She stands there in my garden, beautiful and grand, spreading her branches out as far as she can to give shade and fruit. For almost seventy years she has been the pear tree that was the envy of all who came to visit us. The garden was attractive indeed, but the pear tree held a special place for those visitors and relatives who had the privilege of hearing or witnessing real-life experiences that centered around her.
As kids, we came home from school in Darjeeling once a year for three months during the winter season. There was always the excitement and anticipation about sitting around the clay makkal on the warm floor of the common family room and listening to stories about spirits and ghosts that supposedly lived around the tree.
On those cold winter nights, my mother made it a point that after supper, we sisters sit in a small circle with the makkal in the middle—close enough to be warm and comfortable. So it was a discipline that we maintained each winter. My mother would pour glycerin into our hands followed by some drops of lemon. We would then rub the palms of our hands together, place our hands over the glowing fire and rub our faces and neck with the potion which would prevent our faces from chapping. It was almost like the “happy hour” that I and my friends often enjoy talking about—things that range from politics to spiritualism!
My mother who by then would have chatted with us, heard our enthusiastic and lengthy tales about school, the nuns, events, etc. would leave us happy that we were progressing well in studies, that we loved school and were excited to be home.
Then began our happy hour as Badi, the stately lady who was the focal character of our household, told tales about the saga of the pear tree. Widowed in childhood, Badi left her home in the mountains, as many young Brahmin widows did in those days, and descended to Kathmandu. We never asked her details about her life then as we did later, but knew that she was no maid in our house but a part of the family who jealously guarded every bit of the premises. And there was Hari, a young cook, who would sit with us at times confirming and reconfirming those eerie tales about the white khyaks (ghosts) that slipped in and out of the trunk of the pear tree in the dead of night.
We looked on, wide-eyed, listening to these tales and digested every bit because we had been used to hearing stories about those kichkandees—female witches, beautifully charming and cunning—who lured men, chased them and destroyed them. Such stories about those witches with flowing hair, heels in front of the foot and toes behind, went around Darjeeling like wildfire and names of men, often love-lorn students who studied till the late hours of the night became victims, obsessed by these vivacious witches who sucked their blood and turned them into skeletons till they withered away and died.
Hari, the cook, full of wit and energy, would swear that these white, child-like, male, luminous ghosts floated out of the tree trunk every night and skirted the compound only to return and slip back inside the trunk. And sensing our fear as we clutched each other’s hands, as if never to let go, he said there was no need to be afraid. These were the good ones who were harmless and had the power to bring joy, health and wealth The black Khyaks were to be feared as a bad omen, for they had brought about illness, bankruptcy and death amongst many families. And so these stories were confirmed by our immediate neighbours as well as the milkman, the vegetable walla, the big stout halwai, the sahuji, the nagini—the local manicurist, and our even our conservative next-door neighbours who looked upon my parents with great awe and curiosity, unable to fathom how they remained poised and content with seven daughters on their heads and no son! It was whispered in the neighbourhood that the compound was blessed by these khyaks that bestowed such calm and quiet.
The pear tree and her inmates knew it all. The wise spirits had seen the struggles and the challenges so that any visitor to the house went away with great admiration for my parent’s contentment, zeal and forward vision.
The years rolled by and the bungalow with the pear tree fell into my lot. My curiosity about the angelic ghosts remained and many a night I circled the tree, listening to the faint ruffling sounds inside the tree trunk which, with time, has become hollow. The khyaks are now accompanied by a naga (serpent) that stealthily makes a dutiful round of the premises and slides back into the trunk. It has been many years now—ghost and man have learned to live in peace and the pear tree, so old and weary will one day, I’m sure, open it’s secret about the good little khyaks and the gracious naga.
That will happen soon enough, for the tree is tired, her branches no longer sway gently in the wind as before but threaten to snap at the slightest use of force. The ugly crows have become territorial, snapping at other birds that dare chirp on her branches. The pears have shriveled in size and number. Wriggly worms are regular visitors. Yet she does not give up!
And as long as she clings on so dearly to life so will the ghosts who have been her companions.
The evening comes on with a gush of wind followed by dusk when all is quiet. I watch, earnestly waiting to witness the comings and goings of these spirits and to listen to the sweet rustlings within the hollow of the tree. I have not been fortunate enough to see them but have heard their sweet music and know that someday, a treasure hunt awaits me when the pear tree reveals her secrets and how she mesmerised her little friends to grant us those blessings. The naga is rarely seen—but is still believed to be there.
Meanwhile my fears have turned into strength with a tenacity of—Come what may! The legacy of the pear tree will continue—the music may change but the spirit will live on.