THE FLOATING DIARY (Short Story Journal – 16): PLANTAIN FLOWER

Often a thought of remorse grips my imagination, ever since my disease had begun erasing my memory. I started to write this diary so that I can reinvent myself after my memory is completely obliterated. However, I don’t know whether this experiment will work or not. It is just an endeavor that I am making to fight back an encroaching unknown darkness.

Yet, at times, a sorrow overcomes me and tells me that soon I would become obsolete and redundant and a waste to this wide and colorful world. It is a question that has plagued my mind, until I found an answer from somebody from who I least expected to get it.

Ramu Goral, the vegetable vendor, has been visiting our locality with his small wooden vegetable vending cart from a time I cannot even remember now! I can only recall that I had seen him in this locality ever since we arrived in Mumbai and settled in this apartment. That means, since my childhood, Ramu Goral had been selling vegetables to the residents of our housing society. He must be an octogenarian, considering the fact that he has been around for a very long time. However, till yesterday, the arrival of Ramu was like a routine task that took place around my house and I had never bothered much about him. I had seen him almost every day, I had looked at his vegetable loaded cart too, but have never given it much attention.

Today morning, I was standing near the window when I saw Ramu. A strange inquisitiveness gripped my imagination and I summoned him to wait and went downstairs. I had never looked at Ramu with so much scrutiny, but today I did. He was a short man of around five and a half feet of height, he had a thin emaciated body while his skin looked crumpled due to the burden of age. Yet, the remarkable part was his vibrant energy and the high pitched voice that this seemingly old and feeble man carried.  I was completely taken aback by the power in his expressions and the animation with which he was hawking his vegetables.

I asked, “Hi Ramu. I had been seeing you ever since my childhood. I am really amazed by the energy you carry, compared to your age!”

Ramu smiled in return, while wiping away the drops of sweat from his forehead. I fiddled with the vegetables from his cart in order to continue the conversation and bought some too. This brought a satisfactory expression on his face.

A sudden thought struck my mind and I asked Ramu, “There is something that I had often wondered in my subconscious mind, but today I would like to ask you. Why is it that you always carry so many Plantain Flowers in your cart every day? As far as I can remember, I had never seen your cart without the presence of this vegetable! Is there anything special about it?”

Ramu smiled at me again and said with an air of respite, “Sir, there is a little story about the Plantain Flower and it is not just a mere vegetable! Would you like to listen to it?”

I felt amused and agreed to his proposal and Ramu began his little speech, “Sir, the Plantain Flower has so much to teach us! I carry it in my cart not only to sell it but also as a source of energy for myself. The Banana tree is born from the Plantain Flower and it is a tree that never goes waste! Every part of the Banana tree has some good use to mankind, be it nutrition or household applications. And the source to genesis lies in the Plantain Flower which grows atop every Banana tree and then moves on to give birth to another!”

A smile came over my lips while I continued to listen to Ramu, “Sir, I am eighty-seven years old now, but ever since I was a five-year old child, I had been working hard to earn a living for my family. First it was for my mother and then for my wife and children and now for my grandchildren.”

He added further, “My son was a fisherman and the waves of the Arabian Sea engulfed him two years ago. He left his widow and two toddlers. My wife passed away last year. However, I cannot rest now. I must make myself useful, I cannot go redundant. I must be like the Plantain Flower and yield prosperity for my daughter-in-law and my grandchildren. The stack of Plantain Flowers in my cart gives me a constant power and tells me that I am not redundant yet, I can never be so!”

Ramu went away with his cart but I stood on the footpath for a few more minutes contemplating whatever I just heard. The negative thoughts about the encroaching unknown darkness cleared away from my mind. The story of Ramu and the Plantain Flower opened my eyes.

I said to myself, “Whatever happens, I would never be redundant. There is so much left to be done, so much I need to know, so much I need to give. I too am like a Plantain Flower, and can never go waste, whatever happens!”

The faint outline of Ramu and his vegetable cart was still visible at the end of the road. However, his shrill and strong voice was clearly audible. I smiled, turned around and went back home with a contented heart.

THE FLOATING DIARY (Short Story Journal – 15): THE NAMELESS SOLDIER

As my amnesia is taking control of my memory and slowly erasing it, I have started to feel a strange agony within myself. I cannot explain the feeling in words, I cannot write the symptoms down on paper, I can only say that a weird sentiment slowly grasping my existence.

The thoughts about Baba, Maa, Aunt Padma, Kannika, my flower pot, Billu, Mr. Sinhala, My Sweet Papaya… everything that is so very special to me, would gradually vanish! This thought has started to bring in a melancholy within me that was making me sad. The knowledge that I am slowly becoming a nameless creature, is something that I was unable to digest.

In order to get over from this agony, I decided to take a leave from office and go out on a vacation. A destination that is always close to my heart is the Himalayas and I chose to visit Mussoorie. As I embarked on the journey, the beauty of the Himalayan flora and fauna refreshed my mind. Mussoorie is picturesque with its concoction of natural beauty and commotion of tourists amid crowding township. I especially love the time when a gust of wind blows in an abundance of cold mist and floods surroundings with a velvetiness of a white wintry mix and impairs all visibility!

I checked into a small bed-and-breakfast single-storied bungalow. It was owned by Mr. James Wilson and Mrs. Elma Wilson, an old resident couple of Mussoorie. The hospitable hosts made my stay cozy and comfortable and within two days I began to feel much better. I had taken a leave for seven days and planned to maximize my getaway holiday.

The bungalow of the Wilson’s was in the outskirts of Mussoorie and I made it a routine to take a quiet stroll around the hill trails every morning and explore the beauty of the hills. In the afternoon, I visited the busy streets of “Mall Road” and enjoyed the commotion and high octane energy that buzzed at every corner.

The town of Mussoorie became popular as multitudes of British and Indians built their homes here to live a leisurely life and beat the heat of the plains. One morning, as I walked down the Camel’s Back Road, I discovered a very old cemetery. A light mist had settled down amid the wilderness and the emptiness of the surrounding reflected a peace within my heart. I entered the cemetery and walked around slowly, carelessly reading the names and on the tombstones of the resting souls.

Presently, I walked past the center and reached a corner near the boundary of the cemetery, overlooking the cliff. Below an old pine tree, I saw something! It was an old grave with a dilapidated gravestone, far away from the main burial area. The secluded site of the grave was perhaps intentional, but I felt a strange attraction towards it. I bent down to read the engraving, but was surprised to see that the gravestone was absolutely unmarked! I looked around for some sign of identity, but could not find any. Finally, I returned back to the bungalow.

That night, during dinner, I asked Mr. Wilson about the unnamed grave and told him about my exploit that morning. Mr. Wilson replied, “Pravin, that is the grave of the unnamed soldier! Nobody knows who he was or what his name was. He is a forgotten soul, but is often remembered by people for this stark weirdness of his tombstone. Local folklore says that he was a soldier during the British Raj and was laid to rest here, away from the other graves. It is said that when he reached Mussoorie, he was injured and had only faint memories about himself. He died within two days and was laid to rest here. It is such a contrast that even in his afterlife, he rests in a lonely sleep forever!”

That night, I could not sleep till late. The words of Mr. Wilson reverberated around the corners of my mind and soul. I asked myself, “Why do you feel lonely? You have so many people and so many memories to cherish. Your diary is a companion that would remain with you forever! The unnamed soldier rests alone in his solitary grave and remains lonesome till eternity. Be grateful to the almighty, that you have so much to be happy about!”

The night was clear and the stars twinkled at me in support of whatever I just told myself. I noted down this journal entry right away, before the experience slipped away from my mind. It was a strange yet wonderful emotion that I was experiencing and I wanted to capture it forever!

This incidence might be insignificant, but the gravity of the sensation very precious. The unnamed soldier taught me that life is so precious and we are never lonely, until we make ourselves so. The world is full of happiness and I must value it. I hope, in heaven, the unnamed soldier, too, finds his way back home!

THE FLOATING DIARY (Short Story Journal – 14): THE RICE BOWL

I began writing this journal to note down aspects about me that only I can express to myself, so that when my amnesia engulfs my memory, I would be able to discover myself once again! However, it is quite funny that many of such intricacies about me are somehow related to my culinary notions! Thus, today again, I would note down something that tickles out the gastronomic personality within me.

On the ground floor of my office building is a small shop called “Ramu’s Kitchen”. The shop is famous for one item it sells the most… “The Rice Bowl”. Ramu is the owner of the shop and the chef behind the classic recipe of the Rice Bowl. Served in conical shaped melamine bowls, the recipe comprises of two large scoops of scented rice, a ladleful of “Dal” and a vegetarian or non-vegetarian side. The customers receive this wholesome meal, served hot during the busy lunch hours, at a price that suits the pocket of almost every officegoer. However, the patronage is not restricted to middle-class folks, even senior executives make a beeline for grabbing a share of the popular “Rice Bowl” prepared by Ramu.

It is immaterial to say that I too am a regular patron of “Ramu’s Kitchen” and the “Rice Bowl” is my staple for lunch. There are two aspects of the “Rice Bowl” that I have discovered as its unique selling points. Firstly, the cookery that goes into the recipe has a uniqueness that Ramu has mastered (from where I really don’t know) that attracts and suits the palates of almost everyone. Secondly, the menu, I mean the curry and the “Dal” has a new taste every day. Nobody knows how Ramu manages to do this, but it is something that acts as an attraction, a mystery to b discovered, by many of the customers who rush to the shop just to taste and find out what the “Rice Bowl” would contain! Even I am a slave to this enigmatic culinary schedule, and eagerly wait every day for the arrival of the lunch time!

However, today I discovered a third aspect that has made Ramu’s Rice Bowls even more precious and special to me. Unlike my usual habit, I came down for lunch a bit early. Most of the customers are yet to arrive and “Ramu’s Kitchen” was yet to begin its day’s business. I walked inside the little kitchen and took a glimpse of the interior for the first time. The small rectangular room had several wooden racks filling with so many different things! There were jars full of various spices, different utensils, vessels, ladles and rows of melamine bowls that would soon boast with the contents of the famous Rice Bowl recipe! The ingredients for the day’s special Rice Bowl, including vegetables, pulses, rice, paneer and eggs were lying on one of the lower racks, while the higher racks were mostly crowded with containers loaded with some unknown elements whose fragrance floated in the air.

Near the right-side of the room, stood a busy Ramu in front of a gas oven making final preparations for completing the day’s menu. He whistled lightly while focusing deeply in his work. There was an expression of tranquility in his face that made me feel good. I spoke, “Hey Ramu, isn’t the lunch ready yet?”

Ramu gave an astonished look at me, as he was least expecting this sudden arrival of mine. As the initial confusion cleared, Ramu replied, “Yes sir! I am almost done. Today’s special Rice Bowl is as good as any other day’s!”

I smiled and asked him the secret behind the exemplary recipes of the Rice Bowls every day that attracts so many people who make a beeline in front of his shop. I was really enthralled by the rush of customers and huge amount of supply that this single guy had to manage, that too with a content and smiling face!

Ramu knew me well, as I was one of his oldest customers. He asked me sit on a stool and began to talk, “Sir, today, let me tell you the story of my life. There is still time before the flow of customers would begin and I think we can make good use of that time. I used to live in a small village named Kakori near Bharuch in Gujarat. I was the only child of my parents and the three of us lived happily in our little mud-house. My father was a spice seller and had a shop adjoining our house. The little income that came through the meagre sale was enough for running our family of three. My mother had always been happy with whatever god gave us and she taught me the same. We were a happy family. My father was so proficient in mixing spices and his assortments were really popular among the villagers. Everybody in our village used to call him a magician of spices! My mother was equally skilled and used the spices to create flavors that were ethereal to taste! My parents used to teach me that culinary experiences are direct outcomes of human emotions. They taught me the magic to imbibe human emotions in the spices and create exemplary delicacies with them!”

I listened keenly while Ramu continued after a little pause, “Manjeet Chetri was our village Sarpanch! His daughter was Lavanya. She was my childhood friend and I used to call her Imlee! As we grew up, the innocent friendship developed into a secret romantic affection that brewed in both our hearts! However, when Manjeet Chetri came to know about this, he didn’t confront me or my family directly. He plotted a deadly plan against us and defamed my father in front of the entire village. My father couldn’t bear the insult and suffered a serious heart attack. He passed away within three days and my mother followed him soon. I was left devastated. Manjeet Chetri didn’t stop yet, he cooked up a mutiny and got me ousted from my house and from my village! I was left homeless, at the tender age of twenty-one!”

Ramu looked at me, smiled and then went over to check the consistency of the rice that was getting readied. He returned and said, “It has been twenty-five years since that day! I came to Mumbai twenty-five years ago and started to work as a servant in a street-side shop. The owner of the shop, septuagenarian Govinda Das, became my guru. He taught me, never to lose hope and said every human being possesses some unique quality that can make him special. He implored me to search that special quality in me. After my guru breathed his last, I started to operate his business.”

Ramu picked up the first Rice Bowl of the day, handed it over to me and said, “Soon, I realized that I indeed possessed a unique quality… The mastery of species and imbibing their flavors into the food I cooked! I was amazed to find that I truly could incorporate emotions into the spices and that is what make Rice Bowls unique! The dreams in my eyes, of sorrows or happiness, get transferred into the recipes! Its magic, that I have inherited from my parents! I don’t want to go back to my village now. I don’t even have any heartache for Imlee, my only dream is to make the Rice Bowls so popular that the entire world would know it someday, and father’s name would shine like GOLD!”

There were little drops of tears in his eyes, and the recipe of the Rice Bowl tasted a sweet melancholy flavor that touched my heart. I finished my food, paid for it and walked out from the shop. The queue of customers was gathering volume and Ramu became busy in his work. As I walked up to my office, I made up my mind that I must note down about this extraordinary person in my journal so that whenever I forget everything, I would be able to recall about Ramu’s “Rice Bowl” and return back to his shop for the exceptional culinary experience!