The Seedling, Translation of Mahabaleshwar Sail’s Konkani story Aankri.
Glancing out of the hut Kusum noted that the yellow blossoms on the ridgegourd creeper were slowly opening their petals in the reddish evening light. So, it’s time for Bappa to get home, she thought, as she skipped happily into the courtyard. Her tattered blouse swung open as she moved and she quickly pulled it into place.
Kusum was a wisp of a girl, thirteen or fourteen years of age. Dark, hardly beautiful, yet there was something pleasant about her, and she had attractive eyes.
Suddenly Kusum realized that her father had taken only an axe with him, the chisel and hammer were there before her ….. so he hadn’t gone to someone’s house to chop fire-wood! Perhaps he’d been called to lop off the straggling branches of some tree ….or maybe a tree had to be chopped down to its roots, she thought, overcome with fear. On returning home from her aunt’s place she had seen him perched on the topmost branches of a tall tree and since then her heart would be in her mouth as she waited for him, whenever he was later than usual.
Kusum’s father Hari was a taciturn creature who had withdrawn into himself after his wife died a few years ago. He had always been a bit simple, quite placid in fact, but after his wife’s death he seemed to have lost his moorings altogether. He toiled ceaselessly in people’s orchards for a rupee or two as they selfishly took advantage of his simple nature.
Hari had a chiseled frame that was lean and spare of flesh and a sunken belly. Scorched by the sun and drenched by the rain there was no scrap of clothing on his dark weather-beaten body except for a kashti wrapped around his shrunken shanks. One end of the cloth was wound about his loins while the other hung down to his knees. And tossed over his shoulder was a tattered blanket.
He had begun to open up a bit these days because of Kusum’s presence. The girl was as bubbly and affectionate as he was quiet and taciturn.
‘Yes. It’s borne fruit. But we’ll have to see if it survives during the rains,’ he said, as he watched his daughter’s glee.
Kusum waited in the courtyard for her father till a light drizzle forced her back on to the verandah where she was joined by Shobha and Mali who lived close by.
‘What’s this Shobha! Why have you raised your skirt so high, let it down at once!’
Shobha dropped the skirt she had bunched up, ‘Ei Kusum, lots of mangos have fallen in Kamati’s orchard, shall we go and gather some?’
‘No. That man who guards the place will be after us, cursing and abusing us.’
‘Let him shout. We’ll run away if he comes.’
The three friends crept watchfully into the orchard. Kusum picked up a ripe yellow mango from the ground but one side was worm-eaten so she tossed it away. The watchman who was surveying the scene from his hut moved towards them silently. He wanted to catch each of these brats and slap them soundly, but Kusum caught a glimpse of him and yelled ‘There he comes! Run! Shobha, Mali ….run!’
As they climbed over the thorny hedge Kusum’s blouse caught on a twig and tore a bit. She paused for a moment and then scampered away to meet the others who were waiting under a rumada tree. The watchman drew up at the hedge that marked the boundary of the orchard as the girls laughed at him.
‘These low caste brats creep into the orchard again and again. Not a single mango is spared ….they knock down the hedge. I’d love to break their limbs!’ he spluttered before returning to his hut.
There were quite a few showers of rain when the Roini star ruled the night sky some eight or ten days ago but the Meerg star, that had arrived with thunder and lightning had brought no rain. The lush greenery that had sprouted on all sides during the Roini showers seemed to scorch and wither in the dry spell that Meerg had brought.
Just beyond the rumada tree under which the girls had taken shelter was a large patch of buffalo dung and in its midst was a little seedling, fresh and vibrant and of a bright green hue.
‘Look! What a fine doodhi seedling!’ Kusum exclaimed, crouching over the dung patch as the others gathered around, staring at it in surprise.
‘I’m telling you, this is not a pumpkin seedling. It’s ridgegourd,’ Shobha declared.
‘No, no. It’s a cucumber seedling,’ Mali protested.
‘No, it isn’t. It’s doodhi or pumpkin.’
‘It has to be ridgegourd.’
‘Cucumber. I’m telling you, that’s what it is.’
The three girls were arguing heatedly when Kusum suddenly scooped up the seedling along with the dung in the hollow between her palms. It was a fine seedling indeed with four tiny leaves that seemed to be bursting with the vigour of life.
‘Sheee! What are you up to, Kusum! That filthy dung! Throw it away ….!’ Mali recoiled in disgust. But Kusum carried the seedling carefully in her palm, quite unmindful of the taunts of her friends, and set it down in the courtyard outside her hut. She picked up a spade and dug a little hole in the ground by the verandah and lowered the seedling into it. She covered the roots carefully with a sprinkling of earth.
When her father Hari got home that evening Kusum was in the kitchen blowing into the fire in the hearth. She rushed out excitedly and led her father to the spot.
‘Kusum, this is white konkan doodhi. But this variety of pumpkin will not bear fruit during the rainy season. The flowers will form and then the fruit will rot. Why bother with this ….?’her father asked.
‘Let it be, Bappa,’ Kusum declared. ‘If it bears fruit, that’s good. If it doesn’t, let the creeper grow at will all over the roof.’
Hari didn’t say any more. He merely sat there watching Kusum bustle about by the hearth. Why is this child showering me with so much affection. She could have settled in quite well at her aunt’s place, but she was only concerned about me. When I’d go to meet her after four or six months she’d cry her heart out and insist on coming back home. He was overcome with remorse. They lived in such dire straits that he could not indulge any of her fancies or shower affection on the child.
The Meerg star that had heralded a dry spell at the start gave way to torrential rain and the seedling took root at the new spot and stood erect with its leaves facing the rain. Kusum stuck two long tamarind twigs into the ground on either side. Gradually the seedling metamorphosed into a creeper festooned with fresh leaves and little thread-like tendrils at the tip that clung to the tamarind twigs. Kusum was quite relieved as she scattered ash from the hearth or a scoop of dung about its roots.
One day Hari noticed that each tendril on the plant seemed darker than before and the fresh green creeper had taken on a bluish tinge. This was not a good sign.
‘Your creeper seems to be suffering from indigestion, Kusum,’ he said.
‘Why do you say that, Bappa?’
Read More : The Night is Short
‘See how dark it has become. It is being smothered with ash and dung.’
Kusum realized her mistake. She cleared the heap of dung and ash and spread fresh earth about its roots. Soon the creeper had grown as thick as her thumb and the mass of foliage had climbed on to the roof of the hut and spread over the palm thatch giving the dwelling the appearance of a chariot festooned with a canopy of green.
Yet, there was no sign of any fruit. A few white blossoms formed on the vine, but they withered and fell away in a while. Kusum scanned every leaf and tendril every day but she couldn’t see a single bud. So, Bappa was right. The white doodhi creeper doesn’t bear fruit in the rainy season. But, so what? What a fine creeper this has grown to be!
And then suddenly one morning, she saw a bud, as large as a finger, peeping out from amidst the leaves. She was so excited that she rushed into the hut and dragged her father out to the spot.
‘Yes. It’s borne fruit. But we’ll have to see if it survives during the rains,’ he said, as he watched his daughter’s glee.
The fruit, however, continued to thrive. The flower at one end withered and fell away and the tiny gourd grew bigger and fleshier with every passing day.
As an infant cradled in her aunt’s arms Kusum would clap her hands delightedly and call out to the moon. It was with the same innocent delight that she gazed on the gourd and pointed it out to all those who passed by.
‘Kusum, don’t point out the fruit to everyone, like that. It might rot. Remember, people aren’t the same. Someone might cast an evil eye on it,’ Shobha’s mother said, one day.
Kusum was terrified. She dragged a ladder to the spot and climbed up, tugging at the leaves on the vine so that they covered the gourd and it was hidden from view. She kept a close eye on those who walked past to see if they were looking up at the hut’s roof.
The gourd grew plump and fleshy and was as long as her arm in about fifteen or twenty days. It would have to be plucked now or it would begin to harden and who could eat white doodhi that had been left on the vine too long?
Shobha came to her house that afternoon. Shobha was around eleven, two years younger than Kusum. She came and stood before Kusum, showing off her new blouse. Kusum passed her palm over the fabric, ‘When did you get this stitched?’ she asked.
‘Aai got it, yesterday.’
‘How pretty it is!’
‘Yes. I’ll wear this blouse over my skirt everyday. Do you know what Aai said? She said “That Kusum has no shame. Prances all around the village in that torn blouse.” She said that your breast could be seen through that rent.’
Kusum was very embarrassed at those words. She turned away quietly and went into the hut. Shobha skipped away happily, it was as though she had come there only to show off her new blouse.
To be continued…
Image credit : Bing
