Our Favourite Indian Stories

by Khushwant Singh

  Babu explained about Chakravarti's embarrassment. Gopal said nothing but walked into the next room with his hands behind his head. He was sick of nodding his head in response to the words of condolence from perfect strangers. Why should Chakravarti not be Gopal for a short while? He was just a money making machine — no sense of humour whatsoever! Why couldn't this Periyamma mind her own business? Who on earth had heard of Lakshmi's cousin?

  'This is Gopal,' declared Venu.

  'I am sorry Gopal,' said the black suit. 'How old was your mother?'

  Chakravarti got up and went towards the verandah. His face looked as though he was perpetually grieving over the loss of someone. I wondered how many times he had been asked this kind of question before? He seemed to have come to a halt near the balcony. Was he going to jump? They talk of transplanting all kinds of organs. Is it possible to transplant the face? Why, even the Puranas have stories of transplants! What about the Puru-Yayati story? That was a case of transplantation of the whole body! When I grow older, my face too will look like mother's did yesterday. I have to consign that body to the flames today... What a cruel joke... I do not remember father's death.... Why shouldn't we bury the dead? That would not be so heartless. But it is our belief that only if the body is sanctified by fire can the soul go to heaven. Agni is the purifier.... That is all the value attached to the body... Is it this body that was my conception of my mother? Or is it the chain of permanent memories that pervade my mind like the soft fragrance of joss sticks?

  I must have been about ten or twelve. I was down with small pox. Burning pain racked my body. I could not sleep. I was very seriously ill that night. I was twisting and turning in bed. Suddenly, I looked at mother's face. She had been by my bedside day and night. That night her face appeared uncommonly effulgent, blood red by the light of the chimney-lamp. She was staring hard at me. The tears were flowing freely from her eyes and she made no attempt to wipe them away. I was suddenly beset by a doubt. Was it mother there or someone else? The next day the pain in my body disappeared. My mind could not understand this experience. There were many more, similar experiences...

  'We should leave at nine for the hospital if we are to be in time,' announced Balu, coming in.

  'We must pay the dues at the cashier's counter and hand over the receipt in the mortuary for the body to be released,' said Venu. 'Let us start.'

  'There will be queues both at the cash counter as well as the mortuary,' warned Balu.

  Will there be as long a queue at the mortuary as at the maternity ward? My worry is that I am also one of those in the mortuary queue.... After me, it will be Babu in the queue.... After Babu, his son.... I am waiting to become part of history. Each generation is a memorial to the previous one. The present is a reflection of the past.... Then, which is the real, and which is the copy? My head is reeling.

  Babu came in. 'Periyamma says we should start.' Gopal took off his vest and covered himself with a towel.

  Those assembled left one by one. Some, recalling their wives' injunctions regarding the proper practice on such occasions, moved away without a formal leave- taking.

  The old gentleman in the black suit came to Babu and asked him, 'Are you Gopal's son?'

  'Yes.'

  'How old was your grandmother?'

  Apparently he had not got an answer to this question from father. Why was he so interested in grandmother's age? Was it selfish interest in finding out, now that he had become an old man, at what age other old people were passing away?

  'Sixty-five.'

  The gentleman tapped his stick twice on the ground—lifted up his head and looked down. 'So I go,' he said with a smile. What did he mean?

  The old gentleman left.

  When everyone was out of the house, ready to start, Periyamma asked Balu, 'Have you got the sandalwood?'

  'Of course I have it.'

  'If you trust a job to Balu, you don't have to worry about it,' said Venu.

  'Then I don't have to worry,' said Periyamma.

  When she found that no one had understood her, she laughed and said, 'I do not know if my lot will be the Cauvery or the Jamuna.... What I meant was that, if it is the Jamuna, I do not have to worry.'

  Babu couldn't help thinking of how Periyamma had tied the bangle to the hem of her saree the previous day.

  The priest was waiting at the hospital. There were two others with him.

  'There is a gate at the back. All the things are there. If you bring the body there from the mortuary, we can go directly. You do have mortuary receipt, of course,' said the priest.

  'We have to make payment at the cash counter,' said Balu.

  'If you go to the left, you will find a small building next to a big one. It will be open now. Make the payment there and bring the receipt to the mortuary... Right... shall we go now?' The priest sounded as if he was a daily visitor to the hospital.

  The mortuary was behind the hospital. There was a big crowd there. Black vans moved away from there one by one like laden lorries at a wholesale market.

  'What did I tell you, it is quite warm at this time of the year,' said Rajagopalan.

  'Do you remember when Santhanam died... Santhanam of the D.G.S. & D. in June.... My God! It was hot and we had a hell of a time,' said Krishnamurthy.

  'Gopal is lucky that his mother died now...It is neither too hot nor too cold,' said Vedagiri.

  'Have you arranged for the van from the hospital?' asked Rajagopalan.

  'Yes...thirty-two rupees,' said Venu who had joined them just then.

  'Thirty-two? It was only twenty-four or so two years back' said Krishnamurthy.

  'Living is costly enough. Why should dying also be expensive?' complained Vedagiri.

  'It is costlier to die than to live in our religion. That is why people used to live to be a hundred,' said father... Everyone looked at him in surprise. Babu too had not expected this remark from him.

  'Apparently, you have paid an advance and the receipt is in your mother's name. The clerk said that for clearance of the dues, the balance would have to be paid by the person on whose name the receipt stands. When I told him that the lady was dead, he wanted a Succession Certificate. I had a job persuading him to issue the clearance,' said Balu.

  'Who has gone to the mortuary?' asked Vedagiri.

  'Venu. Come on, let us also go. Two more people would be useful.'

  They brought out grandmother's body covered in a white sheet.

  When they took off the cloth covering the face, father stared at it. His face remained wooden. It wore no expression.

  The priest then, helped by two others, placed grandmother's body on the bier.

  'The ladies can stop here. They don't have to go there,' said the priest.

  'That is correct' said Venu. The priest chanted some mantrams and distributed the sacred turmeric-coated rice.

  At last mother triumphed. There were two teardrops at the corner of her eyes. Periyamma wailed. 'I am only two years younger. I shall join you soon!'

  She wiped her eyes and said to Babu in a low voice. 'Be careful when you get into the Jamuna. You are not used to it.'

  'There is no water in the Jamuna at this time of the year,' said Balu. Though Periyamma had meant to whisper the words he had heard her.

  'Why can't I also come along then?' asked Periyamma.

  'That spot is not very convenient for ladies,' explained the priest.

  Periyamma started to wail again. 'You are going all alone, leaving all of us behind!'

  'We all have to go alone one day...Balu Sir, do you have the change?' asked the priest.

  'Don't worry,' said Balu.

  The black van now drew up close.

  'Is this for us?' asked the priest.

  Balu inquired of the driver and said, 'Yes, let us start.'

  'Gaadi ke andar chaar adrni baith sakte hein, (Only four people can sit inside)' said the conductor.

  'Myself, Gopal, Venu, Balu, Babu...' counted the Priest.

  'I am also comin
g,' insisted Vedagiri.

  'He says that only four people can go,' said Periyamma.

  'If you press two rupees into his palm, he will agree to more,' said the priest.

  'You tell him that yourself' said Venu.

  The priest muttered something under his breath to the conductor. The conductor looked at the ground, drew some figures with his nail and said something in reply.

  'Right...all of you get in..... He has agreed.'

  'Trust our priest,' said Balu.

  The priest acknowledged the tribute with a silent smile.

  Grandmother's last journey began. After passing Purana Qila, the van turned right into a small lane.

  'Why is he turning into this? Is this a good road?' asked Vedagiri worriedly.

  'First class road...It is new...It goes straight to Rajghat after crossing the bridge' assured the priest.

  'Whatever its other lapses, the Corporation has been laying good roads atleast,' said Venu.

  'What more do you want them to do?' asked the priest.

  'Here, we have reached Shantivan,' said Balu.

  'Yes, Rajghat, Shantivan, Vijayghat...' reeled off Venu.

  'Look what a lot of advertisement for Gandhi Darshan,' said the priest.

  'Is it advertisement for Gandhi Darshan or for telling the people, 'Look at what we have done to Gandhi,' asked Vedagiri.

  'Both... looks as though Gandhi is the biggest industry now,' said Venu.

  Gopal did not join in the conversation. Babu felt as if he were in the middle of a coffee house debate. It was only the firepot in his father's hand that drew one's attention to the body on the floor of the van.

  'Here we are,' informed the priest.

  The van stopped. The place did not look like a Hindu cremation ground. There was a lovely garden with a piece of modern art on the wall near the gate. There was a cool breeze blowing inside.

  'There is a counter over there. Pay the usual fee and arrange for some firewood. I shall arrange for the formalities in this pavilion here,' said the priest. Balu and Venu went to the Counter.

  'Gopal Iyengar, Babu... come with me. You can have your bath there,' said the priest leading the way.

  'Do they provide firewood here?' asked Babu.

  'First class firewood. It is used for yagnas. No bargaining as in our part of the country,' said the priest.

  'This place does not look like a cremation ground.'

  'Of course not. The crematorium in these parts is holy ground. Even the attendant here has to be addressed as Panditji... Grandmother was lucky to have died here.'

  'Will you please stop jabbering and shut up!' burst out Gopal, suddenly.

  For the life of him the priest could not understand why he had shouted.

  Translated by K. V. Ramanathan

  Brahma-Vriksha

  Prapanchan

  We moved into our newly built house. Surprisingly enough there was a patch of vacant space in front of the house. It looked as though a four-cubit cloth was spread out there. We discussed endlessly about how to use it. In accordance with the custom of giving respect to the elders in the house, we first asked granny about it.

  She advised that we could purchase a cow, tie it there and rear it — the traditional view. That would bring grace to the house. The arrival of a cow was something like the arrival of Lakshmi herself. The cow would yield milk. From the milk we could get buttermilk, curd, butter, ghee and other goodies. Those days every house had a cow. People have changed for the worse now, said she. Mother turned down granny's suggestion.

  She said, 'All my life I have slaved for this family and have lost all the strength I had. As if that were not enough, should I now collect cow dung too?'

  From the day she had come to the house as a young bride, she had been noticing things. Her sister-in-law had given her a rough time. She had to get up at four o'clock in the morning and was allowed to go to bed only at two o'clock the next morning. Even her husband could not be with her. She was not given silk saris on auspicious occasions. When all sorts of people were adorning themselves with diamonds, she was not able to wear even gold ornaments. On occasions of marriage she would feel ashamed because of all this. Thus she mused and finally came back to the world of reality.

  She said, 'We can have a vegetable garden, plant lady's fingers, brinjal, tomato and other plants. These would be useful for making curry. We could even plant coriander.'

  My younger sister Soundara opposed this suggestion vehemently. She was a student of Home Science. A friend of hers had jasmine, kanakambaram and rose in her garden. If these flowering plants were cultivated she could gather the flowers and adorn her hair with them. That would be a pleasant sight for all, she said. Flowers are wonderful. One should, after all, know how to enjoy beauty. Brinjal and lady's fingers were useful only for eating. Man did not live on food alone. Soundara lived on dreams.

  The assembly dispersed without coming to any decision. All of us had many things to think about and do.

  It was evening. Two days later, father called us and told us that we could plant a murungai branch in the vacant space. He gave us convincing arguments for his decision. Among trees, the murungai was the best. Its roots would not snake all over and pull down the compound wall or the foundation of the house. It would not fill up the entire space. Among greens, the murungai leaves were the best in quality. They were a very good expectorant. They also contained calcium. She could prepare sambhar with the fruit. Its aroma would enchant the entire village. You could make tamarind sauce too. Also, curry with coconut gratings. The tree would add beauty to the front of the house and provide a good canopy of shade. The heat of the sun would not come anywhere near the room by the roadside. The room would always remain cool. Father really likes murungai. I do too. Mother however, has no preferences.

  Next morning, the son of my father's friend brought over a murungai branch. He woke up father and gave it to him. By that time we were already up and were taking coffee. It was a Friday.

  Mother had taken her bath and had tied a towel to the end of her hair to drain the water out. Her face held a faint smile. She looked all the more charming.

  Coffee was served to the boy who had brought the murungai branch. Father went in to take his bath. He usually took 30 or even 45 minutes to finish his bath. But that day he finished it very soon. He came out, water dripping and a towel wrapped around his middle.

  Father had a silk dhoti and a silk towel. He used to wear these on occasions such as our grandfather's death anniversary and other auspicious occasions. Its colour was neither yellow nor brown but somewhere in between the two. The border was green and a span in width. When the rays of the sun fell on it, it sparkled. The dhoti and the towel would be used only on ten or twelve days a year. The rest of the year they would be folded and kept away in the almirah. They had a special smell. Whenever they were taken out of the almirah, the scent of camphor would permeate the entire place. When father was surrounded by that scent I used to like him very much. As though that day was special, father had the dhoti around his waist and the towel thrown over his shoulder.

  The murungai branch had been cut only a few minutes earlier. Sap was surging from it. The fresh smell of a green tree emanated from it. The thin outer skin had been crushed and I could see the green inside. Father dug a hole and set the branch firmly at the centre of the vacant space. Mother helped him in planting it. When she bent down to hold the branch, the back of her shoulder became wet because of the towel tied around the coil of her hair. I was watching the fun of all this. Soundara ran, brought a bucketful of water and poured it all around the branch. Mother went to the neighbour's house, brought some cow dung and placed it on top of the branch. All through the morning the murungai remained the subject of our talks. Father and I went to our offices late that day, as did Soundara to her college.

  For the next few days we completely forgot about the murungai branch. None of us felt as if the murungai had come into our lives.

  One morning, Soundara wok
e me up from my deep sleep. She was agog with excitement.

  'You devil, why do you pester me at this early hour?'

  'Anna, come and have a look. The murungai branch has sprouted!'

  Instantly I sat up. Both of us rushed to the wondorous spot. The entire household collected around the murungai.

  The murungai branch looked stark and thin but on its bark at many places, there were green dots—dots like green grams stuck to the branch. I was thrilled to see the spirit of life throbbing and pushing its way up. Unaware of what I was doing I stretched my fingers to touch it. 'Shh, don't touch,' warned grandmother. 'You shouldn't point fingers at children, flowers and leaf buds. Shouldn't touch them either. Touching harms them.'

  From that day onwards, the first thing we did as soon as the day dawned was to peep regularly at the murungai. Before our fascinated eyes, every node on its branch seemed to grow—the leaf buds, the tender nerves of the branches, the green pea-like leaves, the new leaf buds — everything unfolded before our enchanted eyes. One day, secretly, I plucked one—its only leaf, put it into my mouth and tasted it. It was delicious.

  The first day when we used the murungai remains etched on my heart indelibly. Mother had to melt butter. Grandmother advised that if butter were clarified with murungai leaves it would have an excellent aroma. Mother followed her instructions. We used the freshly made ghee for lunch. Was it the peculiar quality of the murungai tree or the state of our minds? The ghee had a special taste that day. The leaves in the ghee were delicious. The tender leaves of the murungai! But the thought that mother should have plucked them thus and used them, disturbed me.

  The murungai branch reminded me of Soundara because of the manner in which the sapling had grown into a full-size tree. Mother had given birth to Soundara at a time when the best part of her life had been nearly over. There is a difference of fifteen years between Soundara and me.

  I had seen Soundara from the days of her childhood. I had seen the green tree from the very day it sprouted up. As a child, Soundara would turn on the mat and, seeing only a portion of my leg would cry. This was her signal to me that she wanted to be lifted. The tree swayed its small twigs in the breeze and drew me towards itself. A new skirt and blouse were stitched for Soundara on the day she went to school for the first time.