Blossoms of a Banyan

On a crisp winter night, when the moon drapes the fields of swaying wheat in silvery velvet, he scythes a lonely furrow through the inky darkness. The silence of his world is punctuated by the buoyant beckoning of boyish dreams.

Swift with the nimble grace of youth, he jumps across brambles and wades across a narrow stream. He scrapes his leg against a stone and it draws blood. But the pain just eggs him on with a fresh fervour. He knows that beyond the grassy knoll was a dead banyan tree, and in the lap of its gigantic bough, was a tender blossom. A blossom that awaited the dew of spring. She awaits..

He runs the last hundred yards, his heart pounding furiously. The sweetest memories of their time together flashed across his mind. They would talk about all the things in the world, and nothing at all. About the naughtiness of their unborn grand children, about the rains, about how pretty the spring blossoms were that year. His feet hardly touch the ground. He reaches the banyan tree. But…

She awakens with a startle. She looks to check if her younger sisters are asleep. Yes, its time. She had packed her bags the day before. A ragged satchel with a picture of her beloved lord Krishna, and two sets of clothes- her only possessions. Everything was ready. She crept out of bed, kissing each one of her younger sisters silently and praying that they would forgive their heartless elder sister. She stopped at the feet of her sleeping father and begged for forgiveness.

She was a tender flower – ‘blossom’ her beloved called her. She chuckled at that thought. But hidden within her bosom was a fire, an incandescent spirit set ablaze by her longing for him. And tonight it would be fulfilled.

No doubt, it would become a scandal of epic proportions. She, of high birth-the daughter of the village priest even- daring to love a lowly cow herd. On dreamy nights like these when they lay in the fields gazing at the stars, their bodies entwined, he would remind her of his low status. But wasn’t Krishna a cow herd? – she would whisper into his ear and curl herself around him.

She wished that they didn’t have to elope in the dead of the night, like petty thieves. She wished they could live a life of dignity and honour. But that was just wishful thinking. If they were caught, she would be spared due to her status. She shuddered to think what would happen to him.

She ventured out into the night, rushing past the fields where she had grown up, played and fallen in love in. Now, every blade of that grass rustled ominously, hissing at her. She tried to ignore it but tears clouded her gorgeous brown eyes, smudging her kajal. She walked on, her steps becoming increasingly heavy. The gravitas of what she was about to do weighed down upon her. She remembered the innumerable little fights she would have with her younger sisters, and how deeply she loved each one of them. How they looked up to her. She- the brightest, the prettiest and the most graceful. She remembered the love and dedication of her father, who had endeavoured to raise his motherless children alone, lest they become unwanted step children. She remembered- how he would cry surreptitiously every time she won a prize at school and hastily wipe away the tears before she could see. But she saw. And she remembered. And it stung. He would walk kilometer upon kilometer in the sweltering sun to save that little amount of money for her college education. He was a proud man. Too proud. He told her that he would rather hang himself within the temple premises in front of the gods, at the evening aarati, than have her married off to an untouchable.

She was left with few choices then. It was a decision between her dreams and those of her fathers. She chose hers.

She needed to hurry now. To meet her beloved. To live her life. To fulfill her destiny.

But it was not to be. A returning caravan of traders spotted her. She was cornered and under extreme duress, the plot was revealed. She wanted to kill herself. She tried. Several times. But she was unsuccessful.

His heart was pounding. Under the banyan tree , he expected to find her as she had promised. But she wasn’t there. She had deceived him. He couldn’t believe it. Instead, as sure as death, there was a murderous mob of villagers. Outnumbered, he didn’t try to run.He was too dazed to react to the village chief’s verdict of guilty as charged. Justice was swift. Revenge was even sweeter.

He couldn’t stop thinking of her betrayal, even as they ripped away his clothes and tied him to the dead banyan tree, stark naked. Firewood was precious. So, they doused the bark of the dead tree in kerosene and set it on fire. He thought of her, as the hungry flames licked the wood and singed his flesh. His terrified, blood curdling screams tore the night asunder. The untouchable was tied to a tree and burnt alive. He was yet to see his seventeenth birthday.

For three days the embers glowed, but no one would perform the last rights of a cow herd. They wouldn’t scatter the ashes in the field for fear of a poisonous crop next season. They wouldn’t release it into the river for fear of ritual pollution. After the stray dogs had gnawed the last pieces of charred bone, the ashes were scattered in the wind, to roam perennially from place to place with no hope of salvation. The heavy price of defying tradition.

On a crisp winter night, when the moon drapes the fields of swaying wheat in silvery velvet, she scythes a lonely furrow through the inky darkness. The silence of her world is punctuated by the somnolent sorrow of shattered dreams.

She is old and bent with age, the vagaries of unrelenting time, showing in the innumerable creases on her face. She was no longer the prettiest or the most graceful. Her feet move slowly but surely. She crosses the stream cautiously taking care not to cut herself against the sharp rocks. As she reaches the grassy knoll, she pants with both excitement and exhaustion. Somebody had told her, but she couldn’t believe her ears, she had to see for herself. He awaits..

And there in the distance, she saw, and her beautiful brown eyes brimmed with tears. He had come. As he had promised. After all these years. They could talk about all the things in the world, and nothing at all. About the naughtiness of their unborn grand children, about the rains, about how pretty the spring blossoms were that year. And she chuckled when she remembered what he used to call her - blossom. They could live their dreams, live their life, fulfill their destinies now. For, silhouetted in the distance against the rising moon, against all odds, stood a small green sapling. It was nothing more than a sprightly little banyan tree.