THE LEAF CATCHER
A
SHORT STORY
BY
PRABHU JHA
It was the same old story, a colossal waste of my summer vacation! My parents were planning to spend the summer break in India, and I knew that they would drag me along with them. I did put up a fight, though.
“There’s no way, Dad that I’d be spending my summer at the village in India this year!”
“People have to fork out thousands of dollars to go to an exotic place, and you’re getting this opportunity for free!” Dad’s humorous side was at full display!
When I left for school that day, I wasn’t too thrilled. I knew I was waging a losing battle. I would shout and scream, and then my parents would resort to emotional blackmail about my grandparents, who still lived in our ancestral home in the foothills of the Himalayas. That’s exactly what happened when Dad came home that evening.
“Raunak, your Dada and Dadi are too old to travel to US. Don’t you think we should all try and spend some time before they depart this world?’’
“Oh, so now you’ve found a hotline to God, and you know when they’re going to die?”
I hit him back with my American logic and attitude. Almost instantly, though, I started to regret it when I saw mom, giving me an evil eye.
“But, I don’t want to spend my time, sitting with, and gawked by, the strangers you call my uncles and aunts!”
“So, here is the deal”, Dad played his trump card, “once you spend your mornings with Dada, you can spend the rest of the day and evening in the mango orchard, if you want! No strings attached!!”
Dad knew that during my last visit I had loved the mango orchard, which had become my refuge from the tropical heat as well as from the curious relatives. I just maintained my ambiguous silence, without either accepting or rejecting his deal. I knew, however, that the idea of roaming around in the miles – long orchard would certainly make the India trip a little less painful.
Next few weeks saw my tacit agreement, and the frantic preparations for the trip. The first step was my visit to the pediatrician for the anti – malaria and anti – cholera shots. Mom had to buy me video games before I stopped making her feel guilty for going through the pain of taking those shots. Of course, she bought a good amount of mosquito repellents. All this was on top of numerous gifts that she bought for the large extended family we had in India. It was almost funny to see mom and dad argue about all those gifts and how to pack them in the limited number of suitcases that we’re allowed to take on board by the airline.
The grand finale of all this trip preparation came in the second week of June, when my school closed for summer vacation and we all – mom, dad, and I – left for the JFK airport to catch the afternoon Air India flight to New Delhi. While I was partially ready for this fourteen hours long, non-stop flight with my video games, the plain fact is that nothing can really prepare you for such a ridiculously long flight. My parents were of course more excited than I was for this trip, but at the moment they were preoccupied with the immediate task of checking in at the airline counter, and silently praying perhaps that our possibly overweight suitcases be checked in without paying any extra fees.
When this task was completed successfully, thanks largely to mom’s smooth social skills, we all boarded the flight. And almost immediately something magical happened. While we’re still in New York, sitting on the tarmac of JFK airport, it felt like we’re already in India! The saree draped women, the instrumental Bollywood music piping in, and kids screaming made this Indian scene more authentic.
It took about next thirty or forty minutes for all this cacophony to subside. Once the food was served, and the cabin light was dimmed, people settled down either to watch movies or doze off. Even though I had dozens of video games, I didn’t feel like playing any of them right now. Looking around, I saw dad was already sleeping, and mom was happily engrossed in some Bollywood movie. We had flown for less than an hour, which meant thirteen more hours left! We’re somewhere over the Atlantic, and had barely crossed a single time – zone. It was at this moment that the sense of distance that separated my grandparents – my dada and dadi – from us gripped me. The image of Dadi , my grandma, seeing us off after our last visit from the long verandah of our huge, village home floated into my mind. She was squatting on the floor, unlike Dada who was sitting in his easy chair. Frail and sad, Dadi looked so forlorn and helpless! Even though she and Dada had a number of servants waiting on them, we’re the only family members they had, and we lived eight thousand miles away in America!
Looking at the overhead GPS screen in the cabin, I remembered that once we reached Delhi, we’ll have to take another two – hour long domestic flight to Patna, from where we would travel by road for another four hours to reach our village! This thought itself must have been so tiring that I perhaps helplessly drifted off to sleep.
When I woke up, there was quite a commotion in the cabin. Some people had lifted the window screens, and bright sun was filtering in. The air hostess came over to ask if I wanted any juice or appetizer as soon meals would be served. I asked her about our ETA for Delhi. I was happily surprised to learn that in about three hours we’re about to land in Delhi. Wow! Did I really sleep for over nine hours? Lifting the window screen, I tried to peek outside. The sun was almost blinding, so I shut the window. Taking a sip of my orange juice, I looked at the overhead GPS screen. We’re flying over some mountainous terrain, and the local time was 1 o’clock in the afternoon. Remembering that the plane had taken off at 1:30m in the afternoon from New York, and after flying for over nine years, it was still 1:00 o’clock in the afternoon! It never ceases to amaze me, and I do understand the science of multiple time zones!
We landed at the Indira Gandhi International Airport in New Delhi around 4:00 P.M. It was refreshing to learn at the immigration counter that I didn’t have to repeat or spell my name, R..A..U..N..A… K! But the reality of being away from America hit me hard the moment we came out of the terminal. The heat combined with humidity was stifling! And the noise level of the surrounding was so strange! I looked at my parents’ faces, but they’re busy looking for my uncle – my mom’s brother – who was supposed to come to receive us. It took us quite a few moments before we spotted Ashok uncle, who was waving from the visitors’ gallery.
“Hey Raunak! Welcome to India! How are you? I can’t believe you’ve grown so tall!”
“Yes, Ashok uncle, I’m fine. Thank you! I’ve finished my ninth grade, and I’ll be starting the 10th grade in Fall!”
“Congratulations, beta!” Ashok uncle further added, “We’ve to go to the domestic terminal to catch the flight to Patna in about two hours. So, all of us need to hurry.”
He then left all of us with our luggage to go and get his car. Even though the domestic terminal was only couple of miles away, it took us what seemed like a long time to reach there, thanks to the insane traffic jams. At the domestic terminal mom and dad had barely any time to catch up with uncle as we had to rush, and board the two hours – long Air India flight to Patna, from where we would travel by road to the village.
The flight to Patna was more or less uneventful, and somewhat uncomfortable. The aircraft was smaller, and it felt like we’re all cramped. We, however, didn’t mind it too much as having just come off a thirteen hour – flight, this one felt a walk in the park. Girish uncle, dad’s cousin, who lived in Patna, had come to receive us at the airport. We stayed at his residence overnight, and left for the village next morning in a SUV as the road from Patna was not in the best of conditions.
By the time we reached near our village, it was early afternoon. We’re on a dirt road, and it had become quite hot and the road very bumpy. My eyes, however, were trying to figure out the outline of my ancestral house in the front of the village. Eventually the young guava and lychee trees came in view. I knew these trees were planted by my dad around the pond in front of our house the year I was born. Dada was very proud of these trees, as they reminded him of his only grandson. I looked at dad’s face, which had a fascinating blend of happiness and nostalgia.
Soon our SUV took a turn for hour house, where almost half the village had assembled behind dada and dadi. They moved closer to the car when we stopped. Dada lifted me in his arms, demonstrating he was still pretty sturdy at his advanced age.
“Raunak, how are you?” he asked me energetically. I got down from his arms, and bent down to touch his feet to take his blessings. My dad did the same, and dada embraced him. Mom was next in line. Dadi, meanwhile, was smiling and wiping her tears of joy. She hugged me, and asked all of us to go inside the house and offer our respects to the family deity in the prayer room. This was a custom we all had to follow without fail.
The afternoon went off pretty fast with lunches and then sleeping off our jet – lag. I must have slept for 2-3 hours when I woke up with a start.
“Raunak, get up now or you’ll not be able to sleep during night”, mom was shouting from the courtyard. I got up, came out of my room, and started walking across the courtyard to the front verandah, which was not only the front of the house but also the de – facto living room for menfolk. Both dad and dada were sitting on a long wooden bench, with the uncles and cousins seated on a flat, wooden platform called ‘chowki’. Dad was sharing his experience about the long journey from America, and the whole assembly of relatives was all ears. Some kids, either my age or younger, were looking at me curiously, and smiling. I sat down on the bench right in between my dada and dad.
“So, Raunak, are you excited about the mango orchard? We have a bumper crop of mangos this summer.” said dada.
“Yes, I am. I can’t wait till tomorrow morning to go and spend some time there.” I responded.
“OK. Tomorrow morning after we have breakfast, we’ll walk down to the orchard near our temple. I’ll ask Lalit to give you company over there. Do you remember Lalit? He’s your second cousin, and he literally lives there in the orchard during the mango season”, said Dada.
Lalit was a lanky kid about my age, and I remembered him from my last visit for his funny habit of demonstrating his knowledge of the English language in a heavy Indian accent.
“Yes, dada, I do. And that would be great, but you don’t have to come with me. I know how to get there.” I happily responded.
“Don’t you want to spend your morning with dada, and maybe read aloud to him the newspapers we bought for him?” Dad reminded me.
“Yes, dada, tomorrow morning I’ll read the newspapers to you after you’re done with your yoga. Then I’ll go to the orchard.” I said.
“I would love that!” Dada said. And then he added, “do you want to try the afternoon snack that we love here at the village?”
I knew that dada was talking about this rice cereal roasted with sand in the ‘ghonsaar’, the community kitchen kind of thing, where villagers take their Basmati rice to be roasted in earthen pots, and then rice and sand are sifted before consumed with roasted, mashed potatoes. It was actually quite tasty. The ‘ghonsaar’ used the dried leaves and twigs, collected from mango orchards to fuel the oven like stoves.
“Yes, dada, I would really like that!” I answered.
Next morning, I was up way early, thanks to the jet-lag. Walking out to the front verandah, I saw dada was already up, performing ‘jalneti’ as part of his daily yoga routine. Without disturbing him, I slowly walked up to the edge of the pond and stopped by my two-buddy lychee and guava trees. Even though the pond was unlike a swimming pool, with plants and trees growing at the perimeter, it looked so beautiful in the early morning mist. There were three houses belonging to my dad’s cousins on the three sides of the pond. Right beyond Lalit’s house on the eastern side of the pond began the western border of our family ‘baagicha’ – the mango orchard – that stretched almost two miles in the east, and about a mile from north to south.
“Good morning, Raunak!” Dada, who was done with yoga, happily greeted from the verandah. “Did you sleep well last night without air conditioning? At least we had no power outage last night.” Dada emphasized the positive.
“Yes, I did, although I woke up early due to the jet-lag!” I said, and then asked, “are you ready for the newspapers, dada?”
“Yes, almost. Let me get my tea. Do you want something to drink? Maybe some milk?”
“No, I’ll just have some water. I’ll go and get the newspapers as well.”
“Great, and after that we’ll walk down to the orchard.” Dada said.
It was a little before 8 o’clock in the morning that dada and I started walking together towards the orchard. As we went past the house of the younger brother of dada on the southern side of the pond, dada stopped by a big Bunyan tree, where he bowed his head in front of the village deity. He asked me to do the same, and while I was doing that, I remembered that this is where dadi comes every evening around dusk to light an earthen lamp. I had always been fascinated by the evening ritual of dadi.
As we came closer to the orchard, I realized that the mango orchard was not one piece of land; it was subdivided into rectangular plots, belonging to individual families. And all these families were part of the extended family of my great grandfather. What made the orchard interesting, among other things, was the fact that each family’s part of the orchard was looked after and mangoes were collected by the kids and the grandkids of that family, especially during nighttime. There was this fierce competition among kids about who collects the most mangoes. So, most of the children generally tried to stay up the whole night, and, therefore, would nap during daytime.
When dada and I reached our orchard, Lalit was just waking up. He got up from his makeshift bed on a ‘chowki’ with a mattress like thing made out of straw and hay. Straightening the bedsheet, a little bit, he offered the chowki for dada to sit on. Then he saw me, and smiled.
“Hey, Raunak, how are you?”
“Good, Lalit, how are things with you?”
“Pretty good! Last night I beat Kirti, and collected fifty one mangoes!!” Then he showed me the stash of the mangoes, which was hidden from the view with straw under his cot.
“Good job, Lalit! Dada said, and then added, “Raunak is going to hang out here in the orchard. Don’t leave him alone, and if you need to go somewhere, please ask Suraj to come over here, and be with him. I don’t want Raunak to go and wander in unfamiliar parts of the orchard.” I thought the last bit of instruction from dada was rather odd. So, I had to chime in.
“I can take of myself, dada. And don’t worry; Lalit and I will be fine.”
Dada then smiled, and said, “I know you’ll be fine.” Then he asked me, “Raunak, would you like to try one of these mangoes from this tall tree? This is really very delicious!”
I thought that was a good idea. Dada looked around, and called Suraj, our family manager, who always followed dada wherever he went. Suraj brought some water in a bucket, washed a couple of mangoes, and handed one to each of us. The mango was truly remarkable; it had a delicate skin, and the pulp beneath was fragrant, and melted inside mouth like ice cream! So, this was the beginning of a pattern of how I would spend my days in the orchard for next two weeks. I would go home only for lunches, and afternoon snacks. I would relieve Lalit of the mango collection duty during afternoons. Then he would go back home so that he could come back in the evening, and stay overnight in the orchard. I was not allowed, much to my chagrin, to sleep in the orchard during nights.
It was one of the early afternoons during my last week of vacation in India that I saw him in a distant corner of one of my uncles’ orchard. Initially, it wasn’t too striking a scene: a boy, perhaps a few years younger than I was, sweeping the grounds of the orchard, raking the fallen leaves. The poor families in the village needed some kind of fuel to cook their food, and during summer this was one way they could find a free alternative. There was something different about this boy, though. I had never seen him in the orchard before, and the raking as well as the collection of the leaves was generally done by girls in the village. I looked around to find Lalit, but then I remembered he had gone home for lunch. I started walking towards the boy, and it took me perhaps five to seven minutes to reach this remote part of the orchard. He stopped raking, and smiled.
“Hey, what’s your name? I’ve never seen you here before.” I said.
“Sudhir, but I see you every day, reading those books you have, and enjoying your mangoes.”, he replied.
“Would you like to read my books?”, I asked.
“I can’t. I don’t know any English. All I know is a little bit of Hindi.”, Sudhir said.
“Don’t you go to school?”, I asked.
“I can’t. I need to help my family, which runs the ‘ghonsar’ – the kitchen where people go to have their rice roasted for their afternoon snack. I gather these leaves for the ‘ghonsar’.”
“Do you want some mangoes for yourself and your family?”
“I better not. If someone finds out I took your mangoes, I would be in trouble. We’re not allowed to have any mangoes from this orchard.” Sudhir reminded me.
I was so disappointed.
“Would you like to learn English? I can help you with that.” I offered.
“Yes, that would be nice, but I’ll have to ask my parents first.”, Sudhir said. And then he picked up two big bales of leaves, and walked away.
When I went back home that afternoon for lunch, I decided to do something to help Sudhir, the leaf catcher. I asked Suraj, dada’s man Friday, to take me to ‘ghonsar’ so that I could talk to his parents. His father was not home, so I had to talk to his mother with Suraj’s help. She was quite surprised to see that the kid from America had come to talk to her.
“I’m going to ask dada to help Sudhir go back to school, if that’s alright with you and your husband.”
Suraj, who was translating my broken Hindi into the local vernacular, gave me a strange look. So did Sudhir’s mom.
“Whom are you talking about? Sudhirwa??” Both Sudhir’s mom and Suraj blurted out.
“I’m talking about Sudhir, your son, who collects leaves for your ‘ghonsar’ in the orchard. I talked to him today. He should go to school.” I said forcefully. Sudhir’s mom had a painfully incredulous look in her eyes, and couldn’t utter a single syllable. It was Suraj, who said, “But, Raunak babu, Sudhir died last year in the orchard after a nasty fall from a mango tree!”