Five Mango Trees

The sun rose upon a tranquil world, and beamed down upon the peaceful village like a benediction.
-- The Adventures of Tom Sawyer

Prologue

July 10, 1969. Indira Gandhi is the Prime Minister of India, man is nine days away from walking on the moon and hippie culture is permeating across the world. On that day, I was born in Renukoot, a young town in a remote part of eastern Uttar Pradesh in India.

From where I was born, the holy city of Benaras was about 100 miles away and Allahabad about 150 miles. And so I grew up immersed in the virtues of the Ganges at the Dashashamedh Ghat in Benaras and witnessing the untiring convergence of the three rivers in Allahabad causing the Triveni Sangam. Contrary to what one may expect, there was no dearth of role models in this remote part of the world. People prided themselves that both the first President and the first Prime Minister of the country credited their beginnings to this part of the country. The road between Benaras and Allahabad bridged the dichotomy of 'church and state', the former a seat of Hinduism while Naini, the suburb of Allahabad was where Nehru energized his electorate.

Nestled in the valleys of the Vindhyachal Ranges, Renukoot was in a lot of ways an outcome of Nehru's dream of modern India. It was a creation of G.D. Birla's juxtaposed business model of capitalism coupled with public service, and wealth creation combined with national development. And everyday, the model worked well. Birla's enterprise built plants and metal fabrication units with the same vigor as temples and schools.

It is said that Birla wanted to start an iron and steel factory and churn out pillars of civilization. Nehru's government policies detracted him from competing with Tata's Jamshedpur, but urged him to pursue some other venture in this undeveloped part of the country. Birla then decided to build a factory to produce a type of metal that was becoming popular in the west – aluminum. A sign outside Renukoot said, “Welcome to the white gold town.” If you happened to visit the local Guest House in Renukoot, you would see a photograph taken during the inauguration of the factory -- Nehru and Birla standing at the helm of a Willy's Jeep waving at people. The black and white photograph had aptly captured that moment together, these leaders united by their vision of a modern India, separated only by their path to it.

Renukoot was a fascinating, albeit an inconspicuous place. On any given day, the skyline would present a fusion of mountain ranges, temples on hilltops, and tall chimneys puffing out white smoke. This skyline never changed. The place never changed. Everything remained the same, day after day, year after year -- at least for the first 16 years of my life. Friends never changed; rarely did anyone leave the place and seldom did new ones join. Our life revolved around approximately a two-square-mile-area. On Sundays or for school trips we ventured out to other quaint little hamlets -- Renusagar, Robertsganj, Vindhyachal, Hathinala and Obra. A mile out of town in any direction and you would start approaching small bastis --Turra and Murdhawa. All this was my world from my diaper through puberty to the mid-teens.

Renukoot was the true cauldron. We all had roots in different parts of the country but when we took residence in the two-square-mile-area we had only one thing in common -- we were comrades in isolation. Over the course of decades we all lost our identities -- there were no Punjabis, no Rajasthanis, no Bengalis, no Gujaratis and no Tamilians. We were all simmering in a pot called Renukoot. Within the two-square-mile-area, you would also find a mosque, a church and a temple.

This is the story of Renukoot and me, of nostalgia, of childhood years, from a time long gone.

The Story

I was born late in the night in one of the west wards of Hindalco Hospital. My arrival was overdue since my mother was almost 10 months pregnant. It is said that I was born bald, close to 10 pounds and somewhat 'longer' than most kids. Being late in the night, my brother was allowed to sleep through before being told of the new addition the next morning. Later on he more than made up for it by keeping me to the confines of his bedroom and charging 1 Rupee each per visit by his friends. But, before I go any further, let me step further back.

Bauxite mines, natural water supply and labor were abundantly available around Renukoot. What was missing was technology, engineers and all the skilled human capital required to get a complex enterprise going. This is where my father and several others fit in. My father was one of the original engineers charted with the task to get the unit operational. In 1961, in this middle of nowhere place, he was joined by other very qualified people from all parts of the country. These adventurous people had left their homes to move to this part of the country. With no indigenous aluminum production technology available, the Birlas had collaborated with Kaiser Aluminum of the US. During the period Kennedy was President and John Kenneth Galbraith his envoy to India, Renukoot had its share of Americans. These Americans had built modern homes in a setting then called the American Colony. They came with their air-conditioners and household goods from Sears to join hands with some Indians to create an oasis of industrialization in a largely primitive part of the world. They succeeded.

Renukoot for most city-folk would be a non-place. Looking back, it seems unimaginable that we lived in a town that had one petrol station, one Super Bazaar (in a strange way, Renukoot's version of the west's hypermarket) and no restaurants worth writing about. Eventually there would be a railway station and one commuter train would run once a day connecting the hamlet to the capital. A lone ramshackle movie hall would be an outing on Sundays. You had to bring your umbrella in this indoor theater, lest it rained.

Everyone knew everyone else in this town. The sabjiwalas, Nandkishore, the shop-owner, the doctors in the hospital, the Pandit (Narad) at the temple and yes, the person who kept your score in the billiards room -- Marker, perpetually an old man who did not let his hernia or asthma come in the way of good, accurate score-keeping. The breadwalla had his own personality and everyday he would roll down the hill-ways on his bicycle calling out in a nasal twang “Breaannnd.” The dairyman who came with his two buckets of milk hanging on the side of his bicycle was always doubted for watering down the contents. Mothers had to step out and ask one of these guys if they had seen Raju or Sanju or Pakku or Kichu and lo and behold, you would be tracked down at the speed of satellite navigation. In the latter years, to my dismay, the familiarity between the school teachers and my parents got in the way of some good old little boy freedom. For example, the news that I was made to savor the sights of the mountain ranges outside the classroom made it home a little too often and too fast to my comfort. A trip downhill from the school to devour samosas did not go unnoticed by the wily 'Sirs and Madams' and soon there would be an embargo on those minor adventures. Some tried to discreetly discover the contents of a 'Charminar' and failed -- the news made it back home at the speed of a lit matchstick. Yes, everybody knew everyone else.

The part of town that we lived in had a club with a heavily air-conditioned billiards room, two table tennis tables and a 'magazine room'. In the summers, the routine was to play 10-12 games of table tennis, barge into the heavily air-conditioned billiards room to dry yourself off and then go back in and play another 10-12 games. This back and forth went on till the club attendant came and said, “Mummy called and she wants you back home for dinner.”

A giant school bus invaded the tranquility of our colony four times a day. We used to drag ourselves towards the bus stop two of the four times and run home in soiled clothes the other two times. The bus driver was Smith, an Anglo-Indian who we found to be an exotic species. I remember we used to ask him if he drank malt whiskey every night. To that, he would respond with a roaring laughter and swerve the bus on a sharp turn throwing us all off our feet. As we progressed on to puberty, he also helped us boldly observe the fairer sex with an eye for detail.

Our house was the fourth one on the right and second from last as you went down the hill from the main road. As you faced the house from the outside, on the left, sideways to the kitchen area, was a small orchard of five mango trees. Every other year, the trees would come laden with fruit. I still do not know why they would skip a year, but that was the sort of fact we grew up with and never questioned. Across from the mango trees in the back was a lemon tree, a guava tree and a peepul tree; the latter was said to host ghosts in the nights and with this knowledge I made sure that I never dared open the curtains when it became dark.

My earliest memories of childhood are all about summer -- a long and grueling period that stretched from late April through July when eventually monsoon brought relief. Of course when the monsoons came, there were thunderstorms and hail. I would await the hailstorms with excitement. From the back window, I would see the shower of ice gradually cover the green grass with shining beads, each the size of a marble. At the first sign of slow down, I would run outside and pick up the little cold icicles and put them in my mouth. Drenched in the slow rain and with a handful of icicles, I would then run to my friends' houses to share the booty and add to it before…before they melted.

The arrival of summer brought the distinct citrus mango aroma around the house. In the early part of summer, my mother used to direct the gardeners to tie up the bunch of mango buds with a piece of cloth right on the branches. She used to say that this would ensure that the mangoes would ripen and also detract the monkeys. While playing hide and seek, no one dared go under the mango trees lest the mosquitoes attack.

Summers in eastern UP are harsh. Temperatures rise and stay over 40 degrees C for a good couple of months. If that wasn't enough, a wind typical of that region called loo would suck the energy out of you. All outdoors activities for kids would conclude before 8.00 am in the morning and start only after 5.00 pm. I remember gauging the temperatures outside by touching my father's safety helmet when he came back for lunch.

In the afternoons, all the kids stayed home. Crossing the road to go to a neighbor's was too much of an ordeal. More importantly, the house would be cool. Just before the summer arrived, a window or two in the house would be converted to an 'exhaust fan'. An exhaust fan was a complex structure of a high-powered fan surrounded by a cage of khus that would be treated to a gradual drip of water being pumped from the tank below it. A hose running from a nearby tap would be immersed in the tank to ensure that the water never ran out. The aroma of khus, the loud noise of the exhaust fan, the damp and cool bed and loads of comics (Archie, Richie Rich, Amar Chitra Katha, S C. Bedi, et al) would make a great foreplay for an afternoon nap.

In the late afternoons it typically started to mild down. We used to get the walkway around the house sprinkled with water, emanating the raw smell of soil that is so typical. Early evenings were a time for a cold drink. When I was much younger, my mother used to force me with Rooh-Afza in cold milk. Even then, I would rather have sherbet with two ice cubes -- the green colored sherbet that had millions of small petals of silver floating in it. I loved pushing the ice cubes down with my index finger and then see them pop up -- up and down and up and down, and I could do it forever. The choreography of pushing the ice cubes down, see the aquarium in the glass full of silver particles twirl around would make for an engaging event.

A great past time was when my father's friends, the ones who were with him in the US in 1960 would come and visit us and spend the evening. This was an evening when we had the rare occasion of watching our father put his hair down and open his well-protected bottle of Chivas Regal. A sumptuous dinner would be prepared and during the cocktail hour(s) all the lights would be switched off. The children would squat on the floor. The projector would take over from thereon. A slide show of pictures from a foreign world would unfold on our 'drawing room' wall. Long sleek Chevrolets, wide roadways, people smiling, women in shorts and kids eating large ice creams would show a fascinating far-off world. My father and his friends would give a running commentary from the back -- this is Florida, this is Baton Rouge and this bridge is in Louisiana on the way to New Orleans. They would talk about the first touch down at Honolulu airport and the Waikiki beach. Then pictures of large machines would be shown, machines that you had to put a coin in and these monsters would wash and dry your clothes, so we were told. I would linger around on the carpet with one or two of my friends staring at those pictures in this semi-dark living room, devouring the fried fritters on the table while enjoying the aroma of good whiskey in the air.

Life in Renukoot moved at a slow pace, each day lasted forever. Retrospectively, there was little excitement, but back then we never missed the lack of it. Frequent trips to Benaras and Allahabad were our crossovers to civilization. House functions at school, the community get-togethers during Holi and Diwali, the cricket matches, the picnics with the family at an earlier age and later the hiking trips and tours with school friends, the melas and the weekly open theater movies -- all frozen in memory, occupy a special place in my mind. Memories from those 16 years invoke a strange feeling -- I guess this is what is called nostalgia.

The day arrived when I had to leave Renukoot. June 15, 1986. Having completed high school, like others before me, I had to leave the confines of the cocoon. I distinctly remember the day. It was late morning when a car pulled over to our house. I was days away from turning seventeen and full of excitement thinking about the adventures ahead. My bags loaded in the car, I bid goodbye to my parents, to Pramod who officially was our servant but more a friend to me, and Qurban, the deferential mali. As the car pulled away from our house, I kept looking back. Through the rear windshield, as the house started to disappear, my last sight was of our five mango trees slowly swaying with their arms outstretched over the house, as if saying goodbye.

Epilogue

I hear that Renukoot has changed in the last decade. My last trip was in 1993 and I could already notice the difference. Television had penetrated people's lives and the town did not come alive in the evenings as it used to. There were lots of unfamiliar faces and not everybody knew everybody else. In the past, one would rarely walk by without nodding or saying “Namaste Uncle Namaste Aunty” (in one breath), while now people just looked straight on. I stopped by the tennis courts and there were strangers playing tennis, and I thought how dare you... after all, these courts are mine, ours from a generation away, we who first hit the ball down-the-line when the courts had just opened.

The original inhabitants, the architects of this oasis have left the town. After spending 30-40 years of calling this place home, they have gone back to places they originated from -- Jaipur, Indore, Bangalore, Delhi, Baroda, Madras… A new generation and new people have taken over. And yes, someone else now lives in D-3 Administrative Colony, our home for over three decades, and the place where I arrived after being born that summer day in July '69. The place that I grew up in lives only in my memories now.

I plan to go back to Renukoot one day when my son is older. On the first evening when there is still daylight, I plan to walk down the main road from the guesthouse and make a right turn down the hill. I imagine seeing D-3, my house, ahead of me and I get those goose bumps just from the thought of it. I will go and open the metal gate and walk down the three steps and ring the doorbell. I will introduce myself and request to spend some time around the house. If asked, I will refuse the invitation to go into the house lest the newly laid out interiors destroy the image of my home in my mind forever.

I will then walk with my son to the back of the house towards the five mango trees. On the giant protruding root of the second mango tree I will carve the first initials of my son and me -- A and G, just the way I used to do it when I was a kid. We will then go past the lemon tree and on to the grass and with the vegetable garden behind us, I will be facing the back of the house. There, I will open my bag and pull out its contents. In two glasses, I will pour some green colored sherbet -- the syrup with silver particles. I will add some water to it from the flask. Ice cubes will be retrieved from the icebox and added to each glass. My son and I will then squat on the grass. I will show him how to push the ice cubes down with his right index finger, creating a twister of silver stars in the universe of the glass. Staring at the contents, we will savor the rich sweet cold liquid.

As the light begins to fade, we will get up and leave -- and not look back at the peepul tree, for the evening is when the ghosts start descending.

(This column was first published on www.sulekha.com)