The Hope of Shridula (16 page)

19

October 1946

H
arvest!" Ashish called.

The sun had barely begun to rise pink and gold on a near perfect morning. Not a cloud marred the dawning sky.

"Harvest!"

For as many years as Ashish could remember, it had been Boban Joseph Varghese who had called the workers to harvest. But Boban Joseph was gone now, and the call was long overdue. The paddies hung heavy with ripened rice that had known far too much rain. It must be brought in quickly, before it rotted Already settlement carpenters had sharpened the scythes at the whetting wheels so that workers' cuts would be swift and clean. Harvest tools lay in piles, water jars stacked next to them.

"Harvest!"

Laborers, sluggish and reluctant all season long, caught Ashish's excitement. Chattering excitedly, they snatched up their assigned tools and moved out toward the paddies.

"Huh! Rice in even this best paddy is stunted," Dinkar complained to Ashish.

"Hush!" Ashish warned. "We will do what we can and express no regret over what we cannot do."

"India for Indians! No more British domination!" shouted Wafi, Rajeev's six-year-old son, as he marched around the landlord's house.

"Amina! Stop your son this instant!" Rajeev called to his wife. To Saji Stephen he complained, "Do you see, Father? My own son—hardly more than a baby but a Communist already! I will not have it!"

Self-rule and communism. Violence and riots. A Muslim daughter-in-law under his roof and a chanting grandchild marching around it. How could Saji Stephen think about the rice harvest with all that chaos weighing him down? And always, always, his two sons' never-ending arguments.

"That Muslim Jinnah will not let up on his presumption of two nations," Rajeev stated. "
Hinduization,
that is what he says. India is not even independent, and already he must pronounce it a failure."

"Already, you say?" Nihal Amos countered. "Your friends, the British, could at least have attempted to find a solution that would keep India as a British protectorate."

"It was Jinnah who provoked the riots with his call for Direct Action! No one can deny that!"

Saji Stephen tried to interrupt the argument, but Nihal Amos jumped to his feet and shook his fist in his brother's face. "It was nothing but a peaceful demonstration until the British went and changed it into a riot! The British turned guns on innocent Indians and started murdering them!"

"But the Hindus were the ones who—"

"Stop it!" Saji Stephen cried. "Both of you, stop! Look at yourselves. This is why there will never be a united India!"

The entire village depended on the Varghese rice harvest. Whenever a villager passed a member of the Varghese family, the accepted greeting was to touch one's forehead, bow, and ask after the crops. But this year was like no other. The Brahmin went through the ritual of blessing the crops, but few paid him any mind.

In the days of Saji Stephen's father, Mammen Samuel Varghese, a spice merchant by the name of Prem Rao was one of those who always paid careful attention to the harvest. And not just to the landlord's rice; his pepper vines and spice trees were of even greater interest to Prem. But along with Mammen Samuel, old Prem had long ago passed from this life.

Prem Rao left behind a proud legacy: his two sons, Babar and Irfan. Prem Rao had assumed the boys would follow him in his business. But unlike their father, the two young men did not consider village life as merchants the only possibility for them. Instead, they grew their moustaches full and bushy and joined the Indian army. So when Japan invaded Burma in 1942 and captured Indian territory, the Rao brothers marched off to fight. To fight for not Britain but for India.

The Burmese campaign was long and hard, especially for the Indian troops. Though they fought valiantly, the British commanders still considered the Indians expendable. And when battles pressed in closer to home, British soldiers were pulled away from Burma and reassigned to Europe. Arms and munitions, food and supplies, followed the British boys, leaving the beleaguered Indian troops on the Burmese front desperate.

On one particularly cold night, Irfan worried over his sick brother. He gave Babar his last morsels of food and the rest of his water, then tucked his own blanket around him. Babar died that night. After that, Irfan forced himself to survive for three reasons: his two sons, and his brother's boy, who no longer had a father.

Irfan Rao arrived home in 1945 to find his sons and his nephew all card-carrying members of the Communist Party.

"What is the meaning of this?" Irfan demanded of Nihal Amos. "You are the landlord's son. Why could you not leave these boys alone? Why could you not let me and my brother be proud of them?"

"Would you be prouder if your sons and nephew had died fighting battles for the British?" Nihal Amos asked.

Irfan Rao's face clouded and he ran his hand over his bush of a moustache. His lower lip curled down in the same way his father's had done. "It is not my fault the British declared us belligerents against the Axis powers," he said. "They never even bothered to consult the Indian Congress."

"That is not what I meant," Nihal Amos said.

"It is not my fault the Japanese invaded Burma, then pushed their way into India. It is not my fault the British had more important matters to tend to than us. It is not my fault that my brother died."

"The British only care about the British," Nihal Amos said. "Why does it bring you pride to die for them?"

Irfan, grunting, waved Nihal Amos away. "You Communists, with your strikes and trade unions! It's you who have brought the fight to us."

"
American Modal Arabi Kadalil!"
Nihal Amos recited. "Our slogan: American
Model into the Arabian Sea!
Do you understand? We will do whatever is required to achieve our goal. Anything! We will fight the police, if we must. We will even fight the army!"

"Then the army will kill every one of you," Irfan said. "My sons and nephew, too, I fear."

Nihal Amos looked the older man in the eye. "I tell you the truth, Irfan Rao. The fight is not over. What we have seen is only a rehearsal for the real revolution. We will have a Communist India!"

Irfan pulled himself up to his full height. "I am an Indian!" he said. "I am proud to be a respected member of a respected family of the respected Vaisya caste. You are higher caste than I, but I am higher caste than the multitudes around me. You, Master Landlord's son, have no right to take my standing away from me—nor from my family!"

The field laborers moved across the rice paddy in a long line, all swinging their scythes in rhythm with one another. Step, swipe! Step, swipe! Step, swipe!

"Hari, pick up the pace!" Dinkar ordered.

Hari moved his skinny legs faster, swung his bony arms wider. But his rhythm wasn't there.

"You are doing fine!" Ashish called to the boy. "Keep swinging that scythe!"

Dinkar mopped his face with the edge of his
chaddar
and scowled at Ashish.

"This is his first harvest on the cutting line," Ashish said to Dinkar. "Everyone has to learn."

The women came along behind to gather up the stalks of rice and tie them into bundles.

"Pick up the pace!" Dinkar shouted to Hari. "If you cannot keep up, you can go back to carrying water with the small boys!"

Hari stepped more quickly and swung his scythe faster, and as he did so he clenched his teeth and hardened his face.

By the time Jyoti came in from the paddy, Zia's cooking fire was already hot and her rice boiling. "I threw in an extra-large handful," Zia called. "Bring some of your chili peppers. You and your boys can share our pot tonight."

"You still have rice?" Jyoti asked in amazement.

"Some. Shridula's allotment."

Jyoti hurried her bony frame over to the chili plant beside her hut and pulled off two peppers.

Zia stirred in three pinches of curry and Jyoti's chilies. When they had cooked into the rice, she spooned out a dish full of spiced rice for Ashish. After he settled himself, she dished out bowls for Hari and Falak. The younger boy grabbed his share, scooped up a bite in his fingers, and shoved it into his mouth before he even sat down. Hari took his and moved off alone.

The women sat down to wait their turn to eat. "Everyone's rice bags are almost empty again," Zia said to Jyoti. "All of us are hungry. But the harvest is almost over. Soon our bags will be full again."

When Hari finished eating, he spread sleeping mats out close to the pepper plants for his mother and brother, the same as he did every night. But not his. His sleeping mat he laid out on the opposite side of the hut, away from everyone else.

As the first shards of pink and gold streaked across the sky, as the sun prepared to rise on another cloudless morning, Jyoti dragged her stiff body off her sleeping mat and started the cooking fire. She took out what remained of her package of wheat flour and prepared a pot of watery porridge.

"Falak!" she called out to her younger son as he came from around the hut. "Where is Hari? Your meal is almost ready."