Scribbles by Sudhansh

(1)

Dry summer wind from the west brought us to the backyard where the old java plum tree stood tall offering us it’s fruits. The old plant had more than a decade long friendship with the beautiful pond nearby. Together did they welcome and bid farewell to numerous seasons which did not at all hesitate in going extreme in a small North Indian village.

The backyard was home to variety of pocket sized animals running from one place to another.

I stood there holding the chaucer while he was busy picking swollen black plums entangled in the beautiful dense grass of the backyard. His undernourished body had a pale white shirt on followed by a pyjama which was once mine.

“Do squirrels eat plums?” I asked as I noticed couple of them running around.

“They don’t but I am not throwing it over even if they do. They are all mine.” He said as he kept a handful of plums in his pocket.

His ancestors served my family and so did his parents. Two kind souls with a tameable appearance. They lived in an area isolated from my village. A low caste domitable downtrodden place where most of the people were employed as servants in my village. The way an eight year old kahaar was treated by the villagers was incomprehensible to me as a kid. Moreover it was not digestible for old men of 2009 to see a high class boy playing and hanging around with a dalit as if they were brothers.

“Why do you hug him? Don’t you find him sticky?” They would say but that hardly refrained me or my treatment. His poor nourishment and underdeveloped physique could not hide his impeccable athleticism whenever we raced along the fields of madai. Our indefatigable spirit and childhood enthusiasm never made us feel tired even though we would cycle all day long from fields to bushes to country roads.

He would listen carefully sitting on the floor as I would read out the Ramcharitmanas for my grandpa. So carefully that he learned few dohas by heart.

His pocket caught my attention instantly tickling me throughout. Initially he scratched his head seeing me laugh but later joined me toothfully. When we were done, I pointed at the stained pocket of his shirt.

“Oh god! Amma is going to kill me. The only white shirt I had is dead stained.” said he with stress of innocence all over his face.

“Relax! I’ll get it settled before leaving.” I replied pulling him out of the yard with my arms wrapped around his neck.

“When are you leaving?”

His head still buried under my affectionate arms.

“This evening most probably….”

Pause

“….Come on, I’ll be back by Dussehra.” I released him and tried reading his face. “Arey, don’t worry. I’ll get them punished if they trouble you anymore.”

Little did I know that he was not bothered by the fact that the other boys of the village bullied him. He was rather upset because he will have no one to play with till Dussehra.

The evening sun and the west wind hailed the enormous java plum tree and the unshaded pond for standing skin to skin over decades. The pocket sized creatures sang Odes on their friendship and expressed their gratitude for the shelter and nourishment.

The car moved and his dark skin and full toothed grin remained in my head long after we bid the final goodbye.

(2)

The promise was to get back five months later in Dussehra. Instead I got back when winter had it’s arms spread wide apart. I ran towards his place as soon as I reached home. I ran with so many words to exchange, so many monuments to build, so many confessions and apologies to make. A minute later, I drove myself inside his hut. His mother was busy picking out woolen clothes while he avoided an eye contact. Few seconds inside the hut and few words exchanged with his mother made me realise that it wasn’t a childish rift that stopped him from jumping over me but something else. Something else because of which his parents no longer worked for us.

Why would he steal Uncle’s phone? Uncle could’ve forgiven him if he did. Even if expelled from the service, I don’t think it was right for grandpa to slap or abuse him. What a fine woman his mother is. She didn’t deserve the insult. They owe us a lot of materialistic things but don’t we owe them more? Their lineage has been faithful and devoted.

The java plum tree for the coming nights remained stoned, dormant and probably sorrowful. The pond on the other hand freezed, becalmed and gloomy. The pocket sized creatures? Disappeared.

They could flourish once more in the coming spring only if their souls could survive the doom winter was about to bring.

(3)

I met him in a wedding ceremony eleven years later. I was a guest. A sophisticated young boy of twenty and he a tameable man of nineteen who carried buckets of water and served dessert and soft drinks to the guests. His bones bulging out of his skin spoke of the nourishment he was in or the unending services he carried for people like me.

My status and self respect refrained me from speaking to him.

It was spring but I didn’t go to the backyard for the Java Plum Tree no longer existed and the pond was now an inhabitable place full of hyacinths.