A Pandemonium in Pakshila Read online

  for

  Kiara

  (b. 17 June 2019, 11.59 p.m. PT; Anaheim, California)

  &

  Tiana

  (b. 21 July 2019, 7.59 p.m. IST; Bandra, Maharashtra)

  new adventures, new children, new enchantments

  Contents

  1.The Letter

  2.Worms, Germs and Pachyderms

  3.M. M. Govinda

  4.Bird Borne!

  5.Cloud Street

  6.An Uncommon Aunt

  7.The Mehra Home

  8.Pakshila by Moonlight

  9.Getting Organized

  10.The Copper Pod Tree

  11.The Eco Guy

  12.Anil’s Tale

  13.The PPA in Action

  14.Bela’s Story

  15.A Rainbow Conspiracy

  16.Ten Minutes to Midnight

  17.Anil’s Last Hour

  18.Chipko!

  19.The Trial

  20.The Grand Entrance

  21.The Panda’s Story

  22.The Judgement

  23.Night Flight

  About the Book

  About the Authors

  About the Illustrator

  Copyright

  1

  The Letter

  2

  Worms, Germs and Pachyderms

  Do you know that feeling when you think you’ve done something wrong, but aren’t quite sure?

  If you’ve arrived at double digits, as I did last week, you’ll know exactly what I mean. The world was so much easier when you were nine.

  I read the letter without thinking. The big splotch at the top hid the name of the person it was meant for – I could use that as an excuse.

  Ma came in just then and caught my look. ‘Add that to your list,’ she said.

  Since my birthday I had a list of things that meant Trouble. Pa said it was a smart thing to do, considering I would be stuck in double digits for the next 90 years.

  I offered to show him my list, but he said it was my secret.

  (I had 4½ things on that list so far. Here came the fifth. At the rate of 5 things in 5 days, imagine that list when I finally get to triple digits. I could throw away the list on my 100th birthday, Pa said. He had a list too, he said, fifty-two years to go. I asked how many things it had so far. And that got me the 1/2 on my list, can you imagine?)

  Ma was still looming over the letter.

  ‘There’s a pink splotch on the name,’ I pointed out.

  ‘Bubblegum?’

  ‘No. Doesn’t peel off.’

  ‘Jam?’

  ‘Too grainy.’

  She took a deep sniff. ‘Fruity!’

  ‘Straw—’

  The doorbell rang.

  There was a worried looking couple outside. Their faces changed the moment they saw mine. It was as startling as dawn. The light began, uncertainly, in their eyes. Then gradually, it spread across their faces, ironing out lines and creases with brightness till it finally exploded in a big brilliant smile.

  ‘Why, you’re JustIt!’ cried the lady.

  ‘JustIt!’ agreed the gentleman.

  ‘Bela said she’s written to you,’ the lady said over my shoulder, which meant Ma had joined us.

  ‘Do take your time, we wouldn’t want to pressure you,’ the gentleman said.

  ‘We simply wanted to view the animal. Now we’re quite certain this is JustIt!’ The lady laughed, halfway into the lift. ‘Bye, see you soon!’

  ‘Bye, lovely meeting you,’ the gentleman added, and they were gone.

  ‘Wait!’ Ma cried feebly.

  I was about to race downstairs and stop them, when Ma stalled me.

  ‘Never mind,’ she sighed.

  ‘I see,’ said Pa when he heard about it that night.

  Then they pounced on me. ‘What do you think?’

  ‘Me?’ I was dumbfounded. What was all this about, anyway?

  ‘You can’t let them down,’ Ma said reproachfully, ‘not when they think you’re JustIt.’

  I didn’t discover, till much later, what it was all about. But, I’m going to tell you right away. You need to be prepared for the rest of this book. The folks who had thought me JustIt are the Mehras, and this is what happened to them.

  A week ago, Mr Mehra was in a mess. Mrs Mehra was ill, and needed to be in hospital. And the vacation was about to begin. The Mehras have three kids on Mission Bollywood and the vacation is when they get their act together.

  ‘Can’t Mamma go to hospital when school reopens?’ they whined. ‘Why do they need her right now?’

  Mr Mehra knew there was no point explaining it wasn’t the hospital that needed Mamma, but the other way round. That would simply make them say Mamma was just being selfish.

  True, the kids needed to be shipped to and fro between dance and movement classes, though he couldn’t tell the difference, and didn’t dare ask.

  There were endless practice sessions at home for Moves and Outfits, and Sheena (13) was so into Swag. These things would all be impossible without Mamma. Then Prakash (10) spotted the silver lining: they could eat Outside Food 24/7. That got them fighting over the menus, and it all grew so exciting that Mr Mehra escaped for a walk.

  The stairs were strewn with leaflets for Summer Activities. Mr Mehra picked them all up and his hands were full of slippery bits of glossy paper as he walked blindly into the Garden.

  The Garden in Pakshila is a leafy sort of place, and one can slip between trees into pools of silence. Mr Mehra waded through the dappled grass perusing those leaflets. There were Classes for everything, from Art to Zumba by way of rock-climbing, hang-gliding and advanced embroidery. There were Camps for football, cricket and yoga. There were full-day courses that promised to turn his kids into cooks, cricketers, sanyasis, politicians and astrophysicists within the month. And there were Expert Coachings that could practically airdrop them into Silicon Valley/IPL/Bollywood.

  Mr Mehra grew more and more miserable as he read on. He would have cheerfully picked any of those leaflets, anything to give the kids a happy vacation. But all of them had one drawback. They cost money. Mr Mehra had to choose between a Great Vacation and the Hospital Bill.

  It was a hard choice.

  Mr Mehra couldn’t bear the thought of three glum faces glaring reproach at him every morning. On the other hand, he couldn’t bear the thought of Mrs Mehra being ill. She wouldn’t have found it a hard choice at all, which is why he had Kept Her Out Of This. Which was most unfair, because it was all about her, wasn’t it?

  Mr Mehra swung between his choices like a pendulum. You know how boring a pendulum is, back and forth, back and forth, as if there’s nowhere else to go.

  And that was when Mr Mehra saw the purple poster.

  At first all he saw was the colour purple. It was stuck on a tree trunk, and, deep in his reverie, he had walked into the tree.

  When the world had stopped spinning and he had settled his (unbroken) spectacles on his nose again, the poster sprang into focus:

  EXCITING OFFER!!! LAST 2 DAYS!!!

  APPLY NOW BEFORE IT’S TOO LATE FOR

  THE GREAT FAMILY EXCHANGE!

  DIAL BEHIND POSTER IMMEDIATELY.

  Mr Mehra trembled with excitement.

  A Family Exchange!

  Oh, if he could only unearth a kind family that would take the children through their vacation, it would be the end of all his worries!

  But how on earth does one dial behind a poster?

  The poster was quite firmly stuck to the tree, with not even the faintest hint of bumpiness. Mr Mehra peeled it off with a firm hand, and sure enough, a dial winked back at him from the depths of a tree hole.

  He was a little nervous about reaching into that cavity. r />
  He thought of snakes, scorpions, lizards, bugs and other objectionable forms of life. Then he visualized the disappointed faces of his children and plunged right in, jabbing at random.

  ‘Welcome to the Great Family Exchange!’ boomed a voice.

  Mr Mehra looked around, but there was nobody there. The voice seemed to have come right out of the tree.

  ‘Please fill in the form!’ the Voice continued, as a piece of paper floated down on Mr Mehra.

  Mr Mehra was good at filling forms. He got through this one in no time.

  ‘Please leave the form in here and replace the poster. We will call you. Thank you for your interest in the Great Family Exchange.’

  Mr Mehra did as required.

  He was so confident about this Great Family Exchange that he immediately told his friends at the PDA about it.

  The PDA (Pakshila Dads Association, 25 members) met at 11 a.m. on Sunday mornings in 16A, which was across the road from 17B where the PMA (Pakshila Moms Association, 52 members) met at the same time. Generally, their meetings got over when kids stormed the road clamouring for lunch.

  That didn’t happen this particular Sunday.

  At exactly 11.15 a.m. the PDA invaded 17B just as the Moms were invading a large tub of ice cream.

  The Dads were offered paper cups, but waving away such frivolities, they burst out with the momentous news of Mr Mehra’s Great Family Exchange.

  At that very instant, Mr Mehra’s phone rang.

  The silence was profound as he took the call.

  ‘I see,’ said Mr Mehra. ‘I see. I see.’

  It was growing clearer by the minute that he could see nothing at all. His face sagged with disappointment.

  The PMA President took the phone from Mr Mehra’s nerveless hand and switched it to speaker mode.

  ‘This is Mrs Mistry here,’ she said. ‘Now what seems to be the problem?’

  By this you know without my telling you, that Mrs Mistry is a School Principal.

  ‘It is a Community Project,’ the Voice answered. ‘We can only process Mr Mehra’s request if his entire community, that is, entire Pakshila, participates.’

  Moms and Dads nodded frantically. Not one of them wanted to be left out.

  ‘May I know whom I’m speaking with?’ Mrs Mistry asked.

  ‘Concrete Singh & Bros., Madam. Perhaps you have heard of us?’

  ‘Of course,’ Mrs Mistry cooed.

  ‘Excellent. We are three brothers. Myself Concrete, all three in the service of nature. We are EcoBuilders.’

  ‘We are all EcoParents,’ Mrs Mistry replied.

  ‘Excellent. I’m sending my nephew over. He is the genius behind this venture. His name is Mridul. He will be with you in ten minutes. Thank you.’

  Concrete Singh disconnected. Mrs Mistry was cut off midstream.

  The next ten minutes passed quickly as the possibilities of Mridul, both personal and professional, were discussed.

  It was finally decided he was a young hotshot gazillionaire who would whiz Pakshila into the limelight.

  Mr Mehra was warmly commended.

  Mrs Mehra shed tears and was consoled.

  And then Mridul arrived.

  He was just an ordinary fellow in a green t-shirt, but his genius flashed bright when he began to speak. Thinking back, nobody remembered what he actually said, but everyone agreed it was profound. There was no question about it, Pakshila was going in for the Great Family Exchange.

  Mrs Murthy asked hesitantly, ‘What will we get in exchange?’

  A cold silence from the rest of them told her that the question was impertinent, if not plain rude.

  ‘Never mind,’ Mr Murthy interjected quickly. ‘Let’s get on with details.’

  But Mridul took his job seriously. ‘No, no, all questions must be answered. Concrete Singh & Bros. insist on total transparency. What does Pakshila get in Exchange? Nature, Madam. Pakshila gets Nature. Nature, pure and simple.’

  Mrs Murthy retreated under the barrage of I-told-you-so looks.

  Mridul was offered something cold—or hot—or lunch, maybe?

  ‘Nature is what we want. Nature is what we lack. Nature is what we need,’ Mrs Mistry recited.

  The Dads cheered to a man.

  But the Moms were tougher.

  ‘Nature’s all very fine, but what about Germs?’ Mrs Kulkarni demanded.

  ‘Or Worms?’ added Mrs Ali.

  ‘Yes, what about those?’ breathed the rest of the Moms, looking reproachfully at Mrs Nair who should have been the one to ask these questions, she being the Pakshila Pediatrician.

  Mridul hastened to pour oil before the waters got too troubled.

  ‘You are right. One hundred percent correct. A mother’s heart is never wrong. Concrete Singh & Bros. always depend on mother’s heart. And so, no matter what it costs us, top priority is Mother’s Heart. We have anticipated your worries, Madam. What about germs? What about worms? These are, as you know, part and parcel of Nature. Therefore, Concrete Singh & Bros. are offering this unbelievable offer.’ Mridul inflated his chest to the maximum and spoke in slow, deliberate capitals: ‘FOR EVERY WORM AND EVERY GERM WE’RE GIVING AWAY ONE PACHYDERM, ABSOLUTELY FREE!’

  A voice quavered. ‘A pack—a whole pack—?’

  ‘Oh yes!’ Mridul assured Mr Mehra. ‘A whole pachyderm, absolutely free.’

  Mr Mehra couldn’t tell a germ from a worm, but he knew a bargain when he saw one.

  ‘I’ll take it!’ he said.

  And so did the rest of them.

  That was how Pakshila signed up for the Great Family Exchange.

  Mr Mehra clearly didn’t have a dictionary, but surely, somebody did?

  3

  M. M. Govinda

  I knew nothing of this on Friday when my parents decided I was JustIt. (Is that going to be my name for the rest of this book?)

  I could have argued my way out of this one if the phone hadn’t rung then.

  It was the landline.

  Who ever calls on a landline anymore?

  Our telephone is black, with buttons stiff with prehistoric dust. It lives on our invisible table, the one just beyond the front door, thickly layered with stuff nobody’s seen in years. We just peel off the upper strata, as Pa says, for daily life. The telephone’s buried so deep, it’s an ancient memory.

  So when it rang, nobody recognized the sound.

  I thought it was Pa’s alarm clock that rings randomly once a week.

  Pa mistook it for the neighbours’ new doorbell.

  Ma hurried us to the door before we could all burn to death from a hidden fire.

  And then, with that Family Flash others call telepathy, we pounced on that table.

  I was the first in, plunged elbow-deep. All sorts of shapes slipped in and out of my fingers as I guddled my way to the telephone. I grabbed it and pulled and pulled and hauled out the handset, knotty wire and all.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Oh! You’re JustIt!’ announced a high breathy voice. ‘I’m calling for your parents.’

  Wearily, I handed over the receiver. Another Mehra, probably.

  Pa put down the phone with a triumphant smile. ‘Couldn’t be better!’

  Ma didn’t say it, but the unasked question loomed: Was this finally When?

  As in When Things Improve. That’s the Family Preface. When Things Improve, we’ll do/get this or that.

  Bound to happen sometime, says Pa.

  But it wasn’t just now. This was, as I’d guessed, a Mehra Matter.

  ‘It’s all arranged,’ Pa beamed. ‘M. M. Govinda will be here at seven to pick you up. Thankfully, they decided against a night flight even though it isn’t cloudy tonight.’

  ‘Come on, let’s pack!’ Ma was all excited.

  I wasn’t.

  The search for the telephone had scattered quite a bit of stuff, and the first thing I noticed punched the air out of me.

  It wouldn’t have mattered a bit to you, I know. It was just an old rub
ber ball with bite marks all over. But it was Molly’s Treasure.

  And I had forgotten it.

  It was as though I had forgotten her.

  I picked it up and slunk away to my Nook.

  It was our happy place, this Nook.

  After finishing homework, we’d sit at the window. The world would seem so far away, and we would float over the branches towards the moon. Sometimes there were stars. On cloudy nights, there were exciting secrets that Molly would sniff out for me. When we got sleepy, all we had to do was roll over, and we’d be cozy in bed, ready for some decent dreams we could talk about the next day.

  But Molly was gone now. Gone wherever she decided to go when a car hit her and it became too painful to stay within her skin.

  I kept the window shut these days.

  I opened it now.

  I placed the ball in the angle of the ledge where I could talk to it every night, and it could never, ever, roll off again.

  I was woken up by a feeling that sent me burrowing back into the bedclothes – someone was staring at me. I was furious. It’s funny how angry that can make you first thing in the morning.

  I stared right back.

  ‘You’re JustIt,’ a Shape informed me.

  I was getting pretty sick of this.

  ‘Who are you?’ I demanded.

  ‘M. M. Govinda,’ said the Shape.

  That took some digesting on an empty stomach.

  I shot out of bed like lightning and hurtled into the bathroom at 1,000 kmph, brushed my teeth as though a cyclone was trapped inside my mouth, and rushed into the kitchen for my mug of milk.

  The kitchen was dark and empty.

  That’s when I thought of checking the clock.

  It was 4 a.m.

  It must have been a dream.

  Of course, it was a dream.

  Waking up in the middle of the night was usually an adventure, even if it meant only a trip to the bathroom. Molly and I usually took a detour past the fridge on the way back. Nothing tastes as good as half a biscuit crunched thoughtfully by starlight.

  I found a banana for company and sat at the window, watching a cloud chase the moon. By and by, the cloud grew legs and a plumy tail, and the moon bounced about like a ball—

  Perhaps Molly was a cloud now, and racing with the moon.