The Seedling, Translation of Mahabaleshwar Sail’s Konkani story Aankri.
Kusum sat in silence, deeply aware of the fact that she didn’t have a decent blouse to wear. She felt like crying as though her heart would break as she thought of how poor they were and how the meager wages her father earned each day were barely enough to pay for their food. Now that the rains were on them, he would not get work every day. Where would he get money to spare for a blouse …..but she needed a blouse at the earliest.
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Suddenly her thoughts went up to the gourd on the roof. If that were plucked and sold it would fetch six rupees at least. She could get a length of inexpensive cloth at the Society shop. She would worry about tailoring charges later. She thought about this again and again and decided that the gourd would have to be plucked and sold the next day.
She wanted to go to the Society shop to check on the cloth that was being sold, but she was nervous about stepping out of the hut in her torn blouse. She quietly made her way to Ambu mavshi’s hut that was just behind her own, and borrowed a needle and a reel of thread. She slipped out of her torn blouse and made her way to the pool of light that filtered in through the window in the inner room. She was overcome by fear and embarrassment as she sewed the torn strips together and slipped back into the blouse.
Kusum was delighted to hear this. She quite forgot that she needed a new blouse. She was quite relieved that she hadn’t sold the doodhi to anyone even though she had carried it all over the village.
She made her way to tailor Karim’s shop and waited for his customers to leave before entering his shop.
‘I want a blouse stitched,’ she said.
Karim’s whirring sewing machine ground to a halt. ‘Of course. I’ll stitch a fine blouse for you. You certainly need one,’ he joked.
‘How much cloth will I need?’
‘About three-fourth of a meter….’
‘I’ll get the cloth tomorrow,’ she said.
She went to the Society shop and nervously inspected several bales of cloth before settling on one sample that she thought was really pretty. It was sky blue fabric covered with a profusion of tiny white and yellow flowers. She asked the shopkeeper what it would cost and much to her surprise, realized that one and a half meters would cost six rupees.
She emerged from the shop and was suddenly struck by a thought ….what if the cloth ran out by the time she got there the next day? The very next moment she managed to still her own fear ….it was a large bale of cloth. How could it be sold out in such a short time?
Her father was waiting in the courtyard when she got home.
‘Where were you? Just look at your clothes ….they’re tattered ….and you’re roaming around the village like this!’
Hari was overcome by embarrassment as soon as the words left his mouth. I must get her some new clothes at once, he thought.
Kusum wanted to tell her father about her plans but she was hesitant.
‘Everything seems to have come to a halt. There is no work available these days. It’s always like this during the three months of the rainy season,’ Hari grumbled.
The words were hovering on Kusum’s lips as Hari picked up his axe and prepared to leave the next morning, but something seemed to hold her back. She was firm in her resolve, however. She would pluck the gourd and sell it today. She would surprise her father with the cloth when he got home.
She borrowed a ladder from her neighbour Gangavva and the neighbour’s son helped her pluck the gourd and bring it down. The doodhi was much larger than it had seemed when she had gazed at it from the ground; this would certainly fetch six rupees, she thought.
Kusum placed the gourd in a basket and set out with the basket on her head. She passed one house after the other and wherever she saw a woman by the door she paused, ‘Bai, do you want a white doodhi?’ she asked.
People stopped her on the way and asked the price. When she said it would cost them six rupees one woman shrieked in alarm. She began to bargain and demanded that it be sold for three. Kusum didn’t say any more. She picked up the basket and moved away.
It was not as though Kusum had no experience in selling produce. When Hari got work in someone’s orchard harvesting mangos, he would receive a small quantity of fruit, too. Kusum had taken the mangos in a basket and sold them in the village on three or four occasions. People had pounced on the fruit and they had been sold in no time.
Another woman stopped her and dug her nails into the gourd to check if it was tender and fresh.
‘Bai, don’t buy it if you don’t want to, but don’t stick your nails into the gourd. It will get spoilt,’ Kusum protested.
‘What insolence! I don’t want this gourd. It’s a worthless specimen. Get away now!’ the woman slammed the door on Kusum’s face.
Kusum had tramped through the market square and the Desai vaddo; she had wandered past the temple and the settlement by the stream but no one wanted the gourd. No one was willing to pay more than three, or three and a half rupees at the most.
Kusum was tired and the basket on her head seemed to weigh a tonne. There was a sudden shower of rain and Kusum had to take shelter somewhere holding the torn strips of her blouse in place as best as she could. She yearned to return home but the beautiful colours of the cloth she had seen the previous day seemed to dance before her eyes and all she wanted was that the doodhi be sold for six rupees.
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She was finally so exhausted that she turned back with a woe-begone face. She saw a woman standing by the gate of a bungalow, ‘Bai, do you want a doodhi?’ she asked.
‘You’re Hari’s daughter, aren’t you?’ the woman asked and Kusum lowered the basket with great hope. The woman began to bargain and refused to give more than four rupees for the gourd. Suddenly her nine or ten year old son came up to her with a large slab of chocolate wrapped in shiny foil.
‘How much did you pay?’ the mother asked.
‘Nine rupees.’
‘Good.’
‘What! Nine rupees for that slab of chocolate!’ Kusum exclaimed in surprise.
‘It’s Cadbury. Not some gourd that you can get for two rupees!’ the boy smirked.
‘Go home, now.’ The woman shooed the boy away. ‘Will you give the gourd for four rupees? Anyway doodhi doesn’t taste good in the rainy season …..it’s always very bland….’
Kusum picked up the basket in a stubborn fit and stomped off homewards, not bothering to stop when a couple of people hailed her on the way. She dumped the basket on the floor when she got home and the gourd bounced out, slitting open at one end exposing the white flesh.
‘Wretched demon! Carried it on my head all this while …..my neck aches so….!’ Kusum cast an angry look at the vegetable as she shook out the length of cloth that had been folded into a pad for the basket, and threw it over the gourd in disgust.
She was very tired and dejected as she sat on the threshold and suddenly she was overcome by a desire to weep. Wave after wave of sobs burst forth as she rubbed her eyes with her fists and wept her heart out.
She felt quite relieved when the emotional outburst had passed and her tiredness seemed to abate, too. She had to cook dinner before her father got home, so she went indoors and fetched the adoli or curved blade fixed to the wooden stool that was used to chop vegetables. She set about chopping the doodhi briskly and in a short while the cane platter before her was heaped with greenish-white pieces of gourd.
‘Say something to that father of yours, Kusum!’ Ambu mavshi, who was passing that way, stopped for a moment. ‘ It’s raining so hard. And is the wind any less? That palm tree in Kamati’s courtyard is leaning over the house, it seems. So Hari climbs up that slippery trunk and perches at the crest lopping off the leaves. He’s going to chop down that palm bit by bit, he says. What a tall palm, that is! And how it sways in the breeze! My head was spinning at the sight…..’
Kusum’s heart quaked and she squirmed in anguish as she felt the tears welling up all over again. She carried the platter of chopped vegetables into the house and returned to the yard waiting for her father to return. The gusts of wind and rain didn’t seem to lessen so she went back to the kitchen, she would make a nice doodhi bhaji for her father, she thought. She borrowed some spices and condiments from Ambu mavshi’s kitchen and added some dried shrimps to the vegetables cooking on the hearth and soon the pot of bhaji was done.
The rain continued to pour and the sky was covered with dark clouds as the trees and palms swayed in the strong breeze. A roll of thunder crashed and lightning streaked across the sky. Darkness seemed to have set in early because the sky was overcast, and there was no way of knowing if the sun had set. But her father hadn’t got home as yet.
Kusum lit an oil lamp and placed it in the verandah as she waited quietly in the house. The rain continued to fall in short bursts and water trickled down from the eaves in a continuous stream.
She sprang to her feet when she saw her father’s figure approaching in the dim light of the lamp and stared at him steadfastly as he stepped into the hut. Hari shook out the strip of blanket that was sopping wet and tossed it on the line. He mopped himself with the towel that was wound about his head and let out a tired sigh.
‘Bappa, were you up on that tall palm cutting the leaves in the middle of the storm?’ Kusum asked tearfully.
‘How do you know?’
‘Bappa, promise me this. Promise that you will never climb on to those palms and tall trees ever again. I’m scared.’
‘And how will we fill our bellies, my dear? That’s the way God wants me to make a living. He’ll look after me.’
Kusum didn’t say another word. She glanced at her father with love shining in her eyes, and felt a wave of concern for the man. He seemed weak and emaciated and fumbled tiredly like one whose head had begun to reel in exhaustion.
‘Come Bappa. Have a wash. I’ll serve dinner,’ she said.
Hari sat down on the wooden seat and Kusum placed a platter of pez and a small plate full of vegetable bhaji before him.
‘I plucked the doodhi that grew on our roof,’ she said.
‘Good. Doodhi should be eaten when it is tender,’ Hari remarked as he ate with great relish. Kusum gazed at his face and then at his plate, serving him more of the curry and urging him to eat his fill.
‘The curry is very tasty, my dear. The doodhi was very good ….you won’t get such a large, tender gourd in the market for less than seven or eight rupees,’ he said.
Kusum was delighted to hear this. She quite forgot that she needed a new blouse. She was quite relieved that she hadn’t sold the doodhi to anyone even though she had carried it all over the village. At least her father had enjoyed the curry and eaten his fill. She decided that she wouldn’t tell her father anything about what she had planned.
When they finished their meal Hari washed his hands and burped in satisfaction. He drew out a small pouch tucked into the waistband of his loincloth.
‘I got paid very well for the work I did today. You need to get some new clothes, don’t you, my dear? We can go to the shop tomorrow.’ Hari drew out two crisp ten rupee notes and pressed them into Kusum’s hand.
Kusum was filled with joy and surprise and remained staring at her father affectionately.
Image Credit : BIng
