The Drumstick Tree

My mother poured the tea and handed me the blue-and-white porcelain teacup and saucer. Heavy drapes covering the windows kept out the afternoon glare. I yawned, my eyes closing in sleep as I stirred my Lopchu tea. I still hadn’t overcome the jet lag after the seventeen-hour flight from New York. We were seated in my mother’s dining room in Mumbai, formerly Bombay. 

“Keep awake!” my sister cried. “We have a long journey ahead of us tomorrow.”

Back in the States, I had read about a new jungle retreat surrounded by casuarina trees on an island near the Arabian Sea. My sister and I were leaving the next day for a short stay at this island, which was only twenty miles from my grandparents’ village home in Hisnad. My grandparents were no more, and their house had been sold more than thirty years ago, but we made up our minds to visit Hisnad, for old times’ sake.

“I heard Ganga is back with her nephew in Hisnad,” my mother remarked. “After his parents died, the nephew invited her to move in. It would be nice if you went once to see her, since you are going to be so close.”

My sister and I looked at each other in horror.

“So the screeching old witch has finally been united with her beloved nephew,” my sister said.

My mother drew a long breath.

“All right,” I said to Mother, “since you insist, we will visit Ganga when we are there.”

When we were little girls, Ganga had been horrid to me, but now I was twenty-six, a mature young woman, living in the States, with ideas about feminine sisterhood and social justice.

Ganga had come to our home just after my baby brother was born, when I was ten and my sister six. In those days, my mother employed a cook, a driver, and other servants befitting her status as a sahib’s wife. 

As a child I saw Ganga as a tall, gaunt, sinewy woman, with large bony hands, lean veiny arms, and sunken eye sockets in a long face. There were hollows above her collar bones and she hardly had any breasts. She had a fair complexion with a rat’s tail of hair that she wore in a tight bun at the back of her head. Her teeth were like loosened tombstones in a ruined cemetery, however, when the census worker asked her age, she told him she was fifty years old. 

Ganga believed that her only job was to look after my infant brother. To my sister and me, it seemed that Ganga didn’t like girls. When we came home hungry from school, she’d yell, “Stop eating my brains. Take this!” banging a large two-foot-tall brass container filled with chaklis before us. “Pampered girls!” When Ganga lost her patience, she would screech hysterically, her voice going up a treble. To our mother she’d say, “Your children are impossible.” By children she meant me and my younger sister. My brother was her golden boy.

When I complained to my mother that Ganga yelled at me and treated my sister and me differently from my brother, my mother would say, “Let her be. She’s had a very unfortunate life . . .” I was never told what this misfortune was. “Look how well she takes care of your brother. His health is so delicate, and she treats him like her own son.”

Mother and Ganga would painstakingly extract wheat germ to make porridge for my brother and concoct homemade remedies when he had colic. Ganga massaged his body with oil before bathing him, crooned to him, calling him by special names of endearment, and after bathing him, pulled his penis affectionately. We didn’t consider this sexual abuse in the 1960s. To Ganga it was proof that my brother was not a girl. 

When Ganga quarreled with my mother, she’d say, “My nephew will come for me. He will take me away. Wait and see.” She had very few needs: apart from her meals, she made herself cups of tea, strong and brown like a river in flood, and whatever money she earned, she requested my mother send to her nephew in the village.

Every May before the rains set in, we visited our grandparents’ home in Hisnad. My sister, my brother, and I had the free run of the garden and our job was to eat the bushels of ripened mangoes nested in straw in the attic.

On our arrival in the village, Ganga took off, and we didn’t see her until the night before our departure. Her brother-in-law, Vaman Pai, owned a provision store in the village bazaar that my siblings and I visited often. The nephew, Govind Pai, a tall, well-built, pleasant young man, was married with children. He managed the store and was always welcoming, inquiring politely about the welfare of our parents and grandparents, but we were not permitted to ask about Ganga. 

My father returned to Bombay before us, so our journey included my mother, Ganga, and us kids. We started at the village bus terminus, caught the bus to Hubli, followed by a train to Bombay. One year the bus to Hubli was late, and we barely made it to the train. My sister and I, wearing matching frocks, raced ahead. My mother, holding my two-year-old brother, sprinted behind us, while Ganga, a tin trunk containing a few sarees, a small mirror, and a comb balanced in her arms, brought up the rear. 

The train from Hubli to Bombay was teeming with passengers as always. The ticket collector found my mother and brother room in the First Class Ladies Coach, which was as packed as any of the other compartments. He directed Ganga, my younger sister, and me to another carriage at the end of the train, which had been newly attached to accommodate the attendants of the first-class passengers.

The train was a meter gauge line. At first, it was not so bad. The porter put our suitcases in the overhead storage rack, and we settled on the hard wooden seats. Ganga shoved a tall straw basket of mangoes from my grandmother’s garden and a bag of dried shrimp between our legs on the floor. The overhead fans spun on full blast, but did little to mitigate the sickly smell of ripening mangoes contending with the ammonia-like odor of dried shrimp and the heat from all the bodies.

Ganga had somehow pushed the mango basket under my legs, and the straw scratched my shins. I pushed it back to her side. This went on for some time, and then Ganga slapped me with her hard bony hand. I can still picture my humiliation. 

When she got into an argument with my mother, Ganga’s refrain was always, “My nephew will come for me. He will take me away. You wait and see.” But the nephew never came.

When my brother turned four, my mother didn’t need a nurse anymore. My mother found a job for Ganga with a cousin’s family and from there she moved on to other homes. I can’t say that my sister and I were sorry to see her leave.

*

My grandparents’ house was not far from the turnoff to the highway. The property had been divided into eight parcels of land each with a compact modern dwelling. We strove to catch a familiar glimpse, but gave up and headed for the bazaar and stopped outside the provision store.

Shutters were down, so we got Govind Pai’s address from a neighboring store and found his home. The driver parked the taxi in a narrow red mud lane and we were assaulted by a hot blast of wind when we alighted. Ganga’s nephew’s house was a two-storied structure. There was a huge padlock on the front door. The jasmine bush in the courtyard had a few flowers, but hot winds had scattered jasmine on the ground. I sensed some movement in the darkened interior of the neighboring house, but no one came out.

As we returned to the parked taxi, in the glare of the sun, we saw a lady standing at the gate opposite. She beckoned us with a finger. “Who are you?” she asked.

“We came to see Govind Pai. We know his aunt,” I said.

The woman looked us up and down and said, “There’s no one there right now. The family has gone on a yatra, a trip to holy places. There was a great tragedy.” Inviting us into her house, she said, “Come, come, don’t stand out in the sun. I will tell you everything.”

We crossed the front courtyard that had an outdoor TV antenna and climbed three steps into an open anteroom. There were two slatted wooden benches facing each other and a fan whirling overhead. On the walls were pictures of gods and goddesses. An embroidery hoop lay on the bench. “Sit down, sit down,” she urged.

She inquired if we wanted any water to drink. Her daughter-in-law stood at attention in a corner, before hurrying out with two glasses beaded with tiny bubbles of moisture. I hesitated, but my sister guzzled it down.

“I had been sewing when I saw your car,” she said. “Then, I saw you walk back.”

I explained, “Ganga took care of my brother when he was little. She stayed with us for six years almost fourteen years ago. We had heard that she had come to be with her nephew, and since we happened to be in the vicinity, we wanted to look her up.”

“So, Gangakka used to work in your home?” The woman added the suffix “akka” meaning “big sister” to Ganga’s name. Ganga must be approaching her seventies now. “Oh ho! So, you have not heard? A big tragedy befell them. Gangakka died in tragic circumstances two months ago.”

My sister and I exchanged glances. I felt a fleeting sensation of regret.

“Will you have tea or coffee or a cold drink?” she asked peremptorily.

We refused all the choices. “We have to leave shortly,” we said. “The taxi is waiting.”

But a glance at the daughter-in-law sent her marching into the interior.

“After his parents died, the nephew, Govind Pai, invited Gangakka to stay with him. We were all very surprised, but Govind Pai said, ‘You have worked enough.’ Naturally, Gangakka was very happy to be invited by her son—her nephew, I mean.” The woman looked up slyly to see if we had caught the mistake.

“Instead of toiling in other people’s homes and eating leftovers, Ganga had been restored to her rightful place,” she continued.

How was this homecoming? Was Ganga still cantankerous? Did she lock horns with her nephew’s wife?

Presently, the daughter-in-law came out with two mugs of strong milky tea, peanut brittle, and chaklis which she placed carefully on a small table between the benches.

“Come, have,” the woman said. “We made it at home.”

“They used to share a well with their neighbors next door. The men seemed friendly but the women had problems. Gangakka had planted a drumstick tree in the thicket that marked the boundary between the two properties on one of her visits to see Govind Pai. The tree was on Govind Pai’s property but arched over in such a way that the leaves, branches, and long drumstick pods hung over the neighbor’s garden. They helped themselves to the drumsticks freely, but Gangakka could not bear this.

“One morning I heard Gangakka shout, ‘This is our tree. I sowed it on my nephew’s land. How dare you steal our drumsticks!’ 

“But the neighbor’s daughter-in-law paid her no heed. That daughter-in-law was also a piece of work; she had no mother-in-law living to keep her in check. She mocked Gangakka, ‘Toothless crone, can you even chew on those drumsticks?’

“In a shrill voice, Gangakka let loose another barrage of invectives, calling the younger woman a whore and a thief.

“The neighbor’s daughter-in-law arched her eyebrows, ‘You’re a good one to talk. You call me a whore? Everyone in this village knows that you became pregnant years after your husband’s death, and that Govind Pai is your bastard. And because of you, your son is punished. People in this village are talking about you and your “illustrious” deeds. It would have been better if you had stayed in the city and not returned to this village, or you could have thrown yourself in the well when you gave birth!’ 

“I heard everything. I should have gone out and stopped them. But I didn’t want to get involved.” The woman sat quietly. “Gangakka sprang across the border trembling with rage and put her hands around the daughter-in-law’s neck. She must have been nearly seventy, but she was strong and could have strangled that woman. At this point, I ran to Govind Pai’s backyard. I had to stop them.

“The neighbor’s daughter-in-law must have pushed Ganga away from her because Ganga had fallen on the ground. Scratched and bleeding, Gangakka picked herself up with great difficulty, then slowly rose up on all fours. She walked a few steps holding on to the well wall, then sat on the wall with a blank look on her face. Then she began hitting her head with both fists contorting her body, her eyes wild, her hair flying, and just like that, working herself into a frenzy, she slipped backward, head first into the well. I ran crying, ‘Gangakka! Gangakka! What are you doing?’ The neighbor’s daughter-in-law stood there trembling. A crowd gathered around the well but by the time they fished her out, she was gone.”

“So, it was an accident,” I said. My mouth was dry, and I shuddered inwardly.

“The family claims it was an accident, but it was no accident,” the woman said, shaking her head decisively. “I saw what I saw. She threw herself backward.” The woman patted herself with the edge of her saree. “Shiv, Shiv, Shiv! God help us that we have lived to witness such a sight! Those staring eyes! Her white saree ballooning around her! Only the other day, Gangakka had told me her life had been fulfilled because now she was back in her nephew’s home. But . . .” she smiled cynically, contemplating life’s ironies.

I looked up to see if the lady would tell us about Ganga’s past, but her lips were clamped shut as if she had already said too much, and we sat quietly although all sorts of thoughts were churning within me. In public my sister wears a poker face, but I know she will begin a rant once we return to the jungle lodge. We finished the tea in the mugs which had become cold and took our leave. The afternoon sun was golden. The stones on the path crunched underfoot as my sister and I strode back silently to the taxi. 

When we returned to Bombay, we shared the news of Ganga’s death with our mother. We sat at the dining table while our mother removed the tea cozy and strained the tea into the cup. It was the Darjeeling Second Flush. I looked from my mother to my sister.

“It was horrible!” I cried in a whiny voice, relating the story of our visit to Hisnad.

“Poor Ganga!” my mother said, her eyes filling up with tears. “Illiterate, married at sixteen. A couple of years later, the husband died. I don’t even know if she had any parents living. What could an impoverished widow do? The brother-in-law and his wife told her they would not be able to feed her. So the only alternative was to work in other people’s homes,” my mother said.

“Or starve!” I replied.

“This is what happens to an uneducated woman with no one to support her,” my sister said. She rose up and drew the curtains against the afternoon’s glare.

“Do you want milk in your tea?” my mother asked. I had begun taking my tea black.

“I’d like more sugar please,” my sister said, reaching for the sugar bowl.

I looked at my mother. Her creamy skin was flawless, like the white tuberoses in the cobalt blue vase on the dining table.

“Then the rumors started flying,” my mother’s face clouded. “Ganga was with child, they whispered. People in the village began to gossip and jeer. Men avoided her in public or made obscene comments, or would seek her out surreptitiously when she was alone. It was impossible for her to remain in the village.” 

“You girls used to get mad at her. Now you know why I told you to let her be,” my mother said, stirring the tea. “If you want chaklis, they are in the big brass container in the pantry.” My mother reflected for a moment. “I remember Ganga used to make good chaklis.”

My throat constricted. A vision of Ganga slamming the brass container of chaklis loomed before me.

“Ganga’s husband’s brother and his wife were childless.” My mother continued stirring her tea. “They offered to adopt the baby. They hid her in a dimly-lit room when the pregnancy began to show. But word got around.

“When the midwife put the squirming, wet body of the infant against Ganga’s bare skin and she heard the baby’s cry, Ganga told me she had shouted that she had never before felt such happiness. She had forgotten all the pain of labor.

“And then abruptly the boy was taken away before Ganga could hold him in her arms.” 

“What about the father?” my sister cried, banging the table with her fist. “Who was the father? He seems to have got off scot-free. What if she had been raped?”

“She never mentioned his name,” my mother said quietly.

She thought her secret was safe, because she had given up the baby. And, the adoptive parents would give her son a better life, I thought gloomily.

I sat there reflecting on ideas about moral rectitude and how harsh and unforgiving society can be. And what about me? Privileged, comfortable, educated, with my theories about social justice and female sisterhood! What had I done to help? I took a sip of tea, breathing in the delicate fragrance of the warm, amber liquid and drained the cup.