9

A short distance from Apu’s house stood a great pipal tree. Only its crown was visible from the window of their portico or from the portico itself. Apu would sometimes gaze in its direction. Every time he looked at it, he would be reminded of a country that was very, very far away—what country, he couldn’t quite place it—someplace, somewhere—he would only hear his mother speak of the princely sons of such lands.

The thought of faraway things would conjure in his child’s mind a feeling of joy mingled with wonder. The blue sky was far away, the kite-flying field was far away—he could not explain it, could not put it into words for anyone, but thoughts like these would make his mind take flight and soar—and what was most curious was that just as this fantasy of the far-off would seize his mind and spirit him away, at that very moment, he would start to pine for his mother; where he was going, his mother was not, and at once his mind would grow frantic to be with her.

How many times had it happened. A kite would be flying high in the sky, growing smaller and smaller and smaller, until it passed behind the crest of the Pal family’s tall tal-palm and vanished into the distant heavens—and as he watched, the moment the flying kite disappeared from view, he would lower his eyes, dash in from the outer yard, and, climbing onto the veranda of the kitchen, throw his arms around his mother as she went about her household chores.

His mother would say, “Look, just look at this boy! Let go, let go—can’t you see my hands are dirty? …Let go, my treasure, my darling, look here, I’m frying you some shrimp—don’t you love shrimp? Yes, now don’t be naughty—let go—”

After the midday meal, his mother would sometimes spread the end of her sari by the window, lie down, and chant verses from their tattered copy of the Kashidasi Mahabharata. A brahminy kite would call from the coconut tree beside the house, and Apu, sitting nearby and practising his letters, would listen intently to his mother’s recitation of the Mahabharata. His mother would say to Durga, “Make me a paan, won’t you, Dugga?” And Apu would ask, “Ma, what about the story of the girl gathering dung cakes?” His mother would say, “Which dung-cake story is that? Oh, you mean Harihor’s? That’s in the Annadamangal, it’s not in this book.” Then, with the paan in her mouth, she would begin to chant once more:

The king spoke, Listen, O sage’s son, I shall tell a wondrous tale, beyond description. King Somadatta, his home in Sindhu-desh, Ever cruel to gods and Brahmins, his heart—

Apu would immediately hold his cupped hand before his mother’s mouth and say, “A little paan for me?” His mother would place the chewed paan from her own mouth onto his outstretched hand and say, “Ugh, it’s terribly bitter—it’s this catechu, I tell them at the market every day not to bring it, but still—”

Gazing out the window at the sun-drenched tangle of sheora and ghetu bushes in the bamboo grove, listening to the Mahabharata—especially the account of the battle of Kurukshetra—he would be lost in another world. Of all the characters in the Mahabharata, he liked Karna best.

This was because he felt a certain tenderness for Karna. The wheel of his chariot was stuck fast in the earth—with both hands he was trying with all his might to pull it free—and ignoring the unarmed, helpless, imperilled Karna’s pleas and entreaties, Arjuna had loosed an arrow and struck him down! Listening to his mother read this part, Apu’s young heart would fill with sorrow, his tears would refuse to be held back—they would overflow and trickle down his soft, plump cheeks. And with that came the pleasure of weeping for another’s sorrow, a feeling that was introducing itself to his inner world with the freshness of a new sensation.

The side of life’s path that is tinged with human tears, with poverty, with death, with despair, failure, and pain—through the dense scent of the old book’s torn pages, his mother’s sweet voice, the magical pointing finger of the sun-filled afternoon, his childish gaze would dimly perceive that path. When the day waned and his mother rose to attend to her chores, he would come outside, stand on the portico, and sometimes find himself gazing at that distant pipal tree. Perhaps in the harsh sun of Chaitra or Baishakh, the crown of the tree was hazy and indistinct; or perhaps the rosy late-afternoon sun was wrapped lazily around its crest. It was looking at the tree bathed in this rosy late-afternoon sun that moved him most. It was as if Karna were still there, beyond that pipal tree, under the sky, somewhere far away, still trying with all his might to pull the chariot wheel from the earth—he tries every day, every day—a great hero, Karna, yet an object of pity for all time! The victor was not the valiant Arjuna—who won a kingdom, who won honour, who loosed an arrow from his chariot to destroy a defenceless foe. The victor was Karna—he who lived on in the eternal tears of humanity, who became a companion to human sorrow and feeling—it was he.

Some days, while listening to the tales of the war in the Mahabharata, it would strike him that the book didn’t have nearly enough fighting in it. To make up for this lack and to enjoy the business of war to his heart’s content, he devised a solution.

Taking up a sliver of bamboo or a light branch as a weapon, he would wander along the path behind the house in the bamboo grove, or in the outer courtyard, muttering to himself, “Then Drona let fly ten arrows at once, and what did Arjuna do, he shot back two hundred! And then—oh!—what a battle!”

The storm of arrows darkened the four corners of the earth! (Here, he would imagine a number of arrows that would satisfy his own appetite for battle, though his imagination never strayed far from what he had heard his mother read about the methods of warfare described in the Kashidasi Mahabharata.) “And then what did Arjuna do, he leapt from his chariot with sword and shield—and then the fight was on! Duryodhana came—Bhima came—the sky was black with arrows—nothing could be seen.”

The great warriors of the Mahabharata had earned their fame fighting for a mere eighteen days, but if they had been alive in flesh and blood, they would have understood how arduous the path to glory was becoming. To satisfy the boy’s craving, would they have been able to wield their weapons with the same prowess, month after month?

It was a summer’s day, midway through the month of Baishakh.

That day, shortly before noon, in the thicket near Nilmoni Ray’s homestead, Guru Drona had found himself in grave peril—the monkey-bannered chariot was bearing down upon him, the Gandiva bow was but a blink of an eye from releasing the Brahmastra, a cry of despair had risen from the Kuru ranks—when suddenly a playful voice from the sheora thicket asked, “What’s this, Apu?” Startled, Apu let go of the bowstring he had drawn to his ear and looked up to see his sister standing in the jungle, watching him and giggling. As he looked at her, she said, “You crazy boy, what are you muttering to yourself and waving your arms and legs about for?” Then she ran to him and, with a fond kiss on her brother’s tender cheek, said, “You’re mad! Just a mad boy, what were you babbling about all by yourself?”

Embarrassed, Apu kept repeating, “Go on… was I babbling?… Oh, go on, you!” At last, Durga stopped laughing and said, “Come with me…”

Then she took Apu’s hand and led him into the jungle. After a little way, she smiled and pointed with her finger, saying, “See that? …So many nona fruits are ripe! …Now how do we get them down, tell me?”

Apu said, “Wow, so many, Didi! Can’t we knock them down with a stick?”

Durga said, “You do one thing, run and get the ankushi-hook from the house. You’ll see, if we pull with the ankushi, they’ll fall.”

Apu said, “You wait here, Didi, I’ll go get it.”

When Apu returned with the ankushi, they tried together for a long time but couldn’t manage to get more than four or five fruits. The tree was very tall, and Durga couldn’t reach the fruits on the highest branches even with the hook. Finally, she said, “Come on, let’s take these for today. I’ll bring Ma when we go for our bath—she’ll be able to reach them. Here, give me the nona fruits, you take the ankushi. Want to wear a nose-stud?”

On a low bush, the or-kolmi vine was covered with white flower buds. Durga put down the fruits she was holding and began to pluck the buds nearby. She said, “Come over here, let me put a nose-stud on you.”

His sister loved to wear nose-studs made of or-kolmi flowers. She would often search for them in the jungle, bring them back to wear herself, and had put them on Apu several times before. But Apu secretly disliked wearing nose-studs. He wanted to say he didn’t need one. But for fear of his sister, he said nothing. He had no desire to upset her, for it was Didi who roamed the woods and jungles to gather jujubes, java plums, nona fruits, and hog plums, and fed them to him in secret; she would procure things that were perhaps forbidden to them as unwholesome, and so, even if it was wrong, he didn’t have the courage to disobey her.

Breaking a bud, she used the white, watery sap that oozed out to stick the bud to Apu’s nose. Then she put one on herself. Then, holding her brother’s chin, she turned his face towards her and said, “Let’s see, how does it look? Ah, it looks lovely. Come, let’s go show Ma.”

Apu said shyly, “No, Didi—”

“Come on! Don’t you dare take it off—it looks wonderful.”

When they got home, Durga placed the nona fruits on the veranda of the kitchen. Sarbajaya was cooking; seeing them, she was very pleased and said, “Where did you get these?”

Durga said, “In the lychee jungle—there are lots more, will you come and pick them tomorrow, Ma? They’re so ripe—as red as sindur.” She stepped out from behind her mother’s back and said, “Look, Ma.”

Apu, wearing his nose-stud, was standing behind his sister. Sarbajaya laughed and said, “Oh my! Who’s this? I don’t seem to recognize him.”

Embarrassed, Apu quickly pulled the flower bud from the tip of his nose. He said, “It was Didi, she put it on me.”

Durga suddenly cried out, “Come on, Apu, I hear a dug-dugi drum somewhere, come on, the monkey-man is here. That’s right, come quick!”

Durga in the lead and Apu close behind, they rushed out of the house.

It wasn’t a monkey-man coming down the path in front, but Chinibas the sweet-seller from the other neighbourhood, making his rounds with a basket of sweets on his head. He had a shop in the other para, and he also dabbled in the jaggery and paddy trade. But his capital was small, and he could never make a go of it; he would soon fail. Then he might be seen hawking potatoes and patals, or sometimes paan, at the village markets. And when that didn’t work out either, he would perhaps sling a bag over his shoulder and take up his caste profession. Then one day he would suddenly reappear, selling stone-lime from a basket on his head. People said there wasn’t a single thing, except fish, that he hadn’t been seen selling. Tomorrow was Dashahara, and people would be buying murki and sandesh today. Though Chinibas passed by Harihar Ray’s door, he did not enter. He knew the people of this house never bought anything. Still, seeing Durga and Apu standing at the door, he asked, “Want any?”

Apu looked at his sister’s face. Durga shook her head at Chinibas and said, “No.”

When Chinibas went to Bhuvan Mukherjee’s house and lowered the basket from his head, the children of the house swarmed around him with a clamour. Bhuvan Mukherjee was a well-to-do man, with five or six granaries on his property; in this village, his name could be mentioned right after Annada Ray’s in terms of land and wealth.

Bhuvan Mukherjee’s wife had died many years ago. At present, his younger brother’s widow was the mistress of the household.

Sejo-bou must have been over forty, and she had a reputation for being an extremely strict woman. Sejo-bou took murki, sandesh, and batasha for the Dashahara puja from Chinibas on a polished brass platter. Bhuvan Mukherjee’s children and her own son, Sunil, were standing right there, and she bought sweets for them as well. Then, seeing that Durga had followed Chinibas in with Apu and was standing in the courtyard, Sejo-bou put a hand on her son Sunil’s shoulder, gave him a little push and said, “Why don’t you go up on the portico and eat? This is for the gods, you’ll drop crumbs from your mouth and make a mess.” Chinibas lifted the basket to his head and moved on to the next house. Durga said, “Come on, Apu, let’s go see what’s happening at Tunu’s house.”

As soon as they were out the main gate, Sejo-bou turned her head and muttered, “I can’t stand the sight of them, I really can’t. What a greedy little thing that girl is—you have your own house, go sit there and buy your own sweets to eat, won’t you? But no, she has to go from door to door, just like her mother, so the daughter.”

Once they were out of the house, Durga said to her brother in a reassuring tone, “Chinibas’s sweets are nothing special. I’ll see if I can get four paisa from Baba for the Rath festival—two for you, two for me. We’ll buy murki and eat it together.” After a moment’s thought, Apu asked, “How many days left till Rath, Didi?”