by Farahad Zama
He led them out of the back door into a fenced compound with a well, a drumstick tree and an outhouse for the toilet. A large stone in a cemented corner was clearly used for washing clothes. Mr Naidu pointed out the well and said, “My son, Vasu’s father, got it dug with his first salary. Before that, we had to go to my cousin’s house for our water.”
Pari nodded in understanding. The little tour over, they washed their legs by the well, then returned to the house and sat on a mat unrolled on the floor. An earthen pot in a cradle hung by a thin rope from the rafters. A line of ants was walking down one side of the rope and up the diametrically opposite side.
“Is that sugar in there?” asked Pari, pointing at the pot.
Vasu shook his head. “Those are curds. We just cannot keep the ants away. The rope trick worked for a few weeks and then somehow the ants found it.”
Pari laughed. “When I was in the village, we used to put our dairy in small pots in the middle of a large pan filled with water.”
“Good idea,” said Mr Naidu. “I’ve seen it done for sweets. We don’t actually mind it very much. Not many come down the rope, and Vasu and I don’t care about scraping a few ants off when we eat. They are God’s creatures and need to live too.”
“I bet you don’t say that about weeds in your field,” said Rehman, laughing.
Mr Naidu grimaced and rubbed his dark-brown hand over his white stubble. “The company sent a scientist last week, as per their contract. He advised us how much fertiliser and herbicide to apply.”
“Was his advice useful? You’ve been farming since you were Vasu’s age and you probably know a lot more than a townie like the scientist.”
“You mustn’t mock educated people like that,” said Mr Naidu. “It’s true that most of what he said is common knowledge among farmers but he did help me out with one thing.”
“What’s that?”
“Do you remember the north-east corner of the field where my yield is always less than in the rest?”
“You mentioned that when I was here for the harvest. The plants did seem shorter and more sparse there.”
Vasu, probably bored with the conversation, dragged Pari away, out of the hut.
“I asked the man about it, and he took soil samples and conducted some tests. He had a big box with many coloured liquids in his jeep. He mixed the soil and one of the liquids in a long glass tube with a round bottom.” Mr Naidu looked at Rehman with a frown on his face.
Rehman nodded. “I understand. Go on.”
“The man said that the soil in that part of the field was acidic and he advised me to mix ash in that area of the land. So you see, there are things that I didn’t know even though I’ve been farming for so many years.”
“I have been reading up about the cotton seeds you are using. Some people don’t like them and want to ban them.”
“What’s not to like?” said Mr Naidu, the lines on his forehead deepening. “If they help farmers like me to get a better yield using less pesticide, then that can only be good, can’t it?”
“Bt Cotton seeds are more expensive than normal cotton seeds but you don’t mind paying extra because you have to use less pesticide,” said Rehman.
Mr Naidu nodded his agreement.
“But in the Punjab, in north India, they found that after two or three years of using these seeds, mealybugs started attacking the crop.”
“Don’t be silly, Rehman. Mealybugs don’t attack cotton. Bollworms are the problem.”
“Exactly,” said Rehman. “And how do you get rid of bollworms normally?”
“By applying pesticide, of course.”
“Well, with Bt Cotton, you don’t have to apply pesticide to control bollworm, so what happens to all the other pests?” Rehman said.
“I see,” said Mr Naidu, slowly. “But that means we still have to apply pesticide, in which case we might as well use normal seeds.”
“That’s in a few years,” said Rehman and laughed. “You should be all right until the bugs discover your field. But there is a bigger objection to genetically modified crops. Most crops, though not cotton, are modified to be resistant to herbicides, so you can spray fields with herbicide and kill the weeds but still leave the crop untouched.”
“That makes sense,” said Mr Naidu. “Weeding is a big cost.”
“They are worried that the genes that give the crops their resistance to herbicide might transfer over to weeds in the wild by pollen carried on the wind or by bees.”
Mr Naidu cracked his knuckles with a loud pop, looking at the ground. He appeared deep in thought. After a moment, he said, “That would be bad. Those weeds would spread like fire through a row of thatched huts and if herbicides don’t kill them, then there would be no way of controlling them.”
“That’s what these people fear,” said Rehman.
Mr Naidu shook his head. “I don’t believe it. The companies that sell these seeds are run by intelligent, educated men. If a simple man like me can see what kind of problems can arise, these men must surely appreciate it even more. Clever people will not sell something that can cause a disaster. I mean, they just wouldn’t do that, would they?”
Fourteen
The next day dawned bright. As usual in Mr Naidu’s household, they were up with the first light and made their ablutions with the cold well water. Pari joined them soon after from next door with a packet of pulihora, spicy tamarind rice, for breakfast.
“We made it just now,” she said. “It was fun being in a household with so many women.” She turned to Rehman. “Especially because no one knew that I was a widow and treated me differently,” she said in Urdu so Mr Naidu and Vasu would not understand.
Pari helped Vasu with his studies while Rehman helped Mr Naidu dig a hole to plant a young mango tree. Mr Naidu folded his sarong-like lungi in half to knee-length and swung the sharp end of a heavy iron bar into the hard ground. The older man’s face creased with the strain and his arm muscles stood out in cords under the dark, sinewy skin. Despite the relative coolness of the early morning, drops of sweat soon covered his forehead. As soon as Mr Naidu stopped breaking up the ground, Rehman moved the soil to one side with a small shovel.
“How long does it take for a mango tree to start fruiting?” asked Rehman.
Mr Naidu wiped his forehead with a small towel that was always on his shoulder. “A tree like this that’s grown from seed? About fifteen or twenty years.”
“That long?” said Rehman.
Mr Naidu laughed. “You are wondering what an old man like me is doing, planting a tree that will not produce any fruit until after I am gone, aren’t you?”
“No, no!”
Mr Naidu said, “I am aware that I won’t taste these fruit. But Vasu will eat them; and his children after him.”
They resumed digging and soon had a hole about three feet deep and over a foot wide. Mr Naidu part-filled it with composted cow dung mixed with straw, and Rehman lowered in the plant. Mr Naidu firmed the soil around the young tree with his dusty bare feet, hard from years of tramping in the fields. Rehman fetched a pail of water from the well and poured it around the sapling.
Mr Naidu said, “We should leave something behind when we leave this earth and for a farmer like me, a tree is the easiest way of doing that.”
Sitakka and a couple of other young women came over an hour later. Pari left with them to get ready and make the bride. Rehman and Vasu came out of the hut to watch the women walk away, their long braids swinging and their silver anklets tinkling in the dust. One of the girls said something that Rehman couldn’t catch but he could hear all of them laughing.
“Why do girls giggle so much?” asked Vasu.
Rehman scratched his head. “You tell me when you find out,” he said.
A couple of hours later, the men got ready and left for the bridal house next door. Pari came out of a room and said to Rehman, “Do you want to see the bride?”
He nodded and she led him inside. Pari looks really fetching in
a pink sari, he thought. I wonder if she will go back to her sober clothes when we leave the village.
They passed innumerable women, from young girls to old dowagers and Pari seemed to know them all. “That’s Sitakka’s mother,” she said, pointing to a middle-aged woman. Rehman looked discreetly but could not make out whether she had six fingers on her hands. They were soon in a room near the back of the house.
“There’s the bride,” said Pari, with a flourish of her hands. “Her name is Tara.”
Rehman looked at the small figure in the middle of the room, the red sari almost seeming to drown her. She had a wizened face and appeared frightened as she peered nervously around. She looked ready to jump out of the window. Rehman noticed an iron shackle round her ankle. He almost objected but stopped himself – the poor girl was in no condition to give her consent and she wouldn’t be wearing the shackle for long. She would be set free once the wedding ceremony was over.
Tara’s mother came up to them and said, “It won’t be the same without her in the house, you know.”
Rehman said, “You are doing a virtuous thing. Marrying off an orphan is good deed.” After a moment he added, “Even if she is not willing.”
Tara’s mother bobbed her head and turned to Pari. “These young girls want to make themselves up like film stars. Please help them. You are a city girl – you will know how to paint lips.”
The two women left and Rehman made his way back to Vasu and Mr Naidu.
“How’s the bride?” asked Vasu.
“Beautiful…and nervous,” said Rehman and laughed.
By this time, several people from all over the village had started converging on the house and the menfolk spilled out into the street. There were several people from the city among the villagers. This wedding was an event and nobody wanted to miss it. A tonsured Brahmin priest in a white loincloth, his chest bare except for a white thread, carried a rolled-up bunch of banana leaves in his hand. He started preparing a hearth with bricks in the yard next to the house.
Among the farmers in the crowd, the talk was mostly about the next harvest and everybody was hopeful that the yield would be good. Mr Naidu was the only one in the group who had planted cotton. The other farmers asked him how it was doing.
“It’s two months since I sowed the seeds and buds have started appearing on the plants,” said Mr Naidu.
The sound of a band playing music was heard in the distance and all conversation about crops and harvests stopped.
“The bridegroom is coming,” said fifty voices.
Soon, a procession appeared around the corner. Men and women in bright clothes and all sporting great smiles walked behind the musicians. Unlike in other weddings, the groom was neither on a horse nor in a car, but sitting on a wooden platform, decorated with red tinsel, that was carried on some of the men’s shoulders. He sat hunched and peered suspiciously at the sea of people below him. As the procession passed under a gooseberry tree, the bridegroom reached out a thin arm and plucked a bunch of the light-green fruit. He put one piece in his mouth and must have found it too sour, because he spat it out in disgust on the bald head of the man in front of him. The man put his hand on his pate and jerked it away when he touched the wet mass.
The groom’s platform wobbled as the bald man stopped but the others continued walking. The bridegroom plucked another gooseberry from the bunch and threw it into the crowd. The small round fruit hit a woman’s blouse and she screamed, jumping round and trying to reach behind her back. The couple walking behind the woman bumped into her and stumbled.
The procession dissolved into chaos like ink drops dispersing in water as the groom started pelting the crowd indiscriminately with the hard, marble-like fruit. A boy dodging one of the missiles ran into a dignified-looking man on the edge of the procession and the man’s dhoti unravelled. The man clutched the sarong-like garment, trying to prevent his underwear from showing. The long cloth caught under his feet and he stumbled straight into a vat of cow-dung slurry by the side of the road. Screams and curses filled the air.
The band, oblivious to what was happening behind them, continued marching to their beat until they stopped in front of the bride’s house. It was only then that they noticed the people pointing and looked round. They ran back to the procession and regrouped.
Mr Naidu said, “We had better get the poor man cleaned up.” He and another farmer ran forward to the dignitary – covered in smelly green liquid and semi-blinded – and gingerly led him away.
The rest of the party sorted itself out and the band struck up a fresh, jaunty tune:
Aha, it’s my wedding; oho, today I shall marry,
The world’s laughing for you and I will not tarry,
Oh, what fun to be husband and wife; hurry, hurry.
Aha, it’s my wedding; oho, today I shall marry.
The procession made its way forward, stopping only when an old woman with a big, round, red bindi stepped out in front of them. She held a coconut in her hands and smashed it with great force on a stone on the road. The hard shell burst open and the liquid inside spilled out. She threw the two halves away and took out a currency note from a knot in her sari.
The bridegroom was lowered to the ground and held in his father’s arms.
Holding the money, the woman circled her arms round the bridegroom three times, then gave the note to a beggar. Women ululated and somebody blew into a conch. Some boys shook rattles. The noise unnerved the groom and he looked ready to bolt. He scratched the arm of the man holding him, raising angry red welts on the brown skin, but the man did not let go.
“Somebody get the bride,” he shouted.
The bride and groom were quickly brought face to face and they peered at each other. Suddenly, the bridegroom reached out and smacked Tara on the nose. She squealed and pulled his hair. Half the crowd was in despair and the other half bent double in laughter. People tried to separate the furious couple but were powerless in the face of their passion.
Pari finally stepped forward with two bananas, holding one in each hand. The bride and groom stopped fighting and looked at the fruit.
“Go on, you can have them if you stop fighting,” said Pari. The couple let go of one another and grabbed the yellow fruit. Tara fastidiously peeled the skin off before eating. The groom sank his teeth into the banana, skin and all.
“What monkeys!” said Vasu.
Mr Naidu looked down at the boy. “Of course they are. Monkeys don’t become humans just because you bring them up among people.”
Rehman looked at the two Hanuman langur monkeys, eating the bananas, and had to agree. They were about two feet tall, the male slightly larger than the female. Grey hair covered their entire bodies except for their black faces. They looked remarkably like children, except for the wise looks from their clear eyes.
The crowd moved into the yard next to the house where the Brahmin priest was waiting for them and Rehman heard several people talking about the bride and groom.
“Forget your toy and look around,” a mother was telling her five-year-old son. “You may never see something like this again – two monkeys getting married like humans.”
A man he didn’t know grinned at Rehman and Rehman smiled back. “Have you ever seen a spectacle like this?” said the man, who looked educated and in a professional job.
“No,” said Rehman shaking his head.
“Me neither. Though I have heard of another case of two monkeys being married many years ago. That was near the temple town of Puri, I think.” They shuffled forwards with the crowd and the man continued, “Mind you, it’s a good deed to free captive animals, it will earn you good karma. And if you are going to do that, why not make a hungama, an event, out of it and have some fun too?”
Rehman nodded. “You are right. Like mixing business with pleasure.”
The man threw his head back and laughed. “I like that – mixing business with pleasure.”
A giant marquee had been constructed in the yard with long pine tr
unks and thatched coconut leaves. Pari and Tara’s ‘mother’ joined them. Tara’s mother asked Rehman, “Are you enjoying yourself?”
Rehman nodded.
“Do you know how Tara came into our family?” she asked.
“No,” said Pari.
“About five years ago, we were worried about my eldest son and his wife. At that time, they had been married for a couple of years but they still did not have kids. So we went to the Tirupati temple to ask for the Lord’s boon. We went up the Seven Hills in the early morning, queued up and saw the deity. We were then coming back to the bottom and our bus broke down midway. When the bus couldn’t be repaired immediately, we started walking downhill to the town. After an hour or so, we were hot and so we rested by the side of the road. We saw a tribe of langurs peacefully grazing and grooming themselves in the distance among the rocks and shrubs. Did you know that there are lots of monkeys on the mountains of Tirupati?” she said, looking quizzically at him.
Rehman nodded and asked her to continue. It was common knowledge that bands of monkeys lived on the slopes and the temple summit of Tirupati.
“Suddenly, they started running towards us. We didn’t know what was happening at first, but then we noticed that they were being pursued by another troop of monkeys. One of the members of the first group was slower than the others and fell behind. The leading pursuer caught up with her and we saw why she had been slow. A small baby monkey was clutching on to her front with its arms and legs. The mother monkey turned around and whimpered. She must have been scared, poor thing. The pursuer tried to pull the baby away but that seemed to give the mother a sudden boost; she bared her teeth and screamed loudly before jumping straight for a rock near us. Unfortunately she missed and fell to the ground, landing awkwardly. The pursuers quickly closed on the mother and baby, but my husband picked up a stone lying on the ground and threw it at them. He shouted loudly, flapped his arms and rushed at them like a noisy crow. All the monkeys ran away, except the fallen mother and its baby. When we reached her, we found that the mother was still alive but she couldn’t move. I think her back was broken. She still clutched her baby tightly and tried to scare us off. The poor little baby was so small – if its mother died, there was no way it was going to survive.” Tara’s mother looked up at the stage where the fire was just being lit and turned back to Rehman and Pari. “I understood immediately the test that the Lord of the Seven Hills was posing. Was I ready to bring a baby into my house?”
