It was the month of pitru paksha. Ramcharan Bhatti was hurrying through the criss-cross gullies of his thatched roofed neighborhood, trying to be as inconspicuous as possible. Under his left arm was a newspaper- wrapped packet, which he was trying to hide from the prying eagle eyes and interfering noses of his gossip fuelling neighbors.
Reaching his doorstep at last, he knocked twice, as usual, and his wife Gurmeet opened the door noiselessly, ushering her sweaty but relieved husband in. He sat on the thawed straw mat, opening the neatly wrapped packet carefully. Yes, it was all in there, two fistfuls of white, glowing, ivory-like rice.
Gurmeet’s eyes held in them a sparkle, of gratitude and wonder. The last time she saw rice was the last pitru paksha, the only time her husband had any money to spare for this luxury.
“How much did it cost you, jee?” Gurmeet asked, calculating how much had to be deducted from the current month’s ration.
“Half of this month’s savings.” He sighed.
Gurmeet handed down the kulhad of sweet jaggery-tea to her husband, chuckling darkly at their condition.
Gurmeet and Ramcharan, both in the prime of their youth, were slaving day and night to provide for their family. Monty and Jassi, their two young children, were trotting about the dusty lanes near the neighbor’s house. And then came pitru paksha, like a dark cloud over their heads, when they had to spend the hard earned money, which was meant to provide for their kids, for feeding the spirits of the dead. People deemed it as sheer wastage, but did it anyway. No one wanted to be at the receiving end of the rage of the dead. Nor did they want to cause a spell of bad luck, which was the offspring of this ‘rage’.
Can it be worse than this? Gurmeet thought.
Why to tempt fate?
Monty and Jassi barged in the already ready- to- fall main door and stumbled close to the priceless bundle. After receiving one slap each, and a lecture on how useless they were, they giggled to the only room in the house. Kids, after all. Rain and shine, tears and smiles, all seem the same to them. In their eyes lies the innocence which gets gobbled up by the elders as they grow from seeds to saplings. Thankfully, their innocence was still intact.
Gurmeet started cooking the kheer, or ‘rice pudding’. She added milk, sugar (which was so expensive, it could be used to substitute silver in jewelry) and cooked rice. Keeping it in the only copper vessel in the house, she headed to the terrace. Her dowry was of great use. The one copper vessel for which her father had to sell 3 cows.
Jassi and Monty ran into the kitchen, circling their perplexed mother and shouting
Kheer, kheer, kheer for us?
No, Monty. She replied, exhausted. She had been answering this question for the past 6 years.
You know it’s for the spirit of your dadu and nanu, don’t you? Haven’t I told you this six times already?
Exasperated by the same inane replies, Monty retorted. Don’t lie mother, this kheer is for your precious ugly crows.
Monty! Don’t be disrespectful! The spirits are everywhere ! Beta, they come to earth in the form of crows so as to not scare little boys like you.
I’m not scared of ghosts; I can beat all of them in no time! He puffed his chest and tried to scare the spirits using his nonexistent biceps.
Yes, that’s brave, Monty.
But mother, he tried to reason once again, dadu and nanu weren’t fond of kheer when they were alive, so why will they like it now, after they are dead?
Shut up now, Monty. Enough of you stupid questions. Now don’t disturb me, or you will bring upon all of us, a spell of bad luck.
Monty sighed, it was all futile.
Nodding his head in disappointment like the old Sarpanch Satpal Singh, he headed out with his sister tailing him as usual.
Mumbling inaudible prayers, the meaning of which was both unknown and uninteresting for Gurmeet, she placed the bowl of sweet kheer on the terrace. She could hear the crows caw at a distance. They are here, she whispered, and with folded hands, started praying to the crow-like ancestors.
It was night, and the crows had been cawing all day. Maybe they like my cooking, Gurmeet fancied as she prepared the rotis for dinner. The dinner was a roti and pickle for each family member, except the children, who enjoyed an extra half roti. Relishing their simple yet satisfying dinner, the children, huddled together like a pair of rabbits, slept in the only room of the house. The parents, exhausted and totally spent after a hard day’s work, slipped into the world of dreams in their little main room.
“You know Jassi?” Monty asked her, staring at the kachcha ceiling of their house.
“What?” a sleepy Jassi asked, with half an eye open.
“The dead are the luckiest.”
“How so?” she remarked, her curious head emerging out of the yellowed bed sheet.
Her brother always had interesting things to narrate.
“Because, Jassi, they get kheer every year!”
And with that remark, Monty turned around and went off to sleep, knowing very well that Jassi had silently agreed with him.
As the very first rays of the sun crawled up the roofs of the sleepy neighborhood, Monty sneaked up to the terrace like he had done every year. The crows were gone, and the kheer was untouched.
It was obvious! Monty thought. Crows don’t eat kheer!
And Like every single pitru paksha, he ate the tasty kheer, and licked the bowl clean; keeping the bowl in the very same spot his mother had left it in, and stealthily descended from the stairs, hiding under the sheets. Shortly after this his father woke up, like every year, hurried to the terrace, and on seeing the empty bowl , remarked loudly enough to awaken the neighborhood, the crows ate it all ! Praise the lord!
**************
The days passed without any extraordinary difficulty, which was the case usually. But Ramcharan felt recharged, and so did his wife. They were much more optimistic than before, and were more open towards taking risks. Ramcharan switched factories while Gurmeet decided to boldly change the budget of the house. Everything was as it was normally, but to the couple, it was smoother and rosier.
Faith is a strange thing, Monty wondered.
It makes the darkest rooms appear like a room full of sunlight, and makes the sunniest of the places as dark as winter nights.
So much for a bowl of kheer devoured by crows.
After a year, pitru paksha came knocking at their doorstep again. This time, they were in dire straits. But yet, like last time, Ramcharan managed to get two fistfuls of rice at the cost of fours square meals, for the fulfillment of the spirits of the dead.
Monty asked the same question. Gurmeet gave the same answer. The entire routine went on monotonously, as Jassi, the quessential mamma’s girl absorbed all her mother had said, without questions or doubts.
The Bhatti family was particularly uneasy this time. Rumor had it that with the current conditions of exceptionally low rainfall and the low agricultural productivity, a famine was most likely to plague their area soon. With almost null savings and uncertain odd jobs, the daily survival posed as a herculean challenge…in case of famines, their survival would pose as a huge question mark.
This time the bhattis had a lot at stake.
And a lot to expect from the crow pitras.
Monty, like all previous years, climbed up the stairs to devour the treat. Emboldened by his previous success, he walked comparatively noisily, which woke up little Jassi. Rubbing her sleep laden eyes, she looked at her brother sneaking up the terrace, her mouth forming a perfect O.
Like any curious child, she sneaked up behind her brother, and shrieked when she saw him gobbling up the kheer. Monty’s heart almost burst out of his chest, when he saw his shocked parents run up to the terrace.
That evening, after all the torture was over, Monty thought he would never forget the beating he had received. That he would remember it for the rest of his life. That the scars would never recede.
But after 3 weeks of gilli-danda, all that remained of the horrible beating were some snippets embossed in his memory. He was lucky he was a child. How easy it was for him to forget and forgive? And how impossible to hold grudges! How lucky he was, to be able to forget the ugly side of everything, and embrace the beauty in everyone. Such was the gift of childhood. The gift of innocence, blissful ignorance, and unconditional joy.
But things around the district didn’t improve. Infact, deterioration was rampant. The famine had eaten up all the golden crops, consumed all the water, and dried up the earth. The hale and hearty were nothing more than parched throats and empty stomachs; the strongest were nothing more than tear filled eyes.
The Bhatti elders blamed it all on Monty, who cried himself to sleep. What was his fault? He wondered.
Such a harsh punishment for not letting a perfectly consumable bowl of kheer get wasted?
For eating something he loved ever since he had tasted it?
For an act if innocence?
People knew the famine was coming, and had already started saving. But the Bhatti family hadn’t. They had placed all their good sense, faith and income in the crows.
Such a mindless action! And they called Monty naïve! Hah!
Sometimes, those who understand the whole working of the world, forget the logic that forms its basis.
Monty was being blamed for bringing bad luck upon the family, something he didn’t intend to do, and hadn’t done.
The famine would’ve arrived both ways, like an uninvited guest. Yes, faith was a strange force indeed.
The calamity stretched on for months, and it wasn’t long before the dreaded crow-feast hovered of their heads. There was no food and absolutely no money in the house. How would they afford the offering?
There wasn’t enough money to provide for the basic meals of their children. How would they be able to afford the kheer for their ancestors? Monty, their son, had caught a fever. His forehead was burning, he needed treatment. Months of malnutrition had killed his resistance, and he was an easy target for all types of infections. The couple had no money to spare for his treatment. To afford a doctor’s fee was impossible. They decided they would approach the divine. They decided they would pray to the pitras. Caught in this conflict of thoughts, Gurmeet decided that for now, Monty would have to be content with water and some fruits that they had managed to obtain from some kind neighbors.
They were confused.
Could they trust their ancestors?
They were knee deep in this dilemma, when Ramcharan announced, that bad luck had to be avoided. No one tried to reason with him, he was adamant. And Gurmeet and Jassi felt, he was right.
The last rupee in the house was spent on the offering, which consumed all the meager resources they had left. Praying to the crows and putting in a ton of her misplaced faith, which was undoubtedly superstition, the pair had almost killed their future, to please their supposed “dead relatives”.
Monty was still rolling in fever, the straw mat burning with his temperature. The doctor was of no use! Ramcharan had concluded the day Monty had fallen ill. Even if he was of some use, the Bhattis could no longer approach him. The money which should’ve been spent on medicines was spent on feeding sweetmeats to the crows!
The elders will heal all diseases!
The crows will devour the kheer!
The pitras will be kind to us!
And when Monty became as hot as a pit of sacrificial fire, Jassi poured water on his shivering body, as Gurmeet and Ramcharan recited their prayers, repeatedly, fanatically, religiously, and faithfully. The tragedy was, their faith, was misplaced.
That night, Monty’s hot breath mixed with the feverish atmosphere, as the light from his eyes faded to give way to a scary emptiness, and fearful darkness. His quivering lips stopped asking questions about the crows, reasoning about the ritual, and his head did not nod like the old sarpanch anymore. His disappearing words gave way to a deafening silence; while his family’s wails fell onto his deaf ears. All the warmth from his body escaped that night, leaving him as cold as the ‘ancestors’ had been to the family. The bowl of kheer was discovered to be untouched the next morning.
*******************
Pitru paksha was here again, it was time to appease the dead. As Jassi lay seriously ill, and her penniless father sat next to her reciting prayers again, laden once more with the echoes of misplaced trust, Gurmeet lay down the fruit of the last rupee of the house: a bowl of kheer for Monty’s spirit-crow on the terrace…for a group of birds, who probably didn’t even know what it was.
Glossary
Pitru paksha…………………………………….. a 16–lunar day period when Hindus pay homage to their ancestors (Pitrs), especially through food offerings.
Kheer…………………………………………………Kheer is a South Asian rice pudding made by boiling rice, broken wheat, with milk and sugar;
Kulhad………………………………………..a traditional handle-less terracotta cup from North
India and Pakistan that is typically
unpainted and unglazed,
and meant to be disposable.
Sarpanch……………………………………………………………………..elected head of a village level statutory institution of local self-government
called the panchayat
(village government) in India
Pitru………………………………………………………………….forefathers/ancestors
Jee………………………………………………………………….a respectful term
Reaching his doorstep at last, he knocked twice, as usual, and his wife Gurmeet opened the door noiselessly, ushering her sweaty but relieved husband in. He sat on the thawed straw mat, opening the neatly wrapped packet carefully. Yes, it was all in there, two fistfuls of white, glowing, ivory-like rice.
Gurmeet’s eyes held in them a sparkle, of gratitude and wonder. The last time she saw rice was the last pitru paksha, the only time her husband had any money to spare for this luxury.
“How much did it cost you, jee?” Gurmeet asked, calculating how much had to be deducted from the current month’s ration.
“Half of this month’s savings.” He sighed.
Gurmeet handed down the kulhad of sweet jaggery-tea to her husband, chuckling darkly at their condition.
Gurmeet and Ramcharan, both in the prime of their youth, were slaving day and night to provide for their family. Monty and Jassi, their two young children, were trotting about the dusty lanes near the neighbor’s house. And then came pitru paksha, like a dark cloud over their heads, when they had to spend the hard earned money, which was meant to provide for their kids, for feeding the spirits of the dead. People deemed it as sheer wastage, but did it anyway. No one wanted to be at the receiving end of the rage of the dead. Nor did they want to cause a spell of bad luck, which was the offspring of this ‘rage’.
Can it be worse than this? Gurmeet thought.
Why to tempt fate?
Monty and Jassi barged in the already ready- to- fall main door and stumbled close to the priceless bundle. After receiving one slap each, and a lecture on how useless they were, they giggled to the only room in the house. Kids, after all. Rain and shine, tears and smiles, all seem the same to them. In their eyes lies the innocence which gets gobbled up by the elders as they grow from seeds to saplings. Thankfully, their innocence was still intact.
Gurmeet started cooking the kheer, or ‘rice pudding’. She added milk, sugar (which was so expensive, it could be used to substitute silver in jewelry) and cooked rice. Keeping it in the only copper vessel in the house, she headed to the terrace. Her dowry was of great use. The one copper vessel for which her father had to sell 3 cows.
Jassi and Monty ran into the kitchen, circling their perplexed mother and shouting
Kheer, kheer, kheer for us?
No, Monty. She replied, exhausted. She had been answering this question for the past 6 years.
You know it’s for the spirit of your dadu and nanu, don’t you? Haven’t I told you this six times already?
Exasperated by the same inane replies, Monty retorted. Don’t lie mother, this kheer is for your precious ugly crows.
Monty! Don’t be disrespectful! The spirits are everywhere ! Beta, they come to earth in the form of crows so as to not scare little boys like you.
I’m not scared of ghosts; I can beat all of them in no time! He puffed his chest and tried to scare the spirits using his nonexistent biceps.
Yes, that’s brave, Monty.
But mother, he tried to reason once again, dadu and nanu weren’t fond of kheer when they were alive, so why will they like it now, after they are dead?
Shut up now, Monty. Enough of you stupid questions. Now don’t disturb me, or you will bring upon all of us, a spell of bad luck.
Monty sighed, it was all futile.
Nodding his head in disappointment like the old Sarpanch Satpal Singh, he headed out with his sister tailing him as usual.
Mumbling inaudible prayers, the meaning of which was both unknown and uninteresting for Gurmeet, she placed the bowl of sweet kheer on the terrace. She could hear the crows caw at a distance. They are here, she whispered, and with folded hands, started praying to the crow-like ancestors.
It was night, and the crows had been cawing all day. Maybe they like my cooking, Gurmeet fancied as she prepared the rotis for dinner. The dinner was a roti and pickle for each family member, except the children, who enjoyed an extra half roti. Relishing their simple yet satisfying dinner, the children, huddled together like a pair of rabbits, slept in the only room of the house. The parents, exhausted and totally spent after a hard day’s work, slipped into the world of dreams in their little main room.
“You know Jassi?” Monty asked her, staring at the kachcha ceiling of their house.
“What?” a sleepy Jassi asked, with half an eye open.
“The dead are the luckiest.”
“How so?” she remarked, her curious head emerging out of the yellowed bed sheet.
Her brother always had interesting things to narrate.
“Because, Jassi, they get kheer every year!”
And with that remark, Monty turned around and went off to sleep, knowing very well that Jassi had silently agreed with him.
As the very first rays of the sun crawled up the roofs of the sleepy neighborhood, Monty sneaked up to the terrace like he had done every year. The crows were gone, and the kheer was untouched.
It was obvious! Monty thought. Crows don’t eat kheer!
And Like every single pitru paksha, he ate the tasty kheer, and licked the bowl clean; keeping the bowl in the very same spot his mother had left it in, and stealthily descended from the stairs, hiding under the sheets. Shortly after this his father woke up, like every year, hurried to the terrace, and on seeing the empty bowl , remarked loudly enough to awaken the neighborhood, the crows ate it all ! Praise the lord!
**************
The days passed without any extraordinary difficulty, which was the case usually. But Ramcharan felt recharged, and so did his wife. They were much more optimistic than before, and were more open towards taking risks. Ramcharan switched factories while Gurmeet decided to boldly change the budget of the house. Everything was as it was normally, but to the couple, it was smoother and rosier.
Faith is a strange thing, Monty wondered.
It makes the darkest rooms appear like a room full of sunlight, and makes the sunniest of the places as dark as winter nights.
So much for a bowl of kheer devoured by crows.
After a year, pitru paksha came knocking at their doorstep again. This time, they were in dire straits. But yet, like last time, Ramcharan managed to get two fistfuls of rice at the cost of fours square meals, for the fulfillment of the spirits of the dead.
Monty asked the same question. Gurmeet gave the same answer. The entire routine went on monotonously, as Jassi, the quessential mamma’s girl absorbed all her mother had said, without questions or doubts.
The Bhatti family was particularly uneasy this time. Rumor had it that with the current conditions of exceptionally low rainfall and the low agricultural productivity, a famine was most likely to plague their area soon. With almost null savings and uncertain odd jobs, the daily survival posed as a herculean challenge…in case of famines, their survival would pose as a huge question mark.
This time the bhattis had a lot at stake.
And a lot to expect from the crow pitras.
Monty, like all previous years, climbed up the stairs to devour the treat. Emboldened by his previous success, he walked comparatively noisily, which woke up little Jassi. Rubbing her sleep laden eyes, she looked at her brother sneaking up the terrace, her mouth forming a perfect O.
Like any curious child, she sneaked up behind her brother, and shrieked when she saw him gobbling up the kheer. Monty’s heart almost burst out of his chest, when he saw his shocked parents run up to the terrace.
That evening, after all the torture was over, Monty thought he would never forget the beating he had received. That he would remember it for the rest of his life. That the scars would never recede.
But after 3 weeks of gilli-danda, all that remained of the horrible beating were some snippets embossed in his memory. He was lucky he was a child. How easy it was for him to forget and forgive? And how impossible to hold grudges! How lucky he was, to be able to forget the ugly side of everything, and embrace the beauty in everyone. Such was the gift of childhood. The gift of innocence, blissful ignorance, and unconditional joy.
But things around the district didn’t improve. Infact, deterioration was rampant. The famine had eaten up all the golden crops, consumed all the water, and dried up the earth. The hale and hearty were nothing more than parched throats and empty stomachs; the strongest were nothing more than tear filled eyes.
The Bhatti elders blamed it all on Monty, who cried himself to sleep. What was his fault? He wondered.
Such a harsh punishment for not letting a perfectly consumable bowl of kheer get wasted?
For eating something he loved ever since he had tasted it?
For an act if innocence?
People knew the famine was coming, and had already started saving. But the Bhatti family hadn’t. They had placed all their good sense, faith and income in the crows.
Such a mindless action! And they called Monty naïve! Hah!
Sometimes, those who understand the whole working of the world, forget the logic that forms its basis.
Monty was being blamed for bringing bad luck upon the family, something he didn’t intend to do, and hadn’t done.
The famine would’ve arrived both ways, like an uninvited guest. Yes, faith was a strange force indeed.
The calamity stretched on for months, and it wasn’t long before the dreaded crow-feast hovered of their heads. There was no food and absolutely no money in the house. How would they afford the offering?
There wasn’t enough money to provide for the basic meals of their children. How would they be able to afford the kheer for their ancestors? Monty, their son, had caught a fever. His forehead was burning, he needed treatment. Months of malnutrition had killed his resistance, and he was an easy target for all types of infections. The couple had no money to spare for his treatment. To afford a doctor’s fee was impossible. They decided they would approach the divine. They decided they would pray to the pitras. Caught in this conflict of thoughts, Gurmeet decided that for now, Monty would have to be content with water and some fruits that they had managed to obtain from some kind neighbors.
They were confused.
Could they trust their ancestors?
They were knee deep in this dilemma, when Ramcharan announced, that bad luck had to be avoided. No one tried to reason with him, he was adamant. And Gurmeet and Jassi felt, he was right.
The last rupee in the house was spent on the offering, which consumed all the meager resources they had left. Praying to the crows and putting in a ton of her misplaced faith, which was undoubtedly superstition, the pair had almost killed their future, to please their supposed “dead relatives”.
Monty was still rolling in fever, the straw mat burning with his temperature. The doctor was of no use! Ramcharan had concluded the day Monty had fallen ill. Even if he was of some use, the Bhattis could no longer approach him. The money which should’ve been spent on medicines was spent on feeding sweetmeats to the crows!
The elders will heal all diseases!
The crows will devour the kheer!
The pitras will be kind to us!
And when Monty became as hot as a pit of sacrificial fire, Jassi poured water on his shivering body, as Gurmeet and Ramcharan recited their prayers, repeatedly, fanatically, religiously, and faithfully. The tragedy was, their faith, was misplaced.
That night, Monty’s hot breath mixed with the feverish atmosphere, as the light from his eyes faded to give way to a scary emptiness, and fearful darkness. His quivering lips stopped asking questions about the crows, reasoning about the ritual, and his head did not nod like the old sarpanch anymore. His disappearing words gave way to a deafening silence; while his family’s wails fell onto his deaf ears. All the warmth from his body escaped that night, leaving him as cold as the ‘ancestors’ had been to the family. The bowl of kheer was discovered to be untouched the next morning.
*******************
Pitru paksha was here again, it was time to appease the dead. As Jassi lay seriously ill, and her penniless father sat next to her reciting prayers again, laden once more with the echoes of misplaced trust, Gurmeet lay down the fruit of the last rupee of the house: a bowl of kheer for Monty’s spirit-crow on the terrace…for a group of birds, who probably didn’t even know what it was.
Glossary
Pitru paksha…………………………………….. a 16–lunar day period when Hindus pay homage to their ancestors (Pitrs), especially through food offerings.
Kheer…………………………………………………Kheer is a South Asian rice pudding made by boiling rice, broken wheat, with milk and sugar;
Kulhad………………………………………..a traditional handle-less terracotta cup from North
India and Pakistan that is typically
unpainted and unglazed,
and meant to be disposable.
Sarpanch……………………………………………………………………..elected head of a village level statutory institution of local self-government
called the panchayat
(village government) in India
Pitru………………………………………………………………….forefathers/ancestors
Jee………………………………………………………………….a respectful term
