The story of the seven giant watermelons

I was stranded alone in a scorching and sandy desert, looking all around me to find someone when suddenly Saket pulled the blanket back. He expected a revolt from me but was amazed to see me sit up and starting to jot down something. I think he was more amazed at finding out that I actually had a pen with me. But, whatever.

Hi, I am Raghav and I have a dream. It keeps haunting me at night. Every time I wake up, it gets blurred within a few minutes, never enough for me to put it down on paper, leaving only a sensation of aloofness. It reminds me that I am all alone, even in the middle of so many people.

I am getting late for a class so you have to bear with me for some time but as soon as I reach the class, I would start with the story I am here to tell.

I have to walk to the class and I am already late which means another breakfast missed, another sprint to the institute area, another stealthy entry in the lecture hall. It has almost become a routine nowadays.

A watermelon, nine and half feet long and three feet high was smashed by another gilli as kids ran, all in different directions to see Zafar sahab and Sardar chacha come running out of their houses.

“These kids shall rot in hell Zafar Sahab. This is the twelfth watermelon they have ruined.”

“And there are just seven more left. Who knows how many will survive by the time they get ripe.”

It was the summer of 1947, the mid of April. India was finally destined to get its Independence. The wind of Alwar was hot enough to make watermelons red and sweet, but was also hot enough to burn the skin of people. Still people gathered out in the open to discuss politics. Gandhiji wasn’t the hero for a few in Alwar as suddenly a laugh popped out of my pocket as I rushed to silence it. The professor eyed me silently as I understood that he must be looking at me during the whole class. Great, I am the guy who was writing even when he showed pictures of some equipment.

The message was from Purvi, my girlfriend. She wanted to know how the story was coming. She likes reading my pieces as many were even dedicated to her. But I can’t be thinking of her right now. I need to focus.

By the way I heard this story from my grandmother when I was very young. I don’t remember it exactly but I am at least good enough to fill in the blanks. She used to call it The Story of the Seven Watermelons.

Zafar Sahab and Sardar Chacha were two very good friends. Probably because they shared a lot more in common with each other than they did with the Marwaris around. Children as well as their parents, in short everyone called them Zafar Sahab and Sardar Chacha. Every year they used to grow Watermelons together, of the 30 watermelons they grew, there was always just one left in the end which used to be so red and sweet that it became the talk of the small town for some time after that. This year was nothing new. Right around the time when Mountbatten was persuading Jinnah, Zafar Sahab and Sardar Chacha were mourning over the loss of the 23rd Watermelon.

Alwar was a princely state and the Dewan of the Maharaja used to hold regular public meetings attempting to defame the political leaders of the country. The fact remained that he succeeded in convincing many about it. Though Alwar had a Congressman as its Prime Minister, but it was still under the regime of the Maharaja.

The watermelons were still smaller than their actual size. It had just been over a month since they had been planted they needed at least 45 to 50 more days to ripen. Though a majority of them had already been ruined, mainly because of pests, Zafar Sahab and Sardar Chacha had pledged to save more than one this season.

It rained in Alwar on 21st April. A very common rain it was. The rain was falling heavily on one watermelon while the others stayed safe by distance of many feets but the consequences of inner politics of the country wasn’t going to safeguard anyone in this country stretched over only a few thousand miles. At the same time Nehru said to the world, “Those who want Pakistan, can have it” but Indians only dreamt of one thing, independence.

The rain caused the solitary Watermelon to burst. One more down, but the two elderly still kept hope.

Some cutworms seemed to be dwelling on the same farm and planning to strike to hurt a watermelon as Jinnah declined all negotiations that Mountbatten, Gandhiji and Nehru had to offer by early May. Result was the loss of another watermelon. But the rest were saved because of a stitch in time by the two friends as they separated the ruined watermelon. 65 years later as well we still question whether partitioning was a stitch in time or offering the entire field.

On 18th May, Sardar Chacha was reading a letter from his cousin in Punjab when he saw outside the window to find out that separating the cutworms wasn’t the solution as he lost one more watermelon to the cutworms. This time he chose to kill the cutworms.

This class was certainly very boring but the good part is that it is the boring lectures during which I write the best. I plan to get back to the hostel so the writing part shall get postponed for a little while.

As I was walking, I saw a plane flying quite low. I waved to it and as I turned right, I saw a runway appearing next to me. But such was my solitude that the plane probably failed to spot me in a stranded desert with nothing except me for miles as I continued to walk.....

I woke up scared. There was nothing scary about this dream but I find it a kind of a nightmare, the kind of nightmare the partition of India must have been.

Sardar Chacha’s cousin was killing Muslims in Punjab and advised him to join. The religious disharmony was spreading in the country but Alwar seemed to be free of it. Or was it?

During the second half of May, refugees started to enter Alwar. Most of them came via Bharatpur and entered Alwar during night time. On the morning of 27th May, Zafar Sahab found two more watermelons gone from the farm. Obvious explanation was of it been stolen by the refugees. This was probably the ‘happiest’ loss of watermelon for the two. At least someone ate it. But the two remaining watermelons were cut from their roots and stored inside the house. They needed at least the two to fulfil their pledge.

After keeping it for a week, they took it out in the Panchayati where a radio was supposed to make an important announcement. It was 3rd June 1947.

And it is Purvi calling again. She is the only person whose intervention at the times I am writing I don’t mind. She inspires me. But right now she is getting restless. She wants to read what I am writing about. Even Saket and Shrey are anxious to know what I am writing which is keeping me from the Manchester United and Machester City match, though I know neither of the two will read it in the end.

Shyam, the son Hari Singh had returned from Delhi a month back. He was studying there in a college and knew English well. He was made to translate the radio announcement that was supposed to take place in English. Everyone was excited to hear just one thing, the date of India’s independence. The watermelon was meant to be eaten after the announcement of the good news.

It was six in the evening when the announcement started. Zafar Sahab and Sardar Chacha sat holding together the 13 feet long, 50 kg watermelon. Shyam heard the announcement and then announced ecstatically that Britishers would leave and India would get independence from 15th August of the same year.

This sent a wave of glory among the people as they stood up, started to hug each other and dance together but the happiness was short lived as the boy presented the second part of the announcement with a grim face. India was to be partitioned.

The joy shattered in a moment and everyone eyed each other suspiciously. Within a second there were so many Jinnah born in the crowd whom were blamed for the partition without a word being said but the worst of the reaction was of the two friends. They dropped the watermelon while standing up from a height of two feet and it smashed to juices on the ground. A red line now stood between Zafar Sahab and Sardar Chacha.

Shuddhikaran kriya started to ascend the Rajputana and Alwar was the prime spot for it. Every head was shaved off live just a small choti as a certificate of being a Hindu. Zafar Sahab did not give in to the change of religion like many others and chose to go to Pakistan.

It was a tragic day as the communal riots reached Alwar. They were not men, they were beasts and most of them were not residents of Alwar. Zafar Sahab chose the wrong day to leave for Pakistan. He went to Sardar’s house and started to quarrel regarding the possession of the final watermelon. They started to struggle for it when the wave of assassins reached there. They killed every Muslim around. The entire land was covered with bodies. One swift swing of the sword towards Zafar Chacha and the Watermelon started rolling on the narrow path between the bodies, rolling straight then taking a sharp right turn to ascend the steep slope up and after a hairpin turn, the watermelon stopped on high point as looking like the king of the world and just then it sliced open. It was fourteen feet but wasn’t very red.

The second swing of the sword sent Zafar Sahab on the ground in the precise space left for his body between many others. The watermelon got redder. Sardar Chacha stood still gaping. The world had just stopped for him. But the world restarted as soon as he saw the beasts bringing Zafar Chacha’s daughter out. As soon as he moved, he found a sword into him. It didn’t kill him for some time and that time was the toughest time for him. He saw her getting raped and could not do anything. The watermelon got redder and redder.

I woke up. This time I couldn’t even remember the plane but what I learnt was the reason I was seeing this. I can message Purvi that the story is almost complete. The dream reminds me of my subconscious state where this story was stored. Amongst the many stories my grandmother told me, this one stuck and it was asking to be told out. The solitude of my mind is in the fact that the no story of fairies could affect me. The only story that I remember is the one of violence and deaths. I don’t know what it tells about me but I think I may sleep well once I complete this story. The dream seems to be receding already.

There wasn’t a tri colour seen in Alwar except that at its Prime Minister’s office and no one ever heard the national anthem. Alwar came in the Indian rule but still continued to remain a princely state for some time. The family of Zafar Sahab died during the riots while that of Sardar Chacha kept trying to grow Watermelons on that field but due to some reason they were never as sweet or large as they used to be before independence. The very next year of the independence, the cutworms attacked the farm and ruined the entire watermelon crop. They kept returning after every few years. I am going to sleep now. I hope the dream won’t haunt me now the story is complete but who knows what will happen. Maybe I will write another story to scare the dream away towards more lonely people. After all the partition of India is just another name on the huge list of human catastrophes.