Things were really looking up. The Shajarpur reclamation was well underway. The people were again looking shiny and happy (sigh, I did prefer that to droopiness), and they were all truly la-la over nature and trees and all things green. TLEU (ATA) was going to be outsmarted. The Ents were busy with their families and cousins over the holidays and so, apart from generic plant updates and news about the Shajarpurian reclamation, we weren’t really chatting. Anyway, school was to start the next day, with yucky tests, but at least it meant that I could go and meet Tree every day. I missed them, just like I missed Dad. It was a slow, treacly missing.
Best of all, Mom had reduced cleaning by 42 percent, which really was an achievement. It meant I could finish my hot chocolate without it being tossed into the sink while it was still half full because I’d stepped away from it for 1/1,948,766th of a second. Bekku was relieved at not being followed by a lint roller, and Meher had reduced her reel-making habits. Turns out, I was right. She confided that she had resorted to stress dancing because she also had felt miserable at home. Well, if she had talked to me, we could have been miserable together. It loves company, after all.
Also, Dad’s insurance money had finally come through, which had hugely improved Mom’s mood.
I stuffed a pair of shorts and a T-shirt into my bag and tossed in my maths textbook. There were plans to go over to Raina’s for a sleepover—she had promised a do-over with ramen. But it wasn’t movie night. We were planning an all-nighter for the algebra test the next day. I needed the help because I sucked at algebra, and Mom had made it clear there wasn’t enough money for tuition. “Why do I send you to a fancy school then?” she had complained.
I didn’t trust Meher to water the plants, even though she had solemnly promised to. So I filled up a bucket and went around the house, giving them all a drink. I touched the jasmine plant, who was still all pearly white and happy green before giving Bekku a scratch behind the ears. That’s when it happened. On came the lights and the loamy smell percolated through me, taking me back into that boardroom.
TLEU (ATA) were holding an emergency meeting and puja rolled into one in some maidan. As a bare-chested priest chanted mantras at top speed, tossing ghee into the fire in front of him, everyone’s prayers rang up in the air.
Amidst the chants and the smoke and the dazzling array of shiny clothes and bling jewelry that would put Bappi Lahiri to shame, only snatches of conversation could be heard.
“The tree’s no longer weakening.”
“But the felling’s still on track.”
“Then why are we having this meeting?”
“Because everyone is now singing praises of nature.”
“It is true. You know how everyone is dancing around trees in those Bollywood films? Now everyone is doing that in real life. It’s as if some sickly love for nature spread and spread until it became thicker than the smog over Delhi. Che, che, che.”
A collective shudder went around the room.
“Every time a tree is to be cut . . .”
“What?”
“The people they . . .”
“Start singing and dancing about it.”
“Like proper music and all.”
“I mean, some of them can’t really dance.”
“Yeah, it’s a bit embarrassing.”
“As if you can dance.”
“I will have you know that my society voted me ‘Saawan Khan of the Year.’ And I dance better than you.”
“Stop talking nonsense—all of you. So what, though? It’s only some singing and dancing,” said Aunty no. 2.
“I don’t know,” Uncle no. 34 said, hesitantly. “It is kind of nice, so much happiness in the city. Everyone dancing. And the weather’s excellent. My grandchild was so happy the other day that we even went on a picnic.”
Aunty no. 2 looked like she agreed with him, but she didn’t say anything, but just gave a half-nod, half-shrug.
“Esh, they are total traas,” another uncle said, dismissing him. “Who goes on picnics nowadays? So many keeda-makoras on the pakoras.”
“Arre, chhe, chhe, it’s like this proper blockbuster-type scene, with thousands of people—you can’t even get the workmen close. And if you do, they drop their tools and start singing and dancing with them.”
“You better not pay them.”
“Have to—union rules, they showed up for the job, na.”
“Asho, these union people I tell you. Pain in the backside only.”
“Okay, so you wait until they get tired and go home.”
“You think we didn’t? Of course we did.” The voice muttered something about that particular uncle never having faith in them and how whatever he did was never enough.
“Then? Why are those trees still standing?”
“Because this city’s got so much population that every time one crowd leaves, another just happens to be passing by. Even at 3 a.m. in the morning! I mean, it’s either milk delivery boys and paowallahs, or its party-goers from, you know, debauched parties, or it’s people finishing night shifts. Once, a whole group of cab drivers drove their cars in a dizzying circle and danced with their radios blaring loudly.”
“It is ekdum nonsense only.”
“We must ban dancing! And music.”
“We can’t. It’s part of our culture.”
“True, true. Culture’s most important.”
“But this is not proper culture.”
“Oh, there have been groups of devotional music and dancers too—at 6 a.m. So really, banning them all might become a problem.”
“So now? We can’t just sit one hand on top of the other, no?”
“Why are we sitting around? We’re doing this havan for that only. Enlightenment will come.”
“Oh it has. It is time to place a call to our nieces and nephews. I have been missing them.”
“No, wait. I will tell you.”
Uncle no. 34 sighed. He almost knew what was coming next.
“It is time”—of course it was Uncle no. 54—“to call our nephews and nieces.”
A cheer rang through TLEU (ATA).
“I’m so glad I thought of it,” Uncle no. 54 said, pressing the stray white hairs on his forehead down. “Such a good plan it is.”
Uncle no. 34 grimaced and shook his head.
Through the smoke, Uncle no. 54’s smile glimmered like a certain maama in a certain epic. It looked like he was going to turn and pinch a child’s cheek.