~

I grew up in Amaravati, named after the abode of the Gods. But it was unextraordinary, like any other village, basking in the sun-kissed plains of the Indian south, miles away from the nearest city. The murky Krishna always provided us what we needed, as she had done for our fathers, and theirs’ before. Yet occasionally, being the moody river she is, she would flood our fields and lay waste to our crops. But after she would leave, the mud would become more fertile than ever before. My mother told me that the two sisters, the goddess Durga and the divine river Krishna, were a quarrelsome pair. They resolved the pettiest of matters with a feud. One day, Krishna saw that Durga had gotten a new nose-ring. Filled with envy, the river thought, “The ring will suit my dusky complexion more than her pallor.” Durga, quick to realize her sister’s jealousy, leapt away to the top of a hill, leaving Krishna behind to wallow in the depths of the valley. And every year, Krishna bubbles up with great desire, and attempts to reach her sister’s shrine atop the hill to get her hands on her nose-ring. She floods everything in her path.

~

I was six when I first saw a motorbike. My father drove it home one evening, as proud as its bright red color. He called us outside onto the veranda. “How do you like it, Govinda?”, he asked my older brother as he caressed its leather seat. He often took my brother and me on it to the rice warehouse near the edge of town. He entertained us with his prowess, his biceps bulging and his temples straining as he heaved bags of grain onto rickety trucks with his men. He smiled as if it were nothing. 

The color of his red motorcycle has faded since my boyhood, it’s lustrous glow gone, it’s seat torn in places and it’s ever sturdy frame gone dull. Every morning now, I ride it to the warehouse to heave more bags of rice. 

~

At home, I’d spend my days climbing the trees in the mango grove, making my way to the highest branches to procure the finest fruit. The best mangoes would always suspend themselves a few inches out of my reach. The rough bark of the sturdy boughs scraped my feet as I would precariously reach for them. Faint breeze would skim across my face when I sat amidst the sleepy verdance and sucked on a particularly pulpy mango, bringing with it the smell of woodfires from the houses to the south. Then I would hear the shrill whistle of Govinda’s bicycle bell. He’d be sent to fetch me every evening. Sitting at the back of the bicycle, I’d watch the sun drift away into his slumber under the last blankets of cottony clouds. The pink remnants of his rays would caress my face through the sieve of palm fronds lining the sides of the warm tar road. The usual herd of water buffalo would greet us with their lazy moos on our way home. The pungent smell of dung and hay would emanate from their leathery, mud-caked backs. Their eyelids would droop to the drowsy sound of the bronze bells around their wrinkly necks, and the last chirps of somnolent sparrows. 

~

Monsoon would come with the smell of wet mud and freshly-cut grass. The cultivation of the fields would commence, and our fathers and grandfathers would come home fatigued and sweaty. I would sit on my grandmother’s lap on the porch and watch the ivory lightning accompanied by deafening thunder light up the entirety of the gray sky. She would tell me that it was the demi-God Arjuna, flying across the giant, black masses of moisture on his heavenly chariot, as if he were riding into battle. The vibrations of his chariot would shake the clouds into fits of rainstorms and the downpour would flood the fields, the roads and the groves. The parched earth would rejoice at his arrival. Peacocks would emerge from their woodsy abodes to dance and swirl under the charcoal canopy, and mynas would come sing and spectate. The palms would imitate the peacocks and sway their branches to the rhythm of the wind and the rain, and buffalo calves would prance about on their slippery hooves across the vast, green fields. 

~

By December, the sun would emerge behind a veil of white mist. The peacocks would retreat back to their groves and their woodlands. I would find them strutting about on the branches of mango trees, and they would give me a frightened glance before fluttering away onto higher branches, flicking the cool dew off the leaves onto me. The sharp droplets would lacerate the surface of my dry skin and drive away lingering sleep with an abrupt, almost electrical, shock. Then I’d be off on my way to school, prancing about like a cheetal deer till my shirt untucked itself from my shabby shorts. 

~

The harvest season would begin with the great festival of Sankranti. Temple bells would ring ecstatically, priests would chant holy mantras and bathe the idol of the Mother Goddess with milk, water and honey. The following day would involve farmers expressing their gratitude by adorning their draught beasts with turmeric and ceremonial vermilion powder, and feeding them choicest hay. Payasam, a sweet porridge, would be cooked, much to the appreciation of the sly macaques, who’d religiously prove to be a menace. Their nimble fingers would grab a sample of every dish. A few would even grab food out of children’s hands before being chased away by a group of elders with sticks. 

~

The annual series of marriages would be kicked off with the festival of Rama-Navami: the celebration of the wedding of the Hindu deity Rama and his wife, Sita. Govinda and I would wake up early to help our grandmother grind large blocks of brown jaggery. They would be crushed in giant mortars and pestles to be reduced to a moist, lumpy powder. My puny hands would grasp the rough, granite pestles and heave them up, down and sideways to crush the hard, caramelized cane sugar. Cardamom and pepper would be added midway, and a dark, piquant odor would emerge from the cauldron. The mixture would be dissolved in water to produce a strong-smelling brown liquid, to be consumed on such occasions of joyous ceremony. The idols of the deities, dressed in colorful clothes of red, yellow and green, decorated with a wide assortment of freshly-picked flowers, would be paraded from house to house with great, musical bursts of tumultuous pandemonium and elation.

~

Soon, mud would parch under the angry March sun, and the fields would be empty, their only inhabitants being scurrying rats and lonely feral dogs. The cattle would laze away in their sheds, much like their slumbering owners in their houses. The mud walls of huts would keep the dwellers sane and cool. I would look forward to the last languorous light of the day, when the heat retreats back to the west. 

But alas, I had no time to rest. Govinda and I would sneak out to watch the fireflies in the fields. We’d gingerly tiptoe in the dark and be careful not to wake the stray dogs sleeping on our porch. 

“Did you get the lamp?”, Govinda would inquire on one such outing.

“Yes”, I’d whisper.

“And a stick?”, he would continue.

“Why would we need a stick? Are there any snakes?”

“No, you blockhead. Haven’t you heard of the one-eyed demon that haunts the rice fields at night?”

“What?”, I’d blurt.  

       “Never mind, we have my fists to deal with the ruffian if he comes our way.”My heart would start to beat heavier in my chest. I would crouch behind Govinda’s broad shoulders as we made our way towards the field.

“Hey, so about the demon you mentioned earlier-”, I’d begin.                                                                    “What? Are you scared?”, he’d cut me off. 

“Um. No,” I would say, mustering all the firmness in my voice as I could, “but…” I trail off. I did not want to be a victim of his ridicule. 

The grass would reach my waist. My eyes would  squint in the dark to notice anything amiss. I’d breathe quietly and make sure that my scrawny legs broke the least amount of twigs possible. My eyes would follow the grass line and all I’d see would be the dried tips of the paddy plants and an occasional stump of a tree. Then, I’d notice a yellow, glowing firefly, buzzing into view, out of the corner of my eye. And then another would announce his presence. I’d glance back to find a whole constellation of them, their golden bodies lighting up their immediate surroundings like the starry sky they mirrored. I’d stretch my arm out towards Govinda’s direction. 

“Hey, loo-”, but my hand would only grasp the air. I’d hastily turn around to see no sign of him. There’d only be a kerosene lamp glowing faintly on the ground where he was. I’d freeze in my place. My temples would pound, my stomach would be on the verge of throwing up all my insides. I would call out to him, my pathetic, quivering voice barely audible. Suddenly, I would feel a pair of scruffy hands dig their fingers into my ribs from behind. I’d escape their clutches and run back home screaming, with tears in my eyes, amidst the maniacal laughter of my brother.