Transgression and Other Stories by Pratibha Ray

Author:Pratibha Ray [Ray, Pratibha]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Black Eagle Books
Published: 2020-05-26T22:00:00+00:00

The Mango Tree

Translated by Adyasha Das

Old Mahikant was computing the age of that innocent mango tree. Each branch was overladen with bunches of young mangoes. During the swing festival, every year, daughter Prathama had swung on these boughs. Elder son, Adyapran, had religiously celebrated his birthday, each year, in the cool shade of this tree. Not the delicious mango of the tree, but this cool shade attracted him the most. Ayushman, the youngest, however, was greedy for every single fruit of the tree. He had been fond of mangoes since his very childhood. The history of the tree is intertwined with Ayushman's greed for mangoes.

When Ayushman was learning to eat, the bazaar was awaiting the arrival of the baiganpalei mango, a popular variety. On the day of his first riceeating ceremony, a greedy Ayushman had preferred the mango in brother Adyapran’s plate to the milk sweet dish in the new silver cup, served to him. With his tiny hands, he had snatched the mango from Adyaprana’s plate. And then Adyapran's unending tears! After that Mahikant bought the choicest of mangoes from the bazaar. But no matter how many mangoes he got, the children always fought among themselves for more. Basumati too was no less fond of mangoes. Before the children even learnt to eat, Mahikant had teased Basumati about the heap of mango skins near her plate. But the more the children’s hankering for mangoes grew, the less became Basumati’s craving for them. Mahikant no longer saw more than a slice in her plate. She resisted his coaxing. "No. The children will want more later. Mangoes don't suit me anymore.” Mahikant laughed silently. He knew that even if he got a basket of mangoes, Basumati's children would still want more and Basumati would no longer take more than a slice. None of the favourite dishes of the children would agree with Basumati's system any longer.

The memories of yesteryears were rolling by, one after the other, in a row.

It was Mahikant's habit to bring Basumati something or the other when he got back from his tours. But that time he had stunned her with his gift; he had chosen for her a tender mango sapling. Four reddish delicate leaves opened outwards. With utmost care, he had carried home the young sapling; with still greater care, Basumati took it from his hands, as though it was not a plant with four reddish leaves but a creature with delicate hands and feet. Not a sapling but a newborn baby, her twentyone-day-old son, Ayushman. Ever so gently, she planted it in a corner of the garden facing the verandah. She protected it faithfully from the many storms and tempests.

When the children were unwell, Basumati sat up through the nights, dozing fitfully, touching their foreheads. In just the same way, Basumati would sit up, startled, in the middle of a stormy night. What if the tender sapling breaks? She would awaken the servant boy and put up a bamboo support beside it. If insects troubled

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