Tell It to the Trees

by Anita Rau Badami

  “Are you going to tell Papa?”

  Varsha thought about that for two seconds and then she shook her head. “No, not right now.”

  “What if she finds her passport when we’re in school and runs away without us?”

  “She will never find her passport. I know for sure.” Varsha gave me a mysterious sort of smile.

  After some time Mama stopped searching for her passport. My baby brother’s ghost went away. Varsha said. Everything was okay, Varsha wasn’t mad at me for a long time, Papa was nice to Mama, and I stopped feeling scared.

  Then one morning Anu came to be our back-house tenant.

  I think she’s pretty. Varsha doesn’t like her. Beauty is as Beauty does. Varsha says. But I like Anu. Not as much as I love Mama. I love Mama so much I can’t breathe sometimes. Not as much as I love Varsha and Akka. I like Anu more than Papa. Which makes me feel like I’m a wicked boy. Varsha says I am not to like Anu. She is an INTERLOPER my sister says. She’s an evil spirit who has come to our house to steal our Mama and it’s our duty to make sure she doesn’t.

  I whisper my secrets to Tree and feel better.

  So all of us will be safe for ever and ever.

  But still.

  Should I tell Mama?

  Anu’s Notebook

  September 15. Glad to report the kids are back at school and my lunch service has resumed. I am growing chubby but have no regrets at all. There are some days when Suman doesn’t show up at my cottage. When she does, she never talks about what has kept her away, and even though I am tempted to ask, I feel uncertain about prying. I know for sure now that there is something not quite right about the state of affairs in the Dharma household. But I am not clear what it is.

  October 3. The light is low and golden and the shadows long. The leaves have turned and it’s nippy. There is an air of regret hanging over everything. I find myself heaving great big sighs all the time. I think I need a break from this writing solitude to reconnect with my own life for a bit. Perhaps over the Christmas break a visit with my brothers and my nephews—nice, uncomplicated kids would be a pleasant change. I need to see Mummy, too—not that she has any idea who I am. It hurts me to see her like that—so frail and lost.

  October 16. Today, along with my daily lunch, Suman brought a request from Akka. She wanted to see me at three-thirty, for tea and snacks. “If it is not too much trouble,” she added.

  I was glad of an excuse to get away from my own company and I am curious about the old woman, so naturally I went. As soon as I showed up, Akka said, apropos of nothing, “Do you know I can speak six languages?”

  By now I am used to these odd openings to conversations that depend on Akka’s moods or on the memories she wants to mine that afternoon. If I am patient and ask the right questions, we might meander into interesting territory. Sometimes, though, she is not entirely there, and doesn’t make much sense, referring erratically to events, people, places I do not know, a hodgepodge of information all wrapped up in stories and songs which she delivers in various languages. So this afternoon, I was relieved to see, she was full of beans and completely lucid.

  “That’s amazing!” I exclaimed, genuinely impressed.

  Akka snorted. “What is amazing is that I used none of my talents. My knowledge has rotted from disuse. What use all that knowledge, tell me? I ended up in this Jehannum where nobody cares about my past or my abilities.” She brooded in silence for a few seconds while Suman poured out the tea. She never contributes anything to these conversations. I wonder what the two women speak about when I’m not there. They are obviously close.

  “I should have been like you,” Akka started off again. “Free bird, comes and goes as she pleases, does what she wants, eh, Suman? Wouldn’t you like Anu’s life?”

  Suman held her mug of tea tight between her two small hands.

  “Come, come, Sumana, you can say what you want here in this room. Nothing will happen to you, you know that!” Akka urged, looking kindly at her daughter-in-law.

  Suman gave me a quick glance, full of subtleties I cannot understand, but said nothing. The conversation threatened to wind down.

  “I’ll bet your son is proud of you, Akka.” I tried to start things up again. “And your husband too, when he was alive. No?”

  Akka turned her head to look out of the window. It is unlike her to have no ready, sharp retort. Finally she turned back to me. “We hated each other, my husband and I. His opinion mattered nothing to me, he was a drunkard and he deserved to die.” She clasped her wrinkled hands on her chest and shut her eyes. She was sitting on that chair of hers, which is padded with pillows, bolsters, sheets and so many other things that it looks like a bag lady’s stash.

  I stared at her, surprised at the venom in her voice. “I’m sure you don’t really mean that, do you, Akka? Nobody deserves to die, do they?”

  “He did. And good riddance to bad rubbish is what I say.”

  Silence again. This time I didn’t try to bridge it with any comment. This house is so full of odd currents. I am no angel and my brother and I don’t always see eye to eye over many things, and my husband thought I was a fucking bitch, as he was fond of calling me in the last year of our marriage. But this family takes the prize for dysfunctional.

  Akka called Suman over to adjust her pillows and once she was comfortable again turned and smiled at me. “He was a bastard,” she said pleasantly this time. “He had bad genes. My karma and poor Suman’s that he passed these on to my son. I am delighted he is no longer with us.” She dusted her hands together emphatically. Then she looked at the clock and said, “Ayyo! Suman, go and fetch the children, otherwise we’ll have another drama here.

  “This America is getting too big for its boots,” she said after Suman left. She loves politics, enjoys arguing with me about current events. “One of these days they will learn their lesson!”

  “Who will teach it to them? They’re too powerful.” I am always mildly defensive about the U.S. I like that country, the energy with which it approaches everything. I think their cultural life, the arts, literature, dance, music, is youthful and dynamic. I had loved living in New York, and the cutthroat atmosphere on Wall Street suited my own ambitious nature at first. I thrived on competition.

  “Haven’t you heard the story of the ant and the elephant?” Akka smiled slyly at me. “Let me tell you.”

  I settled down, feeling like a small child waiting for her granny to tell bedtime stories—a lovely feeling.

  “Once, a long time ago, when the sky was green and the ground was blue, an arrogant rogue of an elephant went about wreaking havoc in the jungle. He started to tear down the branches of a tree on which a sparrow had built her nest.

  “ ‘Please, sir, your highness, your majesty,’ she pleaded as the elephant shook and ripped the tree with his mighty trunk. ‘My babies are in the nest, please leave this tree alone or they will fall and die. Wait until they have learned to fly and then do what you will with my house.’

  “The elephant laughed and continued to destroy the tree until the nest collapsed, killing the baby sparrows.

  “An ant heard the poor little bird wailing at the loss of her family, and when he found out what the wicked elephant had done, he told the bird, ‘This is untenable, dear Mrs. Sparrow. We’ll have to find a way to teach this arrogant elephant a lesson.’

  “ ‘But he is so big and we are so tiny,’ the bird said. ‘What can we possibly do to him?’

  “ ‘Don’t worry, I’ll think of a plan,’ the ant promised.

  “The next day, he waited until the elephant was asleep and crept into his anus, biting him hard. The elephant ran here and there trying to get the ant out but could not. The sparrow flew about his head chirping and irritating the elephant, driving him towards the edge of a cliff. Mad with pain and confused by the bird in his face, the elephant did not see where he was going and dropped over the cliff to his death.

  “The moral of the story,” Akka said, shaking a transparent finger
at me, “is that the mighty do not always win. You don’t have to be as big as an elephant to get your revenge!”

  I was still recovering from the savagery of the story when she added, “Like I did.”

  I stared at her. “Like you did what?”

  “Got my revenge,” the old woman said.

  The door banged open just then, the children rushed into the room, and that strange unexplained remark was lost in the general chaos.

  Akka held out her arms to Hemant from her chair. “Come to me, my little darling. Tell me all about your day.” The boy kissed his grandmother, then disengaged himself and climbed onto her bed as he usually does, shoes and all, and sat there like a prince while his mother removed them for him.

  “What were you talking about with her?” Varsha demanded.

  “I was telling Anu our favourite story,” Akka said. “About the elephant and the bird and the ant.”

  This is their favourite story? Why am I not surprised? And why did Akka tell it to me? And what did she mean by her comment about revenge?

  “But it’s our story.” Varsha sounded just like her little brother.

  “A story needs as many listeners as it can get, Vashi,” Akka said. “Otherwise it might sicken and die.”

  Varsha stomped out of the room and Akka sighed. “That girl needs friends. She is too much at home. At her age—”

  “I am her friend,” Hemant piped up.

  “Yes, darling, you are.” Akka smiled at him.

  Hemant gave me a petulant look which made me want to smack him. “When is she leaving? I’m hungry.”

  I stood, determined not to leave until I wanted to do so—the kid isn’t going to push me around, that’s for sure—and walked over to a collection of faded photographs in small ornate frames on a round table near the window, picking one up at random. It was the same as the large one in Vikram’s office, of a tidy-looking man with a moustache and a distant look in his eyes, like he has removed himself from the scenery a long time ago. His thick dark hair is neatly parted on the left side of his head. He wears a suit a couple of sizes too large for his small frame, as if it had been borrowed from somebody bigger. He has small, deep-set eyes and a determined mouth. Perched above that mouth, like a furry caterpillar, is a moustache that does nothing other than emphasize his long nose and plump mouth. So this was Mr. J.K. Dharma, the conveyer of bad genes, the builder of this palace in the back of beyond, the progenitor of the family Dharma, and Akka’s despised spouse. Why, then, I wondered, does she keep a photograph of him?

  “To remind me that he is dead and I am not,” the old lady said, as if she’d read my thoughts—and perhaps she had, the old witch.

  “Did he die a long time ago?” I asked.

  “Did who die?” the brat asked, looking from me to Akka and back with those long-lashed eyes, much like Suman’s, and which seem too big for his thin face.

  “Your grandfather,” I replied, with a friendly expression on my face for Akka’s benefit. “Can you go and ask your Mama if she can make me a cup of tea?”

  “Ask her yourself,” Hemant said. “You’re not the boss of me!”

  Fortunately, Akka decided to take my side. “Hemu, that’s not a nice thing to say to Anu Aunty,” she reprimanded, elevating me from tenant to aunt, in typical Indian style. “Go, tell Suman to make us all some tea, I would also like a hot drink.”

  “She’s not my aunt,” muttered Hemant, but he left the room without further argument.

  “So, when did he die, then?” I asked again.

  “Oh, when Vikram was in high school. Years ago.”

  “That’s terrible. You must have been so young yourself!”

  Akka started to say something when Suman entered like a djinn with tea and another plate of pakoras. “You’re amazing. We just sent Hemant to ask for tea and voilà, here it is!” I said admiringly. I’m getting used to being waited on!

  Suman smiled shyly, set the tray down on a side table and fussed with the tea things. The sun drifted in through the open window and lit up her face, giving her a soft, delicate prettiness.

  “What were you talking about? Both of you look like conspirators!” She handed a cup of hot tea to me.

  “She was asking me about my drunken lout of a husband,” Akka said. She raised her cup to her mouth, holding it tight with both hands, the knuckle bones threatening to break through the thin, taut skin. “I was telling her how glad I was when he died.” She caught sight of Suman’s appalled face and snapped, “What? Henh? Why are you looking at me like that?”

  “It’s not nice to tell visitors such things, Akka.”

  “Tchah! It happened a long time ago. What matter if I tell the truth now?” Akka cackled with delight—whether it was at the imperviousness of old age or the pleasure of having an audience, it was hard to tell. “You want to know how he died? Henh? He froze to death. Right outside our front door. And me fast asleep inside. Didn’t hear the doorbell, didn’t hear him knocking away, bang, bang, bang! They found him the next morning, propped up against the front door. Frozen solid, like a statue. God punished him for making my life a misery!”

  There was a small sound behind me. I turned to see Varsha coming in, her face scrubbed and innocent, her arms full of school books.

  “You have to go now. I have homework to do,” she said with a pointed look at me. “Akka, I need your help.”

  “Oh no, let her finish her tea at least, Vashi,” Suman said. “And she hasn’t even tasted the pakoras.”

  “I can’t concentrate on my homework if she stays,” Varsha said.

  “Yes and the child’s school work comes first,” Akka added, shutting her eyes.

  “Take the pakoras with you.” Suman urged.

  Obviously I was dismissed. But I left reluctantly, certain there was more to Akka’s story and sorry not to have got it out of the old lady. Had she really been asleep while Mr. J.K. Dharma froze to death outside the front door? He must have rung the bell and knocked. Was it possible that she had allowed him to die in the cold?

  November 10. I met the famous Chanchal and Gopal-the-quack Aggarwal at the grocery store this morning. I was about to line up to pay my bill when a woman tapped my shoulder. She knew who I was, of course.

  “Hello, hello, it is me, Chanchal,” she said when I turned around, startled. She is a tall, bony woman in her late fifties with a striking face and abundant white hair which she was wearing pulled back in a bun. Her husband Gopal is about the same height, with absolutely no hair on his head, as if to compensate for his wife’s thick tresses. Chanchal does all the talking, with Gopal putting in a few words here and there with an air of great certainty.

  “You know me? I am the friend of Akka and Vikram.” Her smile pushed up her already high cheekbones even farther. I wonder if she has some Pahadi blood in her veins—those high cheekbones, the golden skin, the almond-shaped eyes. Even though her last name suggests someone from Uttar Pradesh, her features indicate other influences.

  “Of course, how nice to meet you at last! And you must be Gopal. I’ve heard about you from Suman.”

  “Good things only, I am hoping!” Chanchal laughed, and Gopal nodded in a friendly way. I turned away to pay at the till, and then I waited politely for the Aggarwals to finish with their own purchases. I reminded myself that I have all the time in the world to wait for people, chat, discover things about this community. It is a luxury I’ve granted myself and I shall make full use of it.

  “You must come home for tea,” Chanchal said as they gathered up their parcels.

  “Most certainly. When would be a good day for you?”

  “Now, come now. I made some fresh naan khatai, you know our naan khatai?”

  “Very good taste.” Gopal added his bit and fell silent.

  “Are you sure you want me to land up right now, this minute?” I knew they meant it. The generous hospitality reminded me of my own parents, who often brought home strangers for chai or lunch, who occasionally turned into lifelong friend
s. “Mr. Aggarwal? I don’t want to interrupt your work.”

  “Fully retired. No work. Memsahib is telling you to come, you must come.” I discovered later that he never refers to his wife by name, only ironically as Memsahib.

  “Yes, yes, why would I ask otherwise, tell me! You will come with us now. Gopal, you drive our car home and I will follow with Anu in hers.”

  Chanchal chattered away on the short drive to her home, telling me she has two children—a son and a daughter. “Both married, both gone to U.S. They are always begging us to come and live with them. But my husband is telling me, it is better to have independence as long as we can manage. Children are loving, but things change when they get married. That is how it is. I want to go back to India, but Gopal is not liking the idea. He is totally foreigner, you know. India is very far away for him. But for me, it is still here.” She thumped her chest vigorously. “And here.” Touched her forehead. “I feel sad all the time when I am thinking of India. Especially now when winter is coming.”

  “Everyone tells me about winter here. I’m originally from Vancouver, and I’ve seen some bad winters in New York, so I’m not a wallflower, but I’m getting positively nervous,” I said.

  “It gives me palpitations of the heart,” Chanchal said solemnly. “That is why I go to India in December. Gopal says that the cold is not good for the heart. He could have been a doctor, he is very good with such matters. Natural talent.”

  “Really?” I hoped my tone was not too cynical.

  “Yes, it runs in his family. Natural doctors all of them—his grandmother and mother and father also. Without him I would be dead by now, you know.”

  “You are not well? You look good to me.” I looked at her with some surprise.

  “Appearance is deceiving. I am very sick inside. Headache. Stomach problems. Legs not working sometimes. Heart. Blood pressure. Cholesterol very high. Poor Gopal has to look after me all the time, you know.”

  After giving me a long list of ailments that afflicted her, Chanchal moved on to the brilliance of her children and their educational qualifications, their jobs, their salaries, their cars and how many they possessed, the size of their homes, and so on. The Aggarwals live in a large house not too far from town, shaded by a great old sugar maple in full red, autumnal glory. Their garden is in a much better state of repair than the Dharma’s, even though it is the end of the growing season, when everything goes to seed and looks ragged. The plants have all been cut down, shrubs tied with string, leaves raked off the lawn, and the beds heavily mulched in preparation for winter. All apparently Gopal’s doing. He may have bizarre ideas as a self-made doctor, but he seems to love his garden.