It was the deaths that shook the neighbourhood.

The cheer cast by the delayed onset of the southwest monsoon and the overnight downpour was overcast by the deaths in this otherwise serene community. The rain notwithstanding, the crowd assembled in sizable pockets beyond the yellow police tapes, their umbrellas bobbing as they bemoaned such a fate on their neighbourhood.

The double deaths of Mr & Mrs Gopal had made Little Balu an orphan. Despite being thirteen, he would always be considered ‘little’ because of his innocent and cherubic face over his small, pudgy frame. “It was the mushroom that killed the couple,” was the verdict as the whispering continued. “Poor Balu was spared as he couldn’t eat that day as he had developed a bad stomach and had just curd rice.”

The shocked owner of the house stood among the crowd, his face etched with worry. The possibility of the house remaining vacant for a length of time was troubling him. The police had called him inside earlier in the day. He had quickly averted his eyes from looking at the quiet, decent, middle-aged couple’s bodies and felt sad at their untimely deaths. He also was thinking of performing a small Puja to mitigate the ill-effects before letting out the house again.

As he stood among the crowd, he heard, “The little one couldn’t stop crying and berating himself that he too should have died along with them.”  He had felt uneasy looking at the backyard earlier in the day.  They couldn’t find any mushrooms – the poisonous ones nor the non-poisonous as the heavy downpour seemed to have washed away the little shrubs along with other saplings as it formed rivulets that ran down the yards and streets. The rains seemed to have spared his own backyard, he thought.

Padma Gopal grew her mushroom in the little patch behind her modest home.  Balu had helped his mother chop the mushrooms and his neighbour was all praise for the boy saying that he was one child who was such a great help to his parents. She interspersed these narrations with baleful looks at her children, who locked themselves in their rooms once their curiosity about the ‘weirdo’ was abated.

A week passed on, it was decided that Balu would go to his grandmother’s house. It had taken them this long to find out about his relatives. The parents who had him quite late in their life, had kept to themselves except for a stray comment here or there. Thus, clutching the gifts from his neighbours, Balu was getting ready to leave. The inspector found it strange that none of the neighbourhood children came to give him a send-off. It was only the elderly matrons who were bent on spoiling the boy silly even though the rains were battering the city. The inspector was tired of the showers and almost turned nostalgic thinking of the sweltering heat of the week before.

One of the women, thrust a box of homemade sweets muttering, “Oh you unfortunate boy!” as he got into the car to take him to his grandmother’s village. He did turn back to look at his home, the rains dripping down the eaves making the doorway hazy, but once again, he caught the eye of the inspector and lowered his gaze. He was glad to be away from his all-too- penetrating-eyes and his questions that always took him by surprise. Like yesterday when he casually asked, wiping his spectacles with his handkerchief, “You and your grandmother are close?”

Balu had wondered if he could get away with lying. But then he told him, “I have never met her.”

His thoughtful, “Really?” Catching his eyes, “Funny, I thought you were so looking forward. Are you not worried about being in a strange environment?”

He wondered how to answer when he saw his neighbour. He ran ahead to hug her probably surprising her too and the awkward moment was lost.

He felt no remorse as the little house was becoming too claustrophobic for his tastes.  He was tired of his parents clucking around him. Moreover, he was tempted when had overheard that his grandmother wanted to bring up the grandson. He knew that his father’s family was wealthy and that his father was left with nothing after his marriage to his mother, who belonged to a lower caste. He heard his mother declaring, “I will not allow Balu to go to the house which treated me so despicably.”

His father had cleared his throat and Balu had not waited to hear the slow, measured style, which always irritated him.

Balu had decided then to go and live with his grandmother and that would be possible only if he was left an orphan. His small frame, which he inherited from his mother, was a source of mirth among his classmates and neighboring kids. To avoid being mercilessly bullied, he preferred being indoors and helped his mother for having nothing much to do.

So, when his mother was planning his favorite mushroom “delite”, he only had to pick up the poisonous variety that grew in an empty plot that was adjacent to his school. Mixing the poisonous ones with the good ones while chopping and then feigning an upset stomach was all he had to do and nature took care of the rest.

When both of them kneeled over, Balu was keening so profusely that none felt anything was amiss. Besides, after loosening the shrubs and other saplings, the overnight rains did the rest.

Balu settled back with a smile.

If only he hadn’t been impatient and waited to hear his father’s comments the other day, “My mother is one hard woman. Every rupee has to be earned, and there is no way I would subject our Balu to that life.” He left unsaid the fact that Balu looked too much like the woman who stole her son from her and that too would work against his boy.

This blog post is part of ‘Blogaberry Dazzle’
hosted by Cindy D’Silva and Noor Anand Chawla.

Image credit:  by Šárka Jonášová from Pixabay