Leaves of a Bengali tree

                  Despite the harshness of the cold, waterless, windy winter, the old well by the side of the house is teeming with life. The red stone blocks lining the well have disappeared behind the foliage of Ferns, Tulsi plants and miniature fig trees adorning the wall of the ancient kingdom. The water in the darkness below has shadows, big and small, some moving about in circles, and some others standing still. The nest of a humming bird hangs by the longest branch of a communist-pacha plant, reaching down menacingly to the darkness below with the hungry monsters circling in the shadows of the watery grave, waiting for the flesh of the young birds if they dare so venture out of their home of dead leaves and twigs. The tiny dark green bird flying in and out of the well would have been invisible, if not for its shiny feathers, which caught the sunlight and shimmered apologetically. Alas, the eyes of a mate are not the only ones it catches.

               

                 From a distance, the sound of people talking, in a language unknown, yet somehow familiar, approaches. It is the second time in half a century that a house is being built on this soil. The last one opened the doors to our family in 1977. And these people here, now, are a few of the many, whose hands have sculpted this near-complete structure with rocks, sand, steel and cement. They are from another land, the land of a majestic beast, the Bengal Tiger.

                  The first time we saw them, no one in our family trusted them. To us, and the people in our village, they were foreigners, leaves of a distant tree that had flown into our esoteric garden. Only a few of them knew Hindi, the rest were all well versed Bengalis. None of them knew English. In our village all of us spoke Malayalam, some of us knew English, fewer knew Hindi, and none knew Bengali. So we stood there speaking in a broken language, which if someone had tried, would have probably been traced back to the time of Aryan invasion. But somehow, everyone involved understood everything required. There were no pleasantries. We were barely able to communicate the matter, which in itself, was a miracle.

                  

                  Soon they began their work. Sometimes, people gathered nearby, watching them work, whispering amongst themselves. This was probably the first time that Northern workers were engaged in the village. Nobody knew what to make of them. Their dedication to work was exceedingly evident. By the time I woke up, and the first of the squirrels raised the alarms, they had finished the first instalment of the day’s work. They barely rested, all they wanted was to finish the work quickly, get the money and move on to the next project, which was quite alright with us. As the onlookers stood whispering, they too had their private jokes, which they needn’t whisper, for they realised that Bengali was encoded enough for this village. All of them had peculiar names. Nimay, was one that caught my attention. Absolutely no idea what it means. Gradually, everyone learned to accept their presence. A few of the more curious ones among us, used signs to converse with them, and both parties laughed about this unusual experience. Some like my father, began speaking reasonable Hindi, which being the national language, I believe sleeps in every one of us, somewhere, somehow.

                 What I don’t like about them is that they chase away dogs and throw stones at them. Maybe they got that habit from watching my father. But what’s different is that, my father has a lousy aim while they have anything but. Everyone is, in some ways similar to their father, and in other ways, completely different. This is one of those ways in which I’m completely different. I cannot hurt animals. Maybe it’s because as a child, a teacher had told us once, that there were monks who would watch every step ahead of them as they walked, for insects, so that they may not take their lives. Or maybe it was because I had grown up mostly alone, watching earthworms in the rainwater, playing with cats in the garden, talking to crows on the rooftops, the list goes on, leaving me strangely thinking of them as my friends. I have taken lives of animals before. Once I dissected a small frog alive. I’ve killed butterflies, grasshoppers and ants. A few times I killed mice with a stick, one of which was a gruesome murder which I’m sure I’ll pay for (I don’t mind paying for mistakes). I still have the image of the mouse rolling over after a second hit to the head, with a frail scream that went mostly unheard. It’s a very disturbing image that I have, to think that I was a seven year old killer. I do kill mosquitoes, which I justify by the fact that they kill the RBC’s that so loyally transport my oxygen molecules. So even though I’m conflicted about it, I don’t have much regret. If they stopped biting me and drinking my blood, I would gladly stop killing them. Maybe in a way I’m helping them achieve that. If enough mosquitoes are killed off, probably, mosquitoes that don’t need blood will arise through natural (or as in this case, artificial) selection. A happy outcome for the race of mosquitoes, don’t you think?

                 Every action that any person does has its reasons. As much as I want it to be real, I don’t think there’s a right and wrong. If someone like me, with my below average, in fact mostly stupid understanding, can forgive people who act against my ideals, think of what the creator with his vast, but definitely finite understanding of the universe might make of our meagre sins. Think of ants. When we watch one ant kill another, what do we feel? A trace of sadness, so close to nothing, that it’s barely perceptible. When the same ant carries a wounded comrade back to the ant hill, what do you feel? A trace of happiness? Don’t you think that when we understand the workings of a concept completely, it ceases to appeal to our senses? And then, we are given a chance to perceive it in a detached light. Why does love and hate fade away? In both instances, we learn the object in question with vigour at first and then slowly, as the object reveals itself to us, we find ourselves observing it in a new light, without judging. There are many things I don’t understand. I want thinkers to arise, people who would break down everything our ancestors told us, scrutinize them in the newest light of science or philosophy, and discard without second thoughts, those ideas that proved useless and wrong, and reinforced the ones, that were without doubt, truths. But it’s good that people have a sense of right and wrong. Think of how much chaos would prevail in our world if they thought otherwise? We are not ready for such radical thoughts. But I trust in the existence of everything. There is a purpose for it all. Government laws, moral values, religious teachings, even parents, everything that keeps us from exploring the darkness of the unknown will keep us safe until a time comes, when we no longer need them, to be safe, to explore. A stable civilisation will arise, a great chapter in the story of time which had an unsure beginning and if allowed, a triumphant end. Everything that has a beginning must have an end. But we mustn’t end before our purpose is fulfilled and for that we must use everything at hand to keep our fellow beings safe.

                  Father had once described me the monsoons of his childhood. Everything about it was green, the wavy paddy fields, the tree covered mountains, the moss coated rocks, the flowing water plants, everything. When it rained in those days, the wells would overflow and water would be everywhere. Plots became rivers and later, ponds, with fishes, some huge enough to be a decent dinner, by itself. Songs of peacocks began the morning rains and howls of foxes ended those of the night. It must have been extraordinarily gratifying to have lived in such a time as that. Sometimes I envy time. To be able to witness everything that happens from the beginning to the end, what I would not give to have that.

                People, who lived much of their lives in the lap of nature, don’t seem to truly appreciate such things, the beautiful creatures of the wild, untamed, and how lucky we are to be human, to be able to dream, and then to wander in the confines of those dreams for hours, and then beyond, might be as rare a gift, as life itself is in the universe. As I cross the boundary back and forth between city and village, I feel like I’ve been given a chance to live two lives, one, in each of these worlds.

                 I remember feeding biscuits to a tiny puppy at midnight in Kesavadasapram (Don’t ask me how I got there, that’s another long story). It had huge, grieving eyes, protruding ribs and a broken leg. He followed me back to Plamoodu, a 45 min walk through the deserted roads. I tried to make him stay at the place where he belonged, but he just kept following me. It was only when the resident dogs of Plamoodu came to view, that he backed away. Dogs are loyal creatures. They are hard wired for it, rendering them incapable of anything else. Every dog is capable of loving, if given a chance. It’s the same with every living thing. Understanding the creature is the first thing. You can’t expect a lizard or a butterfly to love you back no matter how much you wished for it. But that mustn’t stop you from caring for those creatures. Love is about giving and hoping something comes back, right?

                  Everyone the Bengalis loved, were left behind in their villages. How agonizingly painful their lives must be, to be so far away from their mothers, sisters, wives, lovers and daughters, working relentlessly without any hope of seeing them in the near future. But maybe in a way, that gives them the strength to push themselves beyond the normal bounds of human potential. To have the thing that you love the most beyond your reach, gives you this undying passion, this unquenchable thirst, which drives you mad and leaves you with no choice but to dedicate everything you have, to the one thing that you are good at, just so, that you can feel a slight breeze of satisfaction, even if it means nothing, unless you have that person in your arms, and then maybe, you could fade away without complaining.

                 Their work is almost complete. As I set off for the city, leaving my home behind, two of them come out to send me off. Maybe this island that they are on, has brought them close to our family. Father is always with them, talking and laughing. At this moment they have a place in my life. But when I drive away from them, what I know for sure is that I may never see them again. They know it as well. And so, we share this moment, a moment to relish a lifetime, a moment in silence to settle this memory into the archives of our lives. May the fishes from the overflowing wells, find their way to the rivers.