Masi grated the ginger while the milk simmered. On another part of the stove, a pot of poha was cooking. Masi added a pinch of turmeric to the poha and reached out to get the jar of chai masala. She added the chai masala to the simmering milk.
Masaji was perusing the book “Glimpses of World History” by Jawaharlal Nehru as he waited for Masi to finish preparing breakfast. He spoke to Masi. “These are the kinds of stories from history I want to teach the grandchildren. Don’t they deserve to know what their ancestors did and how they lived?” Masi admonished him, “They go to school and when they are done with school they want two things – to eat and play. You will not get them to sit down for more than fifteen minutes.”
After breakfast was done, Masaji paced around the dining room. “Go check on the orchard. Your pacing is just making me anxious.” Masi complained. “Why are you spending so much time thinking about teaching your grandchildren? Aren’t schools supposed to teach these things? Isn’t there enough work to be done in the orchard?” she continued.
“The schools teach but they try to teach all the kids the same things the same way. Don’t our grandchildren deserve better education?” Masaji retorted.
“Let their parents worry about it.” Masi replied.
Masaji walked out to the orchard, enjoying the sounds of the birds chirping and the rays of sunlight that filtered through the canopy. He admired the parallel rows of mango trees with the shiny dark leaves trembling in the sunlight. He inspected the fields and looked up into the branches of each tree, checking for any changes from the previous day. Twice that morning he picked up a bit of soil and ran it through his fingers, feeling the way it would crumble and admiring the way it was dark brown in the sun but black in the shadows. He remembered the time he spent in the orchard with his grandfather listening to stories about the Mahabaratha and fables about the Mughal emperors. His grandfather would also look up into the branches and feel the soil. He walked to a shed on the far side of the orchard and walked inside. He poured kerosene into the tank of the pump and gave the cord a few strong pulls. The pump started up. He walked outside and waited a bit and saw the water slowly flowing through the irrigation channels in the soil. He reminisced about the long days of toil getting buckets of water from the river and watering the trees one by one. He did not miss that.
Later that week Masaji traveled to the houses of his children and some of the neighborhood children as well. He came to his daughter Urmila’s house. She was in the kitchen scouring a pan that was thickened with burnt dal. “Hello, come on in” Urmila said. Masaji started explaining the class. Urmila continued scouring the pan, looking back every once in a while. “Yes that sounds nice, I will send Sunita but Ranjeet has cricket practice that day,” Urmila said. “Oh but Ranjeet used to love my stories,” remembered Masaji. “That was maybe five years ago, maybe more. All children love stories. Then they grow up.” laughed Urmila dismissively.
Next Masaji walked twenty minutes to Nitin’s shop in town. Nitin was busy attaching labels to gas cylinders, carefully twisting the wire around the neck of the gas cylinder, threading the wire through the hole in the label and then using pliers to tighten the wire back onto itself and into a clasp. Nitin heard Masaji walk in and put his pliers down with a clang and walked to the front of the shop. “What is it you need?” asked Nitin. “I want to teach the kids a little about history after school” said Masaji, choosing his words and tone carefully. “Why don’t you teach them something useful like math or economics? You spend too much time trying to tell them stories that don’t matter these days,” Nitin complained. Masaji winced a bit, half expecting such a response from Nitin. “Just tell them to come to my house after school around 7pm on Wednesday,” Masaji countered. “Ok I will tell them,” Nitin said, “but don’t count on them. They make their own plans and decisions these days”. “At least try to encourage them a little bit,” Masaji pleaded. “Ok, I will ask them to go,” agreed Nitin.
Masaji was delighted to start the class the following Wednesday and began reading a story about Rana Sanga’s invasion of Gujarat aloud. Sunita raised her hand. Masaji asked “Yes Sunita dear”. “How far away from Somvadi does Rana Sanga live?” asked Sunita. “He lived for away in Rajasthan, far enough it would take more then three days by horse to get here,” answered Masaji. “Can he take a train?” continued Sunita. “No there were no trains than,” answered Masaji. “Will he come back for another attack?” asked Sunita. “This is a story from long ago, you don’t have to worry.” stated Masaji. Sunita looked relieved.
“How did the class go? Did any kids come?” teased Masi to Masaji after class. Masaji excitedly relayed a synopsis of the class. “Six grandchildren and two neighborhood kids came. Sunita seemed very interested in the story”. Masi gave Masaji a look of surprise.
The next week he visited the same children and neighbors. “Guatam didn’t want to go but I will make sure he goes this week,” one said. “Oh yes Sunita will come again this week,” promised Urmila. The following week three grandchildren came and no neighbor children. Masaji continued reading the story where he left off. This time even Sunita seemed less interested and did not venture any questions. The only question came from Akshay. “How much longer does the story go?” he complained. “Just five more minutes” answered Masaji calmly while glancing briefly at his watch.
The week after none came. Masaji still opened the book and started reading aloud to himself and the empty room. The words started getting fuzzy and as he dozed off in the heat and quiet of late evening the book dropped from his hands. He started dreaming of men on horseback carrying swords surrounded by chariots as a bugle broke the silence. In the dream, Rana Sanga was finally defeated.