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| Deepa Agarwal |
Showing posts with label Deepa Agarwal. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Deepa Agarwal. Show all posts
Deepa Agarwal
The Artistry of Patchwork Quilts
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| Deepa Agarwal |
Dust-Decked Rainbow Quilts
By Laksmisree
Banerjee. Penprints Publishers, Kolkata, 2023. Pages 103; ISBN: 978-819667772. Price ₹ 250,
$30
Review
by: Deepa Agarwal
Dust-Decked
Rainbow Quilts—an intriguing
title for a poetry collection, yet so apt for eminent academic and poet Dr. Laksmisree
Banerjee’s latest offering.
I had the pleasure of reviewing
Laksmisree’s earlier collection The Blue Phoenix and Other Poems
some time ago and thus have some familiarity with the poet’s compelling inner
world.
In her preface she provides the
explanation a reader might seek for the title. Referring to her perspective
both as humanist and womanist she states: “the metaphor of the “Quilt” has been
deliberately used from the usage or context of Feminist Historiography in which
the artistry of embroidered or patchwork quilts or crocheted bedspreads, made
by Women across ages and geo-spaces, becomes the archetypal crux of Women’s Stories.”
The term “dust decked”
itself offers a clue to her unique and skilful handling of language that the
reader will encounter over and over again in this collection. The distinctive
prism of her imagination throws up many such phrases that have an enduring
resonance. It is indeed a mark of the poet’s calibre that she negotiates the
maze of poetic language with such a practised felicity. We rarely think of dust
as something ornamental and this rare juxtaposition evokes both the past and
the beauty of oft ignored, rarely appreciated toil of women.
the trapped sunshine of hues sprinkle all
over
from the riotous tints of bygone ages
embroidered coverlets of centuries
of female trajectories buried from sight
or their parallel humans in subaltern
blight
of captive lives emitting culture- soaked
light
to illumine our lucent todays
The poet uses a familiar device—invoking
the past to find meaning in the present but her singular vision sketches a
pattern that is her own inimitable creation. The same unusual use of language
adds a particular luminosity to the poem “People’s Poet Jayanta Mahapatra: in
Fond Memory” in which she pays
homage to the iconic poet who left us so recently.
the calm of your cherry pain
leavening our shredded soul
your wincing butterflies wing
through our ambrosial manna
These are indeed words replete with
multilayered meaning.
The
themes of Banerjee’s poetry are wide ranging. However, certain tropes become
evident as you examine the poems deeply. Her “womanist” concerns come across
strongly in poems like “Silent Scream” and “Object D’Art”. The plight of women
who have no control over their lives is expressed in stark unsparing terms in
the former:
Worship, immersion, festivity, facades
all drown fading into memories and births
of generations of women with silent
screams
dying every instant with their fortitude of
dreams
The objectification of
women is set forth in “Object D’Art” in intense and graphic language, where the
newly wed is portrayed as a puppet whose role has been predetermined by others.
She was
reconstructed
with finery,
jewellery
a good
status-symbol
for private use and public display---
While
poems like these may decry the ways of patriarchy, she also finds joy in man-woman
relationships. In the poem “Love Marriage” she uninhibitedly celebrates the
union of two bodies and the overall tone is one of hope.
we have pilfered time for loving each
other
in the surge of the storm wheezing past
the turbulence of deep silent permeation
“Rivers Meet” similarly
reads like an ode to love, though its mood is somewhat melancholy as it dwells
on the tenuousness of human relationships.
Her humanist side and her social
consciousness are evident in poems like “On A
Greyhound from London To Northampton”, which is a scathing commentary on
racism when a white bus driver brutally forces some coloured passengers off a
bus.
That was an eye-opening day though
with squally skies and a blurred vision
when the cosmic lights went off
darkness prevailed more within
than in the arrogant winds outside,
the usual crowd of white predominance
with a minuscule of blacks and browns,
a thick smoke of supremacy clogged
the free flowing air with spurts in frowns
“Siachen (To the Unknown
Soldier)” dwells upon the plight of those anonymous guardians of our frontiers
with deep empathy.
On the highest battlefield of this
cold-hot world
we are the ones who script forgotten,
illegible history
sing unsung heroic songs of bravery often
erased
we the ones who dance in the silence of
doom
we live and die in anonymity, in glory
gone silly
give up lives, families for our national
family
still we remain ever decided sentinels of
freedom ---
Banerjee paints vivid mindscapes with
great energy. The brilliant colours that
ornament her poetry—coral and azure, indigo and sapphire add a particular
radiance to her verses. While her poetic pallete is incandescent with colour,
she adeptly brings a chiaroscuro of darkness and light into play as well, which
adds another dimension to her poetry. The five elements—earth, air, fire, space
and water are also evoked to convey poetic meaning as in the poems “Rain
Rhapsody”, which plays joyful tribute to nature’s healing power:
Look Mommy, the
rains have created magic
Clumps glossy
plumaged
I see these silver
slivers
Lancing the earth playfully
With so much
tender chuckle
Slanted splinters
of watery crackers
Implosions of sky
and earth
This multi-dimensional poetic sensibility
can be experienced in several other poems as she presents a variety of points
of view to illuminate different facets of meaning. Indeed, Banerjee’s poetic
voice is almost like a clarion call alerting the reader to possibilities that
might have escaped their notice. She is all heart and spirit and her passion
for life and living is vividly evident as she negotiates the high and low notes
of language with consummate skill. The poem “Chance Meeting” reads like an
affirmation of faith. After beginning with the traumatic scene “where mutinous
mobs ran, at each other’s throats”, in the end there is exuberant celebration:
God reappeared in the skies blessing me
As I cried in joy, my hands stretched
upward
“Yes I have found him—I have found my
answer
It is love, love, the endless River of
Life”--
Thus, while she
bewails the imperfection of human existence and throws merciless lights on the
dark fissures in our society, she also soothes us with a ray of hope, a belief
in the essential goodness of humanity. To quote from her poem “Game of
Numbers”:
So the gaming sprints through time and
space
Yet humanity lone belongs to another race
A wholesome knit of goodness breed
As we reap the verdure from that seed---
It is impossible to do
justice to this vast patchwork quilt of Banerjee’s poetry in this short piece.
All I can say in closing is that the diligent reader will reap much verdure
from this poetic seed.
Deepa Agarwal (Towards Visibility)
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| Deepa Agarwal |
FIRST SARIS
Draped in rainbows
my daughter stands
erect, inscrutable
winding adulthood around her
with uncanny poise.
the younger one is an arch of delight
hair rippling
like a rebellious river in spate
laughing at this disguise
she segues into the marching minutes.
the youngest reaches for the universe
secure in this avatar
confident, that one day’s role play
is a momentous step forward.
I think of myself negotiating
the drowsy streets of my hometown
in a frou-frou of anticipation
despite impending wardrobe malfunction
trappings of womanhood
will exact their toll.
***
DYSGRAPHIA
Alphabets disperse
like leaves wrenched from a bough.
Rebellious children embracing chaos,
willfully dismembering meaning.
Unperturbed, mother tree watches,
knowing the sap of meaning
still courses in her veins,
impervious to the tsunami’s onslaught.
***
HEARTBEATS
What dialogue can a fish exchange with a raindrop?
Does its skin register the puckered caress
of water kissing water.
Denizen of liquid spaces,
does it hear the whispered endearment,
as it relentlessly negotiates its element?
Sky is ever bounteous
but does the fish
acknowledge raindrops’ silent toil,
as they replenish its habitat?
but fetus reads mother’s yearning heartbeat,
as it wanders in the nurturing womb.
***
Author,
poet and translator, Deepa Agarwal writes for both children and adults
and has over 60 books published. A frequent contributor to magazines and
journals in India and abroad, she has edited and compiled several anthologies.
Her work has been translated into several Indian and foreign languages. Gender
equality, social injustice and preservation of the environment are some of the
main themes in her writing. Among other awards, she received the N.C.E.R.T.
National Award for Children’s Literature for Ashok’s New Friends, her
historical fiction Caravan to Tibet was on the IBBY (International Board
on Books for Young People) Honour List 2008, Journey to the Forbidden City
on the Parag Honour List 2020 and shortlisted for the Neev Book Award, Kashmir!
Kashmir! on the Parag Honour List 2021 and finalist for Publishing Next
Book of the Year Award, poetry collection Forgotten Kaleidoscopes was
shortlisted for the PVLF Best Poetry Award. Deepa lives in Delhi, India.
Deepa Agarwal (Children's World)
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| Deepa Agarwal |
THE MAGICAL LOLLIPOP
Vinny blew hard on
her whistling lollipop, but nothing happened. She tried again. But not even the
teeniest meeniest squeak came from it.
‘The old man cheated me!’ she wailed. ‘He said this was a whistling lollipop!’
A short and chubby ten-year-old, Vinny had two bunches of curls sticking
out of her head like a pair of squiggly antennae. She loved sweets and just that afternoon
she’d bought a big bag of lollipops.
‘Verr-ree special lollipops!’ the wrinkled shopkeeper had said. Vinny
thought he meant extra yummy. But the very first one turned out to be a dud.
She was about to crunch the lollipop up in disgust when she heard a big
BANG like an enormous cracker going off.
‘Help! He-lp!’ Vinny shrieked. ‘There’s a bomb in this lollipop!’
‘Please!’ someone said. ‘Must you yell so loud? It hurts—my ears are so
sensitive!’
Slow-ly Vinny turned around.
A strange man stood there. He had a long
mournful face and a long curly moustache and was wearing a pair of shiny harem
pants with a round cap perched on his head.
‘Who are you?’ Vinny asked, astonished. ‘Where did you come from? And you
made a really loud noise too.’
‘Madam,’ the man said, bowing, ‘I’m the Djinn
of the Whistling Lollipop and your wish is my command.’
Vinny gaped at him. ‘The Djinn of the Whistling Lollipop! What a joke!’
‘These modern kids!’ the man rolled his eyes. ‘Believe me, I am
the Djinn of the Whistling Lollipop. If you make a wish, I will fulfill it. Ask
for whatever you want.’
‘You can fulfill a wish? But this is not a whistling lollipop—it didn’t whistle.’
‘Ah…It does whistle, but you can’t hear it,’
said the Djinn. ‘Only I can.’
Vinny stared at the man. Whoops! He wasn’t standing on the ground but
sort of floating above it. A real Djinn!
But what should she wish for?
Just then an ice creamwala yelled from down the road, ‘Aai—ce-ka-ream!’
‘Ice cream!’ Vinny cried. ‘Lots and lots of ice cream—in all the
flavours possible!’
‘Ice cream? No palaces or gold or jewels?’ the Djinn frowned.
‘No thanks,’ said Vinny virtuously. ‘I’m not that greedy.’
‘As you wish!’ And he vanished with a flash and a bang.
Within a second the Djinn returned with an ENORMOUS freezer. Written on
it were the words—ZOOPER HEXTRAORDINARY
ICE CREAM PVT. LTD. INC. ALL FLAVOURS POSSIBLE.
‘Here you are, madam!’ he said with another bow. ‘All the flavours
possible!’ He sounded almost cheerful and if Vinny had been listening, she’d
have noticed.
But she was already charging at the freezer, grabbing as many ice creams
as she could in two hands. She was worried that they might disappear as
suddenly as they’d appeared.
The Djinn’s moustache quivered as he watched her. Then he vanished.
Vinny was too busy to notice. She was digging into: Super-Duper
Yumma-licious Vanilla, Slurpy Scrumptious Strawberry, and Choco-bloc-Chic-Choc.
She was also trying to slurp up Riotous Red Rose and Plangent Pulpy Passion
Fruit at the same time.
She was setting a record for being the fastest ice cream eater in the
world too, already having sampled 29 different ice creams in just 9 minutes.
What a time she was having! The ice cream ran down her chin as she slurped it
as fast as she could. There were so many flavours to try! It dribbled onto her
dress, onto the floor in sticky pools. Some even got onto the walls and the
ceiling.
But she’d asked for ALL the flavours possible...
So, after she had licked her way through 55 flavours, she got to
Toothsome Tickly Toffee, which was toothsome, but also horribly tickly. So, it
was tickle-and-laugh, tickle-and-laugh, till she was quite tired. It didn’t
stop her from reaching out for the next one—Jiggly Jumping Jiggleberry. That
made her bounce like a football with a merry jingle inside her tummy! But she
just said, ‘Oops! I’m (jingle) sure the n-ext(jingle) will be all right.’
The next turned out to be Itchy Icky Ickream, so it was nothing but
scratch-scratch and SCRATCH-SCRATCH. Quickly,
Vinny reached out for the next one and got Yucky Yaller Yamba.
‘YUCK!’ she screamed. ‘This can’t be—yice cream!’
To get rid of the horrible taste she grabbed another. Unluckily it was
Pukey Pinko Pie!
‘Yukko! Ack-thh-ooo!’ she yelled.
Frantic, she put her hand in the freezer and pulled out—Rrevolting
Rizzky Rizzberry. True to its name, it was rrevolting!
‘Ggakk-kk!’ Vinny croaked.
Just then her eye fell on the half-sucked lollipop she’d thrown down on
the table. Immediately, she put it into her mouth to get rid of the horrible
taste. And without realizing—she blew on it.
BANG! FLASH! The Djinn reappeared. For a moment Vinny was flummoxed.
Then she yelled, ‘Take them away! All of them!’
‘All of them?’ The Djinn raised an eyebrow.
‘Yes! ALL!’ she shouted. ‘AT ONCE!’
‘AT once,’ replied the Djinn, lifting the huge freezer as though it was
as light as a feather. He turned to remark cheerily, before he vanished, ‘You
did say, “All the flavours possible.”’
‘Phew!’ Vinny breathed. ‘Thank God, it’s all gone!’
But the yucky taste in her mouth hadn’t gone. And no matter how much she
rinsed and gargled it remained. Worse, her tummy began to twist and turn in the
most horrible way possible.
‘Ow-ooohh!’ Vinny groaned.
She picked up the bag of
lollipops sitting on the table and was about to hurl it out of the window in a
rage, when she saw two little girls picking rags from the rubbish heap outside.
And from somewhere a thought floated into her head—quite an unusual thought for
her.
So, she walked out of the house and handed the bag to them. ‘Take
these,’ she said, trying to smile. ‘Enjoy!’
Surprised, the girls hesitantly took the bag, and smiled back.
Hope they ask for gold and palaces, Vinny thought. Then she got
a surprise too. The Pukey, Yucky, Rrevolting taste vanished. So did her tummy-ache!
Bio Note: Deepa Agarwal
Deepa Agarwal -- Author, poet and translator, Deepa Agarwal
writes for both children and adults and has over 60 books published. A frequent
contributor to magazines and journals in India and abroad, she has edited and
compiled several anthologies. She received the N.C.E.R.T. National Award for
Children’s Literature for Ashok’s New Friends, Caravan
to Tibet was on the IBBY (International Board on Books for Young
People) Honour List 2008, Journey to the Forbidden City on the
Parag Honour List 2020 and shortlisted for the Neev Book Award, Kashmir!
Kashmir! on the Parag Honour List 2021, while Forgotten
Kaleidoscopes was shortlisted for the PVLF Best Poetry Award.
Fiction: Think Cool Mountain Breezes
Think cool mountain breezes, think sighing
forests, think twittering birds…
Sometimes visualization fails, the
imagination remains stagnant in the present.
The restless flames are the only reality right now, as
the taxi creaks to a halt. In front of them, anuntidy cavalcade of cars, buses
and trucks winds below the burning slopes. Dry pine needles carpet the hillside
like witch’s hair waiting to ignite. Smoke drifts in random puffs, filling her
nostrils with its acrid stench.
‘Why have we stopped?’ she asks irritably. Exhaustion
is squeezing out her reserves of patience. The first tendrils of panic begin to
coil around her. She hasn’t had lunch. Five hours have elapsed since breakfast
on the train.
‘Madam, forest fire. Stones are falling.’
Behind them, someone honks insistently. An oversized
car attempts to scrape past them on the narrow road.
‘Lunatic!’ she mutters in disgust, glaring at the man
at the wheel.
It’s packed with goggled holiday makers—men, women,
children. A woman shrieks as the car gets precariously close to the edge of the
road.
‘What are you doing, sahib,’ her bony faced driver
gesticulates. ‘The car will slip off the road.’
The sweating man is helped to maneuver his vehicle
back. He inserts it at an awkward angle between theirs and the next vehicle
that has closed up. She can hear a woman scolding, children whining. And when she glances back, she can see
vehicles queued up till the previous bend.
‘These Dilliwalas, they think they can overtake like
they do in the city,’ her driver sniggers. The cloying scent of gutka fills the
air as he shakes some into the palm of his hand, then hurriedly tosses it into
his mouth as they hear car engines cranking to a start.
Her phone shrills. ‘Where are you?’ The urgency in her
sister’s voice assails her.
‘Somewhere between Bhowali and Kainchi...’
‘Hurry, get here as fast as you can. She’s been asking
for you, over and over again.’ She pauses to swallow. ‘She-she’s sinking fast.’
She nods, forgetting that Aparna cannot see her. ‘I’m
coming,’ she whispers. But the call has dropped. A terrible helplessness
overwhelms her.
Hope flares as they inch forward. Then, inexplicably,
the vehicles come to a halt again. She can glimpse the spot where the stones
are falling. A daring man accelerates and barely escapes a mini avalanche.
‘Bahut risk hai.’ Her driver shakes his head.
‘Why isn’t anyone putting out the fire?’
‘Madam, it spread very fast. The fire engines have to
come from far.’
‘Fire engines? How will they reach there? Can’t people
beat out the flames?’ she demands bitterly. ‘Are we going to sit here the whole
day?’
The man from the car behindclimbs out and heads for
the troublesome spot. She can see him arguing with some people. Then he stomps
back.
‘The children are starving,’ he proclaims to no one in
particular as he walks past.
‘My mother is dying,’ she wants to say. A thousand
self-accusatory thoughts do battle in her head. If she had taken the night
train. If her daughter hadn’t got fever
yesterday. If her sister hadn’t been such a perfect daughter, always doing
things right. And…if she hadn’t had that awful blow up with Ma the last time
they met.
A terrible ache builds up in her throat. The moments
pile up on her back, press on her temples. Then she sits up as another flurry
of activity energizes the column in front of her.Cars begin to take the leap, a
few brave ones at a time. Some rubble showers on to the road. There’s a squeal
of brakes and shouting as a vehicle barely escapes ramming into the one ahead.
‘I have to reach as soon as possible!’ she cries out.
The words, ‘My mother is dying’ cannot be voiced. It would cheapen, dilute her
anguish. Make it too melodramatic. And yet it feelsunreal. She must be granted
time to say sorry, she thinks.
‘We’re moving, madam.’
And then…they too are past. The road is smooth sailing
now.
‘No stopping for tea,’ she tells the man. ‘Sorry. I’m
very late.’
He shrugs resignedly.
*
‘You’re late, as usual,’ Ma’stoneis despairing.
‘It-it was not my fault, Ma,’ the shrill
childish whine dismays her. ‘Th-there was a forest fire.’
‘Forest fire?’ Ma sounds disbelieving.
‘How did you land up in the middle of a forest fire?’
‘Mansi, Mansi!’ Aparna stands there with a bemused
look on her face. ‘You dozed off. Were you dreaming? You were muttering “forest
fire”.’
Mansi rubs her damp eyes. ‘Yes…was dreaming of a
forest fire.’
‘Well…she’s up and asking for you.’ She adds almost
apologetically, ‘She seemed really bad when I called you.’
‘It’s all right.’
Her mother’s hand is warm and dry. ‘Was your journey
comfortable?’ she’s barely audible.
‘Yes, Ma.’ She gulps. ‘Very. You’re looking good.’
‘Jhoothi,’ Ma whispers. She sighs and goes
still.
Smoke clogs Mansi’s nostrils.
***
About
Deepa Agarwal: Author, poet and translator, Deepa Agarwal writes for both children and
adults and has over 50 books published. She has received the N.C.E.R.T.
National Award for Children’s Literature in 1993 for her picture book Ashok’s
New Friends, while her historical fiction Caravan to Tibet was
on the IBBY Honour List in 2008.Her
work has been translated into several Indian and foreign languages. She has
published a poetry collection titled Do Not Weep Lonely Mirror. Recent
titles include You Cannot Have All the
Answers (Niyogi Books) The
Begum, (Penguin Random House India), The Teenage Diary of Nur Jahan
(Speaking Tiger), Blessed (Hachette India) Friendship Stories
(Scholastic India) and Journey to the Forbidden City
(Penguin/Puffin).
The Fruit of Hard Work: Deepa Agarwal
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| Deepa Agarwal is an Indian writer of books for children |
One evening as he and his wife, Sarla Devi, ate their dinner of two dry chapattis with a lump of salt, she said, “We deserve better than this, surely. I wish we had money to buy some vegetables at least.”
Ram Dhan sighed. “There’s no way for me to earn more.”
“Well,” said Sarla Devi, “I’ve heard our raja sahib is very generous. He gives freely to learned men like you.”
Ram Dhan frowned. “Kings acquire their wealth by taxing their subjects or by looting their enemies in battle. I’d rather remain poor than accept such money in alms.”
“I’m sure not all of his money is earned like that,” Sarla Devi insisted. “Why don’t you go to the palace and find out?”
Ram Dhan thought for a long while. “All right,” he said finally. “But I’ll only accept money the king has earned by his own honest work.”
The next morning he set off for the capital. When he reached the palace, he noticed a long line of men winding out form the central gates. Discovering they were all alms seekers like himself, he joined the queue.
Inside the king was sitting on a jeweled throne. A huge diamond flashed in his turban, and his brocade coat shimmered with gold. Two attendants stood beside him, holding an enormous salver covered with coins. As each supplicant approached, the king picked up a handful of coins and poured it into the man’s cupped palms.
After a long wait, Ram Dhan said, “Your Majesty, with all due respect, I would like to ask you a question. Have you earned this money by the sweat of your brow?”
The king was so startled that the coins slid out of his hands back into the salver. “Earned?” he replied. “Don’t you know kings do not sweat to earn money like ordinary people?”
Ram Dhan said, “Then I cannot accept this money. It is against my dharma to take money that has not been earned by honest labor.”
The king paled. When he came to the throne, he had made a vow that a needy person would never go empty-handed from his door. If this Brahmin left without accepting alms from him, his vow would be broken!
“Wait!” he called to Ram Dhan, who was already turning away. “If you come again tomorrow, I promise you will get money that I have earned by my own labor.”
After the crowd had dispersed, the king went to his chamber and disguised himself as a common laborer. He then slipped out of the palace and began to look for work in the city. After knocking at many doors he found a job—fetching water for a householder.
The king had never in his life lifted a finger to do any kind of work. Just filling the clay pot with water and carrying it on his head was exhausting. When he staggered back to the house with the full pot, he was ordered to fetch another. This was even more of an effort, but he thought of his vow and went on. However, as soon as he reentered the house, he stumbled and dropped the pot. It shattered at once.
The householder was furious. “You useless fellow!” he cried. “Take this and get out. It’s more than you deserve!” he flung a couple of coins after him.
The king picked up the coins gratefully. At least he would not have to break his vow.
The next day, when Ram Dhan appeared, the king produced the coins. He said, “This is all I could earn by my own labor.”
Ram Dhan touched the coins to his forehead, bowed to the king and said, “These coins are more precious than gold and jewels.” And he left for his village.
His wife ran out eagerly as soon as she saw him arrive. “What did the king give you?” she asked.
Ram Dhan produced the two coins. It was all he could earn by his own honest work.
Sarla Devi was bitterly disappointed. But she took the two coins and placed them as an offering to the sacred tulsi plant, which grew in a pot in their tiny courtyard. It was her custom to light a lamp before the plant every night, in worship.
One evening Sarla Devi noticed that another plant had sprouted in the pot beside the tulsi. It was quite different form the common weeds that sometimes took root there. Curious to see how it would grow, she decided to let it remain. The plant grew taller and taller as the days passed. Tiny buds appeared on its stems. The buds bloomed into little white flowers, so pretty and unusual that Sarla Devi was quite fascinated by them.
She was even more intrigued when the flowers began turning into fruit, the oddest fruit she had ever seen. Little white balls, hard, with a wonderful sheen.
“Do you think this fruit has any use?” she asked Ram Dhan.
“I don’t know,” he said. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”
Soon the plant was producing so much fruit that it fell and scattered all over the courtyard. Every day Sarla Devi swept up a big handful. The little balls were so unusual that she didn’t feel like throwing them away, so she collected them in a mud pot.
One day she heard the fruit seller calling out, “Guavas, fresh guavas!” Sarla Devi’s mouth watered. It was years since she had eaten a sweet guava. But she had no money. As she stood there wondering what she could do, she suddenly had an idea.
She ran and got some of the strange fruit and went to the fruit seller. “Leelabai,” she said, “would you like to exchange these for some guavas?”
Leelabai turned the white balls over in her hand. “What are they?” she asked, perplexed.
“I thought you would know,” Sarla Devi replied.
“Well, I’ve never seen this fruit before. But it’s so pretty that I don’t mind giving you some guavas in exchange.”
The fruit seller took the strange fruit to the village grocer. As soon as he saw the little white balls, he exclaimed, “Where did you get these?”
“From Sarla Devi, the priest’s wife. She says they grow on a plant in her courtyard. Do they have any use?”
The grocer’s face grew guarded. “Maybe,” he said. “I’m not sure. But they look very nice. I don’t mind giving you provisions in exchange for them.”
Now Leelabai began to give Sarla Devi fruit and vegetables in exchange for the gleaming white balls. In turn, she passed the little balls on to the grocer.
One day, on a visit to the city, the grocer heard the sound of the town crier’s drum. “Hear all! Hear all!” he proclaimed. “The marriage of Her Highness Princess Roopvati has been arranged. Her wedding dress is to be embroidered with fine pearls. His Majesty the king will pay handsomely for the best pearls, so if you possess any, bring them forth.”
The grocer rushed home. He took all the little white balls he had, put them in a silken pouch, and hurried back to the city.
When the king saw them, his eyes gleamed with delight. “These pearls are incomparable,” he said. “Where did you get them?”
The grocer told him about the strange plant.
“Impossible!” cried the king. “Pearls do not grow on plants. You are lying!”
“I speak the truth!” the grocer pleaded, terrified. “There is such a plant.”
“Then I must see it for myself.” The king set off for the village at once.
“Show me the wonderful plant that bears pearls for fruit,” the king demanded, as soon as Sarla Devi opened the door.
For a moment she was confused. Then she cried, “Pearls! I knew they were something rare!”
She ran and got the pot of tulsi. The king took it from her and looked at the pearl-bearing plant. “This is truly a miracle!” he cried out, amazed. “But how is it possible?”
As he tilted the pot this way and that, it slipped form his hand and fell to the floor. The pot broke, scattering soil and exposing the plant’s roots.
“The coins!” Sarla Devi exclaimed. “It is growing out of coins!”
Ram Dhan came forward. “Your Majesty,” he explained, “you gave me these coins in charity. It was money you earned from your own honest labor.”
The king was wonder-stricken. “Of course, I remember,” he said. “It was the first and only time I labored with my own hands.”
“These pearls are the fruit of that work, Your Majesty,” said Ram Dhan.
“You are truly the wisest man in my kingdom,” declared the king. “You shall be the royal tutor and teach my sons all you know. Particularly the value of hard work.”
Ram Dhan and Sarla Devi went to live in the palace. They never lacked for anything again.
Bahadur, K.P; Folktales of Uttar Pradesh, Sterling Publishers, New Delhi
There is a variation of the theme of duty or hard work being rewarded with a miracle of pearls in a story from the state of Uttarakhand. A dutiful daughter-in-law finds the drops of water she squeezes from her father-in-law’s dhoti after washing it turning into pearls.
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