Pomegranates

A story by John Bargain

Ruby Red, Rosy Red by Jayashree Deshpande, illustrated by Srikrishna Kedilaya and translated by Dr Divaspathy Hegde

He had eaten well in the pub and then he had gone on from the pub to other places. There were always other places to visit, he thought. Because the world was quite large and there were things in it to see. He’d noticed that the hard way. It was a lesson one learnt. That there were things in the world to see and do and sometimes, you’re not up to either. He thought a little about that. There were people in the world, too, he thought.

And more’s the pity.

If you were alone, really, truly alone, you could get so much done. There would be no one to tell you no, for a start. He thought like that from childhood. No one to tell you no. A wonder. You could make what you wanted. No one could tell you that what you did was bad or wicked or wrong. Or not allowed.

And no one could steal the credit either, he thought again. They often stole the credit, other people. They had you work on a little something for them — give your thought and your effort and all that. And then they would steal the credit — steal your credit. It’s something people did.

He thought about all the times in life he had been stolen from or mistreated. A long list. Other people had long lists but he possibly had the longest, he thought. There were men hanged for stealing sheep in years past who were less hard done by. At least they had stolen the sheep, after all. If the records were to be believed.

He’d never stolen a sheep. Never stolen a lamb, either, come to think of it. Yet he was to be hanged — metaphorically hanged, hanged in simile — nonetheless. These things had no rhyme to them, no reason. There was no justice in the world, he thought. His notebook, unamended since he sat down, rebuked him. Wasn’t he meant to be working on something? Yes, although was it really work when it was done for another, done at the behest of another?

Most work was, more or less, done at the behest of another, he thought to himself. But that was why he never wanted to work. Not from childhood, anyway. Never to be another’s servant, a dogsbody, unregarded, ill-treated, tortured, punished, crucified. That was the plan. His plan. That’s why he had always preferred to avoid work.

And how had that turned out? he asked himself. With laurels? With plaudits? With very many interesting, important people taking you by the hand and inviting you in.

Please, take the weight off your feet. I’ve been saving something quite special for a guest like you. And your work, I cannot tell you how much it has moved and inspired me. My friends — important, vital friends — all feel the same, as they will shortly say. Is there anything else you want? Anything else I can do for you?

Oh, yes; that was what, once, he had thought someone might say to him.

A home of your own, a wife, a family. He’d thought he might have those, too.

Things change. Nothing stays the same, he thought, as he walked.

Once, he now remembered, he had been out in a field, wandering like he was tonight. Fields are not often interesting — at least not to him — but this one was interesting. It was filled with pomegranates.

A little odd to find them here, he thought then and continued to think now. Aren’t they a little foreign, a little too happy in the warmer climates, with the nourishing rains of the south and the east assisting them in swelling and filling with those sweet jewels with which they feed the desirous?

Odd to see them here.

But they were there and he was a practical man and so he considered what to do. He’d not eaten for some time. Been out on the march. On the tramp for a job, practically. The last man who had condescended to give him work — well, there was no point thinking again about that.

He was hungry; that’s the truth — and hungry men spend much of their time thinking of food. Perhaps a particular dish they were once served. Or what they might spend their wealth elaborately on, if they were to be treated well by fate and favour and given one good turn — one decent thing — one piece of help or good fortune by an unwilling world.

Stealing was wrong, he reasoned, but stealing a single fruit — even an exotic one, hard to cultivate in these drizzly places — was necessary. A man cannot live on morals alone. And he was dazzled, he said, by the sweetness of the fruit he knew he could soon be eating. He’d heard stories of its usefulness, too, mythical tales of the pomegranate. How it was meant to cure all manner of illnesses. It mended a poor appetite, too, he had once read. And though he was hungry all the time, he thought it might be possible his appetite needed more help if he were to prosper and thrive.

He took a pomegranate then and prepared and ate it.

And he thought of the pleasure a little larceny had brought him some time later, when he was walking having eaten well at the inn.