Nira And the God Who Misplaced Magic: Part 2

THE ELECTION OF THE MANGOES

The yellow road led us to Aamganj, where every wall, tree, basket and passing buffalo had been covered with election posters.

VOTE FOR KACHCHA KUMAR! HE WILL RIPEN THE FUTURE!

VOTE FOR RAJA RASILA! SWEETNESS IN EVERY HOME!

VOTE FOR ACHAR DEVI! SHE WILL PRESERVE TRADITION!

A row of mangoes marched past us wearing white caps. “Long live the fruit of the people!” they shouted. A pumpkin followed them, whispering, “I am not a mango, but the cap was free.” In the central orchard, thousands of fruits hung from trees while speeches thundered from a stage. A large ripe mango named Raja Rasila promised to make every citizen sweeter by law. “Under my leadership,” he declared, “all sourness will be abolished!”

The crowd cheered. “What will happen to lemons?” I asked. The crowd became silent. Raja Rasila smiled. “Lemons will be given opportunities to reconsider their attitude.”

Next came Achar Devi, a mango preserved in a glass jar. She promised that nothing would ever change.“Change,” s he said, “is the first symptom of decay. Under my rule, every citizen will remain exactly as they were on the happiest day of my childhood.”

“How old are you?” I asked.

“One hundred and twelve monsoons.”

“Were all citizens alive then?”

“That is not my fault.”

The third candidate was Kachcha Kumar, a small green mango with an enormous turban. He promised to build ladders to the moon, provide free umbrellas to fish and make every Sunday occur twice. Chhataram approved of the umbrella scheme.

Mangaldas studied the manifesto. “No budget, no schedule and no definition of fish.” “That is why it is visionary,” said Kachcha Kumar. Professor Bhokambol ate a corner of the manifesto. “Excessively spicy,” he concluded.

We showed Kachcha Kumar the bottle containing the door’s hiccup. The silver bubble bounced excitedly. “Are you the king who has never ripened?” I asked. “I am not yet king,” he said. “But I have already ordered a crown.” He invited us to become his Committee for Unexpected Advice. Our first duty was to watch him promise a golden palace to every worm.

“Where will you get so much gold?” I asked.

“From the Golden Palace Development Department.”

“Where will they get it?”

“From the Department of Gold Procurement.”

“And where—”

“Please,” said Kachcha Kumar. “Too many questions spoil a promise.”

That evening, strange workers arrived with paint buckets. They painted pictures of laddus on empty branches, blue rivers on dry soil and golden palaces on tree trunks.

The next morning, the orchard looked prosperous from far away.

“See?” cried Kachcha Kumar. “Development!” A squirrel climbed a painted mango and bit the wall behind it. “My tooth has become a mural,” she complained. Raja Rasila distributed bottles of perfume labelled ESSENCE OF SWEETNESS. Anyone who criticised him was sprayed until they smelled agreeable. Achar Devi locked young saplings inside museums so they could not grow differently from their ancestors.

Meanwhile, the mango trees themselves appeared exhausted. An old tree bent towards me. “Child,” she whispered, “nobody asks us anything.” “Don’t the fruits speak for you?”

“Fruits speak of sweetness, price, size and glory. Roots speak of water.” I knelt beside the cracked earth. Under the soil, the roots were holding a secret meeting. Their voices travelled through the ground like drums.

“No rainwater channels.”

“Too much paint.”

“Branches overloaded with banners.”

“Promises nailed into bark.”

One tiny root said, “We may have to stop sending juice upward.” “That would make every mango fall,” I said. “Perhaps falling is the only way fruit remembers the tree.”

On election day, voters queued before ballot boxes shaped like lunch tins. The candidates had arranged their supporters by ripeness. Green mangoes stood in one queue, yellow in another, and mangoes with black spots were told that their names were missing.

Then the silver hiccup escaped from our bottle. HIC! Every election poster began telling the truth. Kachcha Kumar’s poster announced: I HAVE NO IDEA HOW TO BUILD A LADDER TO THE MOON. Raja Rasila’s poster confessed: MY SWEETNESS PERFUME IS MOSTLY SUGAR WATER AND FLATTERY. Achar Devi’s poster admitted: MY GLORIOUS PAST CONTAINED MOSQUITOES, TAXES AND TERRIBLE PLUMBING.

The candidates screamed. “Catch that hiccup!” The hiccup bounced across the stage and entered the royal crown. The crown began to sing: “Crown on green and crown on gold,Promises hot and promises cold.Fruit may boast and fruit may shout,Ask the root what rule’s about!”

The mango trees pulled their roots out of the ground. Not completely. Just enough to form enormous earthy feet. The oldest tree marched to the ballot box. “Trees cannot vote!” cried Raja Rasila. “Why not?” asked the tree.

“You are property.”

“Whose?”

“The orchard’s.”

“And who is the orchard?”

The mangoes looked at one another. The word “orchard” had always meant the land, trees, workers, birds, worms, rain and fruit together. Yet somehow only the fruit had been delivering speeches. Mangaldas opened the election rulebook.“T he rules specify that voters must be residents of the orchard.” “We have resided here for eighty-seven years,” said the old tree.

“The rules also require a permanent address.” She pointed downward. “My roots are permanent enough to have cracked your office floor.” The trees voted. The worms voted because they improved the soil. Bees voted because they carried pollen. The stream voted by making a wet thumbprint. Even the wind cast a ballot, though nobody could prove which box it had entered.

When votes were counted, none of the three candidates had won. The victor was a fourth option written by the roots: NO KING. AN ORCHARD COUNCIL.

Kachcha Kumar fainted into a basket. Raja Rasila declared the result insufficiently sweet.

Achar Devi demanded a recount using rules from one hundred and twelve monsoons ago. The orchard council’s first decision was to remove nails from trees. Its second was to repair water channels. Its third was to ban campaign promises longer than the branch on which they were displayed.

“What about my moon ladder?” asked Kachcha Kumar. “You may build a small model,” said the council, “after completing a safety course.” That night, the unripe mangoes gathered around us. Kachcha Kumar had removed his turban and looked much smaller. “Perhaps I wanted the crown before I knew what a king did,” he said. “That happens often,” Mangaldas replied.

A star fell into the orchard but did not reach the ground. It remained hanging from a low branch, green and unripe. The star began to hum. Its melody smelled of rain on dust. The silver hiccup floated into its song, and both entered Professor Bhokambol’s empty ink bottle. Words appeared:

TAKE THE SONG OF THE UNRIPE STAR TO THE SCHOOL WHERE QUESTIONS ARE PUNISHED.

“Questions punished?” I said. Mangaldas looked uncomfortable. “An extremely efficient school.” We spent the night beneath the old mango tree. The roots told jokes that could only be understood underground. Chhataram taught the stream how to fold itself.

Professor Bhokambol ate the losing manifestos and complained of indigestion. Before dawn, Kachcha Kumar gave me his unused crown. “I no longer need it,” he said. “I am going to study irrigation.” The crown was far too large for me, so Tipu the teacup wore it.

That was the first time I met Tipu. He had been serving tea at the campaign office and had resigned after being filled with promises instead of ginger.

We left Aamganj with two impossible clues, one crowned teacup, and the knowledge that a fruit may call itself the voice of the orchard until the roots decide to speak.