Apple Blossoms

“Undulate, Undulate Rajjo, not hop”. “Shuttup, Najjo, I am doing it right. Just follow them.” The identical tiny apple baskets would bob up and down the broken hilly path, to the tune of the pahadi songs sung by the apple pickers. The wizened supervisor, would stop from time to time, to allow the girls to catch up with the rest of the apple picking crew. She would give them an indulgent but firm smack on the bum, if they wandered in search of berries or other sights. The zamindar would skin her alive, if his little girl came to any harm.

Come apple picking season ; and every year, the zamindar would travel from the city in his huge cavalcade of cars and provisions to the bungalow near Sunder Nagar. They would stay there the entire season, wrap up the sale of apples and profit sharing with the contracted workers and celebrations with the mandatory trip to Mani Karan Sahib, the gurudwara at Mandi, the Shiva Temple ; nazrana to the local mosque and then back to the rigors of the polluted world of the big city.

 Each season, Rajjo would look forward to the stay at the bungalow. Here she would again meet her soul mate, Najjo. She would swap her Barbie dolls with the ragged cloth dolls that Najjo’s mom made. Her mom’s chocolate and nuts cake would be smuggled out of the kitchen , for the simple potato fry of Najjo's tiny kitchen. And then they would go apple picking. When Rajjo came to stay in the bungalow, Najjo would leave her father’s quarters in the backyard and move in to Rajjo’s room. At night, Rajjo would whisper her fairy tales of the city and her school, perched on her four poster bed and Najjo would listen wide-eyed and weave yarns of dreams of her own, lying on her mattress at the foot of the bed. Every night, she would dream of sleeping in the princess bed herself, of eating at the table instead of the cold floor, of wearing the frilly frocks that Rajjo had.

The villagers would indulge them both, taking them along for the apple picking. The supervisor, wove baskets for them both, which they would hang on their backs using strong twines of hemp to secure them, using their foreheads as anchors, just like the women-folk from the village. Each year, they would be up at the crack of dawn, bright-eyed and excited about their adventure, gulp down the toast and milk prepared by Najjo’s mother , who was the cook, all the while listening with deaf ears to Rajjo’s mother’s gentle admonishments. Najjo’s mother would hand them over to the pickers’ crew at the gate, quietly reminding Najjo to take care of Rajjo. By lunch time, they would be exhausted from picking unripe apples, chasing butterflies, picking wild flowers and weaving them into each other’s hair. They would sleep in the shade of the trees, fecund with fruit, the buzzing bees lulling them into deep slumber. When evening approached and the day darkened , they would again set for home , with the pickers’ , joining them in song and laughter , enjoying their ribbing , without understanding the import , yet finding comfort in the camaraderie.

The invisible boundary between the bungalow and the overseer quarters were blurred by the lines chalked for hopscotch. The backyard became the home of all sorts of fruits, shrubs and wild flowers that the girls found saplings for. A small world of their own sprung up, with the birds, rabbits and the occasional snake visiting them there. And their favorite was the apple tree that bore golden apples. That was the love of their life.They would track the blossoming to the first fruit of the season with the joy only the very young can muster.

The year they both turned 10, was also the year that the winds changed. Even before the apples blossomed, the villagers started whispering of the new tidings from neighboring states. The places of worship no longer remained the sanctuary of the devout. There were conspiracies and counter-conspiracies. Jealousy and insecurity kept under lid for years, wanted to vent the steam now. Beneath the calm surface, fetid emotions waited to breathe out in the air and spread the malodor.

That year, when the zamindar came, the workers demanded more wages than the ones they had been contracted upon. They refused to go and pick apples till the zamindar relented. The zamindar held his ground. He went to the village sarpanch and complained, but the sarpanch also voiced the same dissent which the villagers had. Baffled and betrayed, the zamindar had to concede. The apple pickers felt triumphant and that night they gathered in their place of worship to discuss the profits gained. Soon, the resentment against zamindar’s wealth turned into a blaze of hatred against him , fueled by the neighbors and against his minions who belonged to his faith. They felt that they should be dealt with. A small contingent of youths armed with lathis and sickles shouting cries of their faith, marched towards the zamindar’s house in the dead of the night.

In the meantime, Najjo’s father crept outside the zamindar’s bungalow and called out for him. The zamindar, who had been quietly smoking in the patio, came out and they both conferred. Soon, Rajjo and the entire family packed themselves in their car and sped towards the city. The situation could take any turn – for worse or better. Najjo’s father promised to take care of the bungalow and let no harm come to it. Najjo and Rajjo bid each other a teary farewell. As the car turned down the winding slope towards the city, Najjo asked her father. “When will they come back?” and her father smiled a bit and said “Hopefully, never”. Najjo was perplexed. But then it struck her. She sped towards the house and all but jumped in Rajjo’s bed, squealing with delight. Her sorrow at her friend’s departure had been completely obliterated by the material gains.

When the miscreants arrived, Najjo’s father came out and announced that he had driven away the zamindar and that now he owned the bungalow. As a bribe, he offered the zamindar’s orchards in a fair divide to the villagers. A deal was struck and the land was divided in a verbal agreement. The zamindar, as Najjo’s father had predicted, never returned. He had fled the land of his orchards , which his father and forefathers had tended to , for so many generations, with his family and few belongings clutched close.

Years passed, and the apples blossomed each season, regardless of its owners’ faith. The apple pickers’ greed grew along with the land they had occupied. They wanted more but there were no more zamindars to drive away and wealth to be snatched. With no rules and laws, anarchy prevailed. They started bickering among themselves. Earlier, the benign orchard owners would take a handful of apple pickers’ children , each year , to the city for work and education , bringing in progress to the villages. Now, with all cords of peace and harmony snapped, the children stayed in the village and fell prey to radicals and zealots. When a restive order was enforced in winters , they would wait for summer and action.The orchard owners would broker better prices with the importers in foreign lands , who now duped the ignorant villagers and gave them less price for the apples. The elders, now realized ,that they had been too quick in their decisions earlier. The gains had been short term and the losses were not.

Najjo grew up in this environment, a young woman, hardened by the acrimonious times, but with fond memories of Rajjo and their love. She still lived in the bungalow, although now her daughter slept in the four poster bed.  With money not flowing in every season as it used to, their lifestyle had not become better. The bungalow needed maintenance and money that came in during apple picking season was utilized for other household expenses. She looked older than her age, her bones aching, while picking apples and taking care of the huge house. When the zamindar left, the other servants had also abandoned their posts , leaving her family alone , to take care of the mansion. The novelty and luxury of the house had worn off years ago and now Najjo bitterly complained about its size and overgrown lawns and the unruly orchard in the backyard.

Then, one day, a shining car, larger in size than any of them had seen, came up the hill slope. Curious and envious villagers lined up the road to see the occupants. The car stopped in front of the bungalow and a strapping young woman came out. Najjo, came out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on her clothes. “Whom do you want to meet?” she asked. “Can I please come in for a few minutes? This used to be my home many years back. I just wanted to see it one last time.” The elegant lady replied. “Rajjo??!!” Najjo all but fainted. She felt like embracing Rajjo while shielding her bungalow from her. Guilt, jealousy, love welled in her eyes. Rajjo, stepped inside the courtyard and wept silent tears herself. Happy memories swirled like clouds over her. Slowly, she walked towards the backyard, taking note of the disrepair and general filth of the house and came to a stop in front of the apple tree. She slowly stroked the low lying blossoms, remembering how she and Najjo had planted the tree, in better times , her father smoking his cheroots on the patio , her mother baking cakes and apple pies in the kitchen.

Najjo, kept her distance, while trailing behind Rajjo. She wanted to reach out and cry her heart out and tell Rajjo about all that had happened. But, something inside her, held her back. She tentatively asked Rajjo, about her father. “He passed away, not many years later after we fled that night , bankrupt and deprived of the land he loved. My mother, aided by the government, set up a factory in the city then. It is doing great.” Rajjo replied, matter-of-fact. Najjo’s father had passed away too, of a liver failure, nurtured by his alcoholism, no sad history there nor victory over bad times; so she held her tongue.

Soon, Rajjo completed her tour and took her leave.  As she was about to step out of the gate, Najjo could not resist herself. She pulled Rajjo in a tight embrace, while weeping loudly. “Why did you leave? You shouldn't have left. If only you had persevered then. Things would have become better eventually. Why didn't you stay?” Rajjo, gently but firmly untangled herself and looked Najjo in the eyes and quietly answered, “Why didn't you all ? Why didn't YOU make us stay? Why did YOU ask us to leave?” Najjo, stepped back, stunned and ashamed. The shamed past could find no refuge in the present nor would it ever in the future.

Secret-keeper

Abha looked at the sky; murky with unshed rains. Her fingers kept on toying with the phone, dialing 100 and then disconnecting before the first ring. Her throat was constricted; her heart had lodged itself there since last night. The sun’s rays bathed her in their warm glory, inviting her to bask in them, but she shrank inside her sari, receding into her coldness.

Her mind kept on going back to the first time she had seen Shama. If only - she could turn back in time and obliterate Shama from her life. If only - she hadn’t been seated in the balcony in her wheel chair that day. If only – she hadn’t slipped down the stairs earlier and hurt her spine and become paralyzed from the waist down. Her life was now restricted to regrets and “If only”s.

The first time Abha had seen Shama, she had been sitting in in the balcony, vacantly looking down at the busy road. From her 3^rd floor flat, it was the perfect vantage point for the idle and lazy. She had been tired and frustrated after her physiotherapy session and this nook seemed perfect to shed a few bitter tears in peace. Silently wallowing in self-pity, her attention was caught by a pretty young girl who seemed to chirp away endlessly to a silent mother; whose head was covered very carefully with a pallu.

The cherub’s laughter melted a bit of her ennui and she smiled to herself. Soon the school bus arrived and the little one departed. As soon as it did, the mother sat down with a thump on the stoop near the peepal tree which served as the bus stop. Mother adjusted her pallu and the side of her face and head revealed an almost beautiful patch of blue, black and red. Abha had gasped and involuntarily gripped the rails of the balcony, immediately realizing that she had tried to lift herself from the wheelchair. She had sunk back immediately lest her mind realized that her body could be propelled in action under duress.

Abha looked back at the peepal tree but the mother was gone. She looked up and down the street and saw the slight figure hurry into a shanty in the slums, overlooking her building. The shanty’s window was visible, if she turned herself a little bit. She saw the figure go about her business and was just about to lose interest in the battered woman, when she saw a strapping man walk out of the shanty in pristine white clothes. He walked over to one of the numerous auto-rickshaws parked near the slums and drove away. Soon after, she saw the mother leave her home and enter Abha’s building. Apparently she was one of the numerous domestic helps working there.

Abha found it very strange and weirdly amusing that she had never paid attention to this person, till she noticed her battered face. It was as if the face was now an entity, a story; which otherwise would have been just another creature walking the face of earth, waiting to exist a bit more and then die quietly. She returned to the balcony after lunch, to soak up a bit more of the tired sun, waiting to retire for the day. Then she noticed the mother go out of the building, back to the peepal tree. Seems the daughter was due to return from school. The bus arrived and the mother silently picked her child in her arms and walked back to her home.

That night, Abha could not sleep well. Her mind was occupied by the myriad colors of brutality on the stranger’s face, mixed with her own reactions and came trooping in her dreams as grotesque images. She pulled herself onto her chair and wheeled to the kitchen to get some water. While passing by the balcony on her way back to the kitchen, she glanced at the shanty across the road and froze. The mother was being beaten up by a man. A crowd had gathered outside the door, silent spectators to a daily show. Revolted, she had turned away and retired to her room, forcing herself to sleep.

Next day, she had tried to resist peeping down the balcony to the mother child duo, but had failed. It was as if the stranger’s misery had found a companion in Abha’s own anguish. Today, even the child was quiet. The mother had wrapped herself completely in her sari. More bruises to hide perhaps, she thought. That day, she called the security at the gate and asked for the mother, describing her for identification, carefully leaving out the bruising. Soon, the mother arrived at her door step. Her name was Shama, she said, almost defiantly, clarifying that she was a Muslim. “Hope you don’t mind that.” “Why should I mind what your faith is?” “No, some people here do.” “Then they are idiots”, she had smiled. Shama’s face had lit up. Seems she wasn’t used to kindness. “What work would you want me to do?” “I need somebody to massage my legs and arms after my physiotherapy sessions. Can you do that?” And Shama had smiled; a beautiful expression of relief and triumph at finding work where her faith didn’t matter.” I can do anything that you require of me.”

And so it began:  a friendship between the cripples, the physical and the emotional. Shama would arrive every day after Abha’s therapy sessions, without fail, with a new bruise. Soon, she let down her guard and talked about herself and her daughter. She belonged to a conservative Muslim family, but had fallen in love and eloped with her Hindu husband. Her family had promptly disowned her for her “sin” and she had not heard from them since. “Why does he beat you like this? Don’t you ever protest? “  “Protest? What do you mean? How can I do that? Plus, he is so drunk every night. It’s actually not his fault. It is his mistress who is the culprit. She wants him to leave his family and marry her.” “An abusive husband, who beats you, takes your earnings for his whoring and drinking and you are defending him? Why don’t you leave him? “ “And go where Didi? I don’t have family to support me, no savings. I am not even educated and I have my daughter to raise. Where would I go? “Shama’s eyes had held such bewilderment. Leaving her husband was unimaginable. Even if he came home reeking of alcohol and another woman, he came home to her and that’s what mattered.

Abha had become so involved in Shama’s life that initially she did not even notice that her body was now responding to the treatments better than earlier. The adrenaline rush that she got when she surreptitiously spied on Shama ; logged every bruise visible in her mind and planned ways to convince Shama to walk out on her husband, was having a positive effect. Now she could walk a few steps with the help of a walking aid, all the way from her living room entrance to the balcony.

She felt she owed it to Shama:  this new phase in her life, this remarkable change. Shama was her lucky charm. If she stuck around, her life would soon go back to the way it. She became possessive of Shama, showering gifts, convincing herself that she was not buying loyalty with material possessions, but doing charity for the downtrodden. Her day would begin with watching Shama with her daughter, near the peepal tree and end with her voyeur’s watch of Shama being beaten up by her husband.

Then one day, Shama did not turn up near the peepal. Abha waited anxiously, for any movement from within her shanty. None at all, except the husband leaving for the day in his white clothes again. She called at the mobile she had given to Shama, only to be answered by her husband. “Shama will no longer work anywhere. She will stay at home like the other women. Find somebody else for your work.” She had bristled and called back, threatening Shama’s husband with arrest for domestic abuse and more. That night, she had seen the husband beat Shama and her daughter with even more force. Finally, he threw her mobile in front of his house and lurched drunkenly out of the slums. None of the other slum dwellers had come to Shama’s rescue, yet again.

She could see Shama and her daughter lying prone in her ramshackle hutment. It seemed like hours before she saw Shama get up and pick up her child. The child seemed unconscious. She called Shama’s mobile out of desperation, not expecting it to be answered. Miraculously, Shama answered it. The voice was faint. She was okay but was concerned that her daughter was concussed from the thrashing her husband had given her. Abha had woken up her maid and asked her to fetch Shama and her daughter. Reluctantly, her maid had gone and brought the daughter home. Shama had refused to leave her home.

Around midnight, Abha was back at the balcony, in the cold night, fearing the worst for Shama. Then she saw Shama’s husband, vomit his alcohol steeped innards out near the peepal. Desperate, she called Shama, begging her to come to her home, lest her husband beat her again. Predictably enough, Shama refused. But she had resolved she would take a stand today. Abha offered Shama and her daughter a sanctuary in her home, a promise to educate her child, bring stability in her life.

She was smiling to herself, when she was rudely jolted from her reverie by a loud crash. Peering down she saw Shama’s husband, sprawled on the road, apparently hit by a speeding BMW, which stopped for a moment and then raced away, its tail-lights disappearing down the road in seconds. He had been a stone’s throw away from his home. He seemed to be in pain. She hurriedly reached for her phone, to call Shama and dropped it on the floor. Cursing herself, she reached down and saw Shama, silently approach the figure on the road. She looked around and when it seemed that no help would come by, as nobody seemed to be around, she picked a heavy stone lying on the side of the road and brought it down on her injured husband’s head.

Abha gasped; her hand flying to her mouth, to stop the horror from screaming into the night. Shama then looked up, straight in her direction, as if she had known all along that she would be watching. She raised a finger to her lips and left for her shanty. Abha was transfixed; torn between relief and disgust and fear. Her first instinct was to call the police and report the hit and run and the murder, her second was to hold her back. How could she do this? Betray her purpose, her panacea, her reason for getting healthier by the day.

Abha was brought to her present when the doorbell rang. Her maid let in Shama, who looked suitably grieving. She announced her newly acquired widowed status for the maid’s benefit and asked for a loan for the funeral arrangements. When her maid left the room to fetch the money, Shama looked at her before leaving “You gave me the strength and now I am free. He would have never let me go away alive.” Abha sat down on her wheel chair, deflated, sucker-punched. She looked at the phone again and made her decision. Shama was not to be a creeper, stifling the bamboo on which she had to climb. She needed to live and breathe alone, like the peepal. She reached for the phone and called Shama. “Come over when all this is over. I will make arrangements for you to go to Delhi to my mother. She runs a school there and needs peons all the time. Live free.”

  

The Good Samaritan

Every night she and Amit would walk back home together from the train station together, laughing, holding hands, teasing each other. Every night, he would try to heckle the sleepy, disheveled turbaned security guard at the station exit. "Oye Pappey”, "Oye Paaji" "It is 12 O'clock” he would shout out loud to the guard, to rouse him. They would laugh and feel the impetuous giddiness of youth wash over them. The old one never responded. Ignored them, remained stoic and silent.

Today, Asha was alone. The software product released by her company had major bugs and the entire testing team had been called to retest and work overtime on a Sunday. The locals were almost vacant today. She had been lucky to get the last train from CST to Ghatkopar. The usually milling station was eerily silent. As she got down from the Ladies' first class, she noticed the boys. They had been busy looking at each other's cell phones in the overlooking Gents' first class compartment on the ride home. Now as they all alighted, they were walking behind her and laughing among themselves. They didn't seem old enough to cause any real harm; she assessed, but still drew her dupatta closer.

As she climbed the over-bridge rather hurriedly, one of them rushed past her, only to touch her bosom while doing so. Enraged, she stood still on the steps and shouted at the miscreant, which egged his friends to run ahead, touching her bosom and hips on the way.

Now, scared and furious, she ran ahead to berate them and find help. She found all of them lying in wait for her at the foot of the over-bridge, the earlier recklessness in their eyes replaced by something more sinister. She steeled herself and walked down the stairs, still undecided on her next course of action. But as she walked down, the youngsters gathered around her, teasing her and touching her. Fear overcame rage and self-reservation kicked in. She slapped one of them and pushed past, running to the exit, towards the auto stand, shouting for help. The youngsters chased, leering gleefully. And then she heard a loud whack and a cry of pain, shouting and then the whistles of the old sentry at the exit. She paused, conjuring up her courage, she looked back.

A lone rail policeman and the old turbaned sentry had caught hold of three of the hoodlums. One of them was bleeding near the mouth where the old guard had hit him with his heavy steel bangle or kada.

She looked gratefully at the old guard but he was busy with the eve teasers. She thanked her stars for his intervention and boarded the nearest auto for home. Guilt and remorse accompanied her on the way and stayed up with her night.

The next day she told Amit about the incident and at night they quietly walked out of the exit. As they did, she turned back and folded her hands at the old guard. No recognition visible on his face, he smiled and folded his hands in return.