The Coconut Plucker

The Coconut Plucker

‘Bab, yenh sarkhem korpa noko!’ (‘Sir, I don’t know how to fix this!’) said Kishore, with an air of exasperation and finality, standing up and wiping his grease-stained hands on a large white kerchief, ‘It won’t start, Bab. I’ve done all I can. No use. We need a mechanic. When was the last time you took this car for servicing?’

Neville Sequeira scratched his head. ‘I don’t know,’ he replied, also in Konkani, ‘I wasn’t here, remember? I returned from the UK only a fortnight ago. My brother has been staying in our ancestral house all this while. And he migrated to Australia just three days after I came. I didn’t think to ask him.’

He and Kishore had been returning from Neville’s cousin’s wedding reception when the car broke down on a lonely road in Varca, surrounded by fields.

‘Matso rau,’ (‘Just wait’), said Kishore, taking out his cell phone and pressing a few buttons, ‘I know one or two good mechanics; I’ll try and call them. But it’s way past midnight now. I hope they answer.’

Neville waited patiently while the driver dialled. After some time, Kishore put his phone down.

‘Sorry, Bab,’ he said apologetically, ‘No reply. They must be asleep.’

‘You mean we’re stuck here in the middle of nowhere, and that too in the middle of the night? ‘ Neville’s voice shot up, ‘There doesn’t seem to be a house around for miles! Where exactly are we? You took a different route this time because you said it was a short cut, so I don’t recognize this place. And I haven’t been home in ten years. Besides, it’s pitch dark.’

‘We’re a long way from home,’ Kishore said apologetically, ‘Maybe six kilometres.’

‘Six kilometres?’ Neville’s voice shot up again, ‘Am I supposed to walk six kilometres at this time of the night in my wedding best?’ And he looked down at his smart black tuxedo and shiny, patent leather shoes with some distaste.

Kishore shrugged. ‘I myself can’t walk that distance with my leg the way it is,’ he said, indicating his left leg which was a good two inches shorter than his right, ‘And it’s already’ – he looked at his cell – ‘12.45. I guess I’ll sleep in the car. I’ve done it before, it’s no problem. You carry on, Bab, I’ll be alright.’

‘Yes, but will I?’ grumbled Neville, looking down at his suit gloomily, and then at the vast expanse of fields on either side, faintly visible in the light of a pale, indecisive moon.

As he was speaking, a few drops of rain began to fall.

‘Just what I need,’ he swore, ‘When I’m miles from home and in my wedding finery.’

He brooded a bit, a steady drizzle falling over and around them both.

‘I don’t fancy walking six kilometres in these shoes and in the dark,’ he said, more to himself than to Kishore, ‘And I don’t think I’ll get a wink of sleep in the car. It'll be cramped and uncomfortable, and I’m just dying to get out of these clothes, take a hot shower and sleep in my own bed.’

He turned to Kishore.

‘Isn't there a short cut home from here?’ he asked.

Kishore shifted uncomfortably. He looked down.

‘There is one,’ he said, pointing to a large field a little ahead and to the left, ‘You have to cut across this field, and across the next, and then through bhatkar (landlord) Leopold’s coconut plantation. It’s only two kilometres to your house by this route. But there’s no path as such, no road. Your shoes and trousers will get muddy in this rain.’

‘That’s okay,’ said Neville, cheering up, ‘I’ll put on my cell phone torch. And I can always clean my shoes and give my suit to the laundry.’

Kishore shifted uncomfortably from his bad foot to his good one. He avoided looking at Neville.

‘What?’ asked Neville impatiently, ‘Is there something else I need to know? Why are you looking as though you’ve swallowed a gnat or something?’

Kishore was silent for a moment. Then he spoke.

‘They say the ghost of Pandurang roams the plantation at night,’ he volunteered.

‘Who the hell is Pandurang?’ demanded Neville impatiently.

Kishore did his foot routine again and avoided looking into Neville’s eyes.

‘See, Bab,’ he said eventually, ‘This happened around five years after you left for London. It was the 31st of May - I remember it so well! Leopold bhatkar was late with his coconut plucking that season. He insisted that the coconuts be plucked that very day, before the monsoons started. But there had been a heavy shower the previous night and in the early morning hours, and the trees were still wet.

‘Everyone, including Pandurang the coconut plucker, who was Leopold Bab’s mundkar (tenant) and totally dependent on him for his survival, said it would be dangerous to try to pluck coconuts that morning. They said it would be better to wait a bit, till the sun came out and dried the trees off. But the monsoon was expected earlier than usual, the next day in fact; it had already hit Kerala. But Leopold bhatkar would not take no for an answer. He was a hard man and a very tight-fisted one. There were around fifty coconut trees in that plantation, and he was keen that it should be over and done with that day itself. Which meant they had to start early that morning. There were two coconut pluckers, Pandurang and Pantaleão, a self-employed man and not a mundkar like Pandurang. He refused to climb a tree until he felt it was safe.’

‘What happened then?’ asked Neville, intrigued despite himself.

Kishore was silent again.

‘Pandurang went up the first coconut tree, which also happened to be the tallest one. When he was right at the top, he slipped and fell.’

‘And…?’ asked Neville.

‘He broke his neck. Died on the spot,’ replied Kishore soberly.

‘I see,’ said Neville slowly, ‘Was Leopold arrested? Was Pandurang’s family compensated for his death?’

Kishore shook his head slowly from side to side.

‘No,’ he said, ‘Leopold bab was very rich and very influential. He was neither arrested, nor did he pay Pandurang’s family any compensation. He insisted that it was Pandurang’s decision to climb the tree to pluck coconuts and that he had tried to dissuade him, but Pandurang wouldn’t listen.’

‘But Pantaleão was there, right? He saw and heard what happened?’ asked Neville indignantly.

Leopold Bab threatened to finish him off if he put the blame on him. Said he would set goons on him and his family. So Pantaleão beat a hasty retreat and kept his mouth shut. Said he had been at the other end of the plantation when it happened.’

‘I see,’ said Neville slowly, ‘What a terrible, senseless tragedy! And all because of one man’s callous greed. And to think he got away with it.’

Kishore scratched the ground with his sandaled feet.

‘In a manner of speaking,’ he said, ‘Yes, he wasn’t arrested or penalised, you know. But exactly a year later, on 31st May, he simply disappeared. He went out that evening to take a stroll around the plantation, as was his custom, and never returned.’

Neville stared.

‘What happened to him?’ he asked, ‘An accident, maybe? Like falling into a ditch, or something? Wasn’t his body ever found?’

‘That’s what I’m saying,’ replied Kishore, ‘He didn’t turn up, that’s all. He vanished…’ he snapped his fingers… ‘like that!’

Neville was silent for a moment.

‘That’s strange,’ he said, more to himself than to Kishore, ‘But there must be some explanation. Did he have any enemies? Could he have been murdered? Was there a well on the property?’

Kishore smiled gently.

‘There was a well,’ he conceded, ‘They dredged it thoroughly. No trace of his body.’

Neville was quiet for a moment. Then he shook his head.

‘Well, doubtless there’s some explanation,’ he said, ‘People don’t just disappear like that. In any case, just because one person vanished doesn’t mean there’s a ghost roaming the area. That’s ridiculous!’

‘There’s more,’ said Kishore slowly, ‘Three years later, another person – a guy called Sebastião, an alcoholic, also disappeared. He had been taking a short cut through Bhatkar's property late at night, after having had one too many pegs at his favourite bar. Then he reached the little hut next to Leopold Bhatkar’s house, the house that Pandurang and his family used to stay in. After Pandurang’s death, his wife had left the hut and returned to her parents’ house with her little daughter.

When he reached the hut, Sebastião suddenly felt a strange feeling come over him. He lost consciousness.

After a search they found him in the hut. He had lost his mind completely… and he’s been like that ever since. He never recovered.’

‘He was an alcoholic, right?’ scoffed Neville, ‘So what do you expect?’

‘It was on the exact same date,’ returned Kishore, ‘The 31st of May.’

‘Anyway,’ said Neville with finality, ‘It’s a good story, but I don’t believe in ghosts… Pandurang’s or anyone else’s. I’m not walking six kilometres at this time of the night and in this weather. I’m taking the short cut, and that’s it. It means half an hour of discomfort and hard walking, but I’ll be home and dry eventually.

‘You’re sure you’ll be alright?’

‘Perfectly, Bab,’ replied Kishore, ‘I’ve slept in the car before. Once I close my eyes, I’m out like a light. You don’t need to worry about me. Tomorrow early morning I’ll call Laxman, the mechanic, and get this thing’ - he kicked the car gently – ‘properly fixed. I guarantee it.’

Neville folded his trouser legs three times, as the rain intensified, and set off at a brisk trot, towards the field, his cell phone torch light held in front of him like a protective scapular. Putting his hand up in farewell, he moved jauntily forward at first, then a little more gingerly, as his shoe-shod feet squelched in the mud.

When he was halfway across, Kishore remembered something. He jerked his head up.

‘Bab!’ he called, ‘Today is the 31st of May!’

Neville heard him call, but could not decipher the words amid the rush of the wind and rain. He waved and carried on walking, cursing as the soggy ground made his night walk more and more like a dreary, painful trudge.

The sounds of the night were all around him, cutting through the soft swish of the falling raindrops. He could hear the shrill chirping of the raat kide (field crickets) and the rhythmic buzzing sound of cicadas. He ploughed gamely on, his feet sinking in the soft mud of the field with every step.

Finally he was out of the field and into the next. The cell phone light was a little dimmer now. Here and there tiny little lights flickered: glow-worms. He looked up; a bashful moon, half hidden by clouds, shone a diffused light on him, casting a weird, unearthly glow on the black grass of the field.

He walked on, the rain falling in a steady, relentless drizzle. He’d have to get a new suit, he told himself, and a new pair of shoes; these were now beyond repair.

After half an hour of uncomfortable trudging through sludge, he was out of the second field and entering the plantation Kishore had spoken off. Far away he heard the hooting of an owl - a dukh padem or harbinger of sorrow - and a surge of terror came over him as he remembered the story Kishore had narrated thirty minutes before. He stopped, turned and looked behind. Should he go back?

The fields he had just traversed stretched out in an unending swathe of blackness. His heart quailed within him. There are no ghosts, he told himself sternly. Turning around, he moved forward resolutely, making his way through the shrubs and coconut trees of the late, vanished Leopold bhatkar’s lush estate. There are no ghosts, he repeated to himself, there are no ghosts.

The harsh chirping of the tree crickets blended incongruously with the more melodious sound made by the katydids. He moved forward, grateful for the hard ground beneath his feet, after the soft sludge of the fields. The cell phone torch was very dim now, the charge being almost spent. The darkness crowded in on him and his heart thudded painfully in his chest. There are no ghosts, he told himself, there are no ghosts.

Then he heard a sound that froze the blood in his veins. It was the howling of a vixen, or balu – a sound he hadn’t heard in years; he had thought they were extinct now. It was quite distinct from the long, shrill, lingering ‘kuie kuie’ of its male counterpart – an eerie, scary sound. He remembered his grandmother saying that the sound foretold a terrible calamity, a disaster about to happen.

A wave of terror assailed him again, and there was a steady, dull ache in his chest. He could hardly see in front of him; the moon, like a shy bride, had vanished behind a cloud and there was nothing but stark, inky darkness ahead and around him. Putting his hands out like a blind man, he felt his way from one coconut tree to another.

Was that a shape on a tree? A figure moving from one tree to another? No, it must have been a trick of the light, as the moon peeped out briefly before hiding again. Or was it a trick of the imagination?

There are no ghosts, he told himself, there are no ghosts. He tried reciting the Ave Maria, but his tongue cleaved to the roof of his mouth. He tried to say the Memoraré, the prayer calling for the help and intervention of the Blessed Virgin Mary, but could not remember the words. There are no ghosts, he reassured himself, there are no ghosts.

Was that a light ahead of him, two or three hundred metres away? The lights of a house? Oh, blessed relief, he had come almost to the end of his journey, and human habitation was a stone’s throw away.

Chiding himself for his foolishness, his cowardice and his overactive imagination, Neville knew now that he would soon be home.

--

It is 7.00 in the morning as Laxmi, the fishmonger, her basket of fish set firmly on her head, makes her way through the estate towards the bungalow of the late, vanished Leopold bhatkar.

Out of the corner of her eye, she espies a movement on the top of a stately coconut tree up ahead, a little to the right.

Craning her neck with difficulty because of the weight of the basket, and squinting against the bright morning light, she looks up.

‘Neville bab,’ she says in surprise, ‘Itu sokalfuddem, oir maddacher suit ghan kit' kot'ta? (What are you doing on the top of a tree in a suit?)

‘Ani makda bhaxen muko kitea uloita?

(And why are you gibbering at me like a monkey?)’

Ooo000ooo