them home.
At the hotel, opium smoke lingered in the air. Lal was in his room.
Lying on his charpoy, Baba Singh was unable to sleep. Across from him, Khushwant was in a similar state, staring blankly and unblinkingly at the ceiling. Without a word, he turned on his side to face the wall.
Dr. Bansal’s undelivered brown-paper-wrapped package still rested on the bedside table. Baba Singh picked it up and turned it over, touching the Calcutta address. He pulled on the strings and unwrapped the brown paper to reveal a greasy box crammed tightly with ladoos. Inside there was a note that read: Mother, please forgive me. Your son, Nalin
A Coconut & a Sword
1911–1914
Family Tree
There were coconuts, and there were swords to slice them open. That is what Dr. Bansal had said about Calcutta. “They thrive in the city. Coconut wallahs sell them from their street carts. ‘Fresh coconut, refreshing, fresh, fresh drink!’ they shout while lopping off the tops with machetes. Right there in front of you.”
The doctor palmed the hard, green coconut that rested in the center of the counter. He lifted it and affectionately began to pet it, like trying to mold its crown into a cone. “A man visiting from Amritsar was here recently and gave it to me. Have you ever tasted one, Baba?”
Baba Singh mutely shook his head.
“Climate here is not good for it. Too far north. But better to ask. Better never to discount the possibility.”
Baba Singh regarded the coconut dispassionately.
“Would you like to try a piece?” Dr. Bansal asked, then abruptly put up his hand without waiting for an answer. “No, you do not have to speak. Of course you do. All children are curious about the undiscovered. It is what makes them healthy. Stronger than adults, I say.” He tossed the coconut gently in the air and caught it with both hands, nearly dropping it. Still, he looked satisfied, blinking and smiling. “Let’s open it up.”
He stepped outside for a moment, propping ajar the door. Banging the coconut against a large rock outside, he grunted with the effort. There was a crunching sound, like stepping on loose gravel, and he returned in a hurry. “Oop, oop, oop!” he said as coconut juice dribbled down his hand to his wrist. Rushing the coconut over to a small bowl, he poured out a whitish liquid. “Machetes are much more efficient. Almost lost all the water.”
The doctor split the coconut, now leeched of its juice, open into two halves and sat in his chair. He paused to push a platter of ladoos toward his silent young friend, like offering a balm intended to aid healing, then began to scrape out the innards of the coconut with a small knife. “Did you know that coconut is the most complete food?” he said. “It is life and survival. Meat, milk, water, and oil.”
Baba Singh wordlessly watched him, absently taking one of the ladoos and pressing it between his thumb and forefinger until it crumbled into a pile of bits on his plate. They had received a telegram several days after Ranjit went to Calcutta. He told them not to wait at every train, that he would let them know when he was coming. After Calcutta he had gone to Hyderabad. Then Bombay. Then Jodhpur. Udaipur. Jaipur. They did not know how he lived, how he managed to pay for food, train tickets, or his telegrams. Perhaps he would search forever. Maybe he would never come back.
The doctor laid his knife on the counter with a clink and offered up a jelly sliver of coconut meat. “Try a piece,” he said, shoving it at Baba Singh, who feebly waved it away.
“Take it,” Dr. Bansal said. “It is life. Survival and all that. It will help.”
When Baba Singh did not reach for the piece, the doctor set it on the plate next to the ladoo crumbs. He seemed to want to say something more, but hesitated. He glanced awkwardly at the burlap sack resting on the lower shelf by the entrance. “Baba,” he said finally, “the train station master came by to see me.”
More
At the hotel, opium smoke lingered in the air. Lal was in his room.
Lying on his charpoy, Baba Singh was unable to sleep. Across from him, Khushwant was in a similar state, staring blankly and unblinkingly at the ceiling. Without a word, he turned on his side to face the wall.
Dr. Bansal’s undelivered brown-paper-wrapped package still rested on the bedside table. Baba Singh picked it up and turned it over, touching the Calcutta address. He pulled on the strings and unwrapped the brown paper to reveal a greasy box crammed tightly with ladoos. Inside there was a note that read: Mother, please forgive me. Your son, Nalin
A Coconut & a Sword
1911–1914
Family Tree
There were coconuts, and there were swords to slice them open. That is what Dr. Bansal had said about Calcutta. “They thrive in the city. Coconut wallahs sell them from their street carts. ‘Fresh coconut, refreshing, fresh, fresh drink!’ they shout while lopping off the tops with machetes. Right there in front of you.”
The doctor palmed the hard, green coconut that rested in the center of the counter. He lifted it and affectionately began to pet it, like trying to mold its crown into a cone. “A man visiting from Amritsar was here recently and gave it to me. Have you ever tasted one, Baba?”
Baba Singh mutely shook his head.
“Climate here is not good for it. Too far north. But better to ask. Better never to discount the possibility.”
Baba Singh regarded the coconut dispassionately.
“Would you like to try a piece?” Dr. Bansal asked, then abruptly put up his hand without waiting for an answer. “No, you do not have to speak. Of course you do. All children are curious about the undiscovered. It is what makes them healthy. Stronger than adults, I say.” He tossed the coconut gently in the air and caught it with both hands, nearly dropping it. Still, he looked satisfied, blinking and smiling. “Let’s open it up.”
He stepped outside for a moment, propping ajar the door. Banging the coconut against a large rock outside, he grunted with the effort. There was a crunching sound, like stepping on loose gravel, and he returned in a hurry. “Oop, oop, oop!” he said as coconut juice dribbled down his hand to his wrist. Rushing the coconut over to a small bowl, he poured out a whitish liquid. “Machetes are much more efficient. Almost lost all the water.”
The doctor split the coconut, now leeched of its juice, open into two halves and sat in his chair. He paused to push a platter of ladoos toward his silent young friend, like offering a balm intended to aid healing, then began to scrape out the innards of the coconut with a small knife. “Did you know that coconut is the most complete food?” he said. “It is life and survival. Meat, milk, water, and oil.”
Baba Singh wordlessly watched him, absently taking one of the ladoos and pressing it between his thumb and forefinger until it crumbled into a pile of bits on his plate. They had received a telegram several days after Ranjit went to Calcutta. He told them not to wait at every train, that he would let them know when he was coming. After Calcutta he had gone to Hyderabad. Then Bombay. Then Jodhpur. Udaipur. Jaipur. They did not know how he lived, how he managed to pay for food, train tickets, or his telegrams. Perhaps he would search forever. Maybe he would never come back.
The doctor laid his knife on the counter with a clink and offered up a jelly sliver of coconut meat. “Try a piece,” he said, shoving it at Baba Singh, who feebly waved it away.
“Take it,” Dr. Bansal said. “It is life. Survival and all that. It will help.”
When Baba Singh did not reach for the piece, the doctor set it on the plate next to the ladoo crumbs. He seemed to want to say something more, but hesitated. He glanced awkwardly at the burlap sack resting on the lower shelf by the entrance. “Baba,” he said finally, “the train station master came by to see me.”
More
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