Flame Tree Road. Shona Patel

said Shamol drily. “I am not even sure she cares to enter the temple. She has found what she needs under the banyan tree.”

      “I will still fight for her. I think she wants me to. That is why she secretly wrote my name and pretended it was only a design.”

      “Just keep it to yourself, mia. Do you know the wise sages believe there is a great power in secrecy? If you talk loosely about your intentions this power will disappear. But if you keep your good intentions a secret, the universe will conspire to make it happen. This is one of the great spiritual truths, mia. Wise people never talk about their intentions. They let their actions speak for them.”

CHAPTER

       9

      It was Shamol’s day off. He sat on the kitchen steps in his pajamas with Nitin half dozing on his lap, a cup of tea and a sugared toast beside him. Shamol watched Biren play marbles in the courtyard. His aim was excellent; he rarely missed. But as soon as one marble clicked against the other, a tiger-striped calico cat hiding behind the holy basil shot out to pounce on the marble, spoiling Biren’s game.

      Biren stamped his foot. “Shoo!” he said sternly to the cat. He grabbed the marble out of its paws and placed it back on the spot where it had rolled. “The cat is not letting me play, Baba,” he complained to Shamol.

      Shamol took a sip of his tea. “Perhaps he wants to play, too.”

      “I want to play, too,” said Nitin, taking his thumb out of his mouth. He clambered off Shamol’s lap.

      “Now you have two cats to play with you,” said Shamol, smiling.

      Biren sighed.

      “Aye, Khoka!” Granny called to Shamol from the kitchen window. Granny always called Father by his boyhood name every time she wanted something done. “Plant the marigold seedlings in the pots for me, will you? I want to grow the flowers for my puja.”

      “Yes, Mother,” Shamol called back. “I am just finishing my tea.”

      Biren glared indignantly at the retreating form of his grandmother. Khoka, do this, Khoka, do that. Never a moment of peace for poor Father. No time to even enjoy his cup of tea!

      Shamol whistled a boatman’s song and went into the kitchen to return his cup. He must have said something funny because Mother replied with a laugh—the girlish laugh she reserved especially for him. His parents had their own little secrets, Biren suspected. Where did they run off to in the middle of the night? And why was there sand on their bed in the morning?

      Shamol emerged from the kitchen. “Is anybody going to help me plant the marigolds?” he asked.

      “I want to play with marbles,” said Nitin. “Dada, play marbles with me.”

      “You play with the cat,” said Biren in an imperious voice.

      “I don’t want to play with the cat,” Nitin pouted.

      “Come along, then, wear your slippers,” said Shamol, heading toward the woodshed. The two boys ran to catch up with him.

      Shamol dug up the rich black soil, Biren broke up the clumps and placed them in the terra-cotta pot and Nitin sat on his haunches and handed Biren the seedlings one by one.

      “Careful, mia, you are pulling them up too roughly,” Shamol said. He took the seedling from Nitin’s hand and pointed to the roots. “See these small white hairs? If you break them, the plant will die. Use a stick and pull out the seedling very gently, like this, see?”

      “Father, if you could be a tree—any tree in the world—what tree would you be?” Biren asked suddenly.

      Shamol leaned on the worn-out handle of the shovel. “What tree would I like to be, now? What an interesting question. I will have to think about it.”

      He went back to digging, then stopped. “I know what tree I want to be. I want to be a bamboo, although technically it is not a tree. It belongs to the grass family. Does that count?”

      Biren frowned. “I suppose so.” He was disappointed in his father’s choice. He had expected him to pick something more significant like, say, a mango tree or a banyan, even a papaya tree. But bamboo? Father must be joking.

      “But why bamboo, Father? It’s so...so ordinary.”

      “Your father is an ordinary man, son. But why a bamboo, I will tell you. A bamboo is strong and resilient. It has many uses. You can build a house with it, you can make a raft and float down a river with it. You can eat it as a shoot, and drink out of it as a cup. Most important, the bamboo is hollow and empty inside. If a person can be hollow and empty like the bamboo, all the goodness and wisdom of the universe will flow through him.”

      Biren was still not impressed. He did not want to be a bamboo. He saw himself as a magnificent and glorious flame tree, admired by all from near and far. He told his father that.

      “The flame tree is an inspiring tree,” Shamol conceded. “It gives cooling shade and when it blooms it brings joy to all. But also know this. When the flame tree sheds, it loses everything. You see this in life, mia. Sometimes a person has to lose everything to renew and bloom again.”

      Biren twirled a marigold seedling between his fingers. “Why is there only one flame tree, Baba? I have not seen any other flame trees around here.”

      “Because it is an unusual tree for these parts. The natural habitat of the flame tree is in tiger country, hundreds of miles away.”

      Shamol smiled at Nitin, who was frowning at the ground. “So what do you think, Nitin? What tree would you like to be? Dada wants to be a flame tree and I want to be a bamboo.”

      “I...I...” Nitin faltered. He looked distressed, like he had been given a difficult piece of homework.

      “Don’t worry,” Shamol said kindly. “You don’t have to be a tree. You can be anything you want.”

      “I want to be an ant tree!” Nitin blurted out.

      Shamol twitched his lips. “An ant tree!” he repeated. He leaned on his shovel and studied the round, earnest face of his younger son. “How marvelous! But tell me, mia, is it a tree where ants live or a tree that grows ants? I am curious to know.”

      Nitin brightened. “An ant tree is a tree that grows ants and when...when...the ants get ripe they all fall down...and...when they all fall down they all play together and go to school!”

      “Is that so?” Shamol’s eyes widened. “Be sure to warn me, mia, if you ever see an ant tree. I would be very much afraid to walk under one, with all the ripe ants falling on my head.”

      Biren rolled his eyes at their silly talk. He tried to give Shamol a knowing look to say, Nitin is such a baby, but Shamol’s face was deadpan as he struck his shovel into the ground and continued to dig.

CHAPTER

       10

      The schoolmaster told Biren to see him in his office. When Biren stood in front of his desk, he handed the boy a folded note.

      “Give this to your father,” he said, without looking up. “And don’t forget to bring back the answer tomorrow.”

      Biren looked at the schoolmaster nervously. This was the first time he had written a note to