Kill You, Sure (4)
Nidhu
Bhusan Das
“You’re
real creators,” she yelled to them in appreciation of the beauty and richness
of the farm they laid out.
“It’s
all for you, dear,” they say in unison.
“No,
say it’s for all of us,” she says unabashed.
The
call for prayer, Aajan, is heard in the air, and they appreciate the creator of
the universe.
“Papa,
how do you feel like when alone?” she asks with a wry smile as she peeks at her
mother.
“It’s
an experience, dear,” he replies solemnly.
“But
mom cannot tolerate being alone, can you, dear?” she asks.
“I
ain’t lonely, your papa’s killed my loneliness,” Reba says smiling.
“Killed!
How, mom?” Bithi’s curious.
“I’m
with him, you see,” she says suggestively.
“Then
kill means being with someone like papa?”
“Do
you think so? Well you must choose the man with care and sound judgement, you
know.”
“We’re
with the mangoes now. Does it mean we kill the fruits?”
“We
love the king of fruits, so we’re with them.”
“But
we pluck and eat them too?”
“That’s
also killing. But there’s a difference.”
“What’s
that, mom?”
“Do
you know what Jesus said of his wounds following crucifixion?”
“Maybe,
he said it’s cruel.”
“No,
not that. He said these are wounds of love.”
“But
how could papa kill you, was it unilateral or mutual?”
“What
do you think?” Reba asks blushing.
“I
think mutual.”
“Yes,
it’s reciprocal.”
“You’re
so naughty, transferred your love of study to…”
“People
have to be naughty sometimes to be in joy or respond to the inner urge and to
perpetuate.”
“Would
you call it wisdom?”
“See,
you couldn’t have these mangoes had there been no pollination, could you,
dear?”
“And
sure I wouldn’t be there without you and papa being together.”
“So
here lies the wisdom of our little mom.”
“But
I’ve no such urge, you know.”
“You
cannot say. It may be felt any time, now or later.”
“What
if I don’t feel?”
“It’s
natural, one cannot avoid feeling this.”
“Is
it?
“If
you aren’t a saint.”
“If
I’m devoted to learning and pursuit of knowledge.”
“Research
and all about that?”
“That’s
what I think I’d do.”
“Nothing
is divorced from life, dear. We cannot deny the demands of life.”
Bithi finds the talk turns
heavy, laden-with-philosophy. The mangoes are light, the sky hovering over is
lighter and the clouds are more entertaining, so are the birds, flying and chirping.
She rises and skips towards the mango grove to drink the beauty of the hanging
fruits, listen to the rustle of the leaves and song of the birds, hear the
silent murmur of the trees singing lullaby to their children, the mangoes they
have born and nurtured so fondly to lose to the consumers like her. A feeling
of sadness and guilt overwhelms her when she feels the hidden pangs of her
grandparents after her mother left them to live with her papa, which her mom
says is natural as it’s the result of her response to the call of nature.” The
mango trees have the same pangs and chasm when they lose their children one by one.
The difference is they forget and forgive to bear children again while the
grandparents have been living alone without having another child, possibly,
fearing that they would have to lose again which could double their pangs.
The empathetic feeling of Bithi for
her grandparents continues to haunt her even after lunch when she’s on her bed.
The coo-coo of the pair of dove making love on the bough of a mango tree and
the chirp of the grasshoppers through the hedges enhance and intensify her
empathy. She can see the happy dove-couple and feels for their parents who
might have been lonely in their silent nest in the cool of the deep green leaves.
It’s overtaken the warmth of her parents for her in the beautiful potted
Nature.
“Why
do they love me so much?” she thinks.
“Is
it because they lost my elder brother when he’s only three?”
“I’m
told small pox claimed his life.”
“Here’s
the picture of the toddler, so cute, so charming with his smiling face.”
“They
cannot forget the boy. They carry his picture everywhere they go and keep one
everywhere they reside.”
“How’d
they afford to live when I’m away to have a family of my own? I cannot think,
really.”
“Yes,
this is the real killing, killing of the original love that exists and grows
between the child and the parents.”
“I
cannot let it happen. It’s better to be wedded to knowledge than to a person,”
she decides.
“But
what the mango trees whisper?”
“They
say they don’t mind their children being plucked.”
“You’re
so cruel!”
“Not
cruel. If not plucked, they would fall and rot. We must unburden ourselves to
bear children again, the next summer.”
“Right!
The family tree extends and expands to such an extent that the record exhausts
at one point. We at best count up to great great parents.”
“So
procreation through coupling is the accepted process, and taken to be natural,”
she tries to understand.( continued on 23 July 2015 )
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