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I always wanted to see a girl climb a coconut tree

I rose at 8 am and picked up The Hindu. I read it from end to end as I consumed mugs of hot, thick coffee. I loved to read about the world I had run away from. It is wisely said, "As the distance grows longer, the heart grows fonder."

An aunt come running in - her daughter's labour pains had started. I phoned for a cab which took her to hospital. An hour later, I phoned the hospital to enquire about the girl. A son had been born. My wife went from house to house announcing the baby and everybody cheered. A few of the old women came to me and forced me to call the hospital to find out how the mother was. The mother was fine. The old women went away happy.

It took about one-and-a-half hours to complete the paper. Then I ambled to the river bank. I sat at the teashop to hear the latest village news. My cousins and uncles were returning from their first round of the fields. They must have left the house at 5 am in the morning, after consuming a large cup of 'old water' i.e. the water in which the previous day's left-over cooked rice is soaked to store.

At the tea shop, most of the villagers were in a complaining mood. Three months to the harvest, the dam had enough water for two months only. The consensus was that the good Lord would send the rains. I was skeptical, as it was not the rainy season.

Surprising, after two months, when it looked like the standing crop would shrivel and die for want of water, it rained. In fact, it poured and the water lasted for a fortnight. The remaining 15 days, the villagers helped each other. Those who had wells and pumps gave water to those who didn't. The grain was harvested with joy.

Even while bathing, my villagers continued their arguments about whatever was current news in the village. After bathing, I had a leisurely breakfast at 11 am. After that, as I had nothing to do, I cycled to my coconut gardens. An uncle of mine used to look after it while I was in Bombay.

A lady had started the water pump and water was gushing out at tremendous speed. She was guiding the water in a specific direction with a spade. Another young girl was sitting down and pulling weeds nonchalantly. I sat down under a tree and lit a cigarette.

An hour later, the lady asked me if I wanted a tender coconut. I wondered how she was going to manage as the man who plucked coconuts was not around. I said, "Okay." She told the girl that we needed four tender coconuts. In a jiffy, the girl shinned up the tree. She threw four coconuts and was down before I realised what was happening. I doubt if I could've done it better. And I had always thought city girl were bold. They had a coconut each, while I had two. They talked very shyly to me. Finally, the girl asked, "Why did you leave Bombay to stay here?" I said, "I always wanted to see a girl go up a coconut tree."

I had lunch at 2 pm and dropped off to sleep. Most of the villagers slept in the afternoon. In a few houses, I could hear music being played softly.

At 5.30 pm, the village girls swept the street in front of their houses. Then they mixed cowdung in water and sprinkled it. As the darkness descended, the girls lit the lamps in their homes. Then they waited for Lakshmi, the Goddess of wealth, to enter. I washed and walked to the river bank.

From there I took a local bus to our bazaar in Kurumbur. The fare - 0.50 naya paise. The bazaar in Kurumbur comprises one long street with shops on both sides.

Tea shops number the most in Kurumbur followed closely by grocery shops. There are two cloth shops and one shop selling stainless steel wares. The toy shop had more artificial jewellery than toys. There are two presses and one bakery. There are two doctors and one astrologer.

I sat in a pawn (money-lending) shop which belongs to my cousin. Farmers paid their labourers in Kurumbur. The workers were also assigned the next day's jobs in Kurumbur. If you needed a cab the next day, you could book it now in Kurumbur. There are nine cabs here. They generally are all cut-throats, but justify themselves by saying that their turnover is negligible.

There is a state electricity board office, a post office and three banks here. If there is no electricity and you approach the office, they have a quaint reply, "If it comes from up, we supply." You can't ask when it'll come from "up" because this office does not have a phone.

The post office in Kurumbur and my village have their own way of operating. Now suppose you have a savings account with them and need to withdraw a large amount. The postmaster will send a man to the state bank to withdraw the money. Sometimes, particularly if it's the last day of the month, the bank will say, "No Cash." The postmaster will ask you to come back the next day. The villagers oblige, nobody complains.

We have two co-operative banks. The Mukuperi Co-operative Bank works mostly like a glorified pawn broker. Then there is the Kurumbur Primary Co-operative Bank which runs the ration shops and lately, much to my dismay, also runs a wine shop.

The national banks are represented by the State Bank of India. The state bank manager specialises in increasing his cash reserves at the end of every month, particularly at the end of March. So all the rich landlords put money in the last week of March and withdraw in the first week of April. If that's what it takes to make a national bank happy, the villagers don't mind.

Almost every male in the surrounding 10 to 15 villages comes to Kurumbur in the evening. In my cousin's shop, a motley crowd of about 10 sit everyday. They first discuss the state news gleaned from the Tamil newspapers. I give the national and international news from The Hindu. The only other English paper sold in the village is the Indian Express; the school headmaster reads it but he doesn't come to Kurumbur. I generally have the last word on the outside world. Sometimes, this is disputed by a Bombay-returned who is holidaying in the village.

At around 8.30 pm people start returning home. Some walk, some cycle, a few have bikes and the rest take the bus. After 9 pm, there are only two buses. One at 10.15 pm and the last one at 11.15 pm. People return home in groups, never alone. I return on my cousin's bike or, sometimes, take the 9 pm bus.

After dinner, when I stand on my verandah at 10 pm, I realise that the entire village is sleeping peacefully. "Peace be on earth and goodwill to men" surely said keeping a village in mind. I listen to Hotel California, feeling vaguely out of place.

Illustrations: Dominic Xavier