Seasons of Splendour

by Madhur Jaffrey

  The sister picked up the bundle of sweets, dug a hole in the earth and buried it.

  ‘What are you doing?’ said the brother. ‘Why are you burying my sweets? I was looking forward to eating them when I woke up.’

  ‘Dearest, sweetest brother,’ said the sister, ‘I accidentally ground a snake in the grain when I was making the sweets. Please forgive me. Why don’t you come with me now and I will make some fresh sweets for your journey.’

  ‘I would return with you,’ said the brother, ‘but my marriage day is drawing near and I cannot delay. However, instead of returning home, why don’t you come along with me?’

  The sister agreed and, with just the clothes on her back, set off with her brother. The two of them continued on their long journey. Soon they came to a well. The sister wanted a drink of water so the brother said, ‘You go ahead to the well and draw some water. I’ll just rest here on this embankment.’

  When the sister got to the well, she noticed that there was an old stonecutter there, hacking away at a huge rock.

  The sister smiled at him sympathetically, offering him a drink of the water that she had drawn and said, ‘That is very hard work you are doing.’

  ‘Yes,’ said the old stonecutter, ‘sometimes one is fated to do hard work. Fate is strange,’ he went on, ‘look at that young man resting on that embankment.’

  The sister was startled but tried not to show it.

  ‘That young man is going through a terrible period. Fate, right now, has nothing good in store for him. He is doomed to die. There is only one way in which he can be saved. If he has a sister – a loving sister – she can save him.’

  ‘How? How?’ cried the sister.

  ‘By pretending to be mad and by doing everything contrary to what is expected of her. She should also curse and swear at her brother.’

  ‘For how long must the sister do this?’

  ‘Until his fate changes. And that will only happen after the young man’s bride has been in his house for a day.’

  The sister then ran towards her brother crying out, ‘You idiot, you fool, you lout, you son of an owl!’

  The brother could not believe his ears. ‘What is the matter with you? Until an hour ago, I was your “dearest, sweetest brother” and now you are calling me all kinds of names. You must have gone mad.’

  ‘I may be mad,’ yelled the sister, ‘but you are a cowardly she-monkey. Come on, come on, let’s keep walking or else you’ll never get to your stupid wedding to marry your stupid bride.’

  The brother just could not understand what had happened to his sister. He thought it best to be quiet.

  They walked like this, he quiet, she cursing and rude, all the way to their parents’ home.

  As soon as they entered the front door, the sister yelled at her brother, ‘You sap, you son of a donkey, you pigeon without a tail.’

  The mother put her hands to her ears.

  ‘Oh, son,’ she said, ‘your sister has lost her senses. She comes to the wedding in an old, worn-out sari, cursing like a maniac. It would have been best if you had not brought her with you. She is going to ruin this entire wedding. What will all our guests think?’

  ‘Mother,’ said the son, ‘I don’t understand. She was fine … for a while. Then I don’t know what happened. She just lost her senses when we were halfway here.’

  The day of the wedding came. Just as the groom was about to have his wedding crown placed on his head, his sister began screaming, ‘Wait. Wait, you numbskulls.’ So saying, she began to prod the crown with a needle.

  ‘What is she doing?’ wailed the mother. ‘She is going to embarrass us all.’

  The needle was stuck into the crown again and again while the sister giggled hysterically.

  Suddenly, a thin viper wriggled out of the crown. Everyone gasped and said, ‘His sister may be mad, but at least she has done him some good.’

  When the brother mounted the wedding horse that would follow the wedding procession to the bride’s house, the sister began yelling again, ‘Get my rotten brother off that rotten horse. I want to ride it. I want to ride it. Get him off.’

  She made such a fuss that the family thought the best way to keep her quiet would be to indulge her and let her ride until they were just outside the house. The ‘mad’ sister got on the horse and just as she was leaving the house, the gateway collapsed on her, slightly hurting her. All the family and guests came running.

  ‘She may be mad,’ they said, ‘but she has done some good.’

  The brother then went off with his wedding procession to marry his bride and all the women of the household waited, as is the custom, in their home.

  When the son came back with his bride and was just about to retire to the bridal chamber, the sister began screaming again, ‘I want to sleep in that bed. Get my brother and sister-in-law out of here. I must sleep in that flower-decorated bed.’

  Again the family thought, She is quite mad, but we had best indulge her or she will keep yelling through the night.

  As soon as the sister lay down on the bridal bed, a large scorpion crawled out of it.

  The next day, the mother said to her son, ‘Your sister is completely mad. We could lock her up in a back room or we could send her back to her family. Let us just send her back. And why bother to give her that nice gold sari we bought for her as a wedding favour? We will just give her a torn, old sari. She won’t even know the difference.’

  A whole day had passed since the new bride had come home. The sister now spoke out in her normal, sober voice, ‘No, you will not give me the torn, old sari. I deserve the gold sari for all I have been through. An old, wise stonecutter on the way here told me that my brother’s stars were crossed and that the only way I could save his life was by cursing him, by being mad, and by being contrary. I have done all that – and suffered the abuse you have heaped on me. Now I will leave with my gold sari. Don’t forget:

  ‘With my love

  I have saved a mother’s son

  A sister’s brother

  And a bride’s groom

  ‘No, I am not mad. Goodbye to you all!’

  When the snows melt in her Himalayan home, Parvati, Shiva’s wife, comes down to visit her mother, Earth, for nine days. For most Indians – and especially for my family – this was a time to bundle together all our year’s longings and then present them to the goddess in the form of neat, silent requests.

  This was not done crudely. We did not just march up to a statue of Parvati and say ‘I want this,’ or ‘I want that.’ We did it properly. We prayed morning and evening, the women fasted, and the poor in one neighbourhood were given food and cooking pots. Parvati herself was offered stuffed breads and halvas, chickpeas cooked with potatoes and lamb stewed without onions and garlic. Parvati was one of the few goddesses that seemed to enjoy eating meat – but not, it seems, onion and garlic.

  It was only after Parvati had eaten that we discreetly put in our requests. I might whisper to the goddess that a summer holiday in the Simla Hills would do the family a lot of good or that I wanted to do better than Nash Boga in the next Arithmetic test, or that I would kill myself if I did not get the part of Robin Hood in the school play.

  But the best part about the Nine Days’ Festival, which came in late March or April, was the stories that were told, one for each day. Here are a few of them.

  The Old Man and the Magic Bowl

  The old man’s life had been hard, but somehow, he had always managed to earn enough to feed himself and his wife.

  With the passing years, an awful stiffness had attacked his hands and feet – and then spread with well-aimed cruelty to his legs, arms and back. He could hardly move, let alone go out to work.

  He could not pay his rent, so he lost his house and had to live in a hut. He could not work for a living, so he and his wife began to starve.

  When the Nine Days’ Festival arrived, the old man felt more depressed than ever.

  He was standing listlessly by the roads
ide when a friend of his passed by.

  ‘Well,’ said the friend, ‘and how are you today?’

  ‘Not so good,’ replied the old man.

  ‘Why, what is the matter?’ asked his friend.

  ‘My bones are stiff,’ said the old man, ‘I have no job and no house. My wife and I have not eaten for seven days.’

  ‘Well,’ said the friend, ‘if you take my advice …’

  ‘Yes?’ said the old man.

  ‘My advice is that you go straight to Parvati’s temple and throw yourself at her mercy. She is bound to help you. You had better hurry or the festival might end.’

  The old man could hardly hurry. With tiny, painful steps, he began the long journey towards Parvati’s temple.

  It was evening when he got there.

  The temple was packed as were all the courtyards that surrounded it. People were spilling out into the streets.

  The old man could hear the prayers and smell the far-off incense. But he could not get in.

  Inside the temple, the goddess Parvati was beginning to feel uncomfortable. She turned to one of her many child attendants and said, ‘Someone’s problems are weighing on me like a ton of bricks. Go and find out who is in trouble and bring that person to me.’

  Two of the child attendants flew around the courtyards and into the street. There they spotted the old man standing stiffly under a tree. They circled him once and made a perfect landing at his feet.

  ‘The goddess Parvati summons you,’ they chanted together. Each attendant took one of the old man’s hands, lifted him off the ground, and then flew him into the temple’s innermost chambers. Parvati was leaning casually against a door, her pale, beautiful face radiating as much light as her gold sari.

  ‘Why are you so unhappy?’ she asked gently.

  ‘Praise be to you, goddess,’ the old man began as he kneeled and touched her feet, ‘I have not eaten for several days.’

  ‘Take this,’ said the goddess, handing the old man a simple wooden bowl made from the knot in a teak tree. ‘Whenever you are hungry, wash the bowl and pray. Then wish for any food that your heart desires.’

  ‘Any food I want and as much as I want?’ asked the old man.

  ‘Any food you want and as much as you want,’ answered the goddess.

  The old man wrapped his precious bowl in rags and began the slow walk home to his wife where they hugged each other, marvelling at Parvati’s generosity.

  The old man said to his wife, ‘Now tell me what you want to eat.’

  ‘How about a sweet mango?’

  The old man washed the bowl, prayed and then wished for a sweet mango. Before he could even finish his thought, there was the mango sitting in his bowl.

  ‘What else do you want?’ asked the old man.

  ‘How about a rice pilaf made with the meat of a fan-tailed sheep?’

  ‘Here it comes,’ said the husband. The bowl was soon brimming over with the fragrant pilaf.

  ‘How about a creamy pudding, dotted with raisins?’ ventured the wife.

  The wooden bowl was now filled with the tastiest pudding the old couple had ever eaten.

  ‘This is a meal fit for a king,’ declared the old man.

  ‘It certainly is,’ agreed the wife.

  The old man began to think. ‘You know,’ he started, ‘all our lives we have been poor. We have hardly had enough food for ourselves, let alone enough food to entertain guests with. Now that we can have all the finest, rarest delicacies of this world, why don’t we invite the King for a meal?’

  ‘You must be mad,’ said his wife. ‘Why should the King come to eat with the likes of us?’

  ‘And why not?’ asked the old man. ‘He cannot get a better meal anywhere else. We will be offering the King the best food our heavens can provide.’

  So saying, the old man set off to invite the King.

  When he arrived at the palace gate, the old man said, ‘I have come to invite the King to dinner.’

  The guards laughed. ‘So you want to invite the King? And why not? This might just make his day.’

  They led the old man into the King’s chamber thinking that the King would enjoy the joke.

  The old man joined his palms and bowed respectfully before the King. ‘Your majesty, I have come to invite you to my home for dinner.’

  The King and all his courtiers began to laugh. Some of the courtiers laughed so hard, they practically doubled up from the effort.

  ‘So,’ said the King, ‘you, ha-ha-ha-ha, want to invite me to, ha-ha-ha-ha, dinner. Do you want me to come alone or do you want my Queen and courtiers as well?’

  ‘Oh, well,’ said the old man, ‘your Queen and the courtiers are all welcome.’

  ‘Ha-ha-ha-ha,’ laughed the whole court.

  Now, the King had quite an evil Prime Minister who added his suggestion: ‘What about the army? Aren’t you going to invite the whole army?’

  ‘Certainly. The whole army is invited as well,’ said the old man.

  The King and the courtiers laughed so hard, they did not even notice the old man leave.

  The day before the dinner, the evil Prime Minister said to the King, ‘Your majesty, would it not be a good idea to check on the old man? Perhaps we should send out some spies to see if dinner for hundreds of thousands is actually being prepared.’

  Spies were sent out to the old man’s hut. They snooped around for several hours and came back to the palace with this information. ‘Your majesty,’ they said, ‘we saw a large, neat hut in which enough shiny leaf-plates and earthenware cups were laid out to feed an entire kingdom. But we did not see any signs of food being cooked. No grain was being ground, no rice was soaking and no vegetables were being stewed in pots.’

  ‘Strange. Very strange,’ said the King. ‘Now that we have accepted the invitation, we will just have to go and see what the old man has in store for us.’

  ‘And if the food is not adequate, we will cut off the old man’s head,’ the Prime Minister said viciously.

  The next day the King, Queen, courtiers and army set off for the old man’s hut.

  Carpets had been spread on the floor and all the places neatly laid out. There was no sign of food.

  The Prime Minister sniffed. ‘I cannot smell any kitchen smells. Strange.’

  The old man joined his palms together and bowed before the King. ‘Please be seated, your majesties. It was kind of you to come.’ He then washed his wooden bowl and prayed. ‘Let the King, Queen, courtiers and army get whatever they desire to eat,’ the old man commanded the bowl.

  Before anyone could move an eyelid, there appeared muskmelons from Central Asia, as sweet as sugar, Persian rice pilaf flavoured with saffron and oranges, pheasants and puddings and creams and stews and halvas. As each man and woman dreamt of a particular food, it appeared in the bowl.

  The King and his people were amazed. When dinner was finished, the evil Prime Minister turned to the King and said, ‘Such an unusual wooden bowl doesn’t really belong with this stupid old man. He can eat any old thing. Even scraps. It is you – and your court – who should own this treasure.’

  As the King’s party was leaving, the evil Prime Minister stretched out his hand, saying, ‘The King thanks you for your meal and desires that you let him take care of the bowl.’

  What could the old man do? He handed over his bowl – and was left to starve again.

  Meanwhile, the King put the old man’s bowl into one of his many storerooms and forgot all about it.

  When the Nine Days’ Festival came around again, the old man returned to Parvati’s temple and bowed his head in prayer.

  ‘Oh goddess Parvati, I made such a mistake. I tried to be so grand. I even invited the King for dinner. Now he has taken away the wooden bowl and we are starving.’

  Parvati handed the old man a wooden rod and said, ‘Take this and whenever you are hungry, wash it, pray and ask for whatever you desire. And do not forget to invite the King to dinner once again.’

&nbs
p; The old man did as he was told. He went to the King and asked him to return for another meal. ‘Your majesty, I do hope you will not forget your Queen, courtiers and army.’

  This time the King and his courtiers did not laugh. But they were curious. ‘I wonder what trick the old man has up his sleeve this time?’ mused the evil Prime Minister.

  Once again, the King sent spies to the old man’s hut a day before the dinner. Once again, the spies returned saying, ‘Your majesty, we saw a large, neat hut in which enough shining leaf-plates and earthenware cups were laid out to feed an entire kingdom. But we didn’t see any signs of food being cooked. No grain was being ground, no rice was soaking and no vegetables were being stirred in pots.’

  ‘Strange. Very strange,’ said the King, ‘but we have accepted the invitation and must find out what the old man has in store for us.’

  The next day the King, Queen, courtiers and army set out for the old man’s hut.

  The old man put his palms together and bowed before the King and Queen. ‘Please be seated, your majesties. It was so kind of you to come.’ He then washed his wooden rod and prayed. ‘Let the King, Queen, courtiers and army get whatever they desire,’ he commanded the rod.

  But instead of producing food, the rod began flying through the air, beating everyone. It beat the King, it beat the courtiers, and most of all, it beat the evil Prime Minister.

  ‘Ouch, ouch, ouch,’ they all cried.

  ‘Ouch,’ cried the evil Prime Minister.

  The King turned to the old man. ‘Did you call us to dine or did you call us so we could be beaten?’ the King asked. ‘What is going on here?’

  ‘I beg your forgiveness, your majesty,’ the old man said. ‘I did, indeed, invite you for dinner. The fact of the matter is that this rod is the master and the bowl you have is his wife. The rod is in a bad temper because he wants his wife returned to him.’

  The King did not want to be beaten any more so he said to his Prime Minister, ‘Where on earth is that wooden bowl we took away from the old man?’

  ‘It is probably lying in some storeroom or other,’ said the evil Prime Minister, still rubbing himself all over after his beating.