Our Favourite Indian Stories (44 page)

For the next few days we completely forgot about the
murungai
branch. None of us felt as if the
murungai
had come into our lives.

One morning, Soundara woke me up from my deep sleep. She was agog with excitement.

'You devil, why do you pester me at this early hour?'

'Anna, come and have a look. The
murungai
branch has sprouted!'

Instantly I sat up. Both of us rushed to the wondorous spot. The entire household collected around the
murungai
.

The
murungai
branch looked stark and thin but on its bark at many places, there were green dots—dots like green grams stuck to the branch. I was thrilled to see the spirit of life throbbing and pushing its way up. Unaware of what I was doing I stretched my fingers to touch it. 'Shh, don't touch,' warned grandmother. 'You shouldn't point fingers at children, flowers and leaf buds. Shouldn't touch them either. Touching harms them.'

From that day onwards, the first thing we did as soon as the day dawned was to peep regularly at the
murungai
. Before our fascinated eyes, every node on its branch seemed to grow—the leaf buds, the tender nerves of the branches, the green pea-like leaves, the new leaf buds — everything unfolded before our enchanted eyes. One day, secretly, I plucked one—its only leaf, put it into my mouth and tasted it. It was delicious.

The first day when we used the
murungai
remains etched on my heart indelibly. Mother had to melt butter. Grandmother advised that if butter were clarified with
murungai
leaves it would have an excellent aroma. Mother followed her instructions. We used the freshly made
ghee
for lunch. Was it the peculiar quality of the
murungai
tree or the state of our minds? The
ghee
had a special taste that day. The leaves in the ghee were delicious. The tender leaves of the
murungai
! But the thought that mother should have plucked them thus and used them, disturbed me.

The
murungai
branch reminded me of Soundara because of the manner in which the sapling had grown into a full-size tree. Mother had given birth to Soundara at a time when the best part of her life had been nearly over. There is a difference of fifteen years between Soundara and me.

I had seen Soundara from the days of her childhood. I had seen the green tree from the very day it sprouted up. As a child, Soundara would turn on the mat and, seeing only a portion of my leg would cry. This was her signal to me that she wanted to be lifted. The tree swayed its small twigs in the breeze and drew me towards itself. A new skirt and blouse were stitched for Soundara on the day she went to school for the first time.

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 morning 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

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.