Prabhudas - The Promise by Harry Bissoon
Prabhudas fidgeted uneasily as he sat on the unpainted wooden bench, which had changed with age, to a grey metallic appearance. He constantly, with reassuring satisfaction, picked at his nose, plucking long, grey hairs, jutting out of his large nostrils. There was an irritating itch somewhere on the inner side of his left thigh, and his hands repeatedly reached for that spot, to engage in a scratch of tingling content. Dressed in a white vest and blue boxer shorts with red stripes, his bulging belly hanging over his waistline, he presented a picture of lazy indulgence, as he greeted the new day.
It was customary for him to be out of bed at 4:30 am on a regular work day, but today was a national holiday, so he slept until 5:30 am. He could have slept later, but Prabhudas never felt good if he missed the rising sun. It had something to do with ‘contentment, fulfillment, and soul power’ he always told those who knew him well. It brought on the ‘disease of laziness’ he would say if the sun ‘catches you in bed’.
So, on this Deepavali holiday, he sat on his favorite bench, in his favorite spot, under a gigantic mango tree, in front of his house, waiting for the rising sun. In the grey, dreary dawn, he waited. He waited for the sun’s brilliance and penetrating rays to strike him in his face. It was going to be a nice day. The sky was dotted with small puffs of clouds which seemed to be in a hurry, moving away from the rising sun, exposing clear, blue skies. When the golden brilliance struck his face he breathed a sigh of relief, as if he wasn’t sure that the sun would come. In solitude he sat, enjoying a new morning, when his tranquility was abruptly broken.
The shrieks and squeals of his three grandchildren shattered his silent conversation with the sun, as they scampered out of Prabhudas’ house, through the kitchen door on the ground floor. They ran excitedly into the yard, around the mango tree, shouting in uncontrollable glee that it was a holiday, and that they did not have to go to school. They darted in and around hibiscus and chamomile plants, brushing and bruising red and white flowers. A tantalizing aroma drifted from the tender flowers towards the large nostrils of Prabhudas. He hollered at them, telling them to be careful and not to damage the plants which he had planted and cared for. They hollered back at him.
“Nana, Nana! Today is Deepavali. We do not have to go to school! Get up and come run with us!
His son-in-law, Hitram, was also awake, and had come out into the yard, standing at the old drum which had collected rain water, running off the corrugated galvanized roof, and through gutters that led into the drum. Even though well water was piped into Prabhudas’ house, Hitram preferred the cool rain water, to splash on his face in the early morning. Hitram coughed, gargled and spat, as he brushed his teeth with an overused toothbrush. Throughout his morning ritual, Hitram sang an old Mukesh song, with such incoherence, and a complete lack of melody, that it irritated his father-in-law who gingerly got up from the old bench and started to run with his grandchildren, leaving Hitram to continue his muddled rendition of the Indian maestro.
When Hitram got married to Prabhudas’ daughter,Gita, they had all agreed that the newly married couple would live in Prabhudas’ house, since Gita was his only daughter. However, Hitram’s family was getting bigger and Prabhudas’ house was getting smaller. The two bedroom house was not big enough for Hitram’s children. He was aware of this and had been saving money to build his own house, but he never had a steady job and couldn’t save as much as he wanted. His job as a carpenter was not a steady one. He sometimes took odd jobs as a laborer at the rice mill in the village, but even this didn’t provide enough, and now he had to take care of three children. Even though he could have tried to build a small house with whatever savings he had, he still had to get money to buy the plot of land which he had seen, not far from Prabhudas’ house.
Prabhudas and his wife, Devi, knew about this, and were secretly putting money aside, from whatever they made, by selling produce from the vegetable garden at the back of their house. Prabhudas was retired and worked full time in the garden. He labored and cultivated, always trying to produce more vegetables of very good quality, so as to get the best price in the market. They almost had enough but were afraid that they couldn’t get the required amount before the deadline which the seller had given. Nonetheless, Devi promised Hitram that she and Prabhudas will ensure that he gets the land which he wanted.
Devi was a religious woman. Her god came before anything else and she believed that with prayers all things were possible. She was going make a special plea to her god, and she was going to do it on Deepavali – a day of purification, devotion, and expectation - a day when Hindus worshipped mother Lakshmi, the goddess of wealth and happiness.
The women of Prabhudas’ house, Devi and Gita, were up on Deepavali day just after Prabhudas got out of bed. It was a special day for Devi, so she took particular care in preparing herself to meet mother Lakshmi. She called out to her daughter to accompany her to the river which flowed not far from Prabhudas’ house, and then gingerly proceeded to the cool brown waters, where they would wash themselves, offering prayers to mother Ganga, goddess of the waters, in an ancient and traditional ritual, seeking purification and blessings.
After they had left, Prabhudas who had again seated himself on the old bench, got up and walked over to a hammock which was strung between two guava trees at the side of the house. The mango tree was casting a shadow over his bench, so he stretched out in the hammock where he could still bask in the sun.
As he rocked himself with one foot on the ground, he thought about Deepavali and the fact that it fell on a Friday. It didn’t happen like this for a number of years. As a matter of fact, he couldn’t remember the last time that Deepavali was on a Friday. This presented a problem for Prabhudas: a problem which dealt with his drinking habits and a strict routine which he followed every Friday. It was a day when he would walk over to the neighborhood rum shop, just after lunch, and have a few drinks with friends. However this Friday was Deepavli, and drinking was strictly prohibited by his wife. As he gently rocked in the hammock, he resigned himself to the fact that he had to stay without rum on Deepavali day.
Hitram was fully aware of his father-in-law’s drinking habits, so as soon as he was finished at the water drum, he sarcastically called out to him.
“Pa, what time are you going to the rum shop today?”
Prabhudas almost leaped out of the hammock, as he got up to face Hitram who was behind him. He immediately realized that his son-in-law was trying to be funny, quickly recognizing the hint of a smile on Hitram’s face.
“You are making fun of me,eh. Do you want your mother-in-law to get mad with me? Yuu better don’t mention anything about rum shop when she comes back from the water side.”
Hitram chuckled mischievously as walked into the kitchen, located on the lower flat of the three bedroom house, deciding that that was the end of the matter, but his children had heard the exchange of words, and they ran towards the hammock, in which their grandfather had ensconced himself.
The eldest of the grandchildren, Sita, who was twelve years old, placed her hands on her hips, mimicking her grandmother, and gave Prabhudas a stern admonition.
“Nana, you can’t drink today, you know. Mother Lakshmi will be visiting us tonight, and nani said that if you drink today, she will pass our house and take her blessings somewhere else.”
Prabhudas gently reached out and held both of Sita’s hands and told her, “No, Sita. Your nana will not drink today. Nana will be very good. I will even help Nani light the diyas this afternoon at sundown.” The children, being satisfied with their grandfather’s answer, scampered away to continue their frolicking, shouting as they ran.
“We will light the diyas, nana. We will help you and nani to light them all, so that mother Lakshmi will be happy and grant us our wishes!”
Mrs. Prabhudas and her daughter came back from their bath, full of enthusiasm and zest, revitalized by their dip in the waters of the river that flowed nearby. She had lived most her life on the bank of this river and had developed great respect for it because of the integral role it played in the life of her religion. She believed that the river washed away evilness, sickness and impurities and had performed many religious ceremonies on the shores of the great river. She also respected the river because of its power and massiveness. She was always fearful of it when its waters, fueled by the rushing winds, rose in angry turbulence, lashing against the concrete seawall which held it from rushing over its banks, and causing it to explode into a myriad of frothy sprays, as if spitting in furious frustration.
However, when they got to the river that morning, its waters were very calm, tamed by the falling tide and baring its sandy shores, inviting them to do puja. Their puja had been very peaceful and full of unrestrained devotion to mother Ganga. When they returned home they expected the same tranquility of the river and their untarnished devotion to pervade the entire family, setting the stage for Lakshni’s arrival.
There was, indeed, tranquility when they got back home! Prabhudas was sound asleep in the hammock and Hitram was quietly reading an old issue of the Times magazine. The children were standing in silence around the hammock, staring in bewilderment at their grandfather as he snored in such a manner that allowed an almost noiseless swish of air to emit from his mouth, leaving his lips trembling, being caught in some kind of spasm.
Mrs. Prabhudas walked over to the hammock and tenderly shook her husband’s shoulder.
“Eh, eh, Prabhu, you just woke up and now you are asleep again. Wake up! We are going to make breakfast, and then we will all eat together. When we are finished you and Hitram will clean the yard.”
Prabhudas felt her hands, heard her voice and came out of his slumber, mumbling to himself so that his wife couldn’t hear him.
“If she wants me to clean the yard, why is she telling me to go and bathe!”
His wife placed tremendous emphasis on cleanliness during Deepavali day since she believed that it was a prerequisite for attracting the deities whom she worshipped. She and her daughter and the children spent a lot of time after breakfast cleaning the house, while her husband and Hitram worked on the yard. It was while Prabhudas was raking up leaves under the mango tree that Hitram asked him why his mother-in-law, Mrs. Prabhudas, was always so happy on Deepavali day.
Without stopping his short, quick movements with the rake, Prabhudas said, “Because mother Lakshmi has been good to her.”
“In what way?” asked Hitram.
Prabhudas stopped his cleaning, dropping the rake to the ground. He took a deep breath, energized by working the rake, looked around, as if to see if there were eavesdroppers, and then answered, “Your mother-in-law and I have been saving money for the last three years to buy a plot of land for you and Gita, so that you could build your own house. My pension is barely enough for us and the little savings I have in the bank is what I have put aside for Devi, in the event that I die before her. The money we are saving for you comes directly from the vegetables we sell. She sees mother Lakshmi in the garden we have in the back yard!”
“What? You really mean that?”
“No. Well, not really. She does not see her physically. She thinks it’s because of her prayers that our cash crops are so bountiful, and when she touches the bora and ochro and peppers, she thinks that she is touching Lakshmi. She tells me all the time that it is Lakshmi who has provided such rich soil for our garden and that the produce we get is from the mother herself.”
“But Pa, we work hard in that garden, you an I, and I know that we all contribute to what we reap.”
“I know, but over the last two years the crops have been so much better, and the plants produce in abundance.”
“You are right, Pa.”
“Listen, let’s hurry and clean this yard, so she could do some serious prayers today, because we need some more cash to buy that land for you. If we do not get it in two months it will be sold to another buyer.”
“Who said so?”
“The owner,Sukpal. He said that neighbor Williams wants to buy it.”
The money was still on Hitram’s mind when they settled down to lunch. Devi and Gita had prepared a tasty vegetarian meal of dhal, potato curry, bhaji, and bigan choka. He had a small saving which he could have contributed to the purchase of the land, but Prabhudas insisted that since it was still not enough, that he should keep it for the building materials which they would need.
After lunch Devi and Gita embarked on an elaborate preparation of other vegetarion foods and mouth watering sweetmeats, which included gulgula, sweet rice, and bara. As soon as they were finished they freshened up, dressing in appropriate saris and hurried off to the nearby mandir where pandit Ram was conducting a Deepavali service.
As twilight approached, the children became very excited. This was their favorite part of Deepavali day – the lighting and placement of the diyas, small earthenware receptacles in which oil and wicks were placed. Devi took out the diyas from a cabinet in which she had placed them a couple of days before. She made them one week in advance, using a bluish clay which was tinged with streaks of white. She had dug this special clay out of the shores of the river where the sand had been washed away, leaving the clay exposed. She then kneaded the clay until it became firm and molded it into small round receptacles, resembling a bowl, and then put them in the sun to be dried.
She filled the diyas with ghee into which she placed a wick made of tightly wrapped cotton cloth and as she did this she sang several melodious bhajans in praise of Lakshmi. It was a peaceful moment and everything was hushed as her voice resonated in Prabhudas’ house. The entire family was gathered around her as she performed the lighting of the diyas and sang in the fading light of the setting sun, with night quickly approaching. The flames of the many diyas danced on the faces of Prabhudas’ family. Devi looked mischievously at her husband and then smiled with her daughter, in such a fashion as if they shared a special secret. The children sat with their feet folded in the lotus position and looked at their grandmother with restrained excitement as she took one lighted diya and touched the other wicks with its flame, bringing them to life, until there were over three dozens lighted diyas. Prabhudas touched the shoulder of his son-in-law, patting him, quietly reassuring him that Lakshmi was in their presence. Devi got up from her seated position on the floor and stood over them, enjoying the togetherness of her family in the sacred light of Deepavali. She told them that it was time for all of them to be involved in the placement of the diyas in specific positions which she had selected.
The lighted diyas were put in locations within the house and in the yard and also on the bridge leading from the street to the yard. The first diya was placed on an alter in the house where the family prayed and on which there was a picture of Lakshmi. The diyas were positioned in several parts of the house; on the window sills, on the steps that led into the kitchen and those that led upstairs into the living room, in the bedrooms and in the kitchen. Many were lined on both sides of the bridge and on the concrete passageway that led from the bridge to the upstairs stairway.
Hitram counted all the diyas and then exuberantly declared to his mother-in-law, “Ma, we have ninety six diyas. Mother Lakshmi will be pleased!”
“I have one more, Hitram,” she calmly said.
“Why you kept it back, Ma?” he asked. “Let me put it in my room.”
“No, Hitram. I have a special place for this one.”
She walked over to the old unused car which was parked under the house and put the diya on top of it.
“Ma, why are you putting it on top of Pa’s old car? He stopped using it two years ago.”
“I don’t know, but when I was praying at the river this morning and as I closed my eyes, I saw a diya lighting on top of Prabhudas’ old car.”
The children all laughed, shouting with glee, “Oh my, nana’s old car is celebrating Deepavali!”
Everyone was happy that night as they watched the diyas light, flickering in the darkness. Prabhudas had turned off the electric lights to allow the house and the yard to shimmer in the glow of the diyas. They sat in the sacred light, eating potato curry and dhal puri, feeling exceedingly happy as another Diwali day was coming to an end.
When all the diyas had burnt themselves out, Prabhudas and his wife took extra care in putting them away. When they were satisfied that all ninety seven diyas were accounted for, the family retired to bed, being tired from all the excitement and work during the day. Everyone fell asleep as soon as they went to bed, except Hitram who tossed and turned for a while, thinking about the land which his father-in-law wanted to buy, but was short of two thousand five hundred dollars!
Prabhudas awoke suddenly and thought that he was dreaming, but quickly realized that he was not. He was late this morning. The sun had already risen, streaming through his bedroom window. He was tired from the exhaustion of the previous day and had slept soundly, but was certain that he heard someone calling his name. He heard the voice again and got out of bed hurriedly, tugging at his falling pajamas as he went downstairs. The voice seemed as if it was coming from the bridge, but nobody was there. Prabhudas pulled at grey hairs growing out of his nose and scratched on the inside of his upper left thigh. His favorite bench was no longer gray and metallic in appearance. His daughter had scraped and scrubbed it clean until the natural cherry color of the wood had reappeared. He was examining the new texture of the wood, wanting to sit on the bench, when he clearly heard the voice, “Prabhu…Prabhudas…Mr. Prabhudas!”
He lifted his head and looked towards the street from where the voice came and saw Latif who lived in the nearby village. Prabhudas walked out on the bridge and enquired, “Good morning, Latif. You want to see me?”
“Yes,” said Latif. “I was here two weeks ago to look the old Morris Oxford car under your house. Your wife told me that it was for sale and that she will accept any reasonable offer. I would like to buy it, but could only offer two thousand, five hundred dollars!”
