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.