Nira And The Missing God of Magic : Part 2 Episode 2

THE ELECTION OF THE MANGOES : Part 2

The Day the Roots Voted

Summary: Truthful posters expose false promises; roots, trees and creatures vote, forming an orchard council and revealing the next magical clue.

On election day, voters queued before ballot boxes shaped like lunch tins. The candidates had arranged supporters by ripeness. Green mangoes stood in one queue, yellow mangoes in another, and mangoes with black spots were told their names had mysteriously rolled off the voter list. Volunteers offered them forms requesting evidence that they had once existed.

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 together, “Catch that hiccup!”

It bounced across the stage, ricocheted from Mangaldas’s stamp pad, and entered the royal crown. The crown shook itself and 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!”

At once the mango trees pulled their roots from the ground. Not completely; they were sensible trees. They lifted them just enough to form enormous earthy feet. The oldest tree marched towards the ballot box, scattering campaign chairs.

“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 land, trees, workers, birds, worms, rain, stream, shade, and fruit together. Yet somehow only the fruit had been making speeches, wearing caps, and ordering microphones. Mangaldas opened the election rulebook. “The rules say 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. Worms voted because they improved the soil. Bees voted because they carried pollen. The stream voted by leaving a wet thumbprint. Birds voted after promising not to eat the candidates until counting ended. Even the wind cast a ballot, although nobody could prove which box received it. When the votes were counted, none of the three candidates had won. The winner was a fourth option written by the roots:

NO KING. AN ORCHARD COUNCIL.

Kachcha Kumar fainted neatly into a basket. Raja Rasila declared the result insufficiently sweet. Achar Devi demanded a recount under rules from one hundred and twelve monsoons earlier, preferably before several voters had been born.

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 displaying them. Its fourth required every manifesto to survive one hungry goat. “What about my moon ladder?” Kachcha Kumar asked. “You may build a small model,” said the council, “after completing a safety course and defining the moon.”

That night, the unripe mangoes gathered around us. Kachcha Kumar had removed his turban and looked smaller, quieter, and considerably more like a fruit. “Perhaps I wanted the crown before I knew what a king did,” he said.“That happens often,” Mangaldas replied. “Sometimes the crown knows even less.”

A star fell towards the orchard but stopped before reaching the ground. It hung from a low branch, glowing green and unripe. Then it began to hum. Its melody smelled of rain striking dry earth and tasted faintly of hope.The silver hiccup floated from the crown into the song. Together they slipped into Professor Bhokambol’s empty ink bottle. Bright words appeared:

TAKE THE SONG OF THE UNRIPE STARTO THE SCHOOL WHERE QUESTIONS ARE PUNISHED.

“Questions punished?” I said.Mangaldas looked uncomfortable. “An extremely efficient school.” We slept beneath the old mango tree. The roots told jokes understandable only underground. Chhataram taught the stream to fold itself without spilling. Professor Bhokambol ate the losing manifestos and developed democratic 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 too large for me, so Tipu the teacup wore it. That was the first time I met Tipu. He had served tea at the campaign office and resigned after being filled with promises instead of ginger.

We left Aamganj carrying two impossible clues, one crowned teacup, and the knowledge that fruit may claim to speak for an orchard only until the roots decide to answer.