LOTUS

The lotus flowers in my garden bloom but rarely; and when they bloom, they do so in vais’akha, when the summer is at its harshest. And yes, the deep evergreen, lustrous oval leaves are a perennial relief to the eye, whatever the season.
My ground floor flat does have a space around it—alas, all so meticulously smothered under the dead RCC after the urban fetish. The lifeless RCC was a sore to my eyes; and it was then, some three years back, that i had the fancy of have a lotus pond!
Soon, the water-proof masonry was ready. What remained was to prepare a fertile water bed, an underwater mixture of black soil and cow-dung. And of course, i could not forget the guppy fish to keep the mosquitoes away.

So, half a truckload of black soil is procured. Self help would be the best, and well, the most economical. And then, one fine day (when the family is away for vacations), this brave dreamer decides to accomplish the task all by himself.

Ten minutes of the job are enough to bring home to me my fool-hardiness. Tons of unloaded soil all around; hardly a fraction of the job done; the sun and the unaccustomed physical effort already sending down streams of sweat; and backache already set in: and worse, nobody else to blame for the mess! Well boy, enough of the do-it-yourself self reliance!
What next?


“Sir...”
Turning around, i see three kids at the gate: weak, malnourished, dehydrated and bare-footed; their discolored hair unkempt, and clothes dirty. No, they are not beggars: one of them carries a pick axe, and the other, a spade.
“Sir, may we do the job for you?”
‘Ha! The angels!’ - exult i for a moment.

Next moment, the cautious householder within, checks the exultation.
I survey the kids, size up the unfinished job, and promptly put up a stern, prudent mask.
“How much..?”
“Fifteen rupees..?” says the boy tentatively.
“FIFTEEN?” screams the prudent man, who would never protest paying seventy rupees for a scoop of ice-cream, or one-hundred-and-eighty for a ticket at the Multiplex.
“No sir, fifteen rupees for all of us, together.”
“Hmm… look, i want a neat and clean job. And mind you, i won’t pay a single rupee if i am not satisfied. Is that clear?” I tell them, who is the boss.
“Right sir”’ says he meekly.
“C’mon brothers!” the leader cries triumphantly. The younger kids are already at job.

Relaxed, i sit on a bench in shade. The boys are methodic, seem to be expert in what they are doing, and fast. Unmindful of the scorching sun; unmindful of the streaming sweat; unmindful of all their deprivations; unmindful of the world around, soon they have moved most of the heap into the pit – the task which almost killed me in ten minutes! And how merrily they sing, chat, and play pranks with each other as they continue with the labor that killed me in ten minute. Blessed be the childhood that mellows down the harsh reality.

I am ashamed of myself.
What childhood do I talk of? Famine severs the poor children—the eldest one, not more than twelve, and barely older than my younger daughter—away from the family, and i, the romantic urban fool, eulogize some blessed childhood and all! Hungry and helpless, the kids sweat for their daily bread when they should be playing and studying, and i pat myself for having driven a hard bargain.

Where is their home? Do homes break suddenly - or crumble bit by bit, day by day? What goes wrong in life? What forces the parents to abandon the children to their fate? Or do the children, precociously and painfully wise, leave the house? And how do they walk all the way to this distant unknown land, so far away from home? And, does the broken family, if at all it survives, ever look forward to a reunion, when seasons would be more merciful?


“..and, what is sir going to plant here, onions?” the youngest one, made bold by familiarity and innocence, comes up to me.
“Not onions, lotus.”
“Lotus? Real lotus? Wow! They are so beautiful, aren’t they? Gods like lotuses, i know, i have seen in pictures!”
“And then you will sell the flowers in the bazaar, and get lots of money?” asks the middle one seriously.
I am speechless.


Enough of the prudent mask. Let me be myself; let me be somewhat imprudent and humane; let me follow my heart. This prudent mask always chokes me.

Finally, the job is over. Exhausted, they ask for water. They wash themselves clean, drink greedily, and give a sigh of fulfillment like an artist reviewing a just-completed work.

Arrives the pizza which i have meanwhile ordered for the boys. Let them have a small treat—perhaps a lifetime treat, heard of, dreamt of, never realized or likely to be realized.
Humbly, i pay them fifteen rupees—each.
They cannot thank me enough. And the more they thank me, the more humble I feel.

The lotus flowers in my garden bloom but rarely; and when they do bloom, they remind me of the three beaming faces, as the boys heartily ate their hard earned pizza.

God save me from prudence, so that the lotus flowers bloom in vais’akha, when the summer is at its harshest.