<\/p>\n
It was only a coarse brown envelope from home, but it fetched a smile of pleasure in me. I had been feeling low, facing an uncertain future as an international student studying in Toronto. The latest changes to immigration laws had made returning to India a real possibility.<\/p>\n
I knew what the package would contain: a copy of my sister\u2019s first book of poetry. She was in her early twenties like me, but was already being noticed as an animal activist and a writer. I was flipping through the slim volume when a poem\u2019s title made me stop. I started to read:<\/p>\n
A tree so beautiful
\n<\/em>Like nothing on this earth
\n<\/em>It could\u2019ve only been transplanted
\n<\/em>From some celestial arbour<\/em><\/p><\/blockquote>\n<\/em>Even as I was reading, memories jostled their way into my mind\u2026<\/p>\n
You can see the tree when you round the last corner on the way to Grandma\u2019s house. The tree grows in her neighbour\u2019s lot. But we aren\u2019t looking: I\u2019m busy with a game on my phone; my sister Mithuna has her head turned away, gazing at the hillside to our right; and Auntie\u2019s in the middle of her customary joust with the taxi driver about the steep fare from the railway station.<\/p>\n
Auntie is Daddy\u2019s second or third cousin. For the last two years, she\u2019s been chaperoning us on holidays as our parents are tied up with their fledgling consultancy business. The taxi comes to a stop in front of Grandma\u2019s house. The driver toots pom, pom, pom-pom-pom! <\/em>As we step out, Auntie emits a loud gasp. Thinking Auntie\u2019s being strangled by the irate driver, I turn my head with interest. But Auntie\u2019s staring in the direction of our neighbour\u2019s compound. Then I, too, notice the object that has triggered her amazement.<\/p>\n
Resplendent in a garment verdant<\/em>
\n Bedeck\u2019d with fruit that shine<\/em>
\n In the clear morning light \u2013<\/em>
\n Like jewels rarely seen<\/em><\/p><\/blockquote>\n<\/strong>It\u2019s the same lime tree that had looked so emaciated last year that it made Mithuna joke that it was suffering from scurvy.<\/p>\n
Grandma comes to the front door, beaming. Close on her heels is the new maidservant Nirmala, also beaming, presumably catching the contagion from my grandma, though she has never seen us before. Grandma hugs Mithuna and me, enveloping us with the smells of old age and the day\u2019s cooking. I\u2019m surprised to notice how much she seems to have shrunk. I remember her as a strong, tall woman. But then I\u2019ve put on nearly a foot since we last saw her.<\/p>\n
\u201cSmile, child,\u201d she says to my sister. Mithuna had been difficult throughout the journey\u2014sometimes overexcited, sometimes morose, but always managing to annoy Auntie. And Grandma says to me: \u201cHow tall you\u2019ve grown!\u201d<\/p>\n
I avoid my sister\u2019s eye. We\u2019re twins; I\u2019m older by a few minutes, but we look so different from each other that nobody would take us for siblings even. We\u2019re fifteen years of age. I\u2019m fair-skinned, tall, and strong for my age. On my cheeks, there\u2019s already a shadowy presence of facial hair. I love sports, and play soccer and tennis. I\u2019m good at studies, too, especially math.<\/p>\n
My sister\u2019s small-built, almost scrawny, and looks more like a child than a teenager. She\u2019s coffee-bean brown, taking after my father. In a colour-conscious country like India, her dark complexion is deplored by aunts and grand-aunts who see a dim future for her in the marriage market. While my twin\u2019s no great shakes when it comes to schoolwork, she reads a lot and occasionally writes poetry.<\/p>\n
Grandma\u2019s house is not large\u2014it has three or four rooms, apart from a kitchen and bathroom. It\u2019s surrounded by tall, leafy trees, and the old tiled roof is apt to leak when it rains hard. It\u2019s dark inside\u2014memories and secrets lurk in its nooks and corners.<\/p>\n
I\u2019m the first to go to the bathroom, a small box of a room with cement floor and only one tap. For hot water, you\u2019ve got to dip into a large urn, which is heated by burning firewood in an opening on the outer wall.<\/p>\n
When all of us have bathed, we sit down cross-legged on mats in the kitchen for lunch. It\u2019s uncomfortable, but how delicious the simple meal was\u2014piping hot, and made from fresh ground spices, and vegetables picked the same morning from the back garden.
\n
\n
\n\u201cUnless you eat, how will you grow tall?\u201d says my grandmother to Mithuna, who had refused a second helping.
\n\u201cMithuna\u2019s always picky about food. In fact, she\u2019s fussy about everything!\u201d snorts Auntie.
\n\u201cLeave her alone, Auntie,\u201d I say. \u201cYou know she\u2019s still quite upset.\u201d
\n\u201cAre you thinking about what happened last year, love?\u201d says Grandma to Mithuna. \u201cYou must learn to let go, dear.\u201d<\/p>\nMithuna purses her lips. There\u2019s an awkward pause for a few moments.<\/p>\n
\u201cThe pickle is so fresh and delicious!\u201d announces Auntie, prompting Grandma to give her another dollop of her pickled wedges of sunshine-yellow limes, green chillies, and slices of ginger soaked in brine.<\/p>\n
\u201cI made it last week with the limes Kumuda gave me,\u201d says Grandma.<\/p>\n
Kumuda is our neighbour in whose front garden the lime tree grows. She\u2019s a cantankerous woman who has no patience with children. She\u2019s always rude to us, and wears a permanent frown on her face. It comes from not having her own children, the servants say. I don\u2019t remember a time when our neighbour didn\u2019t complain of the noise we made whenever we played in our compound. We referred to her as Komodo Dragon, a name coined by Mithuna, rather than as Kumuda-Auntie as well-reared children ought to.<\/p>\n
\u201cKumuda\u2019s lime tree has started giving fruit all of sudden, it seems,\u201d says Auntie. \u201cIt looked so hopeless last year.\u201d
\n\u201cFrom what I heard, she followed the advice of some tantrik, and within months the tree started flowering,\u201d says Grandma.
\n\u201cTantrik!\u201d I exclaim. \u201cDoes anyone seek a black magic guy\u2019s advice in this age!\u201d
\n\u201cI wish the tantrik had given her advice on how to have children,\u201d says Auntie. \u201cThe servants used to joke that her lime tree was as barren as Kumuda.\u201d
\n\u201cIf I were you, I wouldn\u2019t gossip with servants,\u201d says Grandma.<\/p>\nMithuna and I look at each other, and smile. <\/p>\n
Standing foursquare to the elements:
\n<\/em>Shrinking from summer\u2019s hot embrace
\n<\/em>Rejoicing in monsoon\u2019s wet kisses
\n<\/em>Shrugging off winter\u2019s cold shoulder<\/em><\/p><\/blockquote>\nThe afternoon is warm and sultry. The breeze from the distant sea has not yet begun to infiltrate through the cocoanut groves along the shore. Under the creaking fans, we stretch ourselves on straw mats. Auntie, in addition, uses a small hand-fan made of cocoanut fronds.<\/p>\n
At four o\u2019clock in the evening, I\u2019m awakened by the bustling in the kitchen. Grandma\u2019s making evening tea. Auntie gets up reluctantly; she needs to make a show of helping Grandma.<\/p>\n
\u201cWhere\u2019s Mithuna?\u201d she asks, seeing the unoccupied straw mat. \u201cMithuna! Mithuna!\u201d
\nI sigh as I also get up, and say: \u201cShe must have gone up the hill, I\u2019m sure.\u201d
\n\u201cThat girl! What\u2019s wrong with her!\u201d says Grandma, coming into the room.
\n\u201cOnly you can guess,\u201d says Auntie to me, \u201cwhat your twin sister\u2019s up to.\u201d<\/p>\nI go outside and make my way to the back of the compound. Scaling the low wall, I scrabble up the hillside. I spot Mithuna. She\u2019s scouring the hillside with her palm over her brow to shield her eyes from the afternoon sun.<\/p>\n
\u201cMithuna! Do you still hope to find Whimsy after all these months? Be reasonable,\u201d I say.
\n\u201cThere\u2019s nothing wrong in hoping,\u201d says Mithuna.<\/p>\nOn the last day of our holiday last year, Mithuna\u2019s pet dog\u2014a small, furry Lhasa Apso\u2014went missing. We had spent the entire day swarming up and down the hill, shouting for Whimsy until our throats were hoarse. A weeping Mithuna had to be forcibly bundled into the taxi that was taking us to the railway station.<\/p>\n
\u201cHow can you expect a small pet dog to survive for a year in the wild? Come, let\u2019s go back. Grandma is making tea and tiffin for us.\u201d<\/p>\n
A tired and sweaty Mithuna follows me halfheartedly as I walk away.<\/p>\n
\u201cWhen Daddy said he\u2019d get you another puppy, you should have taken up the offer,\u201d I say.
\n\u201cLike buying a new pen because you misplaced the old one?\u201d
\n\u201cSorry, girl. I know, it\u2019s not quite as simple as that.\u201d<\/p>\nI, too, had liked Whimsy. He was our parents\u2019 gift for Mithuna on our thirteenth birthday. (I had received an adult-size bicycle.) I remember the first day the pup came home. You\u2019d have taken him for a small ball of wool but for the eyes that sparkled when they caught the sunlight from the windows.<\/p>\n
When we return to the house, Auntie says with a trace of scorn in her voice: \u201cDid you find your Whisky on the hill?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cDo I look like a drunkard to you, Auntie,\u201d says Mithuna, in her rare attempts at conversation with elders.<\/p>\n
\u201cThe name\u2019s Whimsy,\u201d I say peaceably, \u201cjust for the record.\u201d <\/p>\n
At the time when Mithuna christened her pet dog, she was madly into Dorothy Sayers. She\u2019s still crazy about mystery novels.<\/p>\n
Ignoring us, Auntie fans herself, waiting for the tea and bajjies Grandma\u2019s making.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
In the entire universe,
\n<\/em>Like you there\u2019s none
\n<\/em>A creation of some fabulist\u2019s pen:<\/em><\/p>\n<\/em>An ugly duckling of a shrub
\n<\/em>In a twinkling, turns into
\n<\/em>a swan of a tree
\n<\/em>What elixir, what penance or blood sacrifice
\n<\/em>Has wrought this magical makeover? <\/em><\/p><\/blockquote>\n<\/em>The next morning after a breakfast of dosas and chutney we lounge in the verandah, sipping coffee from steel tumblers. The sky\u2019s downcast, as if on the verge of tears. A cool breeze blows down from the hills, ruffling the treetops.<\/p>\n
There\u2019s no TV or computer in the house to keep us occupied. For want of anything better to do, Mithuna and I set out to explore the overgrown lot around the house, hoping to spot a snake or stumble upon an anthill.<\/p>\n
\u201cDon\u2019t go too close to the old well!\u201d Auntie shouts after us, diligent as ever, referring to the disused well with its windlass falling to pieces in the back yard.<\/p>\n
We find a pyramid of logs stacked against a back wall. Stuck into a log is an axe. Plucking it out, I start chopping wood just for the heck of it.<\/p>\n
After a few minutes, Mithuna says, \u201cMay I try, please?\u201d<\/p>\n
Glad that Mithuna\u2019s at last showing interest in something, I hand her the axe. \u201cBe careful,\u201d I say.<\/p>\n
\n
\nSoon we tire of the sport and go back into the house. Mithuna finds herself a detective novel in our late grandfather\u2019s old collection, reeking of must and bygone years. Not finding any writers of my choice, I settle for PG Wodehouse, Daddy\u2019s favourite author.<\/p>\nDear tree, once you too had been
\n<\/em>unwanted, unloved, and barren
\n<\/em>But now-
\n<\/em>The pride of your mistress\u2019s life,
\n<\/em>Her triumph, her treasure.
\n<\/em>So bountiful, so fecund,
\n<\/em>Inviting the evil eye of passersby<\/em><\/p><\/blockquote>\nWe spend the evening pottering about in the unkempt front garden. Auntie\u2019s examining the wild shrubs as if she\u2019s a botanist. Nirmala\u2019s plucking flowers for the evening pooja.<\/p>\n
\u201cHow lovely Kumuda\u2019s lime tree looks!\u201d Auntie says, gazing up at the tree.
\n\u201cDoesn\u2019t it? Kumudamma is so proud of it,\u201d says Nirmala.
\n\u201cWhat fascinates me is that it had looked so\u2026so undernourished last year. But look at it now\u2026it\u2019s laden with fruit!\u201d
\n\u201cThe tantrik\u2019s cure did the trick I suppose.\u201d
\n\u201cWhat did he recommend?\u201d asks Auntie, all ears.
\n\u201cYou won\u2019t believe this. \u2026 He told her to bury a dead animal under the tree.\u201d
\n\u201cWhat! But where in the world did Kumuda find a dead animal?\u201d asks Auntie.
\n\u201cWell, Kumudamma asked Venkatesh, her servant-boy to help her. As he couldn\u2019t find one readily, he killed a small dog he found roaming on the hillside, I believe.\u201d<\/p>\nI curse inwardly, as I hear Auntie say: \u201cDear me, what kind of a dog was it?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cA small fluffy dog, I was told.\u201d<\/p>\n
Nirmala goes into the house with her flower basket overflowing with jasmines, completely oblivious to the stink she has left behind. Mithuna starts wailing: \u201cMy dog! My poor dog! That horrible woman had my Whimsy murdered.\u201d<\/p>\n
Mithuna begins to run, heading for Komodo Dragon\u2019s house. I hurry after her and physically restrain her.<\/p>\n
\u201cLemme go! Lemme go!\u201d Mithuna\u2019s screaming all the while. I\u2019ve a hard time trying to control her.
\n\u201cMithuna, why are you shouting?\u201d asks Grandma, suddenly appearing in the veranda as though the commotion has flushed her out of the house.<\/p>\n\u201cNirmala said that Komodo Dragon got my Whimsy killed!\u201d
\n\u201cWhat nonsense!\u201d
\n\u201cA tantrik told her to bury a dead animal under the lime tree. I want to know if it was my Whimsy.\u201d
\n\u201cBut it\u2019s late in the evening now,\u201d says Grandma. Komodo Dragon\u2019s front door is shut, battened down for the night. \u201cI\u2019ll talk to her in the morning if you like.\u201d
\n\u201cYour grandmother\u2019s right,\u201d says Auntie. \u201cLet\u2019s not do anything rash.\u201d
\n\u201cLet Grandma handle it,\u201d I tell Mithuna. \u201cWe are just visitors here. Grandma has to live with her neighbours every day.\u201d<\/p>\nDinnertime is sombre and silent, and grandmother wisely doesn\u2019t serve Komodo Dragon\u2019s lime pickle despite Auntie eyeing the jar, which stands in a niche. Mithuna eats poorly as usual, but nobody has the heart, or the energy, to nag her. She\u2019s quiet, but it\u2019s not the quietude that comes from resignation; it\u2019s as if she\u2019s waiting, treading water until the epic confrontation with Komodo Dragon.<\/p>\n
When Mithuna has left the room, Auntie says as she\u2019s clearing the dinner things: \u201cIt was such a barbaric act. How could Kumuda do it?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cBeing a city dweller,\u201d says Grandma with a pinch of contempt in her voice, \u201cyou may not be familiar with the ways of people in small towns. Burying a carcass under a tree is not so uncommon. It\u2019s supposed to act as a natural fertilizer. That it was our pet dog is another matter.\u201d<\/p>\n
The night is restive, like the proverbial lull before storm, and we go to bed early. But around midnight I wake up with a start, not knowing what had roused me. Moonlight filters in obliquely, showing up some furniture, hiding others. Then I hear them, the spasmodic thwacks of a woodcutter. Who would want to chop kindling for the bathroom urn so late in the night?<\/p>\n
Then I realize that the sounds are not coming from the back of the house. I rush to the front door; it\u2019s unlocked, rattling against the jamb in the wind. When I go out, I see Mithuna\u2019s silhouette in the eerie moonlight. She\u2019s determinedly hacking at our neighbour\u2019s lime tree.<\/p>\n
A miscreant intent on violence
\n<\/em>has unleashed such havoc,
\n<\/em>that in one fell swoop
\n<\/em>has reduced a legend to dust<\/em><\/p><\/blockquote>\nBefore I could call out to Mithuna, the scene is ablaze with light: the verandah lamp of Komodo Dragon\u2019s house has burst into life. The front door opens, and Komodo Dragon dashes out shrieking, \u201cWhat are you doing?! What are you doing?!\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cDoing the same thing you did to my Whimsy. What harm had that sweet little dog done to you?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cWhat are you talking about? I know nothing about your dog. You\u2019ve killed my tree. I had nursed it back to health as if it were my child. Now I have nothing\u2026nothing.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cThe dog you buried under the tree was like a child to me,\u201d says Mithuna.<\/p>\n
\u201cI had nothing to do with it. I had entrusted Venkatesh to do the job. I don\u2019t even know what he put under the tree.\u201d<\/p>\n
Komodo Dragon bursts into tears. The ground\u2019s littered with fruit, and the tree\u2019s doubled down, as if bowing its head in shame.<\/p>\n
\u201cWhy did you have to do such a thing?\u201d I say, leading Mithuna back to the house. \u201cGrandma would have spoken to her.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cWould that have brought my Whimsy back? Would they have thrown Komodo Dragon into a prison?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cIf I were you, I\u2019d have let grown-ups handle it.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cYou\u2019re not me, my dearest twin. I\u2019ve realized long ago that you can\u2019t rely on others to fight your battles. You\u2019ll have to do it yourself.\u201d<\/p>\n
Grieve not, lime tree
\n<\/em>The scythe of the Reaper
\n<\/em>Awaits us all
\n<\/em>Death\u2019s not the end,
\n<\/em>Just a momentary hiatus:
\n<\/em>The seed from your fruit will flower yet again.<\/em><\/p><\/blockquote>\nThe next morning, I wake up with a feeling of dread. But by that time the adults have hijacked our world.<\/p>\n
\u201cGet ready quickly,\u201d Auntie says. \u201cThe taxi will be coming at nine o\u2019clock. We\u2019ll eat an early breakfast and leave.\u201d
\n\u201cWhere are we going?\u201d I say.
\n\u201cWe are returning to Hyderabad. I spoke to your father. He wanted us to come back immediately.\u201d<\/p>\nWe have a hastily cooked breakfast made with semolina. When I hear the peremptory pom! pom!<\/em>, I take the suitcases down to the taxi and load them into the shabby trunk smelling of petrol and god knows what. Grandma comes up to the car. She looks haggard as if she has aged a good many years since last night.<\/p>\n
\u201cDo well at school,\u201d Grandma says to us. \u201cForget about what happened yesterday. You\u2019ve your entire lives ahead of you.\u201d<\/p>\n
The taxi makes a three-point turn and rumbles down the road, bouncing over the ruts. Waving for the last time, I look back at Grandma. And in our neighbour\u2019s garden, there\u2019s a barren spot where the lime tree had once so proudly stood, a glowing totem for its mistress.<\/p>\n
That happened a few years ago. People say that going back home is the best part of a journey. But it\u2019s not always so, believe me. We were nervous not knowing what our parents\u2019 reaction would be. When we got home, Daddy, assuming a stern voice, told us never to take law into our own hands. Mummy interjected with the comment that an eye for an eye was not a solution to the world\u2019s problems. In the end, for all the stress Mithuna went through, Daddy bought her another pup\u2014a golden retriever. Mithuna named him \u2018Whisky.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
The Lime Tree<\/strong>
\nIt was only a coarse brown envelope from home, but it fetched a smile of pleasure in me. I had been feeling low, facing an uncertain future as an international student studying in Toronto. The latest changes to immigration laws had made returning to India a real possibility.<\/p>\nI knew what the package would contain: a copy of my sister\u2019s first book of poetry. She was in her early twenties like me, but was already being noticed as an animal activist and a writer. I was flipping through the slim volume when a poem\u2019s title made me stop.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":3,"featured_media":3138,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_monsterinsights_skip_tracking":false,"_monsterinsights_sitenote_active":false,"_monsterinsights_sitenote_note":"","_monsterinsights_sitenote_category":0,"ngg_post_thumbnail":0,"footnotes":""},"categories":[14],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-2156","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-fiction"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.mtls.ca\/issue23\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/2156","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.mtls.ca\/issue23\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.mtls.ca\/issue23\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.mtls.ca\/issue23\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/3"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.mtls.ca\/issue23\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=2156"}],"version-history":[{"count":1,"href":"https:\/\/www.mtls.ca\/issue23\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/2156\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":3139,"href":"https:\/\/www.mtls.ca\/issue23\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/2156\/revisions\/3139"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.mtls.ca\/issue23\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/3138"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.mtls.ca\/issue23\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=2156"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.mtls.ca\/issue23\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=2156"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.mtls.ca\/issue23\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=2156"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}