 |
| Vaikom Mohammed Bhaseer |
Originally written in Malayalam by famous Malayalam writer Vaikom Mohammed Bhaseer.
Tamil
translation from Malayalam by Sukumaran
English
Translation by Saravanan Karmegam
***
“None of what you have heard about it is not true. I won’t
worship any tree. To be very right, not anything under the sun! But I do share
a very intimate relationship with this mango tree. My wife, Asma, loves this
tree too. This honey-tasting mango tree stands here as the symbol of an
extremely virtuous deed.”
We were sitting under that mango tree. The tree had a lot of
mangoes. A layer of white sand was seen spread around the tree in a broad
circle at its bottom. Two rows of bricks were found erect along the circle with
some rose plants planted in small circles between the rows—a huge number of
flowers blossoming in different colours.
His name was Rashid. He was living in a house nearby with his
wife and son. Both husband and wife were working as teachers in a school. His
wife had sent their sixteen-year-old son with a plateful of mango pieces. We
both were savouring it. Its taste was quite unique, a taste of honey.
“How does the mango taste?”
“You are right. It tastes like honey.
“I am still quite amazed to think about this moment given to
us to relish this mango.”
“Who had planted this tree?”
“It’s we, I and my wife Asma, who planted this tree here. I
will explain the story behind this mango tree. I have narrated it to so many.
The one who listened to the story conveniently forgot the incidents that led to
the planting of this tree and spread a false narrative of tree worship. There
is no worship involved in this. It is just a memory of a noble act. My younger
brother was a police inspector and was working in the town seventy-five miles
away from here. I had gone to meet him and stayed in his house. Though it
wasn’t a big town, I went out of the house to get a feel of the town. It was a
scorching summer, and the wind was blowing hot. Everyone was facing water
scarcity. When I was walking along the road, I saw an old man with a long
beard and hair lying under a tree, looking extremely tired. From his
appearance, I could understand that he must nearly be eighty years old. He was
looking very exhausted, clearly waiting for his last breath. On seeing me, he
mumbled, “Al-hum Dulillah! Oh! My people! Please give me some
water.”
“I ran to a house nearby and found a young lady reading a
magazine sitting in the veranda of her house. I asked her for some water. She
was a beautiful lady. She went in and brought some water in a mug. As I left
her house with the mug in my hands, she grew intrigued and asked why I carried
the mug along with me. I explained to her that a man was lying completely worn
out over there and in need of water. She also came along with me to see him. I
gave him water. The old man slowly got up and sat. It was only after that he
did something marvelous. He got up, still tottering, with the mug in hand, went
near to a mango sapling that was looking withered under heat, and poured some
water at its root by chanting a prayer. It was a mango seed thrown away by some
unknown passerby after consuming the mango that had sprouted with its roots
visible on the ground. He then came back to the tree shade, sat, drank the
remaining water, praised the god “Al-hum, Dulillaah,” and said, “My
name is Yousuf Siddique. I am above eighty years old. I do not have any
relatives. I have been moving around the world as a mendicant. Now the time has
come for me to die. May I know the names of you both?”
I told, “I am Rashid, a school teacher.” The young lady told
him, “My name is Asma. I am a school teacher. “Let Allah bless us all,” said
the old man, and he lay under the shade. He breathed his last right in front of
our eyes. I told Asma to wait there and went to my brother, explaining
everything to him. We brought a mortuary van and took the old man's mortal
remains to a mosque and got it bathed. We covered his body with the shroud of
new cloths and buried him with necessary rituals. We found six rupees in his
bag.
“I and Asma added another five rupees to it and bought some
toffees. I gave it to Asma for distributing it to the schoolchildren. Later, I
married Asma. She was regularly watering that mango sapling. Some days prior to
our coming to this house after completing its construction, we uprooted the
mango sapling without damaging its roots, kept it in a rug sack filled with the
required amount of soil, and watered it. It was kept leaned against the wall at
the corner of Asma’s bedroom for a couple of days. Once we came to this house,
we brought it here, planted it in a pit filled with dried cow dung and ash, and
watered it regularly. As the fresh leaves started coming out, we nurtured it
with bone powder and compost manure. This is how this tree had come here.”
“A very pleasing event indeed. An old man watered a dumb
mango sapling just before his death. I will keep it in my heart forever.” As I
walked ahead after bidding them adieu, I heard someone calling me out from
behind. I turned around.
It was Rashid’s son. He gave me a bundle—four mangoes wrapped
in paper—and said, “Mother has asked you to give it to your family members.”
“O! Son! You are studying. Aren’t you?”
“Yes…in college.”
“What is your name?”
“Yousuf Siddique”
“Yousuf Siddique?”
“Yes…my name is Yousuf Siddique.”
***Ended***
