Of Tempting Trees & Tipping Points

Maaaaaaaa I shouted. It was` a shriek so loud and so painful that it almost stopped my mothers’ heart-beats. Shankar and Suresh Gupta, my class-mates who were next to me were also shocked and paralyzed- too terrified to move……..

Trees virtually seduced us. And there were plenty of them in Berhampur. They were endowed with some unexplainable magical and enchanting quality which attracted the boys of the sixties towards them. If its’ a tree then it had to be climbed. If it had fruits then it had to be stolen. Period.

The word stolen is probably a bit too strong. A bit too harsh considering that the motive was just being a bit naughty, a touch mischievous and slightly adventurous. We felt that a mango here or a guava there can always be plucked and nobody would be wiser for it provided the plans were executed properly. And we sure planned it meticulously in advance. The growth of the fruit would be monitored for weeks. The size and its ripeness would have to be minutely observed. Its accessibility assessed. Then there was the issue of timing. When will the owners be away? Do they have their afternoon siesta? Is there a dog in the house? There were so many variables that had to be kept in mind while executing plans.

Apart from the thrill and the challenge of climbing the tree there was also something sweet about the fruits “stolen” in such a fashion. The joy of settling down with friends in some remote corner, far away from the prying eyes of the elders, eating with your dirty hands, wiping off the face with your shirt sleeves and cleaning your hands at the back of your pants, wow what a treat!! You could keep bragging about how difficult and how dangerous the whole thing was. Some would say this raid was the most difficult while others would differ and say how the previous one was more complicated. The debate would go on and on while simultaneously plans for the next raid would be hatched.

Right at the opposite side of the entrance gate of St. Vincent’s was our open air stage. To its right, slightly tucked away from general public view, was this guava tree. There was beep in our radars when we saw the guavas ripening. We decided to pluck one or two at a time so that no body would notice. The timing too was planned meticulously. Just when the bell would ring, signaling the end of the interval and students would rush to their respective classes- that was the time to strike. The plan went on smoothly for a couple of raids.

It was third time unlucky for us.

That particular day all four of us (with one IAS and one IPS officer in this group I dare not name them!) had a guava each in our hands. That’s when Dharma literally pounced on us. He took us all to sister Roslie for the peshi. She was aghast. “How could you steal?” she asked fuming.

“I didn’t steal sister”, I managed to say, “it was there and I plucked it.”

“That’s not funny”, sister said sternly and her lecture continued. In such situations we were conditioned to cross our hands at the back, bow down our heads and concentrate on the tip of our shoe waiting for the storm to pass over. Seeing our silent crestfallen faces she even asked one of us, “You… why don’t you say something?”

With an expression that would have swept the Oscar jury of their feet, he said. “My inglees is weak.”

But sister Roslie was in no mood to let us off- just no compromise on principles and scruples. With her you knew exactly where you stood. She decided her punishment. “All of you will go to each and every class and confess that you stole the guavas,” she said motioning Dharma to escort us.

We started our long march from the baby and pre-elementary classes. The poor kids, half of whom were either sleeping or crying, just couldn’t make out what it was all about. I distinctly remember, in the junior classes (maybe up to 3rd standard) we were actually greeted with a lot of cheering. Some even clapped, as if to say, “Wow! what guts, bravo seniors bravo”. We actually began enjoying the punishment. It’s only when I had to enter the class where Hindi Miss was there that I knew I was in one heck of a trouble. The expression on her face told me what to expect once we were back home. As if those icy undercurrents were not enough one boy pointed out, “Miss, look your son ..no.”

Our ordeal over, we walked back to sister Roslie’s room. By now she had become a bit soft and told us to go ahead and eat the guavas, which we shamelessly did, relishing every bit of it!

I did not learn the lesson sister Roslie had attempted to teach.

A year later, that Saturday afternoon when I had shrieked out Maaaaa in agony, I had actually fallen about fifteen feet from a tree and broken my hand.

My sobs were heart wrenching as I clutched my broken right hand and we proceeded towards MKCG medical college. Then came further bad news. No X-rays are taken on the second half of Saturday and Sunday. Till then I had to be on a katchaa bandage and pain killers.
In the midst of the excruciating pain I suddenly realised that my dad had just been transferred to Parlakhemundi. My elder brother had also gone with him. To instill a sense of responsibility my dad had said that now you will have to take care of your mother. Mom’s asset had actually become a liability.

That night I just couldn’t sleep. The throbbing pain was shooting trough my hand. I didn’t want to disturb my mother. So slowly, with extreme caution I opened the door and went out to the verandah. There in the sanctuary of my loneliness I began crying and sobbing. Can I ever play cricket? Can I play marbles? Can I ever climb trees? God what pain what punishment.

Mothers have an uncanny instinct. It is almost like a sixth sense. No matter how well you try to hide or camouflage, they know exactly what their children are going through. She came quietly and sat beside me. I tried to act big and tough and regained my composure. “Is it paining a lot”, she enquired in a voice and with a concern that only mothers can.

“No”, I lied. And then I cried.

“You are now a big boy”, mom was saying, “You will learn to absorb pain in life. Abhi zindagi mein bahut dard sehna baaki hai.”
Lying for hours with my head on her lap on the floor of the verandah we together broke the dawn over Berhampur’s eastern sky.

When we finally got up I knew my tipping point had come. I had left behind the child in me and stepped into adolescence.

Thirty seven years later, “Dard sehna baaki hai” still rings in my ears guiding me through the ups and downs of life.