Kaushi

There used to be this old leathery banyan tree on the far eastern banks of Chambal. It used to be my niche. It made me feel like I had a place of my own. It made me feel grown up. That was before I actually grew up and got dragged into the monotonous humdrum called adulthood. Chambal is a small river along the outskirts of Vabeli, my grandparents’ village.  When I look back, Chambal and Vabeli were the essence of my childhood.

Mid-May. Summer at its peak. The humidity sprung up. Dirt rose with the wind and the temperature scaled overwhelming highs. But I didn’t mind it. I was seven at that time. Summer meant holidays, outdoors, fireflies, picnics, ripe mangoes and homemade lemonades. It was also that time of the year when I visited my grandparents. I lived in the city with my parents but every summer, I stayed at my grandparents’ house during the vacations. Vabeli is an agricultural village far south of Kerala, comprising of about fifty coexisting families. My grandparents lived in an old ivy-covered cottage. They had a huge backyard that my grandfather liked to call the rose garden. A narrow verandah extended across the front and the sides of the house. The village streets were broad and well paved. Not that they needed them. The roads saw highest traffic when a new movie released in the cinema hall and there were a few bicycles pedalled enthusiastically by their youthful owners, scampering to catch the first glimpse of their heroes. I liked it here.

My granddad was a retired army officer but his modest physique did not stop him from going about life with a smile. He was nearing ninety and stooped. Apart from that he was perfectly healthy and happy. And my grand mum was a robust little lady, wise, loving and socially popular. Her priority in life was to fatten me with food. Now that I come to think of it, I had four-course meals three times a day and evening milk accompanied by savouries and cookies.

I spent most of my time in Vabeli, wandering the streets and skimming stones in Chambal. In the evenings I lay down under my granddad’s mango tree. My granddad loved telling me stories as I lazed under his tree with the evening breeze bringing us respite from the hot day. And I loved listening to him. At night we sat and counted stars as my grand mum fed me with her hands.

I remember that particular summer very well because, that was when I met Kaushi. About a week into my vacations, I begged my granddad to lend me money to hire the hourly bicycles from Mani Uncle’s shop. Mani Uncle had two little bikes, about one fourth the size of a normal bicycle, that he lent out to kids like me. They were rather popular with the kids and quite expensive even if only to hire. But Mani Uncle liked me and had offered to lend me the bike at a discounted price. After much tears and tantrums, I got my way and left with the money and sound advice.

Once I got the bike from a smiling Mani Uncle, who made sure that the brakes were working properly, I stepped on the pedal and rode as fast as my little legs could allow me, through the village streets. I was going to make full use of the one hour and the extra ten minutes I had been promised by Mani Uncle. Except for the occasional envious looks from the kids who played on the road there wasn’t much attention paid to me.

As I made a sharp turn onto the deserted temple street, I noticed at the last moment, the little girl straight in my path. I braked hard and swung the handlebars to the left to avoid hitting her but I was a little late and my handlebar hit her in the stomach. She fell down on her back. Even though it was only a gentle push (I recall now that it wasn’t exactly a gentle push) I knew how spoiled girls were. My first instinct was to run. The last thing I wanted was a crying girl to account for, back home. Granddad wasn’t going to be pleased.

But I stepped down from my bike and helped her to her feet.

“You were blocking my way. I think you are blind”, I announced pompously.

“I am sorry. I didn’t see you. Are you okay?” she asked.

I was a little taken back. I had hit her and she was concerned about me. And except for a groan and a hand on her stomach she hadn’t created much of a scene. She didn’t cry.

“I am fine. Are you okay?” I finally managed.

“I am okay. It hurts a little”, she pointed to where she was holding her stomach.

“Come with me. My grand mum will make it better. She is really good”

“It’s okay. I will go home to my granny”, she said.

Considering the usual me I should have left her there. But I surprised us both when I took her hand and led her towards my grandparents’ house. The cycle was later returned to Mani Uncle by someone. A little disappointed Mani Uncle cut my extra time to five minutes after that.

“What’s your name?”, she asked me as we walked back towards my home.

“Raju”, I told her.

“I am Kaushi.”

Kaushi was three months younger to me and about the same height as me at that time. She was also from the city and was staying with her own grandparents for the summer.

It was Kaushi’s first time in vabeli, and so I became her tour guide for the summer. My grandparents loved Kaushi when I took her home. To be honest, every person who ever knew her loved her. They loved her easy coming smiles. They loved her confidence and her maturity. I loved her because of her total disregard for my lack of personal hygiene. We became inseparable after that- the pretty little innocent girl and the dirty little arrogant boy.

Kaushi was the first person ever to be taken to the banyan tree by me. I remember her absolute delight and fascination the first time I took her there.

“And I would appreciate it if you do not move any boulders or touch anything while you are here”, I was setting the ground rules. But she didn’t bother about them.

“Oooh. Is that your name you have carved on its trunk there? And look the veins are really strong. We should use them as swings to jump into the river! I don’t know how to swim, though. Do you?”, she giggled.

“Oh no! What did I just tell you! No touching my banyan tree or anything else here. Get off of there!”

“Yes, your royal highness” she smirked as she went and sat at the edge of the river.

The river wasn’t deep near this part of the village. It was clean and clear water and you could see the bottom of the river a couple of feet down. The current was also very slow. It was almost still water, especially during the summer when there wasn’t much rain. Kaushi put her feet into the water and slowly moved them in circles. I felt a little guilty. I walked over to where she was and sat down beside her with my legs folded. I didn’t like the water that much. I stuck to skimming stones.

“Do you like mangoes?”, she asked me.

“Who doesn’t? My granddad has a mango tree. They are better than what we get back in the city. My granddad is an expert!”

“Wouldn’t it be nice if we had our own mango tree here?”, she asked me with delight.

“Hmmm. That would be nice, yes. But mango trees require special care and take a long time to grow”, I was spreading my wisdom.

“Oh. How long will it take for them to grow?”

“I am not sure. I guess it takes months!”

“We should plant our own mango tree, Raju! Here! We could take care of it and when we get mangoes, we can sell them at the bazaar!”

“And use the money to rent Mani Uncle’s bikes! Or we could buy ice-creams! Wait! We could get those white kites from the bazaar”, I was excited about the prospect of our mango tree.

The rest of the afternoon we couldn’t talk about anything else other than our mango tree and what we would do with the money from selling the mangoes. By the end of the day we were convinced we were going to be mango merchants.

We were ready with our mango seed three days later. After we had helped my granddad in getting the seed (our job was to eat and remover the flesh from the seed) all we had to do was to wait for it to sprout. We decided to plant the seed a little further down the bank along ‘our’ banyan tree. We dug a small hole in the ground in a nice sunny spot. Kaushi placed the seed carefully into the hole and filled it back with mud so that only a little portion of the sprout was sticking out of the ground.

“Ok Raju! Pour the water on the plant! And remember grandpa said only a little water. Not too much!”

I used the garden can we had borrowed from Kaushi’s grand mum to sprinkle water over the plant.

“Now what?”

“Now we dance!”, she replied.

“What!”

“You know, like Totoro!”, she explained

“Toto…. What?”

“I saw it a cartoon. Totoro is the magical garden creature, who takes care of all our trees and plants! He dances in front of the little plants to make them grow into trees! Here, let me show you.” She started dancing. She raised her hands from her hips, over her head, to either side and swayed with the movement.

I couldn’t help myself and started laughing.

“Stop laughing and start dancing! It will make our tree grow. Bring us mangoes!”

I couldn’t stop laughing as I copied her. She joined in with the laughter as we both danced around our little ‘tree’ like little Red Indians. I do not remember laughing so much in my life. Round and round we went.

And it wasn’t for another 8 years, when we finally got the first mango for our ‘dance’. I remember the excitement we felt when we shared the first mango from the mango tree. We were both 15. We grew up together in the city and every summer we came back to Vabeli. We came to Vabeli long after our grandparents lived there. I remember our first kiss under the mango tree when we were 16. I remember how I proposed to marry her when we were 21 and it was under the banyan tree. We got married below the mango tree. We had a traditional Hindu wedding to satisfy our parents. But for us, our marriage took place in Vabeli, near the river and overlooked by our banyan tree and our mango tree. We invited a couple of close friends and exchanged rings. I kissed her and took her for my wife there.

And that was my last time in Vabeli. Before now. It has been 9 long years since my last stay here.

The bullock cart swayed as it moved towards my grandparents’ old house. Vabeli has changed over the years.  There are a few motorized vehicles on the road now. The houses are new and smaller.  And the trees seem to be less in number. I paid the bullock cart driver and got down in front of my grandparents’ house. At least the old cottage hadn’t changed much. But it did not evoke the same happiness that I felt when I was younger. As I stood there on the road looking at the old cottage, memories flooded my mind. Memories of my childhood. Happy and simpler times.

I crossed the veranda and unlocked the heavy oak door. The house smelled of must and age. I had hired a cleaner before arriving here. But nine years of non-occupancy seemed to have sucked the life out of the house. It survived solely on its memories. I put my luggage in my old room and walked out to the garden. It was overgrown with weeds and creepers. My granddad’s mango tree had been cut down. All that remained of it was a dead stump. The rose bushes were also gone. I walked back into the house. I wanted to spend as little time as possible in the house. The place that defined me, the place that once made me happy was long gone. I got my little back-pack and walked east to the banyan tree.

Our spot hadn’t changed. It welcomed me back like an old friend. The grass smelled fresh and Chambal hadn’t changed in any way. Pollution seemed to have spared a victim. There was a melancholy about the place. I breathed in the fresh air. When I reached the mango tree, I placed the back pack slowly on the grass and lay down on the ground close to its trunk. Kaushi had carved in both our names at the bottom of the trunk. She had also carved in ‘the Beatles’, ‘Alexandre Dumas’ and all her other personal favourite things in a neat list. My name was on the top of the list but it had a single sharp scratch across it. I remember her scratching my name off when we had our first huge fight when we were 14. I couldn’t help smiling. She also had a small illustration of me as an ogre. I ran my finger along her carvings. It was sometime before I got up from there. I dusted myself, got my bag and took it over to the river. I got down on my knees very close to where I had gone down on one knee to propose to Kaushi. I started unzipping the bag. The zipper was stuck and it took me a couple of minutes to unzip it properly. I reached into the bag slowly and took the small wooden urn out.

The urn that contained the remains of my wife, Kaushalya.

Kaushi battled ductal carcinoma cancer for the last two years of her life. She smiled through every second of it. Even when it got worse, cancer couldn’t make her stop smiling. Vabeli is where she belongs. When I emptied the urn into Chambal, it was the most painful moment in my life. Never had my heart felt so heavy and lifeless. I watched as her ashes dissolved into the slow current of the clear river water. I watched as the last physical sign of my wife fused with Chambal.

It was almost sunset by the time I felt strong enough to get up and walk back to the mango tree. I sat down and leaned back on the trunk to watch the sunset.  There was a mango on the ground. I took it, dusted the mud off it and took a small bite. It was as good as the first one that Kaushi and I had shared 15 years ago. I closed my eyes. The birds were singing and the leaves rustled with the slight summer breeze. At that moment I found the comfort and solace that I had not been able to find with friends and family around. The trees were all that were left of Kaushi, to me. I slept for the first time in days. I dreamt of her and she was happy and beautiful as ever. And I slept leaning against her tree. Our tree.

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