SWEET RICE DUMPLINGS

   

The farmlands burned with the ravaging sun of mid June scorching it bone dry. It looked ugly with half burnt brittle stubs left from the last harvest, waiting to be pulled and ploughed for the new crops. The wind blew hot and light with little moisture and ravaged the skin with unforgiving ferocity. To escape from the harsh glare of the afternoon sun, we had settled behind a small haystack and were talking. It was Shibu, the mango harvester’s son who had sneaked past her mother’s eyes whom I could hear calling him from their ramshackle hut not far from where we hid. He would giggle every time when her mother yelled her name from the other end of the orchard.

This was our annual vacation in our village Rudrapur, where we had our ancestral home and mango orchards, the biggest in the area. I looked forward to this vacation eagerly every year, all the more so because it was my only chance in a year to meet Shibu. He was almost my age, a tad taller than me, and had dark curly hair on a malnourished head.

He was all ears to my vivid description of hostel life when a sudden squall of dust startled us. The wind had a hint of chill and dankness. We looked at with awe as it created a tiny hurricane of dust and dried grass, not far from where we sat. A moment later the skies thundered, which suddenly had taken a darker hew, like a bowl of water with a drop of black ink in it. Suddenly, I felt the cool touch of a drop from the skies on my temple. The first burst of monsoon rains kissed the sun baked soils, and evaporated almost instantly, filling the air with the scent of earth and withered wood.

A loud welcome shriek came from the labourers working in the orchards where my cousins and uncles had gathered to supervise the harvesting of mangoes. I held Shibu’s hand and dragged him to the canopy of a big tree and resumed telling him about Mumbai, my army school and the life in hostel. He listened with awe, trying to visualize a world he had no idea about, much beyond his imagination, occasionally asking a question about big cities and the naval ships I had visited with my father.

“So you would also become a navy commander, like your father?” He asked me.

“No, I want to become a fighter pilot, and you?” I looked at him. 

Shibu was silent for a moment and then lowered his eyes “I do not know, Baba told me that he would send me to the college in city when I grow up.”

Next day, I was again there in the orchard where Shibu was waiting for me while his father and other men were busy in packing mangoes in wooden crates. The harvesting was over and so was my vacation. Next morning, we would go back to the city to fly to Mumbai and a week later, I would be back in my hostel. The thought saddened me, more because I won’t be seeing Shibu until next year.

“I have brought this for you,” I took out a toy, a model fighter plane from my pocket which my father had gifted to me and offered him. Shibu’s face beamed with excitement. “So you would fly a plane like this?” He asked me with eyes wide with disbelief and hid the toy in his pocket.

“Yes, anyone can, but you have to be selected and get trained first,” I boasted.

 “would you come next harvesting season?” He asked me.

“Yes, I would,” I promised and ran to the orchard to join my cousins who were preparing to leave. They looked at me and Shibu with scorn and laughed. I could not make out then why they did not like our friendship. I had noticed that they kept Shibu at a distance and barely talked to him. Even Shibu was not comfortable in their presence and avoided to go near them.

It was the last evening of our vacation and all of our relatives had gathered in our ancestral home to bid farewell to my family. A big feast was arranged and my mother and the servants were busy preparing food platters and sweets for the dinner while the men and women gathered around Dadda(my grandfather) who sat in his carved wooden chair with his hukka. He was the zamindar in the village, a big and resourceful guy with a towering personality.

“Ravi, a boy has come to meet you,” one of my uncles called me from the veranda, summoning me outside.

It was Shibu, standing near the stairs! He smiled at me apologetically.

“I came with Baba, he had to bring the mango boxes for you to take to Mumbai,” he said, sheepishly. I ran to him and held his hand, almost dragging him up to the Patio.

“Do you like Peethas (sweet rice dumplings) ?” I asked him and ran to the kitchen and looked around. I found a bowl of hot and fresh sweet rice dumplings, my favorite dessert. I grabbed the bowl and sneaked my way outside to Shibu who was looking at the house and its interiors with awe.

 

“Let’s have this, my favourite! My mother makes the best of dumplings you have ever eaten” I and stuffed one in his mouth.

“They are my favorite too,” Shibu was ecstatic, savoring the divine taste. He picked up another dumpling and offered me in return. I smiled at him and gestured him to feed me with his hand.

“Ravi, what are you doing?” The stern voice of Dadda standing in the doorway panicked both of us. Before I could move or say anything, Shibu jumped from the patio and ran away like a terrified hen, dropping the bowl of dumplings on the floor. I tried to call him back but he disappeared in no time.

“We were eating dumplings,” I was scared, trying to understand my fault.

Dadda held my shoulders and told me gently,” Ravi, you must not eat with him, do you know his caste?”

“What is caste Dadda?” I was not sure what he was talking about. I protested, “He is my friend and we are in the same grades Dadda, why we cannot eat together? Dadda laughed and escorted me inside.

That was my last summer vacation in the village. That was also the last time I ever met Shibu. Early next year we had to move to Cochin for my father’s new assignment. A month later, he was stationed in Colombo as part of the peacekeeping force. I went to the Army school in Trivandrum and then to London for my graduation and aviation pilot training. After coming back to India, I had joined Air force as a combat pilot which was my dream job! Memories of Rudrapur, the mango orchards and the little Shibu slowly faded away amidst the vast expanse of time and its distractions.

          

The Officers’ mess was crowded and noisy as usual in the Friday evening when I entered after completing my sorties. A live band was on the stage playing “Try to remember” by Harry Belafonte. The air was thick with smoke and alcohol fumes riding on the notes of music. Some of the other pilots of my squadron were sitting on the high chairs at the bar, drinking and cracking jokes. I grabbed a beer and joined them who were singing along the band,

 “Try to remember the kind of September,

When you were young and callow fellow,

Try to remember and if you remember,

Then follow,

Follow……..”

 “Who is this new guy here?” I pointed to a lanky young man in mufti sitting alone on a chair with a bottle of coke in his hands. He wore a thin moustache on his hardened face and was smiling at the singer on the stage. I put my beer down and got up.

.“Hello, I am Squadron leader Ravindra Prakash,” I smiled and extended my hands. His palm was cold with the chill of his drink.

“Flight Lieutenant Shivram on transfer from the Eastern command Sir. I joined today only.” His voice had a heavy modulation and warmth which compensated for the cold hand shake.

“So you joined just today! Welcome to the base my dear, and by the way, if you need anything, please let me know. Got a place to live?” I asked him.

“No Sir, I am in the bachelors’ quarter, no family yet” he smiled back at me.

“Dinner at my place tomorrow evening, be there at eight” I Pushed my card in his palm and returned to my friends at the bar.

He nodded in gratitude, accepting the invitation and sat down on his table. I chatted for a few minutes more with my friends and left for home where Ma was waiting for me. At the dinner table, I told her about the new pilot and my invite for the dinner.

Shivram arrived next evening with a flower bouquet in his hands. I shook hands with him and introduced him to Ma. He bowed down and touched Ma’s feet. We settled on the dining table. I offered him a whiskey.

“No thanks, I do not drink” he refused politely.

 So which part of country you come from?” I asked him.

“ I am from a small village in Bihar, and you!” he looked at me with curiosity.

“We too belong to Bihar but never really stayed there. Dad was in navy and so we were on move all the times,” I told him while Ma ignored his protests and put another paratha on his plate.

“Come on, how does it matter anyway!” I pointed to the sky, “Up there, you do not have any states, religion or caste! You only belong to the motherland and nothing else matters,” I said my favorite punch line with theatrical melodrama and laughed aloud.

We talked about life in the base and the growing tensions on the northern borders for the rest of the dinner. I sensed that he was slightly uneasy, probably homesick which was not surprising as new pilots had very grueling routine and leaves were scarce.

We had finished our dinner and settled on the sofa, waiting for the dessert.

Ma came out of the kitchen with a platter, full of hot steamy sweet rice dumplings. I was disappointed.

“Ma, you know I do not like dumplings and I am not sure about Shivram as well. Can we have some ice cream please!” I protested, like a fussing child.

“I know, they are for your friend and not for you, isn’t it so?” She chided me affectionately and offered a bowl to Shivram.

Shivram had his gaze fixed on those dumplings. I laughed, “Ma, see, he too does not like them”, I dared him.

“I had them only once, in my childhood, and never after that,” Shivram mumbled, his stare fixed on the dumplings.

“What a coincidence! Even I stopped liking them, long back in my childhood,” now I looked at him more keenly.

Those dumplings were rustling up memories withered by time. I tried to rekindle those reminiscences faded long back but they were hazy, as if hidden behind an opaque screen.

“Rudrapur?” Shivram whispered.

 I was almost on the edge of the sofa, my fingers clutching the armrest. Suddenly the fog lifted and I could see my little rendezvouses with Shibu in the mango orchard and his terrified face amidst the dumplings rolling on the dusty floor of the patio. Shivram took a small toy plane from his pocket and placed it on the coffee table. It was badly dented and the color on the metal had faded but I recognized it instantly.

 “I could never have dumplings after that day,” he whispered to me, his gaze still fixed on the dumplings.

“Me too Shibu,” my voice shook as I reached to hug him. I picked up the platter and stuffed a dumpling in his mouth.