The Star Fruit Tree

by Natasha Gayari

On most days, Rimi’s grandfather kept to himself in his room, resting on the rocking cane chair from morning till evening. That afternoon, he was sitting on the tiny wooden bench under the mango tree in the front yard of the house. His youngest son, Rimi’s father, was about five years old when he had made that bench by putting together three planks of wood with a hammer and a few nails.

He sat as still as the mango tree, a grey muffler framing his wrinkled face around his ears and neck. Only his tired eyes moved, closing and opening in slow motion. Mostly they stared at the ground, and looked ahead when the cry of a bird interrupted the quiet of the afternoon.

Five-year-old Rimi, in her white and navy blue uniform, came running through the wired gate, her backpack jumping on her back and the plastic water bottle hung from her neck flapping. Slowing down, she looked at her grandfather, stared at him, and then smiled, as she passed by. As she ran towards the house, the deep creases on her grandfather’s forehead moved up and then down.

His eyes at times gazed at the wild creepers that had crawled all over the place in the front yard. It was the season for the flowering of dahlias. White, maroon, mauve, and purple. But there were no dahlias. Moss-covered earthen pots lay clustered at one corner of the brick wall. They still supported the marigolds he had planted a year ago but never flowered, and stubborn grasses protruded from the soil inside.

The star fruit tree on the other corner of the front yard was laden with green and yellow fruits. The overripe ones hung dejected, about to fall, bitten away by parrots and bats. Few lay squashed on the ground, a fly or two circling them.

Rimi came running to her mother, who was plucking curry leaves, near the bushes along the brick wall, collecting them in a small steel bowl. She tugged at her cotton printed housecoat.

“Why are you here Rimi? The grasses are wet. You’ll have leaches sticking to you. Go.”

Rimi hopped out of the thicket, towards her grandfather. She sat by his side on the edge of the bench, smiling up at him. “Why are you sitting outside today?” His eyebrows moved, but he didn’t reply.

“Rimi, don’t bother your grandpa. Let him rest.”

“But why is he sitting outside ma? He’ll catch cold.”

Rimi turned towards her grandfather. “You’ll catch cold.” Her tone was softer. He didn’t reply.

His eldest daughter-in-law was resting on a plastic chair in the verandah of the house, sipping tea. “The old man looks better today.”

Rimi’s mother walked towards the house with a bowl full of curry leaves. “It can get boring inside the dark room the whole day.”

“When’s your man coming back? I had asked him to get some help for cutting down the star fruit tree. It’s too thick with branches and leaves. Makes the area cold and wet all the time.”

“But father likes it when we cook the fruit, like a curry. It’s good for the stomach.”

“It’s a useless tree. We have to cut it. We’ll have some firewood.”

The old man’s eyes were staring at the star fruit tree. His gaze shifted back to the ground. He hadn’t touched the tea that was served to him.

“Rimi.” His voice was barely audible.

Squatted on the grassy area near the earthen pots, Rimi was murmuring to herself, counting the tiny white stones she was collecting in the skirt of her mauve cotton slip. She dropped the stones and ran towards her grandfather.

“What’s it grandpa?” She stood facing him.

He moved his hands and clutched the walking stick kept by his side. Rimi called out to her mother. They both held him with their hands and helped him walk towards the house, into his room. Rimi’s mother laid him down on his bed and covered his body with a quilt, tucking it in on all sides. Rimi watched his eyes shut slowly and followed her mother out of the room.

Rimi’s grandfather slept the whole of the next day. He had not wanted to sit up or rest on the rocking chair. When Rimi came back from school, he was still sleeping. Her mother said that he had high fever. There was a doctor in the house. Rimi peeked into her grandfather’s room through the door. It was dark. She could only hear his deep, noisy breath. She walked into the living room and sat beside her mother. The doctor sitting across her was dipping a sugar-coated biscuit on a cup of tea. Rimi waited for him to say something. But all he did was slurp down damp, spongy biscuits and tea.

Natasha was born and brought up in Assam. She completed her higher studies in Delhi and has been living (and working) in Bangalore for about four years now. Bangalore is like home to her, and she loves the city with all its imperfections. She is a community member of the Bangalore Writers Workshop.

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