Seeds

Thak, Thak, the sound of a forceful rhythmic pounding broke Neera’s concentration. Putting her book aside, she went up to the window to see outside.

“What! Is he really doing it?” her heart pounded with each stroke of his hand as he lifted the axe and hit the trunk of the lemon tree with all his strength.

“But the tree was fine, why is he cutting it?” her first instinct was that of protection and protest. “Last year itself there had been so many lemons on it.”

She loved standing beneath the tree with the kids. Sometimes she would prick a lemon hanging down from a branch with her nail and lift the kids up to smell it. “Ahhh!” they would shut their eyes and their lips would broaden in a joyful smile as the refreshing fragrance made its way in. Then she would do the same. It was such a beautiful start of the day. They would mark the entire family of lemons; the biggest is papa, smaller one is mummy, a little bigger is Bebu and the smallest is Sunny- the naughty boy. The count would continue upto chacha, chachi, cousins, bua, dadi, and Dada. It was a complete house in itself, with its buds, small white flowers, the leaves and lemons of all sizes.

She looked at it in pain. Soon it would be there no more. But why was Dadaji cutting it? He who took utmost care of his trees. She didn’t have the guts to ask him. Noone dared to interfere in his work. He wasn’t very communicative or friendly, especially with her. Suddenly she remembered that mother had told her about the termites which had infested the roots of the tree. Oh, that must be the reason. The tree had to go. As she reconciled with its impending demise, her attention went to something else.

“Shall he be engaging in such a strenuous activity? It takes a lot of strength and might put a strain on him. He was after all past eighty and had undergone a heart surgery.”

However, she admired the grit, tenacity and the spirit of the old man. He wasn’t the one to shy away from anything. The huge open area in their house had been transformed by him into a beautiful garden with a well maintained lawn and a kitchen farm. At the far end rose a creeper along the wall, its thin trunk twisted around a wooden stick planted by Dadaji to support it. Its branches hung down the wall laden with clusters of enchanting pink flowers. Adjacent to it was the lemon tree, sharing space with a sprawling Aloe Vera. The rest of the row was occupied by an unruly tomato plant, a brinjal plant, variety of flowers and a money-plant spilling out in all directions. On the opposite side stood a Guava tree. She remembered that the previous one was also cut by Dadaji in the same manner before he planted this one. Its neighbour was a Pomegranate tree the fruit of which had unappealing white seeds as opposite to the usual red tempting ones but last year they had turned out to be very sweet despite their colour. Alongside it was a huge empty space which Dadaji had farmed out in various enclosures. There he grew a variety of seasonal vegetables- tomatoes, brinjal, spinach, white radish, chilly etc. In between rose two papaya trees. Besides it he had dug out two big holes in which the peels of vegetables and fruits were to be deposited for making organic manure. His imprint reflected everywhere as there hung various creepers; and trees of various sizes, of fruit and flower adorned the vista of their huge bungalow. It was a treat to the eyes and soul to take a stroll through these in the morning.

“Somebody disturbed the boundary of the enclosures”, he came in complaining whenever the dog scratched the ground or the boy ploughed his toy tractor into the farm. He even suspected that the maid or Neera for that matter didn’t walk carefully and unintentionally, or who knows even intentionally stepped onto the enclosures. He was very suspicious of anybody venturing into his land. Even a small change couldn’t skip his eyes. Once mother plucked some tomatoes to prepare soup and there came a hurricane in the house. Dadaji was furious.

“They weren’t even ripe yet. Why do you people fiddle with them when you have no knowledge of it.”

There was no stopping him for an hour. He kept on grumbling in his low but firm voice, highly pissed off at the untimely loss of his hard work.

Most of the times his anger wasn’t unjustified, because he cared for his plants more than people. Hailing from a peasant background in a village of eastern India, he was a man deeply attached to his land. Even though he had risen to become an administrative officer in the Agriculture Ministry of Indian government, he remained a village-man at heart. While his grandchildren swore by the air conditioner, he never installed one in his room despite the sweltering heat of north India. In winters when everyone sat near the heater, he preferred the warmth of primitive fire, lit with the dry leaves and twigs from his garden. Neera related deeply to his bent figure, sitting on his haunches beneath the mango tree, roasting sweet potatoes. She would have loved to join him and listen to his life-stories but could never cross the barrier between them. Dadaji preferred to maintain a distance with everybody. His existence was complete within himself. However, sometimes mother gave her a piece of the sweet potatoes roasted by him as the kids didn’t like it much. For her, it built a connection with him, however unintentional and distant.

But it wasn’t that he was a totally indifferent man. Sometimes he would walk up to the kids and greet them enthusiastically. “Good Morning! How are you?” His voice was full of energy and his manner officer like. He would shake hands with the little girl or the boy who would greet him back. Just one or two sentences exchanged and it would finish there. By 6 am he would have already done his yoga. Neera who herself was a fitness freak, admired his discipline. Sometimes while passing across his room, she would catch a glimpse of him lying prostrate on the carpet doing bhujangasana. The chants of Ohm reverberating out of his room energized her mornings and inspired her to be more consistent and diligent in her work. He followed a strict routine. Made his tea and toast himself, read the newspaper, washed his clothes, worked in his farm till late morning, had an early lunch, watched television in afternoon, learnt making various pickles and dishes on Youtube in evening, booked his train tickets on his computer himself, ate dinner exactly at 8 and slept by 10 pm. Sometimes in evening he went up to the terrace to look after the plants kept there. Everyone vacated the place where he went, be it the kitchen, or the terrace, as he preferred to work in solitude. Somebody hovering around or coming in his way even by mistake irritated him no end. No, he didn’t say anything. Just a contemptuous “Unh!” Neera slided back into her room if she saw him out in the hall. Wasn’t there any place for affection in this man’s life? How could someone be so detached! Human beings are not meant to be mechanical.

There were glimpses of tenderness. And whenever these came to fore, the family watched with a smile. It was his 80th birthday. Amma who didn’t see much eye to eye with her husband, and was herself a fiercely independent woman with her enormous zest for life, sat on the wooden takht in the hall…waiting for him.

“Priya, would you bring me a flower from outside?” she instructed her daughter-in-law. Amma had lost her vision due to cataract and didn’t move around much. Priya handed her a jasmine flower along with its twig. The lady had worn a flowery skirt and her face was radiant. Her shiny white complexion and carved features still made her the most beautiful in the house. She took special care of combing her hair and chose the colour of her ribbons and sandals very carefully. Neera noticed her fingers fiddling with the twig. “How romantic!” she mused within. Amma was making sure to remove any thorns before handing the flower to her beloved. As the man of her life approached her, she reverently said, “Namaskar, happy birthday!” and held out the flower to him. He must have felt shy to acknowledge this display of public affection by his wife as he took the flower quietly and briskly moved into the drawing room to watch TV but not before a smile escaped his generally clipped lips. For the family, it was a rare treat as they had watched Amma and Dadaji immersed in their own different worlds; Dadaji in his gardening, yoga, balanced diet and strict routine and Amma enjoying the finer tastes of life with her expansive culinary demands from paranthas, pooris to pickle and sweets, her romantic songs, and her children.

But there must have been something between the two- an undefinable, invisible string that held their opposite worlds together. It was after Amma’s going a year before that Dadaji bent a little. The other pole that had balanced him was gone and in the absence of that magnetic energy which sometimes pulls, sometimes repels, he must have felt a bit out of vigour. Still one thing that lit up his eyes was the little boy. At six he was already extremely talkative and affectionate. Dadaji for him symbolized the supreme authority, whom he could approach against anybody in the family. He was not only his ultimate weapon but also a dear companion. The sounds of their animated chatter filtered in as they sat outside in the verandah and the boy excitedly informed him of everything that happened inside.

As Neera picked up the khurpi (spud) to dig a hole, her fingers trembled a bit.

“What would Dadaji say?” “He certainly wouldn’t like anybody to touch his tools, leave alone spoiling the soil in an ungainly manner.”

But, she proceeded, dug out the earth, made a hole, and inserted the bitter-gourd sapling in it before covering it up and fixing it firmly in the ground. She took care of directing the little creeper towards the papaya tree trunk.

“Should I bring some tomatoes from here to make curry?” She asked her mother.

“Yes, bring some chilies and brinjals too.”

After putting the vegetables in the kitchen, she proceeded to the lawn to do her exercise, while rest of the members sat on chairs in the walkway beneath the mango tree. It was essential to have some fresh air to stay healthy as no one was able to venture out due to pandemic.

In evening, as she climbed to the terrace to water the plants, she found the little girl sitting near the flower pots, plucking out weeds.

“Who told you that these are to be taken out Bebu?”

“I saw Dada doing it” the girl nonchalantly replied, looking down and intently doing her work.

Neera lifted her head up to push a tear back. The mango tree looked back at her, laden with fruits. From a nearby niche, some seeds collected from a dried torai, peeped out.

“We will sow these in the next season.”