The Blossoms

THE BLOSSOMS
(A SHORT STORY)

By Prof. N. S. PHADKE

(Rendered from Marathi)

“Is the fellow blind or deaf, or both?” Vasantrao muttered to himself with a savage curse, looking furiously at the of the pedestrian who refused to move out of the way even after the car had given three piercing hoots.

Then he blew the horn once again so loudly that the man jumped like a frightened frog, and, turning his head, shot an angry glance as though to ask, “Is this a gentleman’s way to honk?”

Vasantrao recognised him. Driving the car slowly and topping it alongside of him, he said, “By Jove! Is that you Keshavrao? You must forgive me. I’m sorry.”

Keshavrao had finished looking at the car sulkily. But his forehead was still furrowed with wrinkles of annoyance. “Don’t you know me?” Vasantrao asked. Then Keshavrao gave a start of pleasant surprise and, with a smile, folded his hands in a greeting...“Where do you go?”, Vasantrao asked him, “Home I believe? I’ll give you a lift. Come.” He stretched his left hand, opened the door of the car, and patted the seat.

Keshavrao got in, and the car started. “You must forgive my blowing the horn like that, Keshavrao,” Vasantrao apologised again, “But you refused to move out of the way. I had almost killed you...”

“I wouldn’t have regretted dying,” Keshavrao tried to laugh it away. “To be run over by the car of a famous producer-director would be thought a matter of great luck in these days.”

“That’s a good one indeed,” Vasantrao laughed heartily. Then with a little seriousness he said, “It’s ages since we met last.”

“And this meeting too would not have happened ifI had not stood in your way. It isn’t easy to meet big people like you.”

“Let alone my bigness. Tell me, where have you been these days?”

“Just where I was before. Tilak Road, house number…”

“You seem to be in a jesting mood. Will you believe me if I tell you something?”

“I can’t promise unless I know what it is.”

“I’ve been thinking of you for the last four days.”

“Thank you very much...” There was disbelief in Keshavrao’s voice.

“You seem to doubt. But I’m telling you the truth. God’s truth. I’ve some business with you, and so kept telling myself that I must see you some time. Keshavrao, why not come to my place? I guess you’re not in a hurry to go home. Come. I’ll give you a cup of first-class tea.”

“So you suggest that the tea I’ll give you at my house would be second-class?”

“Now, now. Enough of your jokes. Let’s go to my place. What?” Vasantrao drove faster. “Don’t I know, Keshavrao, that your tea is even better than first-class? How often I’ve taken tea at your house. You mayforget, but I cannot. There was a time when...” Vasantrao had to attend to an approaching car and so left his sentence unfinished. But Keshavrao knew what he wanted to say.

He remembered those old days much more than Vasantrao. But he wished to forget them. He had spent the last two years fighting with the memories of those days. He often thought he had buried them. But they sprang up in his mind again, and again, sometimes with a reason, but often unreasonably. And when the memories came crowding upon him, he was so distressed that he almost lost his mind. He walked through the streets, unaware of the crowd and the traffic. Today, for instance, he had noticed a huge poster on a high wall, and as he looked at the picture of a young woman with a child in her arms, old memories came rushing in his mind–memories of two years ago...

He had seen his daughter Sulochana painted on a big poster in a riot of colours, on this very wall, and in this very square. The poster had stood there for weeks after weeks, only the slips, which the numbers of each new week were printed in red, being taken off and pasted. How his heart had swelled with pride to know that Sulochana’s very first picture had hit a high mark...His wife had disapproved of Sulochana working in a film. Friends and well-wishers had warned him against making his daughter a film actress. He too had known the dangers and the pit-falls of a screen career. But he had believed that a woman could avoid them by the integrity and purity of her own character, and attain success by dint of talent and industry. He had inwardly feared if his gamble would go wrong. But Sulochana had done well indeed. He had been proved right. The big poster in the square was an emblem of Sulochana’s triumph, which was in a way his own triumph.

And this is only the beginning, he used to tell himself whenever he halted in the square to have a look at Sulochana’s poster. There would come even greater successes, he thought. Sulochana would become a more accomplished  singer and dancer. She was no longer the daughter of a middle-class father. She was now a highly paid actress. She could afford to spend any amount of money and become a great artist. But...

“Go away my love if you must.”

Keshavrao started as he was rudely awakened from his memories by this sudden flow of music. It took him a little time to realise that there was a radio in the car, and Vasantrao had switched it on...

“Go away my love if you must
But do not forget the promises you made
As we walked through the fields
Where the music of birds...”

“You don’t mind, do you?” Vasantrao asked him. He shook his head. “This is the present craze, you know?” Vasantrao told him, “People see our pictures because they want this type of music. Music! This kind of music! That’s the soul of pictures! The golden key to success! I’ve got hold of the best music director for my next picture. The very best. B. Bhalchandra! You’ve heard of him, I am sure. He’s a very clever chap. Not that he knows much of the science of music. But he knows what people like, which is a greater thing. Do you know how much I’ll pay him?” Vasantrao wrote ‘five’ on the wind-screen with the tip of his finger, and then started adding zeros.

But Keshavrao did not care to see how many zeros he wrote. He was looking into space. His mind was away in the past...

There had been no end to his plans and dreams. Sulocliana would do this, and Sulochana would do that. And there was no earthly reason why his plans should not bear fruit. Sulochana was decidedly set on the road to glory. Nothing was beyond her reach...

But Sulochana had fallen in love with a dancer, called Sekharan, and wanted to marry him. Keshavrao tried to bring her to her senses, speaking to her in affectionate words, asking her to think of her career, warning her not to be led away by foolish passion. He also talked to Sekharan, scolding him, and asking him to leave Sulochana alone. But the fellow pretended to be innocent and helpless. “Why do you suppose that I’m urging Sulochana to worry me? It is she who is urging me. ‘You Should talk to her, not to me.” Then Keshavrao scolded Sulochana. He had expected her to listen to him submissively. But he discovered that a young girl ceases to be meek when she loses her head over a lover. Instead of being cowed down by his show of anger, she went into a fit of anger herself. She returned his hot words with hot words. “Is this Sulochana?” Keshavrao could not help wondering, “and is she speaking to me, her father? No! This is not Sulochana, but some mad girl possessed by the devil!” It was no use arguing with her.

He gave her three resounding slaps across the face. “You will not leave the house without my permission” he told her, “You’ll live under my watch.”

On the third day after this she disappeared. God alone knew where she had run away with Sekharan…..Keshavrao had no news of her except a few bits. She had gone about with Sekharan from place to place, giving dancing concerts. She had a child–a boy. After that Sekharan had deserted her. But she had not returned home. Her whereabouts were unknown. There were rumours, of course. But they were dim. Keshavrao sometimes thought of tracing her exact address and asking her to come . But his wish dried up whenever he looked at the palm of his right hand. It was with this hand that he had slapped her! “I shed all affection as a tree drops its leaves in winter,” he thought. “My heart is now like the leafless tree. And what I did was right. She’s as good as dead for me. I don’t care where she is. Let her go away.”

“Go away my love if you must.”

The music snapped. Keshavrao gave a start. The car had stoppedinfront of Vasantrao’s bunglow.

As he sipped his tea, sitting in the drawing-room, Keshavrao remembered the good old days. Sulochana used to be with him always. She was a great favourite with both Vasantrao and hiswife. “We’ve three sons,” they used to tell their friends, “we very much missed having a daughter. But not now. Becausft we’ve got Sulochana.” Vasantrao had tried his utmost to cure her infatuation for Sekharan. “Go steady, my dear,” he had said to her, “Stick to your career. I’m going to give you an excellent role in my next picture.” But she had turned a deaf ear to his persuasion.

When he finished his tea Vasantrao put his cup in the tray and came and sat near Keshavrao. “Well, let me talk of my business now,” he said, putting a hand on Keshavrao’s . “Where is Sulochana? Tell me. I’ve decided to call her even if she’s at the other end of the world.”

Keshavrao gaped at him...Sulochana? Where was she? Who knew anything about her?..And why was Vasantrao talking….about her again?...

“I’m planning a new picture.” Vasantrao began to explain. “And Sulochana is just the girl fitted for the role. My new music director B. Bhalchandra has struck up wonderful new tunes for the songs. They are simply ravishing, believe me. And he says that Sulochana is just the girl who can do justice to these exquisite Punjabi tunes. People will go mad, hearing them, believe me. But we must get Sulochana to play the role and sing the songs. None else will do.”

Vasantrao went on talking with great zest. Keshavrao kept staring at him, hardly listening to him...Where was Sulochana?…People said, she had a son...Sekharan had left her...But nobody knew where she was and how she lived...He had never tried to know the truth about her. He had let his affection turn to dust like the winter leaves...And now Vasantrao was asking him.

“I was thinking of coming to you for this business. Lucky we met. Give me Sulochana’s address, so that I shall send her an express wire.”

Keshavrao remained silent. He was about to confess that he knew nothing about Sulochana, that he had given her up as dead...But another thought crossed his mind. Vasantrao would call him a cruel father if he knew the truth. Sulochana had disobeyed him, and gone away from him. She should not have behaved so ungratefully. And yet a father has to be kind and forgiving. He must not return harshness for thoughtlessness...Vasantrao would surely call him a bad father if he was told the truth…

But if truth was not to be told, what was left for him to say? He could not lie and give Vasantrao a fictitious address. Keshavrao was caught in a dilemma. He could neither tell a lie, nor tell the truth. He could not think of a suitable reply. He remained silent. But then all of a sudden an idea came to him. This was a good solution of the puzzle, he decided. “You need not bother to send her a wire,” he said, smiling, “I’ll send it. ‘Come immediately’–That’s all you would like me to say, wouldn’t you?”

“But you must make it an express wire, and you must send it today. You’re forgetful.” Vasantrao laughed.

“Oh, no no. You’re mistaken. I’m not that forgetful.”

It was not very late when Keshavrao returned home. He had time enough to shave and take his bath and lunch before he left for the office. He took off his clothes and arranged his shaving things in front of the mirror near the window. He dipped the brush in hot water and spread the soap’s lather thickly on his face. As he did he kept looking out of the window.

There were two old ‘nimb’ trees in a corner of the yard. There was a bower near them covered with fruit vines. In another corner of the yard stood a big mango tree...Keshavrao had looked at these trees and vines every time he had stood before the mirror for a shave.

The scene in the yard changed with the changing seasons. When the rains came, the trees were drenched in water. There would be little pools in the yard in which birds dipped their beaks and brushed their feathers. But soon, with the coming of winter, the yard would become dry, a chilly wind set in, dry and yellow leaves fell from the trees in tremulous showers, and birds deserted the leafless boughs. It seemed as though the trees had become leafless for ever, that their boughs would remain bare always. But then little sprouts of reddish foliage would begin to show themselves on the trees. And one day there would be blossoms on the mango tree, and a new soft fragrance would fill the air...

Keshavrao sniffed as he drew the razor over his cheeks and across his chin. He screwed his eyes and looked at the mango tree. There it is, he said to himself. In between the green velvety leaves of a bough of the mango tree, two little pendents of young blossoms showed themselves!

As he shaved on, he looked at those blossoms again and again. What a miracle of Nature, he thought! Nothing lasts for ever and nothing dies either! Everything perishes, and after perishing, is born again! Nothing lives! Nothing perishes!

When he finished shaving, he called his wife and asked her to prepare his bath. He smoked a cigarette and then left his room intending to cross the passage leading to the bathroom. There was a knock at the door. He opened it. A postal peon gave him a telegram. He returned to his room with it, wondering, who it was from.

He read the message, and stood dumb-founded. He found it impossible to analyse his own feelings at the moment.

“Who is it from?” his wife came into the room and asked.

“It’s from Sulochana,” He held out the paper.

“What does she say?”

Keshavrao read the message, “Arriving tomorrow morning. Meet station.”

Keshavrao had not cared to look at the name of the place. He now read it. “It’s not legible,” he frowned as hetried to decipher the name, “It’s some place with ‘Puram’ at the end. Maybe some town in the South.”

He noticed that his wife’s eyes were full of tears. “Is my bath ready?” he asked. He handed over the wire to her, and went into the bath-room.

Early in the morning on the next day he went to the station. The train was due to arrive at twenty minutes past six. There were lights on the platform which looked a little incongruous with the light of the dawn. There were a few groups of passengers, but the platform looked deserted. Keshavrao walked on the platform to and fro, and kept looking at the clock. There was a soft breeze, and from somewhere in the distance came the scent of mango blossoms...Keshavrao sniffed. Man’s feelings are like blossoms, he thought. They drop and die, but they also spring into life again...

He saw the big head-light of an engine crawling swiftly through the station-yard towards him. The platform came to life an of a sudden. Coolies in red shirts swarmed, and filled the air with shouts. Keshavrao stood against a post and waited, watching each carriage as it sped past him. The train came to a halt. There was a scramble of noisy passengers as they got down from the train. Keshavrao searched the crowd with his eyes, half fearful that he may not spot Sulochana. He even thought of taking a plunge in the crowd...”Father!” He heard, and turned to find Sulochana standing in the doorway of a carriage and waving to him. He hurried towards her.

He put her suitcase on a coolie’s head and walked with her towards the staircase. “Haven’t you brought your boy?” he very much wanted to ask her. But he refrained from the question which, he feared, might be painful. It was not important either. The only thing that mattered at the moment was that Sulochana had come , and that his heart was full of affection for her.

“Is it true, father,” Sulochana was asking him as they hurried out of the station towards the open square, “that there are auto-rickshaws in Poona now?”

“Yes, my dear,” Keshavrao told her, “We shall be going in one.”

As he smiled and looked at her upturned face, many years slipped away, and he could not believe that she was not a small innocent child, clinging to him for protection.