Flame Tree Road. Shona PatelЧитать онлайн книгу.
setting the coconut down to accept it. He turned the packet over in his hands.
“A gift.” Charulata looked at him with shining eyes. “Open it and you will see. I made it specially for you.”
“How is your cough, Charulata?” Shamol asked, setting down his heavy bags. He took out a white handkerchief to mop his brow.
“Much better, much better,” chirped Charulata. “My nephew, you know the one in Dhaka Medical College, gave me a herbal tonic. But more important he gave me a book of the Brahma sutras. I don’t know if it was the book or the medicine that cured me.”
“Baba, look!” cried Biren. He held up a slim oblong-shaped palm bark with beautiful patterning in white. He turned to Charulata, incredulous. “Did you make this?” The paisley designs were painted with delicate strokes and closely woven together like the border of an embroidered sari.
“Why, yes.” Charulata laughed.
“But how?” asked Biren wonderingly. He fingered the bumpy pattern.
Charulata dismissed it with a wave. “Oh, it’s just a design painted with a duck feather, some rice flour and gum arabic. You can use it as a bookmark if you like. Do you like it, mia?”
“It’s beautiful,” said Biren reverentially. “Very, very beautiful. I will use this bookmark for my most important book.”
“Ah, that would be the Book of Life, mia. The one that’s written by the universe. My book is nearing its end but yours has just begun.”
Biren studied the design closely. “I can see a B entwined in the pattern. And here, another letter. Oh, I see my name!” He looked at his father with shining eyes. “Look, Baba, it’s my name hidden in the design. It’s like a puzzle.”
“Yes, I see that,” agreed Shamol. “That is indeed clever.”
“I paint these palm leaf designs with the names of different gods hidden in the pattern. The devotees like that. The priest sells them in the temple and he gives me two paisa for each. But more than the money, painting the patterns feels like a kind of meditation to me. Now I am thinking of doing some colored designs using vegetable dyes. Turmeric, indigo, vermillion.” She gave a mischievous laugh. “I may not be allowed to wear colors, but God gives me permission to paint in any hue I choose.”
“You are an inspiration to me, Charudi,” said Shamol. “They can take everything away from you but you still have all the essential things that feed the spirit and keep you joyful. I have much to learn from you.” He picked up his bags. “I could spend all day talking to you, but we must rush home before our fish spoils. Come, Biren, we must go.”
“Until next time, then,” said Charulata. “God bless you both and thank you for the bananas.”
“And thank you for the artistic gift,” Biren said, wrapping up the palm bark in the newspaper. “I will put it on my study desk and look at it every day.”
* * *
“I would keep it a secret,” said Shamol when they were out of earshot. “Don’t tell your grandmother Charudi gave you the bookmark. Otherwise, she will make you throw it away.”
Biren was indignant. “I will never throw it away. It is a special gift with my name written on it. Why should I throw it away?”
“Then, don’t tell Granny because she’ll say it’s bad luck to accept something from a widow’s hand. That is, of course, not at all true.”
They walked across the riverbed toward the bamboo grove and the road leading to the basha.
“Do you know it was Charudi who gave you your name?” said Shamol suddenly.
Biren stopped walking and looked at his father in surprise. “I thought it was Grandfather who named me Biren.”
“That is what we led your grandmother to believe.” Shamol chuckled. “Left to your grandmother you would have been named Bikramaditya. Your mother and I did not care for that name. Your mother, especially, was vehemently opposed to it so we had to do something. The Sanskrit letter associated with your lunar birth sign is B, so your name had to begin with B. We managed to convince your grandmother to name you Biren and we made Grandfather believe it was his idea. A child’s name dictates his fate in life after all. Nobody in our family, besides your mother and me, know it was actually Charudi who suggested your name. You are the third person now to know this but you must keep it a secret for the reasons I explained to you earlier.”
Biren absorbed this in silence. “My name means a soldier, does it not, Father?”
“Biren means warrior. There is a difference, mia. A soldier follows the orders of others. A warrior follows his own path. Sometimes a warrior has to act alone. You, Biren, are the Lord of Warriors. Never forget that.”
“And Nitin? What does Nitin mean?”
“Nitin means Master of the Right Path.”
“Did Charudi give Nitin his name, as well?”
“No, this time it really was your Grandfather’s suggestion, but your mother and I both liked the name Nitin, so it worked out all right.”
Biren skipped along and repeated softly, “Lord of Warriors and Master of the Right Path.” More loudly, he said, “I am glad I am the warrior, Baba. One day I will become a lawyer and I will fight for Charudi so she can enter the temple.”
“Oh, I don’t think she’s missing much,” said Shamol drily. “I am not even sure she cares to enter the temple. She has found what she needs under the banyan tree.”
“I will still fight for her. I think she wants me to. That is why she secretly wrote my name and pretended it was only a design.”
“Just keep it to yourself, mia. Do you know the wise sages believe there is a great power in secrecy? If you talk loosely about your intentions this power will disappear. But if you keep your good intentions a secret, the universe will conspire to make it happen. This is one of the great spiritual truths, mia. Wise people never talk about their intentions. They let their actions speak for them.”
It was Shamol’s day off. He sat on the kitchen steps in his pajamas with Nitin half dozing on his lap, a cup of tea and a sugared toast beside him. Shamol watched Biren play marbles in the courtyard. His aim was excellent; he rarely missed. But as soon as one marble clicked against the other, a tiger-striped calico cat hiding behind the holy basil shot out to pounce on the marble, spoiling Biren’s game.
Biren stamped his foot. “Shoo!” he said sternly to the cat. He grabbed the marble out of its paws and placed it back on the spot where it had rolled. “The cat is not letting me play, Baba,” he complained to Shamol.
Shamol took a sip of his tea. “Perhaps he wants to play, too.”
“I want to play, too,” said Nitin, taking his thumb out of his mouth. He clambered off Shamol’s lap.
“Now you have two cats to play with you,” said Shamol, smiling.
Biren sighed.
“Aye, Khoka!” Granny called to Shamol from the kitchen window. Granny always called Father by his boyhood name every time she wanted something done. “Plant the marigold seedlings in the pots for me, will you? I want to grow the flowers for my puja.”
“Yes, Mother,” Shamol called back. “I am just finishing my tea.”
Biren glared indignantly at the retreating