundit of the primary school, shouted, ‘Come away, come away, you all!’ The authoritative voice was instantly obeyed.
A few snakes crept out of the hollow under the tree and wriggled away towards the mound. Some saw only one snake, some saw two and some three, but to all it appeared like the exodus of a thousand snakes, a stream of life abandoning its ancient body.
It was now almost dawn. Nirakar Das advanced near the tree and looked up for a long time. ‘My eyes are gone,’ he declared again as he had on countless occasions during the past decade. Scanning the people who were now beginning to extinguish their lanterns and torches, he called one of his ex-pupils, Ravindra, the founder-proprietor of the village’s sole grocery, and asked him to look up and see if there were any birds on the tree.
Ravindra and others gazed up into the branches for a while and reported their finding: ‘No, not a single feather can be traced!’
Nirakar Das looked glum. ‘Can any of you recollect another instance like this?’ he asked the people of his age group. ‘No.’ They too looked grave and shook their heads.
‘Far from a good sign,’ Nirakar Das observed, ‘snakes and birds fleeing this great shelter!’
Not long after this, Ravindra and others with better eyesight detected an extensive crack, in the shape of a sickle, with both its ends pointing towards the river. The semicircle embraced the tree.
‘If the tree falls, it will carry this whole huge chunk along with it into the river, for its innumerable roots have made this much of earth like a single cake,’ a young man explained to his two friends. They were the only boys from the village studying in a college in the town. This was their first visit to the village after they had grown long hair and sidelocks.
‘What! The tree falls? How dare you say so? How much do you know about this tree?’ an old brahmin, notorious for his bad temper, shouted at them.
‘They have developed bones in their tongues,’ commented Ravindra. ‘You are studying in the college, aren’t you? Come on, save the tree with your English, algebra and all that abracadabra,’ he challenged them.
‘Why should we?’ the spokesman of the trio said sniffily.
‘Why should you? As if you could, only if you pleased! Is this what you imply? Well, please do it out of pity for us, out of pity for fourteen generations of our forefathers! Would you?’ This time Ravindra was supported by a number of people. The young man blinked and muttered, ‘What I meant was, how can we save the tree?’
‘Now it’s how we can! If this is the limit of your capacity, how dared you grow such obscene hair?’ demanded the bad-tempered brahmin tauntingly.
‘Look here, my young fathers! Just promise, not loudly, but silently within your hearts—let none but the spirit of the tree know—that if the tree is saved you will shorten your hair! Please, my fathers, make a solemn promise,’ implored Shrikanta Das, the meek and mild Vaishnav, his palms joined in the shape of a lotus bud, out of humility.
As the sky in the east grew brighter, it was observed that the ground between the tree and the river had already tilted towards the river.
The young men tried to appear engrossed in discussing something highly sophisticated among themselves. Shrikanta Das raised his voice and whimpered, ‘Hearken, you all! Not only these boys, but we all have our share of sin. And if the tree is going to collapse, it is because it cannot bear the burden of our sins any more. Let each of us confess his sin, addressing the spirit of the tree, silently in our hearts! Let us pray to be pardoned! Hari bol! Glory to God!’
All shouted Hari bol. But it sounded like a cry of lamentation.
When they stopped, the silence seemed bitingly sharp. With the gradual brightening of the sky the seriousness of the situation became more and more apparent.
A few kites that were circling above the whirling waters at times swooped down on the crowd as though to show the contempt of those who could dwell at such heights and see all that was happening from horizon to horizon for the wretched men below regarding their situation with utter helplessness.
The crowd swelled rapidly. Almost all the villagers, women and children included, were now gathered there. In different words all asked the same question: ‘Wh
at is to be done?’ A part of the tree was clearly leaning towards the river.
Once the college boys had been humbled, there was no hesitation in openly discussing the impending fall of the tree. Something, no doubt, had to be done. Only if one knew what that was!
The crowd spontaneously looked at those who had claims to some sort of distinction.
Shridhar Mishra was a well-known homoeopath. He had saved so many from certain death. When the people looked expectantly to him, his lips quivered as they always did when he was about to diagnose a disease. The villagers were accustomed to read in that quiver the promise of remedy. But, now when the quivering did not stop even when the people had looked at him for a long time, they focussed their attention on Raghu Dalbehera, the only villager to possess a gun. Rarely was he seen without his gun although the list of his kills during a period of twenty years was limited to a handful of birds and a greedy fox—the latter merely dazed by the sound and smoke from his gun and killed in an operation in which many had the privilege to participate.
When Raghu realized that the crowd had already been staring at him for five minutes, he raised his gun at an audaciously swooping kite, took aim and continued to take aim.
‘Don’t, Raghu, don’t!’ warned Nirakar Das and Raghu brought down his gun with relief. People sighed and ceased to concentrate on him.
Just then someone brought the news that the honourable Member of the Legislative Assembly had been observed going by on a nearby road perhaps heading for the next village.
‘Bring him here, run boys, run!’ said the elderly villagers. A number of young men disappeared running.
Freed from the obligation to think or do anything now that the MLA had been located and summoned, all stood peacefully looking towards the bend of the road where he was expected to appear.
The MLA arrived, walking at almost a running pace, wrinkling his brows.
‘Do you see the situation, MLA Babu? We are doomed!’ more than one voice complained.
‘Who says you are doomed? Why this pessimism? People further down are really in trouble. Flood waters have entered their village and are threatening their houses. You are in heaven compared to them and I wish you to continue in heaven,’ said the MLA displaying the particular variety of smile with which he aroused the conscience of his listeners.
‘We have voted for you!’ exclaimed a voice. The three college boys now elbowed their way forward, throwing glances back at the crowd as if defying it to stop them from confronting the leader. They were, of course, two or three years below the voting age, but they were determined to regain face after their earlier humiliation.
The MLA paled, but ignored the boys, and asked the elders, ‘What would you like me to do?’
There was no reply. Recovering his courage and flashing the conscience-rousing smile again, he repeated the challenge sweetly, ‘Order me to do and I am ready to do!’
‘Do, eh! What can you do? Only remember that we voted for you and that it is during your reign that the sacred tree which stood here since the Era of Truth is going to leave us,’ said an old man.
‘Reign? Who reigns nowadays? Neither the British nor the rajas. You are the rulers now and myself only your humble servant!’ retorted the MLA.
‘Servant, are you? Let us then see you serve us! Stop this tree from falling!’ It was again one of the college trio.
The MLA suddenly grew spirited. ‘Why not we all try together? Come on, grid up your loins, what were you all doing so long? Fetch as much rope as you can—thick and strong. Go, go, I say!’ He girded up his own loins.
‘Run, run!’ shouted several others. Though they all knew how unrealistic the proposition was and how difficult it was to obtain even a few yards of rope such as the MLA had specified, several people were about to set off under the impact of the leader’s clarion call.
But suddenly a part of the tree resting on several trunks slid into the river. Water shot up in fountains touching the wings of the startled kites.
‘O God, O God!’
The crowd stood thunderstruck. The silence was broken by an anxious voice, ‘What will happen to the banyan goddess?’
No sooner had this been said than the ill-tempered old brahmin was seen rushing to the remnants of the tree.
He sat down on the muddy ground—a spot which had been considered dangerously unsafe even by the snakes—and mustering all his strength pulled up the small stone that had been stuck to the spot for God-knows-how-many ages.
Holding the uprooted goddess close to his bosom as though to protect her from invisible enemies, he returned to the crowd that watched him breathlessly.
‘Give place to the goddess!’ shouted the people excitedly while thronging closer around the brahmin. Someone spread a towel on the grass. The brahmin put down the goddess and patted her. All looked at her with the sympathy which an orphan infant deserved and pressed around, their hands outstretched in eagerness to do something or the other for her.
Another terrific splashing sound. The entire tree was gone. The old branches were seen wrestling pathetically with the mad waters, reluctant to be carried away.
‘Gone! The tree-god gone! Hari bol! Hari bol!’
For a long time, under a continuous drizzle, they kept up the poignant chant with all their hearts, all looking stupefied and some weeping.
Old Bishu Jena had seated himself before the banyan goddess. Someone who observed that he had begun to shiver, announced, ‘I think Bishu is falling into his trance!’
Several people rushed to their homes and brought out cymbals and drums and conch-shells. In days gone by, when there was no vote, no college for village boys, Bishu used to get ‘possessed’ before the banyan goddess. Drums and cymbals and conch-shells had to be played close to his ears as loudly as possible. He began with shivering. Then he would fall down in a swoon and rise up, face beaming supernaturally, eyes wild with inexplicable experiences and often, though not every time, he would utter words that were understood by a few who only nodded.
Bishu was in trance after at least two decades. Those who used to play the instruments close to his ears had now grown old, yet with their sagging skin flapping like empty purses, they were doing their best.
Bishu opened his mouth. The sounds stopped.
‘I will be born as a thousand trees—here, there, everywhere!’
‘Hari bol! Hari bol! Hearken to the tree god’s message. He will be reborn as a thousand trees!’
The instruments played louder as the younger ones took over from the tired old hands. Along with Bishu danced Nirakar Das, Shrikanta Das the vaishnav, and several others, their hands raised in ecstasy.
‘Hari bol! Hari bol!’
‘My God! But the sun is rising!’ a kid drew the attention of his pals to a luminous crack in the clouds and clapped his hands.
The Tenant
BHARATI MUKHERJEE
Maya Sanyal has been in Cedar Falls, Iowa, less than two weeks. She’s come, books and clothes and one armchair rattling in the smallest truck that U-Haul would rent her, from New Jersey. Before that she was in North Carolina. Before that, Calcutta, India. Every place has something to give. She is sitting at the kitchen table with Fran drinking bourbon for the first time in her life. Fran Johnson found her the furnished apartment and helped her settle in. Now she’s brought a bottle of bourbon which gives her the right to stay and talk for a bit. She’s breaking up with someone named Vern, a pharmacist. Vern’s father is also a pharmacist and owns a drugstore. Maya has seen Vern’s father on TV twice already. The first time was on the local news when he spoke out against the selling of painkillers like Advil and Nuprin in supermarkets and gas stations. In the matter of painkillers, Maya is a universalist. The other time he was in a barber shop quartet. Vern gets along all right with his father. He likes the pharmacy business, as business goes, but he wants to go back to graduate school and learn to make films. Maya is drinking her first bourbon tonight because Vern left today for San Francisco State.
‘I understand totally,’ Fran says. She teaches Utopian Fiction and a course in Women’s Studies and worked hard to get Maya hired. Maya has a Ph.D. in Comparative Literature and will introduce writers like R.K. Narayan and Chinua Achebe to three sections of sophomores at the University of Northern Iowa. ‘A person has to leave home. Try out his wings.’
Fran has to use the bathroom. ‘I don’t feel abandoned.’ She pushes her chair away from the table. ‘Anyway, it was a sex thing totally. We were good together. It’d be different if I’d loved him.’
Maya tries to remember what’s in the refrigerator. They need food. She hasn’t been to the supermarket in over a week. She doesn’t have a car yet and so she relies on a corner store—a longish walk—for milk, cereal, and frozen dinners. Someday these exigencies will show up as bad skin and collapsed muscle tone. No folly is ever lost. Maya pictures history as a net, the kind of safety net travelling trapeze artistes of her childhood fell into when they were inattentive or clumsy. Going to circuses in Calcutta with her father is what she remembers vividly. It is a banal memory, for her father, the owner of a steel company, is a complicated man.
Fran is out in the kitchen long enough for Maya to worry. They need food. Her mother believed in food. What is love, anger, inner peace, etc., her mother used to say, but the brain’s biochemistry. Maya doesn’t want to get into that, but she is glad she has enough stuff in the refrigerator to make an omelette. She realizes Indian women are supposed to be inventive with food, whip up exotic delights to tickle an American’s palate, and she knows she should be meeting Fran’s generosity and candour with some sort of bizarre and effortless counter-move. If there’s an exotic spice store in Cedar Falls or in neighbouring Waterloo, she hasn’t found it. She’s looked in the phone book for common Indian names, especially Bengali, but hasn’t yet struck up culinary intimacies. That will come—it always does. There’s a six-pack in the fridge that her landlord, Ted Suminski, had put in because she’d be thirsty after unpacking. She was thirsty, but she doesn’t drink beer. She probably should have asked him to come up and drink the beer. Except for Fran she hasn’t had anyone over. Fran is more friendly and helpful than anyone Maya has known in the States since she came to North Carolina ten years ago, at nineteen. Fran is a Swede, and she is tall, with blue eyes. Her hair, however, is a dull, darkish brown.
Best Loved Indian Stories of the Century, Volume 1 Page 14