The Neem Tree — A short story — Murali Krishna Ganta

It was a hot summer afternoon. I was playing outside my house under a neem tree with other children. We finished construction of a two-foot Sri Rama temple with bricks and mud. It was a simple structure. Purna decorated it with neem leaves & flower garlands and placed neem fruits at the feet of Sri Rama. I picked up a neem fruit right from the feet of Lord Rama, split it and sucked its juice. Purna was furious. “Hey, stop it!” she shouted. “You’ll be in trouble if you eat something which is meant for God.” I smiled. She was still furious. I laughed loudly, but my cracked lips forced me to suppress my laughter soon enough. I clarified, “I am only 6 years old, God is merciful. He doesn’t mind if children have his food. Grandma told me.” She frowned; I ignored her.

I looked at my home, built of stone walls and thatched with toddy palm leaves. I saw relatives through the narrow gate of the compound wall. My father had returned home last night. He had been staying in the neighbouring state for a few months to set up his business. Probably the relatives have come to see him, I thought.

Purna tapped on my head with a twig, interrupting my thoughts, and asked, “Are you going away with your parents?”

“No, my parents are going to stay here,” I responded calmly.

“But your father is here to take you and your mother with him, my mother said.”

At that moment, I sensed something was wrong and looked at my house again with a pale face as my parents came out of the house, my uncle carrying bags behind them. My parents came straight to me, my mother hugged me, and I raised my head. Her eyes filled with tears. My father kept his hand on my head. I could see no emotion in him other than a sense of compulsion to leave me behind but take his wife with him. He looked at the Sri Rama temple we built, then looked at me again before he started heading out of the village with my mother. He probably thought the God would protect me, hug me, comfort me and console me.

As my parents left, I stared at them with tears welling in my eyes, followed by a loud cry and scream. I ran out of the shadow of the neem tree and climbed on a hot boulder nearby, jumping and landing on my feet alternately on the rock because of the burning heat, to get a better view of my parents leaving. My aunt rushed towards me and brought me back to the neem tree shade – it took a while for me to comprehend that my parents had actually left me there to stay with my aunt and uncle.

I was spoiled with all my favourite foods that evening. My aunt brought ripe mangoes from a mango orchard close by. My uncle brought pakodi from the town. I drenched myself in mango juice as I ate them. My little cousin copied me, but no one complained. They took care of me, within their capacity, along with their son.

Days passed.

Not even a single day passed without thinking about my parents, particularly my mother. The temple we had built with my friends was gone. Someone had removed those bricks, and there was no sight of Sri Rama, who incidentally also happened to be a brick. Instead, I went to the temple meant for grown-ups, so that I could submit my plea to be united with my parents. I saw a few grown-ups playing poker inside the temple.

“They are bad people. These men are destroying the village by betting and drinking,” my grandma told me. I waited outside until they all left. I stepped inside the temple and reached the deities, folded my hands, closed my eyes and got to the point directly. “Oh God, please unite me with my parents… Oh God, please unite me with my parents,” I kept on chanting.

Then all of a sudden I heard a voice, “It’s not going to work.”

I was happy and shocked at the same time to hear God’s voice so soon. I responded quickly,

“No, please! I will not eat your prasadam again.”

The voice laughed this time.

I opened my eyes and looked carefully at the deity. He looked as passive as a rock, and so were the other two deities on each side of him. Who was talking to me then? I turned my head with hands remaining unfolded. Ahhhhh… It was that blind Venkaiah again. He always irritated me, despite my helping him across the road several times.

I shouted, “Go away.”

He didn’t move away. Instead, he came closer, stroked his blind stick towards the temple floor and then said: “This god can’t help you. The villagers have abandoned him, and so he has abandoned them.”

I looked at Sri Rama again, a dusty black-coloured deity. Then looked around to see broken temple walls covered with dried moss. The entire temple seemed unpleasant, with the smell of rotten coconut. Maybe he was right. Why would God care for people who don’t care for him? It’s like the mango lady from the orchard; she would not give mangoes without taking either money or rice or at least lemons.

Months passed.

I carried on with my daily routine. Eat-play-sleep. Yes, the school was part of my play, because all my friends attended the same school. The teacher with the big moustache was kind. He never troubled us. Our school was small, and we all used to sit on the floor. Most of the time I used to just stare through the windows at street dogs, puppies, playful cow calves, neem trees, and mango orchards. Though I loved mangoes, I could never stare for too long at mango trees. I felt they were too dark, made up of thick dark green leaves, which made me uncomfortable. I always loved neem trees; their leaves are silky, light and soothing.

A year passed.

As I was coming home from school, I saw a man past middle age with a bristly grey face; he was smiling all the time. I recognised him. He was my maternal grandpa and seemed to have just arrived. My maternal grandparents had five daughters. My aunt was one of them. He was discussing my parents with my aunt and uncle. I also heard my name in the conversation. He looked at me and told me, “Get ready. You are coming with me to stay with us at Palli, and you will go to school there.” I did not answer. Instead, I just stared.

He added, “Your aunts will take good care of you, and your parents will come there after a few days.”

I liked the last sentence. I looked at everyone else. They didn’t say a word. I nodded my head in agreement, and the next morning we got on the bus. It was around a two-hour journey to Palli, where I was actually born, as light as a sponge, my mom used to say. As the bus entered the village, grandpa showed me the school where I was going to continue my studies. It was a much bigger building than my previous school, with clay roof tiles. In fact, all the buildings, and most of the houses, had clay roof tiles, which looked entirely different from my paternal village, where most of the houses were thatched with toddy palm leaves. The village was surrounded by green paddy fields, lemon orchards and small water streams coming down from nearby hills. But something drew my attention – it was the sight of interesting machinery surrounded by piles of glaringly shiny material. That was the place where my grandpa worked as a supervisor. “They are mica mines,” he said. He saw the excitement on my face.

The whole family, my grandma, and my mom’s youngest sisters and their cousins gathered there, waiting for me. One of the aunts looked like my mother but was a bit shorter. They made me feel special. As my grandma was busy with the household, my mom’s unmarried sisters fostered me. It looked like they took it as an opportunity to shower the love they had received from my mother as the eldest sister. My grandpa took me to the mica mines to show me around. There was an interesting machine releasing an empty wagon and pulling it back using a metal cable into an angled tunnel. I ran towards the machine room. I asked the operator of the machine all the questions that came into my mind. All why-what-how’s. He answered patiently. I repeated my questions without any order, which brought a strange look on his face.

I befriended a skinny shepherd boy from the same village. His name was Mahantha, and he had interesting toys. I was not supposed to be friends with him as he belonged to a lower caste. I stealthily went with him along with his goats. We shared each other’s food. He had a raft made of dried pumpkins and bamboo sticks. And a tricycle on which he used to carry newborn calves. It was absolutely fascinating. All of them were made by his father – for him. I watched Mahantha’s father fixing his toys and his mother cuddling him. I used to dream and imagine myself in his place.

School days were regular, like at my previous school, not much difference at all.

A few years passed.

My grandparents and aunts didn’t like what I was doing. My risky forest adventures with my shepherd friend, skipping school, stubbornness. “We’ve spoiled you,” my grandpa said. I used to hide in places like hollow trees and behind doors. I even hid in a storage trunk box once until everyone got tired searching for me – they thought I used to do that to bother them, but that was not my intention at all.

Once, it rained throughout the night. Water everywhere! I saw Mahantha building a small waterfall. I jumped in to join him, and we built streams together. Brought small branches with leaves from the neem tree that had fallen in the previous night’s storm, and planted them on the imaginary meadow, while Mahantha was building paper boats and letting them go.

As I played, I saw a bus entering the village. I saw a tall and fair lady in a maroon-coloured saree stepping out of the bus. I got up and released myself like a shell from a cannon towards the bus. I didn’t care about the thorns piercing my feet, crushing the canals and waterfall on the way. I finally reached the bus and hugged the legs of the lady very tightly, and slowly raised my head to find that she was not my mother. My face suddenly changed with disappointment. I let go of my grip and took my arms back, and collapsed miserably. The lady seemed to be confused and tried to comfort me, but I was inconsolable.

I got used to my situation – finally and completely… But things happen when you least expect them, my grandpa used to say. One day, my father arrived wearing his trademark white dress. I heard them discussing my mother and me. I sensed strange similarities to the discussion my grandpa had with my aunt and uncle in the paternal village.

“Get ready. We are leaving now. Your grandpa will send the school transfer certificate later,” my father said; he didn’t say anything else. I looked at everyone before I left my second home; a few eyes looked misty, and a few others looked relieved. I started my bus journey again.

“You are taking me to mother, right?” I wanted to confirm.

He didn’t answer; he was busy reading the newspaper, and I was not sure whether he heard what I asked.

Then I thought of the train. I knew he had come by train from the discussion they were having earlier. I asked one more question. “Are we going by train?”

He turned his head after a while, took a deep breath, put his right arm around me and said, “No son, not this time.” He added, “Next time.”

I didn’t mind. I pulled myself back into Phantom’s world, my favourite graphic book. We changed a few buses, and after half a day’s journey we reached the destination, and it was already night. There was a big school and children everywhere. My father looked at me as we walked towards the school blocks.

He took another deep breath and said, “You will stay here.”

I hesitantly asked… “Alone? Here?”

“No, not at all alone. Look, there are plenty of children here. You can make a lot of friends. Son, I am doing this for you. I want you to study well and become successful.”

I felt my feet were sinking in the wet road. What was my fault? I thought.

My father went inside the office rooms, finished filling the forms and paid the money. He had a word with the warden and said, “Go and have supper,” then turned his head aside. My face became blank; the warden gently grabbed my hand and took me to a shed where dinner was to be served. As I was coming back from the dining hall, I was hoping my father would change his mind. After I had come back, I found out he was not there. I shivered with fear and ran towards the entrance until the guard stopped me at the entry gate. There was no sight of my father on the horizon, only pitch darkness. The warden took me back and showed me my bed; I am not sure when I slept.

The noises of children woke me up in the morning. I was unbearably sad. I had lost my remaining family. My grandparents, aunts, home, friends, toys — everything I had ever had in those ten years of my life was suddenly gone. A few curious children gathered around me and started asking questions… “What have you done to be here? It is run by communists, don’t you know this school is meant for stubborn children?” At that moment I sank even more.

Days passed.

I found the classrooms were very different here. I didn’t even have anything to see through the classroom windows, other than more classrooms, gates, security guards and a barbed fence. Teachers were rigorous. I saw a potbellied figure coming inside. It was my English teacher, carrying a duster in one hand and books in the other. The classroom became pin-drop silent. I clasped my hands automatically, as I had already received a few warnings from that teacher.

“Hey boy! You! Get up!” Potbelly said. Then he asked a question, “….. is ….. ………. Place?”

I was frozen, my hands still clasped. He seemed to be locked on me, repeating the question. His voice was getting louder every time he repeated it.

“What … ……… favourite ……?”

“What is Mary’s favourite place?”

Finally, I was able to connect all the dots of the tough question. But I didn’t know the answer. But I knew I had to say something. “Neem tree,” I quickly said.

The entire classroom laughed. The teacher stared at me; suddenly his voice was soft. “Come here, my boy,” he said. He extended his right hand and said, “Give me your hand.” I extended mine. I thought he was going to shake my hand. Suddenly he hit my fingers with the wooden duster – I cried with immense pain. I struggled to write, eat and play for the next few days. I got a fever after that, and hallucinations struck me – my parents, and aunts, and God.

I wrote apologetic letters for my behaviour when I was with them, hoping that they would take me back, and posted them to my paternal and maternal homes; I am not sure the addresses were correct. I used to go to the postman every day whenever he arrived on the school campus, but to no avail.

Months passed.

Some children had visitors every Sunday — mostly their parents. Others never had any visitors, except receipts for bill payments for the boarding school — I was one of them. One day my teacher announced, “Dear children, all of you, please gather at the auditorium by 5 PM, where comrade Lavanam will give a speech about superstitious beliefs.”

Several years passed.

Slowly I stopped waiting for my parents and my family members. I STOPPED missing them, not out of anger. It’s just that time made me so. I realised that my parents’ and my guardians’ absence gave me the freedom to process all the influx of information, despite the harsh conditions at boarding school.

A few decades passed.

I am grown up now, and I write software programs for a living and am fairly successful, as per my father’s wishes. I am also married and have a 6-year-old son. He is out playing with his friends. It’s 9 PM already. It’s getting late enough to be worried. Once again I went to the balcony and looked down. Except for a drenched street dog that was lying down miserably near the gate, there was not a soul to be seen anywhere. Rainwater had puddled under the lamp post. A breeze ruffled the mango tree in the courtyard, and a few twigs fell down and broke. Thunder rumbled in the distance. Did I hear a soft knock at the door? I turned back…

It was my father. He was standing right there, and said, “I am sorry, my son. I brought immense pain for you,” then disappeared.

“It’s OK, I can understand, I need you, please don’t go away… please…” I suddenly woke up and shouted; it was a dream. My father had passed away a week ago. I looked at myself in the mirror; I was soaked with sweat and guilt. The lie I told myself — that I would never miss anyone — and my bitter utterances about it evaporated with my father’s sudden death.

Then I turned my head and saw my son; he actually hadn’t gone anywhere. He was sleeping peacefully beside my wife. I went to him, sat beside him, bent forward and hugged him. His little hands grabbed me back, which brought tears to my eyes. At the right time, he gave me the comfort I needed, like a healing compound for my deep loneliness, which indeed consoled me.