Environment

The Cherry Tree

One day, when Rakesh was six, he walked home
from the Mussoorie bazaar eating cherries. They
were a little sweet, a little sour; small, bright red
cherries, which had come all the way from the
Kashmir Valley.
Here in the Himalayan foothills
where Rakesh lived, there were not
many fruit trees. The soil was stony,
and the dry cold winds stunted the
growth of most plants. But on the
more sheltered slopes there were
forests of oak and deodar.
Rakesh lived with his grandfather
on the outskirts of Mussoorie, just
where the forest began. His father
and mother lived in a small
village
fifty
miles
away,
where they grew maize and
rice and barley in narrow
terraced fields on the lower
slopes of the mountain.
But there were no schools in the village, and Rakesh’s parents
were keen that he should go to school. As soon as he was of
school-going age, they sent him to stay with his grandfather in
Mussoorie.
He had a little cottage outside the town.
Rakesh was on his way home from school when he bought the
cherries. He paid fifty paise for the bunch. It took him about
half-an-hour to walk home, and by the time he reached the
cottage there were only three cherries left.
‘Have a cherry, Grandfather,’ he said, as soon as he saw his
grandfather in the garden.
Grandfather took one cherry and Rakesh promptly ate the
other two. He kept the last seed in his mouth for some time,
stunted: stopped
(from growing to
the usual size)
outskirts: the
areas that form
the edge of a
town or city

yielding: giving
way under
pressure
tang: a strong,
sharp taste
rolling it round and
round on his tongue until all
the tang had gone. Then he placed
the seed on the palm of his hand and
studied it.
‘Are cherry seeds lucky?’ asked
Rakesh.
‘Of course.’
‘Then I’ll keep it.’
‘Nothing is lucky if you put it away.
If you want luck, you must put it to
some use.’ ‘What can I
do with a seed?’
‘Plant it.’
So Rakesh found a small
space and began to dig
up a flowerbed.
‘Hey, not there,’ said
Grandfather. ‘I’ve sown
mustard in that bed.
Plant it in that shady
corner, where it won’t
be disturbed.’
Rakesh went to a corner
of the garden where the earth was soft and yielding. He did
not have to dig.
He pressed the seed into the soil with his thumb and it went
right in.
Then he had his lunch, and ran off to play cricket with his
friends, and forgot all about the cherry seed.
When it was winter in the hills, a cold wind blew down from
the snows and went whoo-whoo-whoo in the deodar trees,
and the garden was dry and bare.
In the evenings Grandfather and Rakesh sat over a charcoal
fire, and Grandfather told Rakesh stories—stories about people

who turned into animals, and ghosts who
lived in trees, and beans that jumped and stones
that wept—and in turn, Rakesh would read to him
from the newspaper, Grandfather’s eyesight being
rather weak. Rakesh found the newspaper very dull—
especially after the stories—but Grandfather wanted all
the news...
They knew it was spring when the wild duck flew north
again, to Siberia. Early in the morning, when he got up
to chop wood and light a fire, Rakesh saw the V-shaped
formation streaming northward, the calls of the birds
carrying clearly through the thin mountain air.
One morning in the garden he
bent to pick up what he thought
was a small twig and found to his
surprise that it was well rooted.
He stared at it for a moment, then
ran to fetch Grandfather, calling,
‘Dada, come and look, the cherry
tree has come up!’
‘What
cherry
tree?’
asked
Grandfather, who had forgotten
about it. ‘The seed we planted last
year—look, it’s come up!’
Rakesh
went
down
on
his
haunches, while Grandfather bent
almost double and peered down at the tiny tree. It was about
four inches high.
‘Yes, it’s a cherry tree,’ said
Grandfather. ‘You should
water it now and then.’
Rakesh ran indoors and came
back with a bucket of water.
‘Don’t drown it!’ said
Grandfather.
Rakesh gave it a sprinkling
and circled it with
pebbles.
haunches: sit
on the feet with
legs bent
peered down:
looked carefully
or with
difÏculty

‘What are the pebbles for?’ asked Grandfather.
‘For privacy,’ said Rakesh.
He looked at the tree every morning but it did not seem to be
growing very fast, so he stopped looking at it except quickly,
out of the corner of his eye. And, after a week or two, when
he allowed himself to look at it properly, he found that it had
grown—at least an inch!
That year the monsoon rains came early and Rakesh
plodded to and from school in raincoat and chappals.
Ferns sprang from the trunks of trees, strange-looking
lilies came up in the long grass, and even when it
wasn’t raining the trees dripped and mist came
curling up the valley. The cherry tree grew
quickly in this season.
It was about two feet high
when a goat entered the garden
and ate all the leaves. Only the
main stem and two thin
branches remained.
‘Never mind,’ said Grandfather,
seeing that Rakesh was upset.
‘It will grow again, cherry trees
are tough.’
plodded: walked
slowly

Harvest Hymn

Men’s Voices:
Lord of the lotus, lord of the harvest,
Bright and munificent lord of the morn!
Thine is the bounty that prospered our sowing,
Thine is the bounty that nurtured our corn.
We bring thee our songs and our garlands for tribute,
The gold of our fields and the gold of our fruit;
O giver of mellowing radiance, we hail thee,
We praise thee, O Surya, with cymbal and flute.

Lord of the rainbow, lord of the harvest,
Great and beneficent lord of the main!
Thine is the mercy that cherished our furrows,
Thine is the mercy that fostered our grain.
We bring thee our thanks and our garlands for tribute,
The wealth of our valleys, new-garnered and ripe;
O sender of rain and the dewfall, we hail thee,
We praise thee, Varuna, with cymbal and pipe.

Women’s Voices:
Queen of the gourd-flower, queen of the harvest,
Sweet and omnipotent mother, O Earth!
Thine is the plentiful bosom that feeds us,
Thine is the womb where our riches have birth.
We bring thee our love and our garlands for tribute,
With gifts of thy opulent giving we come;
O source of our manifold gladness, we hail thee,
We praise thee, O Prithvi, with cymbal and drum.
All Voices:
Lord of the Universe, Lord of our being,
Father eternal, ineffable Om!
Thou art the Seed and the Scythe of our harvests,
Thou art our Hands and our Heart and our Home.
We bring thee our lives and our labours for tribute,
Grant us thy succour, thy counsel, thy care.
O Life of all life and all blessing, we hail thee,
We praise thee, O Bramha, with cymbal and prayer.
Sarojini Naidu

Waiting for the Rain

crimson: deep
red colour

crusted:
formed a hard
outer layer
forlorn: sad
and neglected
“I hope it rains at least today,” Velu thought, as he opened
his eyes.
Velu was a farmer. The sun was beginning to
rise, glowing crimson like fire. Velu scanned the
sky. There was not a cloud.
“It doesn’t look encouraging,” he muttered to
himself and got up.
Rain or no rain, a farmer wakes up early. Velu
worked hard. His piece of land never failed
him. Season after season he cultivated it,
harvesting jowar one season and dhal the next.
Throughout the year he worked, never thinking
of rest or taking a holiday. For nearly six years
it had been so, ever since he had got his own
piece of land.
But this year turned out to be
different. At the end of summer,
the rains didn’t come. Velu and
his neighbours waited, but their
waiting didn’t end. Days, weeks
and months passed, and still
there was no rain.
The fields lay untended, the
earth hardened, crusted and
cracked. The barren land looked
forlorn and the farmers lived
entirely on hope. Every day
they hoped that the rains

consultations:
discussions
dejected:
sad and
disappointed
would come.
Someone said, “We ought to talk to
some astrologers. They can tell us
what will please the heavens and the
heavens will send down rain.”
Velu didn’t agree. He said, “The rains
came all these years without any such
consultations; I can’t see how talking
to astrologers will bring rain.”
He decided to go to the weather ofÏce
in the city and talk to someone. But
the people at the weather ofÏce said
they couldn’t really tell him when the
sky would gather clouds and bring
rain. “We are at a loss ourselves!”
they exclaimed. “So many favourable
conditions but still no rain. Very odd!”

Velu, too, was at a loss. He walked
back to the village, tired, and dejected.
He was thirsty and the dust made
him cough and sneeze. He decided to
rest for a while.
He saw a large tree. Its shade was
cool and inviting. As he sat down, he
noticed that an old woman was also
sitting there, sheltering from the sun.