My old gardener had left for greener pastures and I waited in trepidation for the new one. The morning had not begun well and I was irritable. The bell rang to announce the arrival of Subah Singh, the new gardener. Despite my dark mood, I could not help but notice the positive note in the name — “Subah” meaning morning. He came amidst a sudden heavy downpour the next day and stood smiling to greet me. The weather did a somersault the following day and the June sun blazed down in all its glory. He seemed to take pleasure in it too and enjoyed the rain as much as the sunshine or the intense cold of the winter mornings.
He came in one day asking for my help with the bank account. I filled in his name and asked for his assets. He looked down ashamed and mumbled, “Two buffaloes.” “Two buffaloes,” I repeated incredulously. He looked uncomfortable but brightening up said he did have six a few years back. Life had been good. He was set to marry a comely girl from the village of Bun Phool — literally meaning village of wild flowers. But things took an ugly turn. It was not him, but his father who nursed the ambition of turning his country bumpkin son to a swanky city dweller. A casual acquaintance promised a lucrative job to Subah in Chandigarh. A hefty bribe had to be paid. Subah’s father sold off four of his cattle to fund his son’s metamorphosis. The trio set off to the city with the money. While Subah and his father cooled their heels outside the office, the smart alec did the vanishing act with the money. The distraught duo returned to the village.
Their agony grew with the increasing wave of sympathisers. As I listened to Subah, I tried to guess his reaction to the incident. It was exemplary. He declared to his father that what was lost was lost and they may have owed something to the man in their previous births and that life had to move on. He further declared that the day of marriage was fast approaching and that was enough cause for cheer. Dressed in wedding finery Subah set off for Bun Phool on the wedding day. But he was in for a shock and so were the villagers of Bun Phool. Where was the tall well-built fellow they had chosen? Instead, there stood someone lanky and gaunt. Surely the boy had been exchanged?
The village elders went into a huddle. Subah continued his monologue. I cut him short. I did not want to hear a love story gone sour. “Your wife’s name and photo?” I asked sharply. A wide grin lit up his face. “Bun Phoolwali,” said he handing me a photo. There she sat holding the twisted tail of a buffalo in her left hand and wielding an upraised stick in the other as she guided a buffalo cart across the yellow mustard fields of Subah’s village.
Email: sucharitalahiri5@gmail.com