ISSUE 52

‘Oye, weirdo! Run faster, or the ghost will catch you and carry you away, high up into the sky. Hurry, the dust devil is here,’ the fourth boy shouted, but the first boy was barely listening, transfixed by the whirlwind, inside which trapped papers, plastic bags, trash, dust particles, and whatnot flew. He ran impulsively towards it, and attempted to enter it, feeling a sudden urge to fly. Just then, the whirlwind veered ferociously to the right. He chased behind. Pebbles joined the rush alongside the dust particles. The boy was buffeted by dust, wind and gravel, and he thought – if it weren’t for the rocks, he would be able to fly away, into the blue sky, among the clouds, just like kites.

‘Hey dumbass, do you want to die?’ the fourth boy shouted again. The first one, still enthralled, was in no mood to listen. In his mind, he was flying already. Strong gushes came in from both sides and appeared to hug each other tight, their union consummated the very next moment in one mighty spurt that could sweep up anything in its course. What it could not carry, it lured into its path.

The first boy seemed to recall a song he had watched on tv. He was trying to turn an old, lingering dream into reality. He began to run faster to get inside the whirlwind that was rising forcefully now. The whirlwind started mushrooming in size. Clothes, drying on the line, started flapping about. ‘Where do I go? What do I do? I am lost.’ The wind swelled and rose towards the sky. This was how, in that song, the woman in white had drifted to the sea-shore – terey ishq mein…

The fourth boy yanked him by the collar. The first one still wanted to be swept up into the sky while running with the wind, but it was moving farther away now, making off with papers, plastic bags, dust, and the odd rag. When it started disappearing, the first boy turned his attention to the trees. He could hear, clearly, the songs of the trees. He could feel the trees screaming and dancing with each other. The dust devil had gone away, but the wind was still strong. He walked as if he was a cloud. The strip of cement road was wide enough to play games like cricket and sitoliya on. It seemed as if the road was as expansive as the sky.

Several houses stood along the road with cars parked outside and inside. Many trees lined the footpath along which the cars were parked. None of the boys was able to identify the trees. The trees were decorated only with their leaves, no fruits or flowers. Some trees bear such leaves that they don’t need flowers – when the leaves are so beautiful, why would anyone plant flowering trees? The first one was still looking at the trees. The fourth boy watched the other two boys. He was talking and screaming in excitement while the other two stood in a corner.

There were four of them, ranging from ages nine to twelve. They ran around the boundaries of the neighbourhood, doing as they pleased. They were all more or less of the same height. Their families never had the time to measure or even guess how tall they were, and one can’t expect schools to keep track! The third and the first were bright students – this is what the second and fourth boys were constantly told. They were always advised, admonished rather, to study like the others. The studious pair, on the other hand, were told, in their homes, to focus on their studies and stay away from the other two. None of the four boys, paid the least heed to their families’ advice. They listened to their hearts.

When they’d set off from their homes earlier that day, as always, they had no plan or goal. However, it was not like they were humming aimlessly while walking. When the grey clouds started hurling dark abuses at the bright sunlight and usurping the sky, the fourth one screamed, ‘Let’s run, see who runs fastest … run!’ The first one was lost in the clouds, contemplating the mechanics behind their buoyancy as they held sway in the sky. He would, quite often, be caught brooding this way – buried deep in his thoughts. He spent many hours contemplating the wind, feeling it with his face, nose and inside his lungs. He asked himself questions about the darkness, the wind, and where they came from. And how the dust flew so quickly with the gushing breeze. Losing himself in the intricacies of these myriad things had become part of his being.

‘Abey, wait, look at that mango tree.’ The first boy yelled gleefully as if he had chanced upon a friend. The mango tree stood by the road, along the footpath. The other trees were a bit farther away. There was a line of trees beyond the grilled iron fences and the gates of the houses along the pathway.

‘What about it?’ the fourth one asked and looked at the many unripe mangoes that hung on the tree. The mangoes, in mid-growth, appeared to them to be of the same age as they were themselves. The third one said, ‘amazing’. The fourth one remarked, ‘unripe ones’ and almost sprang up from the ground in his eagerness. The first one was elated by just the sight of the mango tree and revelled in the company of the leaves that seemed to be having fun as they rustled and bustled in the wind. The fourth shouted for the second boy to come quickly and shimmied up the tree in a jiffy. The second one somehow managed to follow him up too.

Elsewhere, the wind rattled the open gate of a bungalow. The sounds of a floor being scrubbed came from another bungalow. There were no other sounds of living beings, young or old, and no one was in sight. Everything was fenced shut. It was a posh neighbourhood. Just then, a huge dog emerged from an iron gate. The sight of the dog scared off the first boy. The other boys didn’t spot it immediately. Two of them were on the tree while the third one was watching them from below. When the first one informed the third one about the dog, he, too, got scared. The dog had most certainly been sent to shoo them away. He gasped, and his voice caught in his throat. The first one shouted, ‘Get down, let’s go.’

A girl stepped out, closing the iron gate behind her. She held the dog on a leash. The first one recognised her – she was from their neighbourhood. She lived in the fifth lane. The third one now remembered that he was the oldest of them all. His claims were usually brushed aside with disdain. He was never considered the oldest, but he continued to hold on to this knowledge based on the official figures recorded on an official paper. Thus justified, he looked openly at the girl and kept staring.

The girl had a phone in one hand while the other held the dog’s leash. The phone did not belong to her; it had been given to her by the lady she worked for. Its location tracking feature, meant the employer always knew where the girl was with her expensive dog. The woman wanted the dog to shit outside the compound always. The dog, after doing four-five rounds in the neighbourhood, always shat at a fixed spot. And this was his usual time too, but he seemed perturbed by the presence of the boys. He didn’t bark as the boys had expected. Dogs from big houses don’t bark at strangers if they are outside their premises. Why would they bother about the neighbours? Is it an instinct natural to owners that is mimicked by the dogs, or is it the other way around?

The dog sniffed here and there. The girl seemed relieved to have company in an otherwise deserted lane. There was a feeling of hope on the street. The third one continued to stare at her. The first wondered how she managed such a ferocious-looking dog on a leash. He thought girls quickly learned how to keep dogs on leashes, and this made him turn to the third one and smile.

The boys on the tree were glued to it, having fun, swaying with it. Swinging with a tree as it sways is a experience – quite thrilling. When they spotted a mango, they plucked it and threw it down. Several mangoes were out of their reach. A slight touch and the branch swung further away. The third one was, by now, craving for contact, and said to himself – it’s gorgeous. The first one looked up and said, ‘Get down. Enough now. Let’s go.’ The boys on the tree were busy trying to pick every single mango from the tree. They did not respond. The fourth one threw down a mango, ‘Catch!’ The third wanted to speak to the girl; he knew she studied in the higher secondary section of the school.

Sounds of windows being closed hurriedly and a murmuring wafted to them – someone was running, picking up the clothes drying on a rope. Expecting the maid to be aware of the windy weather, taking in the clothes at such a time, no doubt. In the midst of the sound emanating from the neighbouring houses, this expectation-filled murmuring, the owner of the house spotted the boys through the sharp iron mesh.

‘It’s getting late. Let’s go. Abey, how will we carry so many mangoes?’ the first cautioned.

‘Remove your shirt, come on. Your baniyan, yes, yes, remove your t-shirt and knot it up at the bottom. We can put all the mangoes inside. Are you listening, moth*?’ the fourth one yelled at the third from above. This screech carried longing – of going home, his mother, his siblings and the evening. He was thinking of roti and achaar- the tasty type that he liked so much. The first boy, however, was concerned and worried for his friends.

The third boy didn’t want to comply though – for which he had several reasons: the presence of the girl, the fact that he was the oldest, that the t-shirt was a new one that his mother had bought from Nanda Nagar just a day before. Half of it was purple, fading into a light greenish colour, with a cross in the middle. He was worried that his t-shirt might tear or get ruined.

‘I’m not giving it to you.’

‘Fine, don’t give it. But don’t you show me your face ever again. Bhag saley. Hey, now you must remove your shirt.’ This time, the fourth boy’s thunder was bang on target, and the third boy looked at his t-shirt as he hurled abuses. Should he take it off? He looked at the girl and thought of Salman Khan. He then hastened to take it off in a jiffy and threw it up, ‘Take it.’

The first one started putting mangoes into the pouch fashioned from the t-shirt. ‘Get down. Get down. Look at that.’ The helplessness was palpable in the soft voice of the vigilant one. The girl seemed at ease as the boys were familiar to her, but the dog was visibly uncomfortable. The first boy occupied himself with trying to close the end of the t-shirt filled with mangoes. But they needed rope, and there was no rope in their sight. Wishing for something rope-like, he glanced at the pile of trash by the roadside.

Perhaps the iron gate was silent; it seemed the sound of the chappals of the person walking had also stopped. The first one was amazed at this silence. Back in the lane where his house was, one could hear pedestrians from inside the house or near the street corner. Wondering if the residents of this area were as silent as their houses, gates and chappals, he raised his voice. ‘The house owner lady is here. Get down!’

A woman came out very slowly from the bungalow’s gate, slightly hitching up her crumpled cream nightgown with its pattern of purple flowers. Lifting her feet was a struggle for her. She was afraid that she might trip over. Or perhaps, she was worried by the memory of an old news report – a ‘Old Man Murdered’ – that the children could be thieves or burglars.

The first one was not sure what was happening. His instinct was to get away as quickly as possible, but he could neither find a rope nor gather enough stamina to run with the mangoes. The third one had come closer by now. A bit despondent, he continued to look at the girl silently. She was still out of range. The dog was incapable of shitting in a public place with people around, and the girl was getting delayed. She was dressed in a salwar suit whose colour was dark and ambiguous. The outfit was not dirty, but people often believed dark hues could hide dirt. There are always things like this, about which whatever is commonly presumed is different. Such common perceptions are often wrong.

The first one noticed the golden words etched on the shiny black stone plaque next to the iron gate.
Mangal Murti,
Mohan Maheshwari,
6, D.B. Scheme No. 54.

An old man emerged hurriedly from behind the woman. It was probably Mohan Maheshwari. He would likely approach them. This meant they would need to talk to him, but what would they talk about? The first one’s mind was buzzing.

After climbing down from the tree, the fourth one walked over and looked to secure the mangoes they had picked. He could see a woman, someone who lived close to them, hurrying towards them, trailing dust and carrying dirty clothes and soiled utensils from one of the bungalows. Seeing a familiar face, the third one felt his courage surge. It was like the first one picking out the mango tree from among many unknown trees and finding an affinity; seeing the woman now felt like that. Without being called, with no invitation whatsoever, she came over and started gathering the fallen mangoes immediately. Seeing her alacrity and sharpness, the fourth looked around at other houses in the neighbourhood. A nearby wall had a plaque that said – Thakur Daulat Singh Shaktawat, Kundla House. Agnihotri Bhawan stood in front. Close by, right where Radha Krishna Mandir road ended, was Digambar Jain Mandir, so much more majestic than Radha Krishna Mandir.

The man was much closer now. The woman stopped gathering mangoes into one end of her saree. ‘Let’s go, both of you, just pick it up like this,’ she said and started putting the remaining mangoes inside the t-shirt. One boy took one end, another one took the other, and they picked it up. The old man called out, ‘Hey … Hey… put the mangoes back. You! Take the mangoes out.’ He was livid, but nobody was listening to him.

‘How dare you pluck those mangoes? Think they are your father’s property? Put them down.’ Back bent, the old man gestured with his walking stick as he said this. He wore a kurta on his frail body. We could give him one push and run away, the second one thought. Everyone, including the old man himself, knew he was powerless to stop them. The boys and the woman decided to talk the issue out.

‘Why are the mangoes there?’ The fourth one asked as soon as he came. He was holding a black telephone cable in his hand, which he intended to use as a substitute for a rope.

‘Listen to me. Put the mangoes down and go.’

‘We will not. Now what?’ the fourth boy challenged him, to which the old man replied, ‘Let me call the police right now.’ He was undermining the children’s confidence, the old man thought, and his face took on a gleam, and he felt his spine straightening a little.

‘Put them here,’ he pointed out with his walking stick. Why weren’t these weaklings listening to him? he thought, and gazed at the tree.

‘I won’t,’ the fourth retorted as he straightened out the black cable.

‘Give them back, otherwise….’ The old man introduced the hint of a threat into his voice. The fourth one shot back, ‘Otherwise what?’ The rage in his eyes was so stark that the old man realised it would not be easy to scare them. Still, he asked his wife, ‘Can you hand over my phone?’ But she couldn’t hear him. The woman gathering mangoes now said, ‘Let it go, babu ji. The mangoes fell on their own. Somebody else would have taken them if not us. They’re just mangoes.’

‘That is precisely why. If you were taking the leaves away, I wouldn’t have said a word. You can earn both money and punya from feeding the leaves to animals.’

The first one replied, ‘Animals don’t eat mango leaves.’

‘Shut up. Take the mango leaves. Make a festoon out of them and hang it over your doorway for prosperity. You won’t have to roam if you earn money. Go to the temple and seek prasad. Seek the blessings of God. Join your hands in prayer and seek forgiveness; swear you will never steal again. This will improve your lot. Your bhagya.’ The old man had failed to scare them and wanted to resort to manipulating them through honour, so his voice had turned softer now.

‘Stealing? Who stole? We didn’t steal. We don’t want to go to a mandir, and we don’t want prasad. Let’s go, guys.’ The fourth one hustled.

‘Shut up. Adharmi! Is this how you talk to elders? This is a sin. You sin and then say you will not even ask for forgiveness. You shall rot in hell.’ The old man lost his temper.

‘Is this how you talk to children? And this is no heaven either. Don’t worry about us.’ The first one broke his silence, somehow holding back his anger.

‘Let me make a call right now. The police will beat you up in front of everyone. They will be here in a minute and take you to the thana. You can tell them there about how you didn’t steal. O bai, talk some sense into this silly boy. All of you will have to go to jail because of him. I will make it difficult for you to get out of prison,’ the old man said in a forceful tone brimming with foreboding.

Confusion and fear started descending upon them except for the first and the fourth. The woman spoke up, ‘Did we really steal? Have we robbed you of something for you to be terrorising us so much, Seth ji? We are just taking some mangoes. You talk about dharam, mandir and prasad, so do you consider what you have done to be a good deed. You live in such a big house, what do you lack?’

‘If this is not your tree, how can the mangoes be yours?’ The fourth one asked right after the woman spoke, and the old man was aghast. But having come so far, he found it tough to take a step back. So, he said, not giving up, ‘This is my tree. I planted it. I worked hard. He who plants will reap the fruit. He is the owner. Understand?’

‘This is a public area. Trees standing in a public space are public property. And mangoes from those trees also belong to the public,’ the fourth one said as he considered breaking the old man’s head with an unripe mango. It was getting unbearable now. The old man refused to understand. The colony had come up on a piece of land planned by the government, and on both ends were iron-mesh gates with boards claiming it was not a public road. That was incorrect, but who would come forward to point that out?

‘You’re wrong. Know this; I would rather lay down my life than let anyone take all the mangoes away.

When the boys did not budge, he said, ‘Okay, let’s do this – whatever mangoes you can fit in your pockets, take them and bai, you can also take what you already have. Put the remaining ones down here.’ It seemed the only way forward was to compromise and he was happy to deploy the traditional way of breaking an alliance by giving the woman a little more of the share.

‘Yes, yes. That’s fine. Let’s go, guys,’ said the third one, who had played no part in the dialogue, or in plucking the mangoes or gathering them.

When no one paid attention to him, the third one tried to register his presence, that carried with it such a weight of hopelessness, and added, ‘I have already filled my pockets with mangoes. I don’t want any more. I will get going now, give me my t-shirt back. Okay, give it back to me later in the evening.’ The third one started leaving, all the while staring at the girl.

‘Go on if you want to, but we will leave only after taking all the mangoes. If you want to call the police, go ahead,’ the fourth one said.

The third one didn’t wait. The girl had been listening to everything. She stood at a distance as the dog was still not done with shitting.

Only that year, she had studied about the Round Table Conference and the Poona Pact. She recollected what her teacher had said. When requested to elaborate on the Poona Pact, the teacher had said there was no point in knowing anything more. The question on that topic that appeared in exams was never for more than two marks. All you had to remember was that a pact known as the Poona Pact was signed between Dr Ambedkar and Gandhiji in Yervada prison. This happened after a difference of opinion arose at the Round Table Conference.

Following this, her father, a man with very little education, explained the Poona Pact to her in detail. Gandhiji had been on the verge of death during his fast unto death, and it had all happened under duress. Her father’s face appeared in front of her eyes. Her father’s voice had become quiet when he told her they were betrayed. She didn’t know why she was remembering the Round Table Conference while listening to this matter about the mangoes. The dog was done shitting by then, so she moved closer to them.

Paying no attention to the fourth one and trying to be audible to the third one who had started to walk away, the old man said, ‘This boy sounds sensible,’ and then looking at the woman and the second boy, he said, ‘Let us put everything else on hold and do this now. This tree is mine, and so is the land, but I will still give you half of the mangoes. And I shall keep the other half. Just half, okay? I wish no ill will. Ask the lady who works at my house, sweeping-wiping, dishes. She will tell you how kind-hearted we are. We don’t throw away leftovers; we give them to her. We never disrespect food. And ask the person who cleans the gutters; we pay him fifty rupees every month. I have always tried to do good for everyone. Magnanimous, that is what I am!’ The old man acted sage-like in an attempt to hide his failures.

‘What kind of magnanimity is fifty rupees? That is no uddhar. You are offering that only for selfish reasons.’ The rage within her exploded as she blurted this out. As if he hadn’t heard the girl, the old man went on, ‘The sweeper who comes early in the morning takes the mangoes lying on the ground. But we never stop him. We have such kind hearts, and this girl here says whatever she wants. Chalo, let’s settle it halfway, and if you still don’t listen to me, then I will have no option but to call the police, the neighbours, and the guard and put you in jail. Do you even do anything other than stealing?’ The old man resorted again to threats because no amount of compromise based on reason seemed to have had any impact. He knew they all lived in different lanes, and that they were from the same neighbourhood. He was confident they wouldn’t unite, so he added, ‘Is this your lane? Is this your neighbourhood? Why did you come here in the first place?’

‘Is the sky yours? Is the air yours? You talk like a dust devil – going round and round!’

The old man couldn’t think of anything in reply to the first boy.

Being a little deaf due to illness, the old man’s wife stood there, trying to understand what was going on, and could not decide whether to step out of the gate. She never spoke to her husband outside the threshold of their house. Now, she wanted to tell him to come back and let it go, but even at this age, her tongue sought his approval before speaking up.

The girl said, ‘Babu ji, you didn’t plant this tree. My mother has been working in this neighbourhood for several years. She says this mango tree existed even before there were houses here. It came up on its own. That is why you have no right to the tree. And neither is this land yours. You will be able to recall everything if you try hard enough,’ the girl was trying to control the dog who was moving all over, even as she said this.

The old man was enraged, ‘Who are you to interfere? You stay out of this.’ Just like no commoner would be allowed to walk on their street, no third person was to get into this bilateral issue – this was his thought process. But the girl answered, equally righteous, ‘Babu ji, these boys are from my neighbourhood. They are on the same side as me.’

‘You keep quiet. I don’t mind if you get to study and have others like you study, but if you speak up on the street, I will get you fired. Got it?’ the old man was furious now.

‘Please do that if you can, but don’t try to frighten us. This is not Poona, for you to say I am dying, I am dying, and then force us into a compromise. This is a street and not a prison. An open street. A street does not get closed off or turn into a prison just because you put up iron gates or have a man guard it,’ the girl said with no trepidation. Her father’s face and his explanations kept coming to her mind.

The skinny girl seemed like a strong mango tree compared to the first boy. He couldn’t turn his gaze away, but the old man feigned ignorance, ‘Poona? Don’t talk rubbish. You have attended just four grades and are impudent enough to turn into a chatterbox. Step aside. Do you boys agree, or should I call the police?’ The old man tried to frighten them with aggression. But it was clear from their faces that it had not worked. But there was no turning back or keeping quiet. What could he do now?

‘I haven’t studied just four grades; I am a student of Higher Secondary. I know all about it. You, too, know all about it. Back then, our Baba showed mercy, and we were betrayed. If not for your stubbornness back then, we could be studying peacefully at home instead of standing here like this. Just tell us, who takes away the mangoes? The neighbours – you can’t say a word to them. You can’t say anything to the high and mighty, but you lecture us. This tree is for everyone. The mangoes are for everyone, and whoever wants them can have them.’

Her phone rang. It was her employer calling. She didn’t answer it, let it ring.

‘She is right. Who the hell are you to give us the fruits when the tree itself is not yours? We will take them all; you do whatever you wish’, the fourth boy said.

Paying no heed to the number on the glowing screen of the phone, she said, ‘This is no Round Table for you to keep talking endlessly. Talking is over now. Now Bapuji can’t do anything; you take the mangoes and go along.

‘Ji Madam. I have opened the gate, I am coming right away,’ she said, answering the call.