Scribbles by Sudhansh

We regret to announce the death of the Prime Minister Mrs. Indira Gandhi. She was critically injured this morning at her residence, shot by two of her bodyguards. She was immediately rushed to All India Medical Institute where she succumbed to her injury…….

The Indian media back in 1984 was professional enough to make the country realise how big the loss was, at the same time keeping it very clear that it was only a phase which shall pass. 

   Although the village of Makandi was unaffected by what the local media called turmoil or instability that the country was in. The villagers were happy as long as men could plough the fields, women took care of the family, children were healthy, crops grew on time, cattle bred well and above all Goddess Durga had them under her shade of blessing. The kids spent their noon in the local school and evening collecting plums, chestnuts and cherries in the local garden. Sometimes they’d climb the mango tree with a hope of finding the fruit but October was not the right month. Therefore the little hearts remained content swinging on the branches and playing chikka, kaudiya milaan and sittaul nearby. The tree was said to be a home to their ancestors who guarded them silently. The pond nearby did not mind when they tossed pebbles in it. The little ones thought that it rather felt tickled creating ripples all over.

   Savarath sonar was the goldsmith everyone in the village respected and admired. His stout and cheerful mini panda figure was as likeable as his honesty, work ethic and wit. Wise old men of the village often discussed that Savarath could make an extraordinary con man with that pleasant gap-toothed smile but he still remained away from short cuts. He would often take his fifteen year old son, Brij with him for apprenticeship. The boy, much like his father, was hardworking and honest but not so cheerful as they said. Father and son would take a tour of the village once every week. They’d talk the talk and walk the walk while the customers figured out their budget. Savarath would explain the design, gold content, purity and market price with verification and the customers happily accepted with minimum bargain. His young boy would do the remaining formalities with extreme precision and care and people blessed him with success and good fortune much more than his father. He denied drinking liquor or chewing tobacco when his father offered him. An old lady once asked Savarath,

‘Why do you offer him these things when he doesn’t want to?’

He scratched his belly and grinned,

‘Amma ji, how would he experience it if I don’t?’

‘But what is the need after all?’

‘I need to settle the supplies for my old age, Amma ji. If I feed him now, only then will my needs be taken care of. Who knows he grows up teaching me to remain sober and righteous.’

And laughed with the same width, shaking his belly with everyone around including Amma ji. 

   The wheel of time was rapid for the happy faces of Makandi. The rain would leave the soil with hypnotic fragrance and the local market was at times flooded with a variety of crops from the village. Sparrows chirped and honey bees were never devoid of nectar and pollen rendering the mustard fields to appear like an ocean of amber calling people out to take a dive. The mango tree, although now full and heavy, smiled at the children who came to swing and play though occasionally. Savarath could not sustain his lungs and died happy and wealthy leaving a worthy successor in Brij. The only thing which kept his corpse from smiling was his brother who came back from the city and wanted a share with Brij. Ramsurat was the name and he was the con man the villagers thought Savarath could have been. Ramsurat would sell brass and other yellow metals claiming them to be pure gold. His bluffs grew and so did his enemies. The legacy of Savarath was supposed to be taken over by his son and was instead ruined by a long gone brother.

This could not happen for long and one morning a crowd gathered around Ramsurat’s house only to find his head lying metres away from his body chopped off by an axe. The axe was found where Savarath’s son, Brij slept. 

   The local police of 1996 could not have been expected to make more efforts searching for the culprit. They instead picked Brij and asked him to confess. The young man could not remember what he never did but after hours and hours he made a confession with his ribs broken, fingers fractured, hip cracked, nails plucked, and anus penetrated with a truncheon.

   The time no longer passed quickly enough but thankfully it did. Makandi was now the village of old men. All the youngsters either had migrated to the city or were planning to. The mustard fields were now watered by tubewells. Tractors and combine harvesters had now replaced the ploughs and tireless hands of villagers. The only thing standing tall was the mango tree whose branches probably waited for a friend.

   The long lost friend was once seen by a group of teenagers under the old tree who failed to recognise him. He seemed amazed at how big the changes were and gave a painfully wide gap-toothed smile only to never come back again.

(Inspired by true events)