The Almond Sapling (Short Story)

When did I first get hooked to this almond tree? Or, for that matter the interest in plants, trees, and seeds? 

As a young boy surrounded by three girls, I got the most attention from our aunt and grandmother. When I got the mild harmless jaundice grandmother took care of it with herbal medicine. Every time I got fevers, chills, or cough she did wonders with her skilled medical expertise. It would be black pepper decoction, little globules of jaggery, or the extract from the garden “Bhangra” (Bhringaraj) – a miraculous herb, the Eclipta prostrate. Thus, every time I ran high temperature due to a virus or bacterial infection she would come to my rescue. Whole night she used to check my pulse and temperature (just with touch) and offer her miraculous healing home made golis from one of her bottles. For young children, getting the temperature under control quickly and boosting appetite promptly yields rapid rewards. Most children recover due to their own innate immunity prowess if kept in clean isolated beds. Our grandmother did all that and much more for her grandchildren. 

Grandma had her own unique difficulties even while living with her lovely daughters. She wanted to spend time meditating and exploring the Hindu sacred texts and the treatises on Brahma Sutras. She slowly started giving up on many comforts like food, clothes, and physical comforts. The lady totally abhorred eating in metal plates. In her younger days she had enjoyed eating in fancy silverware. She had seen all those glitzy things and now she wanted no part of all that “paraphernalia” – (iron alloy) metal tumblers, (German silver) metal plates, washing, and wiping, etc. It would add only more work and distraction for her. She barely ate one meal a day, skipping the night meals. Occasionally she would indulge in making a cream of rice dish for dinner and that too she shared with all her grand children. So, we as little children wanted to help her some how. But how? How to help her without a paisa in the pocket?

There were two big almond trees (Terminalia catappa) in our backyard and they’re always full of leaves.  With a sickle attached to a long bamboo pole we used to cut small branches and select all nice flat leaves for grandma. Then with small toothpick-like 1” pins (from coconut leaf or grass brooms) we would join five or six almond leaves into a 10” circular plate. About two-dozen plates would take care of grandma’s plate problem for two weeks. It was a fun activity for all the girls and me. That solved the problem of dish washing for the elderly lady; this was decades before the ‘Earth Day’ dawned on the modern intellectuals from the West. It was one of those chance encounters with the tree that made me got hooked to the almond tree. It was beautiful to watch during the winter months, December through January – all the leaves turn bright red and fall off one by one. Around the same fall time I watched its cherry red smooth elliptical fruit. The birds loved the fruit for its tarty sweet pulp but nobody could get to its white kernel. That is the favorite hobby of idle children like myself. 

I used to spend hours under the trees’ canopy looking for all nice plump red half eaten fruits lying around the tree bases. Then it was a big operation: First you collect lots of fruits and then try to crack open the hard outer shell. Both hands and my half pants would get stained with red juice and all the labor was for the lovely yummy white almond kernels. Occasionally a finger or toe would get crushed while beating the fruit and that closed the session for the day. This is not the almond of the northern cold climate. But it is widely seen in the south, Maharashtra, and other parts of India. 

When we moved to the village I got lucky with lots of games and outdoor distractions. There were more than twenty tall coconut trees in the backyard leading to the big canal. While going and coming from the canal I would dreamily walk under the coconut trees listening to the early morning (twilight) calls of owls. Some seasons I watched with wonder the lovely hanging nests of “the golden sparrow” (weaver bird). Those hanging nests often have four or five bedrooms lined with the soft silk cotton fibers or the waspy seeds of jilledu (Calotropis). In one of those intricate layered hidden bedrooms for its chicks – there you could get a glimpse of a parent’s love. When the glistening chicks finally come out – that’s a great miracle of creation. But now and then the harsh cyclonic storms would tear up the nests from coconut leaves and scatter them. I could not save those abandoned eggs and often I would return home crestfallen. 

Watching my nimble hands and curiosity, mother slowly introduced me to planting, seed gathering, and growing from stem cuttings. We had a small piece of vacant land close to our outdoor bathroom. There I would play in the soil with a kitchen spoon or dosa steel spatula, digging little canals, and inserting little seeds – all for fun in the evenings. There was no TV, no radio, and on some cloudy days nothing to do. In one of those playful acts I must have tucked an almond seed deep into the soil. Probably I forgot about it for two or three months. Some time in the rainy season I watched the almond seedling sprout and stand courageously like a NCC (scouts) cadet. Little by little I tended to it gently making a little mound around it and watering it gently. Mother also got excited and could not believe it. The almond seed has a very hard kernel (exterior). Slowly the tiny plant grew into a luscious green 4’ tall seedling. (Photo from the Internet) 

Then one evening I came home from the school. Throwing the books on the front bench, I hurriedly went to the outdoor coconut leaf woven paneled open-air bathroom. After washing my feet, hand, and face I was perusing my little patch of garden with small intricate waterways. Everything seemed ok except for a (square) foot of disturbed soil. There was something amiss. At first, I could not figure it out. But soon something tugged at my heart – oh! I spotted my missing four feet tall almond sapling. “Amma, what happened?” I screamed from the front yard.  She quickly came out with a glass of cold water and hugged me. She settled on the front steps and nestled me into her lap. “Our neighbor’s mother (a rich landlord) asked for the almond plant and I could not refuse. We’ve the big almond tree anyway in our yard,” she went on explaining while combing my curly hair with her coarse work-hardened fingers. How could she impart a sense of decorum and community feeling into a little kid? How could she communicate the terrible exigencies and hardships of a frugal bare bones existence in the village? Through all our trials of want and sickness, only her childhood friendship with the farming community and select group of friends saved us; they extended invaluable moral support through father’s heart attack episode. Looking back now I understand her helplessness to explain life’s difficult situations in simple words. She did not want me know the bitter painful truths; her hard task was to protect my innocence and precious childhood. That day I could see tears in her eyes. The landlord’s family was very kind and helpful to us on many occasions: Lots of times I collected fragrant double gardenia flowers from their front entrance. Whenever I approached their premises with a pail for buttermilk or butter, they always acceded our urgent requests. They let us wander through her multistory palace and play in their backyards. At least twice, the same lady sent us a platter full of dal, rice, ghee, tamarind, and vegetables when we’re hosting a famous astrologer from Anakapalle (AP). 

Perhaps mother had a vague prescience. In another six months we would again move to a nearby coastal town twenty miles away. Losing an almond sapling is a small thing in the big scheme of things. I had to learn losing and putting the sensitive broken heart together again and again many times. Copyright 2025 by the author

An Exceptional Maha-Sivaratri

An Exceptional Maha-Sivaratri

I thought of sharing some old time stories with young children, who are the spark and promise of next generation. Somewhere, either in India or abroad in a remote place in Africa or Australia, there may be a child curious about the traditional Hindu festivals. That youngster may have access only to Internet, perhaps in a school, library or (neighbor’s) house. In certain places, there may not be even a Hindu temple nearby. How to encourage such a child’s imagination, confidence, and knowledge about Hindu traditions? Though many urban (I mean Indian city dwelling) children have access to plethora of TV channels, they too lack the good fortune of earlier generations – i.e., close kinship with grand parents, elder uncles, and aunts. So, without a single color photo, I try to depict a Sivaratri night, as it happened once.

Numerous stories, books, and songs adorn the Hindu religion. In principle, one can start from any single work (Ramayana, Mahabharata, Srimad-Bhagavatam, or a devotional song) and initiate an innocent enquiry in earnest. My own understanding (very infinitesimal, at best) mostly originated from my family, school lessons, college texts, temples, and free public discourses. Sivaratri is celebrated in our family, in many ways. Our parents used to go to Srisailam (AP) just for that one auspicious night. Looking back, I really envy my parents and grand parents. They had strong motivations and great endurance; they could bear enormous difficulties and make trips to Varanasi, Rameswaram, Kalahasti, Annavaram, or Puri on a shoestring budget. They used to cook meals on the way without ever stepping into a diner. 

With finals in April, February or March is usually a busy month for all studious kids in Andhra Pradesh. In high school days, I used to join my mother in the festival observance, with a prayer and fasting. Mother would indulge me with her unbounded affections, so she would keep plenty of fresh bananas, guava, and sweets like rava laddu or chalimidi for me for this special day. One year I came home during February from university. I was reading about Aurobindo then. How did it occur to me? What triggered that unique journey to Mummidivaram village? I cannot recall now. Of course, many in the Godavari district(s) were aware that Sivaratri was a special day for one small village. A saint, known to many as Balayogi (not to be confused with a later day politician), had gone into silent meditation several decades back. Only on Sivaratri night, visitors were allowed to go near and watch him in total silence. I sought my father’s permission for the short trip. We were living just twenty miles away from the village. Sivaratri, being a very dear day for father, he readily agreed.

I believe I started around 3:00 p.m. from home. There were frequent buses between Narasapuram and Doddipatla. Probably I bought two bananas on the way. I boarded the red yellow RTC bus and soon landed almost near the bank of Godavari (Doddipatla revu/wharf). Back in the village, my mother had to struggle hard to make our coconut trees productive, bear fruits; she had to pamper them with fertilizer, salt, mulch, etc. But here, right next to Godavari waters, these stately trees with their outstretched necks to heaven were so happy with head loads of fruits. And why would they not be happy? Every day they get fresh coastal breeze and every night they sleep listening to sweet lullabies from the river water. That is why, coastal Andhra coconuts contain such delicate sweet (coconut) water - the inner creamy coconut so, so delicious.

I got into a small sailboat and crossed the river. Crossing Godavari, Krishna, or Ganges – the act itself is purifying. Mother used to offer marigolds, ganneru (Oleander) and copper coins every time we crossed Godavari in a train. I sat close to the side, with my hand touching the waves. On land it would have been a bit hotter in the afternoon sun, but on the river, it was cool with gentle breeze. I felt the pleasant rhythmic oscillations of waves. Upon landing, I walked up to the bus stop and boarded another RTC bus towards Amalapuram. It was only a standing room for most of the journey; it did not bother me, as it was a short half an hour ride. 

I expected a large crowd at Mummidivaram. As I was reaching the small temple precincts, I could feel people gathering all around, the crowd getting bigger. There were two or three tourist buses from Tamilnadu parked in the grounds. It was in the middle of vacant rice fields. The local collector used to keep the building open on Sivaratri day for visitors and then the temple was closed (doors locked with seals) for the entire year, with Balayogi(s) inside. I cannot stay without meal for six hours, how can anyone stay years without bath, food, or rest? That too in just one yoga-asana? Prior to joining the queue, I washed my face, hands, and feet. I fasted that night, skipping supper. We had to walk through empty rice fields in long lines before we could get a glimpse of the elder Balayogi. I now apologize, after all these years, to the local farmers for trampling their fields. I think I got into the line around 9 p.m. Many in the line were very quiet with folded hands, we were just thinking about Siva and the yogi. For some reason, I felt a bit feverish while standing in line for hours. There was nothing to hold on to, no bench to sit either. Just a rope, perhaps, to guide the line. I had heard about the place and the saint earlier, but it was the first time seeing anyone anywhere in such a long uninterrupted meditation. Around two in the early morning, suddenly there was a brief cool shower. All of us got wet, but no one, not a single person moved from the line. We had no umbrellas. We just endured for our ‘darshan’. 

Soon, we were right in front of a peaceful embodiment of purity and absolute silence. They, the guards, had warned us earlier: be absolutely calm and no talk in the presence of Balayogi. Once our crawling queue abruptly came to a standstill. Later we came to understand why it had happened. The saint had just exhibited annoyance, no, not by speech or stern looks. No, he moved slightly, a small jerking motion, his body had felt some external disturbance.  The presence of a large crowd, I guessed. A sudden perturbation in a pond of silence!  He was extremely sensitive. Only after half an hour of patient waiting and peace, only then, the guards let the line move again. There were no cameras, no flashes, and no microphones. (to be contd.) Copyright 2010 by the author

A Memorable Bhishma-ekadasi

A Memorable Bhishma-ekadasi

This February 23rd has been an auspicious day for all Vaishnava devotees. It celebrates Bhishma-ekadasi. Many Hindu traditionalists will observe the occasion with a simple ablution near a well, river, canal, or sea and a trip to nearby Vishnu temple. 

Like the present day virus dislocation in routine life (it is more accentuated here in the USA), there was a similar discordant period when I was in school. Due to endless agitations and bandh disruptions, our university was shut down to limit the property damage and personal injuries; all the messes, shops, and markets were closed too. The entire transportation came to a standstill. It was truly a dismal bleak season – tough and hard times for everyone, for employees, students, and farmers. Despite all the gloom, there were a few isolated memorable incidents.

Somehow I reached my native town, after availing every possible mode of transportation. The erratic trip included a rickshaw, RTC bus, crowded taxi, and a three-mile tiring walk home. All the way home, it was a stop-and-go with very little access to food or water. It was a forced unscheduled vacation at home. There was not much to do except bike riding, trips to local temple, and odd errands. Very little shopping was possible, as all the shops had either closed or run out of goods. People had very little cash due to the frequent bank closings.

Yet those were very interesting days, as I recall now. I got to read several rare philosophical books, all borrowed from the Ramakrishna Mission. I could have studied the class books but it was difficult to concentrate on scientific matters during “a student strike hiatus”. (I can understand what the students are going through right now, with zoom and remote studies) One day I was chatting with friends in a Khaddar shop on the front porch. My friends suggested a trip to Antarvedi, a small hamlet near Bay of Bengal. It is at the confluence of the river and sea, at the mouth of Godavari River, along one of its branches. Being young we were more interested in the large gathering at the Narasimha temple (Antarvedi Thirtham/Fair). Seeing big crowds, dipping in the sea, and mixing with people and shopping at the fair– those were the things we all expected and anticipated eagerly. I readily agreed to join the crowd. It turned out to be a very pleasant learning experience as I’ve come to realize much later.

Life is, as someone has observed “a movement in relationship”.  Every moment need to be cherished and one has to feel the crisis in each second. Only that is life. It is for that celebration (of inner spirit), all our festivals were born. But the Hindu festivals are unique; they are a part of a greater story – story of the ancient man, (his) story of our ancestors, who lived along the Ganges.

We all started from our coastal town, Kshirapuri, around seven in the evening. It was a simple exhilarating bicycle trip. I did not own a bike, so I got a double (a ride) with an energetic friend. Getting a ride on those old bikes meant sitting on the metal carriage behind. It was not bad, but the hard metal frame started pinching me after two miles. We rode along the bank of big irrigation canal enjoying moonlight. (What a pity? Now, in 2020 hardly a small boat (forget the motor launch) can move in that canal without being pushed. Water has dramatically disappeared from the rivers and canals due to mismanagement and population growth. Not every thing in the last three decades has been progress in India.) I took five rupees from my father for the entire trip. It took care of lodging for the night, temple visit, return bus fare, a few idlis, and bananas for Lord Vishnu. The inside of a ripe banana is always pure and ready for consumption immediately. Thus, bananas and coconuts are the favorite fruits at Indian temples. There was no need for any map, GPS, or directions. We all knew intuitively how to reach Antarvedi. The true test and power of religion is this: There may be some hiccups on the way, but the individual will always reach the sought, with joy. All we had to follow for our trip is the water on our right side. The wide canal would directly take us to the mouth of Godavari. We reached Narasapuram (the name itself proclaims that it is a town of Lord Narasimha) around 9 p.m., and we still had to ride on the Godavari bank for another forty minutes before we could catch a launch (motor boat). 

On the way we regaled ourselves with the prevalent movie stories and political problems. My friends’ topics revolved around their own difficulties with agriculture, crops, and running a small shop. I could only appreciate bits and parts of their conversation as I had moved to bigger cities in pursuit of higher education. Their unalloyed simplicity and overflowing friendly behavior impressed me always; it really overwhelmed me. Even today, I get the same warm reception in small villages and towns of Andhra. Riding through the muddy bank, under the canopy of coconut trees on either side, we reached the end of the road. Now we were in front of frothy jumping Godavari meeting its long sought companion, the eastern sea. Finally with a bit of jostling, weight lifting, we, with four bikes and one motorcycle were nestled into a small boat. From the boat into a motor launch, it all happened on the water. I never witnessed a river so joyful; it was the most beautiful scene in that glistening moonlit night. (This is what they wanted to convey in the movie, Mayabazar with the song, “lahiri lahiri” లాహిరి లాహిరి.)

Soon we reached the little village and we all took shelter at a small house. Whether it was just a cow shed or front porch, I cannot recall. But we wanted a little rest, brief sleep to recover from the journey’s fatigue. At the crack of dawn, we all got up to take a dip in the sea. Our bikes were of little use on the sandy road, so we all walked with the big festival crowd. What a glorious sunrise in the Bay of Bengal! Earth was still recovering from the enthralled sleep with moon and only the sun’s gentle kiss on the right cheek could coax her shake off lethargy. Entire trip could be encapsulated into that one colorful sunrise scene. The whole beach rim was full of big and small crowds, children teasing the waves with little palms, and elders bathing with clothes. Who can really control the whims and currents of ocean or even Godavari? In the distance I caught a glimpse of a bottle, a cloth, and savaram (wig). When we reached the Narasimha temple with wet salty dripping clothes, the lines were very long. There was no way we could enter the inner sanctum and be out of the crowd that evening. So, we had to leave our offerings on the temple parapet. From a distance we prayed to Lakshmi-Narasimha. Yes, it is always Lakshmi-Narasimha or Sri Narasimha. Always, we remember the couple together (Vishnu and Lakshmi). As Prahlada declared, “Vishnu is everywhere, there need be no doubt”. So, our offerings genuinely reached Vishnu. In Bhagavatam, it is said that Narasimha was in great rage after killing Prahlada’s father, Hiranya Kasipu, like a super boiling water, beyond 100° C. The Lord cooled only upon Prahlada’s entreating and only then Lakshmi approached Him (See the old B/W movie, Chenchu Lakshmi, చెంచు లక్ష్మి) Copyright 2021 by the author (to be Contd.)