arun.local.botanist-turned-biologist.

by Shrutidhora P Mohor

Arun knows plants inside out. The stem. The skin. The crust of fruits. The pulp of fruits. The hardness-softness ratio of the bark. The soil it needs. The water it intakes. The height of a full-grown tree. The arrival of the first bloom every spring. How to pick, how to cut, how to taste, how to cook, how to ferment, how to bury. Full lifecycle, he says proudly.

Becky has just returned from the city and has bleached her hair silver. She mistakes Arun for the new gardener and instructs him to collect the manure from the shade behind the house. After he is done, the new gardener turns up and looks flustered. Becky is embarrassed, Becky is apologetic.

Arun is grinning, Arun is smitten.

Arun is amused, Arun is whistling.

There is madness in the air. The Mahua scent is in the air. The village tribe is beating drums. The folks are bathing in Mahua cans, drunk to their gut. Someone is getting married out there.

White sunlight reflects on Becky’s silver head.

“Will you?” Arun is gentle, Arun is insistent.

Becky is shy, Becky is cherry.

There is Mahua out there, there is a lot of Mahua out there.

She takes roughly a minute to agree to his proposal.

Becky tells her mom, Arun. Local. Botanist.

Have you told him we are a little insane?

Becky keeps quiet.

Have you? Her mother asks again.

He says he can help. He says, sanity is overrated.

What? Over…? Help? How?

Don’t know.

Her dad overhears. With a snort he rules, bet he survives on Mahua. Permanently intoxicated. Insane himself! How does he intend to live off trees and flowers and fruits, huh? What will happen to your boutique plan? What will you name it, The Mahua Boutique? No civilised customer will set foot!

Becky is mournful, Becky is heartbroken.

Don’t worry. The Mahua magic is a class apart. Its powers are a different story. Arun is cool, Arun is unbothered.

The night before the engagement, the family appears sane. Lonom the dog is in his crate, his beef steak consumed, dad is in bed, snoring like the hooter of an ambulance, Becky is in her leggings below her long blouse, the skin on her legs pasted to the fabric. Her German mom is at the piano. Her fingers are trilling up and down the keys, now black, now white, black again, white again. Her mom says she is a descendant of some Swiss orchestra master whose name Becky can’t remember ever. But she remembers Arun’s words. Anxious Becky is gnawing at her nails.

At Becky’s engagement party, sanity is an uninvited guest.

Worried Becky is looking like perforated paper in her engagement gown. She looks around, fearing a deep frown on Arun’s face. Arun is not there. His bow-tie is sitting pretty on a decorated chair.

Guests are happy, guests are smiling.

The food is ready, the food is aromatic.

Everyone is petting Lonom and biting into juicy ham cheese squares, measuring each other’s riches. Suddenly someone slips on her pencil heels, looks down to see what caused the fall and gives out a shriek. There is spilled beer zigzagging through their feet and overturned barrels with cracked sides. “Look, liquid gold!” the guests gasp. A scramble follows to gather riches before it all flows down the ground. Jutted elbows, treacherous kicks. Lonom has in the meantime vanished. Guests give a damn for a dog when it’s gold at stake. Becky’s dad twists his ankle to run to shut the garden gate to stop Lonom from going out on the street. He is yelling at a random neighbour, reprimanding him for keeping the gate open. “Lonom is lost forever,” howls Becky’s teenage cousin. No one can hear anyone because the piano is playing at a deafening pitch. Becky’s mom is reciting German with full gusto, her cheeks wine red, her back arched over the piano keys. The invitees are aghast and confused. There seems to be from nowhere a jester among them, forcing people to listen to odd jokes even as they strive to distill the flowing gold into cups and saucers. A masseur whom no one knows and who hasn’t been invited is extending his large, shining palms towards everyone, offering his services. Someone thinks he is a dog-walker and asks him to come back when the dog can be found. The five-tier cake is gone, just vanished. Cuckoos and crows have gathered around the crumbs. And, Lonom has reappeared. He is on that chair, the bow-tie around his golden neck.

“I got him the harness,” declares Becky’s dad, proud at his achievement, pointing at Arun’s bow-tie.

Becky is speechless, Becky is grateful. “Will you always, thus?” She is looking intently at the red rose in Arun’s chest pocket.

“I shall always, thus,” Arun affirms.

Arun is tender, Arun is committed. Arun is supervising the cleaning after the guests have left.

Becky is dazed, Becky is bewildered.

“But Lonom? Your bow-tie?”

Arun is silent, Arun is smiling.

Becky is clueless, Becky is curious.

“The jester? The masseur?”

Arun is busy, Arun is dutiful.

At last when things are almost back in place, sanity restored, the place prim and proper, he says, “Beck, a friend is getting married tonight. Want to come? Not far. I’ll show you how the Mahua tree is, its leaves, its roots, its seeds.”

Becky, just engaged, visits her fiancé’s friend’s wedding that evening.

Arun knows people inside out. The heart, the blood, the lungs. Their breaths, their beliefs, their greed. What they fear, what they want. What they avoid, what they hanker for. What they hallucinate, whom they blame, what they do when they are not being watched, how they take sides, how they claim credit, most vitally, how they project sanity and when. All traits, he explains affectionately.

Becky and Arun are married after a year. She introduces her husband to the regular customers at her boutique, “Arun. Local. Biologist.”

Photo of Shrutidhora P Mohor

BIO: Shrutidhora P Mohor (born 1979, India) has been listed in several competitions like Bristol Short Story Prize, Oxford Flash Fiction Prize, the Bath Flash Fiction Award, the Retreat West competitions, the Winter 2022 Reflex Fiction competition, Flash 500.