ISSUE 47

The wintry mid-morning chatter of the muffled women at the handpump came to a halt as a small boy got off the eleven o’clock bus.

He came towards them and asked, ‘Can you tell me the way to my father’s house?’

His voice was crisp like the nip in the air, though a bit loud for his build and age. He seemed to be about nine years old and was dressed in clean but worn-out clothes. He looked up at the women as he waited for their answer.

Then, Surna, who was the eldest among them pointed towards the neem grove, ‘Go straight through there till you come to the next square of houses, then turn right and into the first lane. It is the third house, next to a small hand pump.’

The boy listened to her attentively. He did not seem to doubt her, and did not ask any questions. But waited, as if ready, in case there was more.

‘You won’t miss it,’ she added, ‘On the roof, are the largest pumpkins you’ve ever seen.’

The boy nodded and took the path that had been described to him.

‘How can you be so sure?’ a woman asked, when the boy was out of hearing range.

‘Didn’t you look at his nose and cheeks, they are exactly like Gajendra’s,’ said Surna.

The women looked at the boy moving into the neem grove.

The boy followed the instructions and after walking for about a mile and a half, arrived at the handpump, next to which he could see the house laden with huge pumpkins on the roof. He stood outside, facing the house; not knowing how to enter. There was an open space in front of the house. An old woman sat on a charpoy, her fingers busy twisting wheat flakes that fell on a faded saree laid out for this purpose. Her eyes were half closed, she swayed a little, humming a bhajan as she worked.

The boy waited. The old woman glanced at him once or twice. Then beckoned him in.

‘What is it that you want?’ she asked, not unkindly.

‘I am Radhu from Golna,’ he said and touched her feet.

He felt the light tentative vibration of her hand and stood up.

‘Does your mother know you have come here?’ she asked.

‘I will tell her when I get back,’ he replied.

She nodded and continued twisting the wheat flakes.

‘She thinks well of you and respects you…’ he said, even though he wasn’t very sure if it was so but he knew that saying nice things about people to them made them happy.

The old lady smiled. Humming, she closed her eyes, and the swaying began again. It reminded him of people he had seen in the temple, under a tree or in a corner, singing to their god, their bodies moving with the rhythm of their song…

He decided not to disturb the old lady further but was not sure if it was all right to step into the house. From the outside it seemed dark, and it was not possible to figure out the shapes of the interior. The sunny space around him was bare, except for a corner that was dense with plants and creepers.

He found a trowel and hoe and set to work there. Upturning the mud in some parts, he picked out the weeds.

It was good to be of service to others, as his mother said, whenever they went to a temple. They would wash the steps or water the plants or arrange the shoes in return for the meal that the temple offered. While hoeing the mud, he could see the pumpkins on the rooftop and they looked like the domes on top of a temple. He smiled at the similarity and continued hoeing the soil. It was a pity that he along with his mother and sister had no place there. Perhaps, as his mother said, only gods slept in temples. People like him might be allowed to visit … sometimes.

A boy came out of the house, bouncing a ball. He saw Radhu and yelled, ‘catch!’

A red orb with blue stripes came towards him.

And Radhu caught it.

For a long time they played in the bare space.

Then the old lady opened her eyes and introduced the two. The boy from the house was Diwakar and he was Radhu of Golna. The boys nodded at each other. Suddenly, Diwakar remembered that he had to go for tuition and ran towards the village.

‘Mai, check the rice,’ a shrill voice called from within, and a woman came out. She stopped on seeing Radhu and then joined the old lady on the charpoy. The two conversed in low voices as they tested the rice with their fingers. The woman kept the saree in front of her face and seemed to wipe her eyes. Then the old lady called him and said, ‘This is your elder mother.’

The woman got up to leave. She wore a mustard saree with an orange border, her hair was tied back in a huge bun. On her forehead was a big circle of vermilion. There was a thick sheet of gold around her neck and her wrists were heavy with broad bangles made of the mustard metal. To Radhu she seemed to be a clay goddess who held a pot of rice in her hand like the great Annapoorna. He knelt down before her and touched the ground with his head and stretched out his arms in prostration.

‘Live long,’ she said with a smile, apparently taken aback by his elaborate greeting. He moved backwards as he got up.

‘Come in and eat before you go,’ she said.

He looked around for Diwakar.

‘Oh, he has eaten and gone for his tuition,’ she said with a laugh, ‘he has milk, sugar and chapati, no rice…’

The bright sun dimmed her features, and the heavy gold ornaments around the neck and wrists now looked like slices of pumpkin placed against the crust of the gourd. The clay gods were adorned by flowers and sweets pasted onto them by ardent devotees. He, nevertheless, respected them all and respected the goddess here too. He respected everyone and everything that was related to his father.

The old lady called him to sit by his side. She took out a few crumpled rupees from the side pocket of her long blouse. Just as he would take out pennies from his money box.

‘Give these to your mother from my side,’ she whispered.

‘Let it be,’ he hesitated. She gestured for him to be quiet.

‘Maybe a little less,’ he said in a lower voice.

‘Can you count?’ she asked.

He nodded proudly, then counted the money. There were hundred and ten rupees in all.

‘You can give back ten,’ she said with a cackle, ‘for my tobacco.’

He did as was asked and pocketed the rest.

‘Now, go in and eat,’ she said.

He took off his shoes and bowing to the threshold of the house, entered it. He found himself in a large, dim, room. Dried bottle gourds of various shapes were dangling from a corner of the ceiling. In another corner there were a few chairs. A wooden bed rested against the wall. Adjacent to the room was the kitchen.

A mat was spread outside the kitchen door. He understood that it was meant for him and sat on it. Minutes later, the goddess appeared with a circular plate that curled upwards at the edges. There was rice, dal, some gourd curry and chutney. Even though he was hungry, he chewed the food slowly. His mother said that it was not nice to eat greedily in other places. People might come to know that you haven’t had enough at home. There were no people around, but even so … he made tiny balls of rice and let the taste linger on his tongue.

He ate alone in that large hazy room, listening to the crow outside.

The soft shuffling of feet near the entrance made him turn in that direction. From the silhouette he could make out that it was his father. The latter also recognised him.

‘Ah Radhu is that you?’ He seemed a bit surprised. Not angry.

The boy was happy to be called by name. He quickly stood up, but his father stopped him, ‘No no, carry on eating…’ And the boy sat down.

‘And are you going to school?’ the father enquired.

‘Yes,’ replied Radhu, ‘I am now in class three.’

‘So you are a big boy now’

Radhu nodded and his eyes twinkled.

‘Eat well, as well as you can,’ the father said as he went in through the kitchen door.

Radhu ate with ease in the stillness. He heard no voices from the kitchen. Only sounds of plates, ladles, uncovering and covering of vessel lids, pouring of water…

The house seemed to be holding its breath.

Midway, the goddess came and placed a slice of fried fish next to the curry. From his father’s plate and probably at his behest. He felt flattered by this attention.

After finishing the meal he carried his plate to the hand pump outside. The crow came for its share of leftovers and was not disappointed. He thought he saw some faces peering at him through the hedge, but they could well have been the afternoon shadows that appear and disappear with the rustle of a leaf. The old woman turned her back to the outside and he continued washing the plate. Scrubbed with clay and water, it looked better than before. When he went to keep it inside, the goddess was wiping the floor.

‘You are a well-behaved boy,’ she said as she saw him placing the plate against the wall.

Radhu looked at the kitchen door and then at her.

‘Oh him,’ she said with a small laugh, ‘he’s gone to the fields. He never stays more than a minute after lunch.’

Radhu was disappointed but did not show it. The wiping continued and the floor looked cleaner than before. Like the plate he had washed.

Radhu sat outside the main door. He did not know why. His father had come and gone and they had had a moment together. Which was nice. It would have been nicer if it was longer…

‘Shall I give you a pumpkin to take along?’ asked the old lady.

‘No…o…’ he laughed, ‘it’s too big and heavy for me to carry.’

‘Take some lighter vegetables then.’

‘My mother also grows some,’ he said, suddenly missing her.

‘Then, what can I give you?’ Her eyes looked around.

He also looked. And the ball caught his eye.

‘With your permission, if you say, maybe, I could take this.’

‘For that you will have to ask your elder mother.’ was her pensive reply.

Before he could react, a somewhat tired shrill voice from inside said, ‘Mai, this is your house as much as it is mine. The boy can take the ball, what is there…

Radhu did not move. His mother had taught him to keep off squabbles.

The goddess came out and gave two paper cones to Radhu. It reminded him of the prasad they received at the temple. He had learnt to receive it with grace.

‘Salted puffed rice and groundnuts for the journey back,’ she said with a big smile. He knew it was time to leave.

The big smile always indicated the time to leave. Whether people showed their best at the end or whether they were happy to see you go … he had not been able to figure that out. Perhaps a little bit of both. Maybe they hide their best, lest you stay on.

As he started to leave, the goddess aimed the ball towards him, ‘Here, take this…’

He hesitated.

‘Take it … Diwakar has two more.’

He picked up the ball and with both hands full thanked the two of them.

He moved towards the path that he came by, but the goddess advised him to avoid the village and take the other way, the one that would take him straight to the road.

He followed her advice. The lane opened into a meadow with wild grass and shrubs. In places, the grass was long and pointed and he needed free hands to make way. He unrolled a cone and scattered the puffed rice for the birds. The groundnuts were stuffed into his pocket.

Then he tossed the ball skywards. The red orb spiralled in the light and came down rolling towards the brown harvested fields. He ran for it. And again bounced it; again it rolled; and again he chased it, till he was in the ripe mustard fields. He kicked the ball ahead and it rolled a little and then waited. Waited for him to restart the game. And he did so many times till the ball rolled far far ahead into a patchy green field.

He saw it wander and disappear into the bushes. He felt joy slip out of his fingers. With a sigh he turned back to follow the route to the road. He had deviated so much that he was anxious about catching the four o’clock bus.

Suddenly something hit him in the back. It was the ball. He saw a man running towards him and hid behind a tree.

The man stood at a distance and said, ‘Ay Diwakar come out. I know where you are.’

It was his father’s voice.

‘This is not Diwakar. I am Radhu, Radhu from Golna.’

‘Oh Radhu – so come – we’ll play,’ said his father.

Radhu left the tree and looked at his father. He had a better look this time. He saw his father smile and pick up the ball.

‘Let’s play a simple game. I will give you the ball. You give it to me. I will keep increasing the distance, but the ball must not fall. You continue to catch and then throw, but the ball must not fall. Throw and catch; throw and catch…’

They played. The first round finished quickly. He could barely catch the ball ten times and almost gave up, but his father was persistent. They played till he could catch the ball fifty times. By then both father and son were sweaty and breathless. They fell down, exhausted. And Radhu felt his arms and legs ripple with happiness. He took out the groundnuts and offered them to his father.

The man looked at the plump nuts and pointed to a patch of green. ‘These nuts come from there.’ He smiled with satisfaction.

Radhu nodded. He was proud of his father.

They cracked the shells and concentrated on the nuts. The yellow, green and mustard fields blurred by the late afternoon light surrounded them. The stalks swayed quietly as a gentle breeze rustled through them. Somewhere ahead was the road and beyond it the horizon.

‘How is your mother?’ the father asked.

How … is … she…? It was a peculiar question for him to answer. Every day she seemed to be the same as the previous one. It meant she was ‘all right’ as he said.

‘And Nira … does she go to school?’

‘Yes, she is in class seven.’ This was easier to answer, though he did not want to talk about either of them. Talking about them led to missing them. And then he remembered the bus. He collected the shells in the paper.

‘What else can you do with paper?’ the father asked.

‘Read, write…’

‘A paper kite,’ suggested the father.

‘Or make a boat. My mother often goes by boat.’

‘Yes I know,’ the man said, ‘I met her on a boat,’ and a tender smile came upon his lips. To Radhu, his father’s lips looked like a tiny pink boat.

They got up and walked in silence.

‘Can you fly a kite, a paper kite?’ the father asked.

‘No,’ replied Radhu, ‘but I can toss a ball so high that it looks like a kite in the sky.’ And he tossed the orb in his hand as a demonstration.

‘You are a bright boy,’ said the father, proud of his son. And the son smiled back, proud of that pride.

‘Next time I will teach you how to fly an actual kite. It soars high, so high.’

‘Can it touch the sky?’ Radhu wondered. He was now conversing as he conversed with his mother.

‘That’s a good question,’ said the father, ‘It could, unless another kite takes it away.’

A horn honked in the distance.

‘The bus!’ Radhu’s voice was feeble with dismay and alarm.

‘It’s gone to the village and after taking a loop around, it will come out at the next turn. You can take it from there.’

The road was more than a mile away.

‘I will come with you,’ father assured him.

They walked for a few steps and came to a tin shed. Gajendra took out his two-wheeler and asked Radhu to hop on to the back seat.

‘Next time you can come right here. This shed is the best place to find me,’ he said as the scooter sailed through the meadows.

‘Next time, maybe we will fly kites in Golna,’ Radhu hoped.

‘Let us see…’

‘You will come, no?’ The yellow, green and mustard shades of the fields grew deeper as Radhu waited for an answer.

‘When I have work that side…’ a reply as tentative as the rising dust of the road.

‘Soon?’

‘Who knows … the grain markets in that area are going downwards, so…’

The road curved ahead.

The scooter swerved sharply to the side as the bus passed by.

Gajendra waved to the driver to stop. And the bus came to a halt. The father lifted him up and he was in the bus, with the precious orb in hand. Gajendra asked the conductor not to charge him for the ticket. He fondled Radhu’s hair and said, ‘Go safely…’

Radhu nodded. His father’s arms seemed to assure him of protection.

The bus moved on. In the distance, people were winnowing the grain, letting the chaff blow away. The yellow, green and mustard patches outside his window meandered and merged into one another, forming a thick blob of dense colour.

The bus stopped near his house.

His mother and sister were standing at the door.

‘So did you get to see him?’ Nira asked.

‘Yes, and we also played,’ he showed them the red orb and passed it to Nira. She thumped it to the ground. It bounced back and he caught it.

With a frown, Nira opened her books. Their mother busied herself with the pots and pans. Between them was a slice of bare wall.

He turned towards it and threw the ball. The wall threw it back with the same velocity. He tossed it again and the ball came back to him. Each time there was a throw and a catch … a throw and a catch. The red orb went on tirelessly. It oscillated between Radhu and the wall umpteen times … to and fro … to and fro….

Even when it was dark and the red was covered by the night, the oscillation went on; the pendulum captivated by its beat, by its sound, by its path of endless loops, to and fro … to and fro…