It had been a sweltering day; wheeling his bicycle up a slope that was nearly quarter of a mile of merciless grey, dusty road shimmering in the heat was no easy task. His frame was huge and stooping, and his muscles, bunching and coiling under the strain of the upward drill, were whipcord and seasoned. His battered bicycle spoke of years of use – the tires were almost bald, the spokes and rims were rusted – a spoke or two in the front wheel was missing; the paint that was probably once black, or perhaps a dark green had dulled to a rusty brown, and the long leather seat was shiny, polished from all the years of use.
Two big half-filled nylon bags – the kind that is used in India to store fertilizer, hung from either side of the bicycle’s carrier and was weighed down by coconuts. A thick coir rope, about 30 metres long with a large hook at one end lay coiled in one of the bags. In the other was a leather foot strap, very intricately plaited, resembling the tail of a rattle snake, and with it, another similarly braided waist strap about a metre and a half long. In the brake lever of his bicycle was a black sickle, or ‘motchu’ as it is called in local parlance – his bore the shape and design of the ones usually used by the folk of the neighbouring state, Tamil Nadu. The ‘motchus’ of Karnataka are curved, like the crescent of the moon and are made from truck leaf-springs. The ones from Tamil Nadu are a little straighter with a beak-like tip.
Regardless of shape, both are very effective when it comes to cleaning coconuts or chopping just about anything.
He now trudged up the slope of the busy road, the heat dancing before his hurting eyes and the dust swirling from the heavy vehicles that whizzed by him. He reached the top of the road, a trickle of sweat pouring down his temples from under the cream towel wrapped around his head. He turned left under a flyover where the momentary shade under the masonry work offered some respite from the heat. He mopped his brow with the towel, flung it over his shoulder and then delved into the pocket of his blue shorts under his ‘lungi’ for his stash of tobacco and beetle leaves. He meticulously made his fix, eyes watching the road where the traffic buzzed under the flyover and a cop barked instructions to the motorists. He popped the leaf with all its juicy contents into his mouth and his huge, uneven teeth, clogged with red and black deposit from all the tobacco he had eaten through the years chomped away, forming a ball against one cheek. He then wrapped his towel about his grey-brown curls, sent a jet of beetle juice against the pillar of the flyover where it almost sizzled in the heat, hopped onto his ramshackle bicycle and headed for a particular house in the neighbourhood beyond.
He chuckled, and his face split into a wide grin, creasing the leather of his cheeks and the corners of his eyes. Two weeks earlier, he had visited that same house, had effortlessly climbed the two coconut trees in the yard with the help of his foot and waist straps, and had trimmed the trees of their loose branches, pods, dried flowers and coconuts that were ripe for harvesting. He had made off with a good number of tender coconuts that the young ‘saar’ (sir) had given him, as well as a bag full of mature nuts, plus a good payment for his labours high up in the trees. The young saar was kind and compassionate, and according to the coconut tree climber’s slurred gossip with his cronies in his local village tavern, a little green around the ears. He knew nothing of coconuts, trees, motchus or the value of money. He gave freely, trusted completely and was foolish. The saar’s wife was even more foolish. She was fair skinned and did not appear to belong to the land. She couldn’t even speak the language well. What did she speak? ‘Inglees’ or something like that.
The couple was so easy to fool, he had boasted to his buddies when he had downed enough spirit to make him chatter, so damned easy to fool.
He had cleaned the young saar’s trees two weeks earlier, and ordinarily, his services would not have been needed for the next two or three months. However, the coconut climber had committed one dastardly act, and it was to reap the fruit of this that he now rode into the neighbourhood beyond the flyover.
When he had climbed the trees the previous time and had done his job cleaning the tops of all the erring branches, coconuts and pods that had threatened to fall, he had also partially chopped one or two green boughs on the tree that stood closest to the gate, with the expectation that within the week these heavy, life threatening leaves would topple, thus compelling the young, naïve saar to whip out that mobile and give his own number a call. It was good money. He had taken 500 per tree the last time, in addition to half a bag of ripe coconuts that he had sold for 30 per coconut. On top of that, the ‘yelneers’ (tender coconuts) had fetched another 30 per nut. He had made a killing that day!
Now he wondered as he neared the young saar’s house if any of those branches had fallen. It had been two weeks, so it would have been impossible for any of the branches to have not come crashing down. The young saar had not called him, but to be fair there had been many strange numbers of the calls that he had missed on his phone. He could not read, and he could not write that funny language the saar’s wife spoke. He just recognised the numerals of that strange lingo, and had memorized a few phone numbers that were important to him.
As he neared the house he grinned and his face wrinkled again, baring big, red teeth. Lying on the pavement, just over the compound wall was a coconut branch, severed by a motchu. So, one dammed branch had fallen after all. They’d be happy for him to climb the tree again to clear it of the ‘dried’ branches – which meant another 500 per tree, plus some coconuts.
He mounted off the bicycle and wheeled it to the gate, where the saar’s dog appeared from under the car parked in the porch and barked his head off. The door opened and the saar’s wife stood there, raising her eyebrows at him.
“You were here only two weeks ago,” she observed reasonably and her language was a mixture of Tamil, Kannada and that strange ‘Inglees.’ He wanted to laugh, but didn’t. One never laughed in the faces of the masters. “How come you’re back again?”
He pointed up into the tree closest to the gate and then indicated with his nose at the dried branch lying on the side.
“They are still falling,” he said in his language. “I can see some dried ones up there,” he continued with a lie. Where is saar?”
“He’s not at home,” the woman struggled with the language but she managed. “Come back after two hours. He will be home by then.”
The coconut tree climber looked around. The area around the gate was inviting. It was shaded by a young SampigeMaara, (MichaleaChampaca tree) that spread over the gate, just high enough to allow for their car to pass in and out. Unasked, he parked his bicycle and settled under the cool shade to wait.
“Very hot,” he observed with a red smile. “I’ll wait for saar.”
She shrugged and went back indoors. He took the towel off his head, dusted the flat stones around the gate and lay down, listening to the crows that cawed from the rooftops, and to the distant sound of traffic on the main road over the row of bungalows opposite.
Pretty soon, with the familiar sounds of the birds and the traffic, and the refreshing coolness of gusts of summer breeze that sometimes blasted in from over the bungalows, the coconut tree climber dozed off in the shade.
Somewhere in his slumber he heard a cat call from beyond the gate, and heard the woman talk to it in that funny language that only white people and those who went to ‘Kishchen’ schools spoke. He wondered at the wonder of it! Even the damned cat understood that language! Then all was silent again and he once again dozed off into a light sleep.
He must have been dreaming of massive wings swish-swashing the air, because he heard the sounds clearly, like it was almost real, and in his dream, he wondered what bird it was, because he could not see it. It came from somewhere high up, and for a few full seconds it lasted, lashing the air,before, with an almost explosive thud, crashed, not a foot from where his head lay on his towel by the gate. The coconut tree climber started awake with a howl. The dog barked excitedly and loudly through the gate at the bewildered man, and the woman charged out of the house.
She hushed the creature and sent him to his kennel; then she leaned over the gate to ascertain what had happened and the man gaped up at her from where he had lain, his red mouth hanging in utter astonishment. He shuddered and leapt up, picking up his towel and chucking it over his shoulder.
Fallen across the gate was a severed coconut branch that had only just missed knocking him out or killing him. Wordlessly he carried the branch to the side where it joined its brother that had fallen days before.
“Tell saar I came,” he muttered, but for some reason he could no longer look at the woman in the face. How many did he cut? One? Two? Surely not more than two. He shuddered again and looked up into the tree, scampering out from under its high shade that now appeared to mock at his trickery. He quickly wrapped his towel around his head and took off on his bicycle.
The young saar and his wife have not seen the coconut tree climber since.
