The Old Man And The Little Leaf

By Tara Smith

You like Harry Potter? Gabriel Garcia Marquez, Jorge Luis Borges, Alejo Carpentier and magical fantasy fiction or sci-fi? You like Ray Bradbury and Aimee Bender? Salman Rushdie and Arundhati Roy?

Well then, you will love this book!

Written by Tara Smith, this is her first indie novel. Below is the synopsis of the story. 

Synopsis:

The story starts with Mr T, the old man referenced in the title, grieving the loss of his wife of 40 years. The cremation as per Indian customs is over today, with the family gathered here at Mr T's house to share in his grief. 

After a couple of weeks, all the family members have returned home. T is now alone in the rambling house with a lifetime of memories and an aching loneliness that grows by the day. Fortunately, he shakes himself out of his deepening gloom, and decides to go for a walk along the boardwalk near his house.

The gray world of Mr T is suddenly attacked full force by the life, energy and vitality on the boardwalk - the trees, the river, the breeze, the people and dogs and babies. But that is just the beginning. As T rests on a bench under the huge maple tree, a leaf drops on to T's lap - a talking, exuberant leaf called Little Leaf.

As the story unfolds, T's life has irrevocably changed with unusual friends that Little Leaf introduces him to. Every day is magical now with adventures into the Milky Way on a light beam, rides atop friendly eagles, visits to an underwater cave where Toxy the fox lives amidst unbelievable splendor and wealth, an unexpected plunge off the earth into the Great Pipeline below from where no one has ever returned. Many more thrills await T and his unusual friends as they move through their lives.

But there is also fear, humiliation and anxiety in store for T; his neighbor, the 12 year old bully Sammy, and his despicable talking parrot have targeted T with their venomous and foul energies.

This is a story of joy, and of the magic of life if one could only see. It is a story of helplessness and crushing loneliness giving way to life-giving, beautiful experiences. Also, it is a commentary on the deep wounds and scars that bullies inflict.

Fans of Anthony Doerr, Junot Diaz, Isabel Allende, Haruki Murakami, Erin Morgenstern, Neil Gaiman, Kazuo Ishiguro, Nikolai Gogol, Gunter Grass and other fabulous magical realism and fantasy writers will love this book!

• Language: English
• Publisher: FoodSniffr Publishers
• Release date: Sep 10, 2019
• ISBN: 9781393899648

Book preview

THE OLD MAN & THE LITTLE LEAF

Tara Smith

Loss And Grief

The sturdy, simple yet stylish house on 7 Oak Lane stood stoically upright and calm, as unsettling events stunned the occupants inside.

Several generations of T’s family were now gathered inside — not in celebration, although this handsome house had seen its share of those.

This time it was a sad affair.

The clang of cymbals and the soft, rolling tinkle of prayer bells seeped into the street, as if to find some release from the thick air of grief inside the house. Kling, ting, tring, tinkle — rang the bells, interrupted at frequent intervals by the soft crash of the cymbals. A steady drone of chanting floated lightly atop the tink-tink of the bells.

T’s wife was cremated yesterday as per the Hindu norms, amidst a great deal of crying and wailing among the coterie of relatives who had gathered here at T’s house on hearing about her death.

T was still numbed from the event. Yesterday, he and his wife were living their quiet lives as usual. And today, she is no more.

Lalluji had been summoned. He was a young Brahmin pundit who had learned the ropes of the business from his father, who had now retired and was spending his time reading the ancient Sanskrit scriptures.

Lalluji was a millennial and had no patience for reading old tomes; after all, his clients did not understand a word of what he said anyway.

All that the clients needed from Lalluji was the assurance that the higher forces had been appealed to and appeased.

His confident and bright smile assured them that that was undoubtedly the case. That was enough for his clients to shower him with gifts of money, rice, sugar; a nice sari for his wife, and sweets for his kids.

And so after Lalluji was settled comfortably on a little carpet, he blessed the body of Mrs T by placing garlands of golden marigolds and other fresh flowers on the white sheet covering her earthly shell.

He rapidly fired off Sanskrit shlokas that were specific to such an occasion, as the gathered family sat behind him with folded hands, and dressed in all-white. He sprinkled holy water around the lifeless body, and the room.

Now the stage was set for the men to head towards the cremation facility. They departed with the pundit to confer the last rites on Mrs T, as she was carefully placed in the waiting van with its seats folded away so as to accommodate the casket.

At the cremation ceremony, T had clutched onto one of his late wife’s saris, as if to hold on to her as long as he could, while he obeyed Lalluji’s instructions as they attended to Asha’s last rites.

T’s older brother Jiva and his wife Sushma were of great help here; they were highly experienced in these matters. Mina, T’s older sister, was also here during this difficult time in her brother’s life; how much of a help she was - that was hard to tell.

Sushma was a gem, as she took charge of the household as well, for the living who had descended on this house had to be fed and kept in good humor.

An Indian cook Kaku had been commissioned to cook for the huge gathering of about 50 people. Enormous quantities of produce and groceries were ordered in — pounds and pounds of potatoes, tomatoes, eggplant, spinach, rice, wheat, sugar, coconut, lentils, milk, and tea.

And of course the ubiquitous spices that breathed life into everyday Indian cooking — turmeric, cayenne pepper, hing or asafoetida, cumin, mustard seeds, curry leaves.

Kaku and his assistant had started early on the day of the funeral — washing, chopping, prepping, and turning the material into delicious meals for the family.

The women had stayed behind, screaming at and cajoling their respective kids to brush their teeth and shower before the other kids made a dash for the three bathrooms in the house.

Between chasing down their errant kids, who were more interested in racing madly around the house, they exchanged soulful looks with the other women they passed in the house, quickly narrating their own sweet memories of Mrs T.

Kaku’s efforts in the kitchen were showing visible results as the spicy aroma of sambhar and idli filled the house. This breakfast was then briskly served in large, disposable bowls and handed over to the women, who in turn took them out to the dining table to the old and the infirm who had managed to come this far for the occasion.

The rambunctious children were served next. They had been harassed enough now by their mothers, so that they were all finally seated on a long carpet on the floor.

The steaming bowls were placed before these waiting mouths. The kids chattered noisily as they slurped and gobbled the food.

The mothers looked on fondly at their own precious offspring, while the old women at the table ate quietly, occasionally looking up to take in the scene around them.

It was now the turn of the younger women to eat, and they did so standing in a circle, exchanging information about where their lives were now, the challenges of raising kids in America, an important one being that the kids barely knew their Indian languages and soon outgrew the traditional meals that the mothers were trying so hard to feed them.

My son wants to eat pizza all the time, lamented Veena. It’s either that or chicken. We cannot have chicken in the house, so I have to give in to his demands for pizza. What to do!

The other American moms tut-tutted sympathetically. They all felt the pressures of raising kids in America, but none of them would trade their way of life. They were very comfortable here, away from the often crushing social norms and expectations of their native India.

A number of T’s relatives had flown down from India. As they listened to the woes of these American-Indian mothers, they felt a wave of momentary relief that they did not have to face silly problems like their kids refusing to eat roti-sabji. Oh these American brats, was their unanimous, silent thinking.

There was more than a twinge of envy too among the visitors from India. Both groups of women, the American-Indian and the 100% Indian, eyed each other with a certain degree of incomprehension and derision. Of course, on the surface, it was all exceedingly polite and family-like.

Soon the men were back. They shuffled in, and settled down on the couches. The women rushed towards them to ask how things went.

T looked haggard and weary, as someone offered him a glass of cool water. Lalluji settled himself on the sofa next to T.

Lalluji too was offered water, in keeping with the deference that was due to a pundit. He was now comfortably perched on the sofa, his legs folded up next to his groin, and his long orange silk scarf embracing his neck and then falling majestically down his chest. He was a good-looking man, our Lalluji.

His wife often teased him to become a model or a film star. His chest puffed with a narcissist’s delight; after all, he had often looked at himself in the mirror and had noticed his exceptionally handsome face and physique.

But nah, his current profession was very lucrative. He made very good money with the endless rounds of births, deaths and wedding ceremonies he was sought for.

In addition to the cash (not taxed, of course), he was generously loaded with silk clothes and foods for him and his family. The icing on the cake was the deep reverence with which his clients treated him. After all, in their eyes, he was the agent of God.

The men were now recounting for the women everything that happened at the cremation. It was all quick and smooth, they noted. Very satisfactory.

By now, cups of tea were being brought in for the men. The sweet hot tea revived their spirits as they sipped each sip with a satisfied smacking of the lips.

T too sipped his tea. Quietly at first.

And then suddenly, he burst into tears. Heaving, gasping sobs that shook his body violently.

Everyone was taken aback for a bit. But it was to be expected. The tea, it seemed, had hit home with his loss.

Since he had retired a few years ago from his job as an accountant in a NYC firm, he had had morning and afternoon tea every day with his wife. Unfailingly, except for those very rare days when he was out meeting with a school friend or an old colleague from work.

The men and women rushed to T, the men reluctantly putting away the piping hot tea for the purpose. They patted his back and shoulders in support.

His brother Jiva squeezed himself between T and Lalluji , and held his bereaved brother’s shuddering body close to his chest.

T’s two sons Abhi and Ashish too swooped in to offer their support. His daughter Ari was not far behind, but she wasn’t much help with her loud sobs.

Ari was not very good on such occasions. She cried easily and readily. Some women now converged to offer support to the grieving Ari.

After an hour, things had settled down. T and Ari were both quiet now.

Ari