Short Story: Jak tree
Jeannette Cabraal
The late evening sunlight filtered haphazardly through the branches
of the Jak tree that stood in Punchi Banda’s compound, as he sat attired
only in his loin cloth on the threshold of the cow-dung coated floor of
his cadjan thatched hut, scratching himself with a sickle.
Now a frown, no a wrinkled brow, now a pensive look took turns to
dart across his face showing his changing thoughts. From time to time he
glanced at the Jak tree and became more thoughtful.
Menika was in the garden plucking the white and magenta Hendrikka
flowers to be offered at the little makeshift altar in the garden
erected for the Devathavas. It was her daily twilight vigil to offer
flowers, light the clay lamp with a cloth wick and invoke the Gods.
The children played under the Jak tree stringing its yellow and brown
leaves with bits of ekel to make crowns and skirts imagining themselves
kings and queens with trains of Jak leaves trailing after them. The more
spirited ones climbing the tree to pluck its green leaves to be
different from the others.
Punchi Banda’s aged father hobbled up with his walking stick and
settled himself on the easy chair, the rattan of which had given way in
places leaving frayed edges. A dry gasping cough racked his body. The
son looked over his shoulder at the father, pity and desperation written
clearly on his face.
”Father”, he said “Pabilis Mudalali of the next village has sent a
good offer for the Jak tree. He is building a new house and he says ours
in a good mature wood and with its wide girth is ideal for his house
building. It will solve all our problems.
The crop is going to be a miserable failure. The rains have not come.
If the rains don’t come this week we are doomed. And there’s the loan I
took”.
An obstinate look came over the old man’s face as he sat up and
adjusted a sarong which served him as a shawl around his shoulders.
“How often have I told you “Bande that, that tree is very precious to
me. You are always talking of cutting it down and selling it. That tree
was planted by my father the day I was born. It is a good seventy four
years old now.
You people of this new generation don’t understand the value of
trees. And how it has served us! It has fed us when we had nothing to
eat. It has brought us an income. How often have you and I taken its
produce to the pola. Both your mother and your wife Menika have boiled
and dried the seeds to make into “atu kos” to be sold at the pola.
They have even dried the “madulu” to be used when it’s out of season.
It has helped us to tide over the New Year when Jak is in season and
plentiful. At times when we don’t have money don’t we even sell its
green leaves to Selvadurai for his goats to feed on. And what is more,
look at your children over there, it provides playthings for the
children. You did the same and so did I. No puthe that tree is a God to
us. You will repent if you cut it down. It will be like cutting me
down,” he said finally with a break in his voice and the faintest hint
of tears.
Punchi Banda remained silent. He understood his father’s love for the
tree. Also the practicality of what he was saying. But this time to the
crop would fail, for the monsoon had failed. And there was always the
loan in the background. No his only hope was the Jak tree.
He looked at it sadly. True, it had provided them with many a meal.
In season the clusters of fruit were the envy of the other villagers;
and its syrupy flavour when ripe. It was the only “pani waraka” tree in
the entire vicinity. He remembered how when he had broached the subject
of selling it on a previous occasion his father had exclaimed irately
and proverbially “Are you trying to invoke a thunderbolt on the pani
waraka tree?”.
That evening too, like on many another, evening when this topic was
discussed the meal was taken in a virtual silence. The old man went to
bed early but was restlessly tossing. Of late he had not been keeping
too well.
That night without warning the belated monsoon broke with all its
ferocity. The tearing wind threateningly lashed out and around the hut
while the thatch kept flapping to its fury. The rains flowed in torrents
finding its way through the decayed thatch and forming pools in the
little hut. The old man shivered and groaned.
”Menika” Punchi Banda awoke his woman “The rains have come but what a
tearing blinding force. Warm up a “Kabala” with some coconut shells and
keep it under father string-woven bed. He can’t stand this weather.”
The wind howled and screamed with a deafening force like demons on
trail; and suddenly there was an earth -rending crash as if the very
skies had fallen. For a moment Punchi Banda and Menika huddled together.
Then gathering courage bracing the force of the wind which threatened to
sweep away the very hut Banda opened the door and peered out.
The rain lashed in drenching him. A flash of lightning seared the sky
lighting up the area as if it were daylight. And there sprawling on the
earth torn up by its very roots lay the Jak tree missing the hut by mere
inches nibbling the thatch with its outreaching branches.
A scream from Menika sent him hurrying in doors oblivious of the open
door inviting the storm. There stretched out on his string bed was the
inert form of his father. |
