TAMALES CON AMOR

 

 

It was the tamales that I remembered most of all. The spicy chili pork stuffed into the steamed masa wrapped in corn husk  crept back into my memory with the  insistence  of a classic  song from Mexico: “Me gusta tu, y nada mas que tu.”

 Rosa Alarcon had prepared it and a host of other Mexican dishes  that were originally intended  to be mere snacks but eventually acquired the heft of an early evening’s supper.

Aside from the tamales, there were the chili rellenos, whole green peppers from Hatch that were lovingly dipped in a tempura batter. Then there was the menudo, in and of itself a meal, quite different from the Philippine menudo because it was beef tripe and hominy grits swimming in a tomato- sauce infused sea of “caldo”, a soup. A slice of lime brought a tangy finish to this heavenly concoction, a true child of Mexico.  And then, for dessert, there were the tamales of a different sort made of corn masa which harbored the richness of almonds and honey, like the Greek baklava, but with corn dough.  

I remember that evening that we had wine and coffee. That afternoon snack rolled on into the evening and became supper.

 I did not come to Rosa Alarcon’s house to be fed though. I came at the invitation, a request really from the kindest and most unassuming couple who ever served the parish church of St. Xavier in El Paso, Texas. I am referring to Pepe and Juana, both retired teachers, but still serving the church, he as a sacristan, she as a lector.

 “Manny,” said Pepe, Juana smiling sweetly beside him,” we have a request to make of you.”

 “Oh?  What is it, Pepe?”

 "We have a friend, Rosa,” he said, “She lost her husband three months ago. She lives all alone by herself in a house in the hills above El Paso. May we ask you to spare some time to play the piano for her?  She's so sad."It’s Christmastime. We’d like to cheer her up.”

I wasted no time in saying “yes”. Playing the piano had always given me joy; to share that with another human being, especially one who was in bereavement of a lost partner, was a no-brainer. I needed to do it.

 When Rosa opened the door to her house, I saw a slight woman, about 60 years old, with a smile on her face and no trace of sadness that I thought I could detect outwardly.

 “Welcome, welcome,” she cheerfully piped up. Whatever sadness there was that lay in her at the loss of a lifelong partner I could perhaps sense in the deliberation that she greeted and kiss us on the cheeks. There was a softness that seemed easy yet thoughtful, like the touch of kitten’s whisker or the slight tremor of a butterfly’s wing.

 “Thank you for coming, Manny,” Rosa addressed me. “I hear you play the piano. My Yamaha has been feeling lonely. I’m sure you can do something about her.”

Juana gave me a smile, a sad twinkle in her eye.

 “Rosa hasn’t played her piano for quite some time,” she remarked.

“It makes me sad, let’s just put it that way,” said Rosa. “I had a ready audience, however badly I played.”

She did not follow that up with the obvious corollary: her audience had gone.

“And Eileen and Susan, how are they?” asked Pepe.

“They come to visit me sometimes with the kids,” Rosa replied. “It’s been hard for them too, but they have their own families now. But enough about them,” she cut to the quick. “I prepared merienda.”

And that was when she brought us to the table laid out with the repast she must have prepared for the better part of the day.

“You prepared all this?” exclaimed Juana. Pepe shook his head slightly, as if in disbelief. I looked on in gustatory anticipation. Mexican culture looked back at me in a medley of tamales, rellenos and menudos.

“You didn’t have to!”Juana continued with her obvious surprise.

“Oh but I wanted to!” said Rosa. “Takes my mind off things. I want Manny to taste my tamales.”

“That I shall,” I replied. “Thank you, Rosa. I’m sure they’re divine.”

 We ate and had a convivial conversation. And before you could say “Cielito Lindo”, it was time for me to play the piano.

 The piano in question was a black Yamaha upright. It was standard issue Yamaha, with a resonant soundboard and a full, excellent tone. The keys needed a little tuning, but the off-ness didn’t verge on the dissonant, so I had no problem with it. As I opened the lid and wiped the keys with the red felt cover, I noticed the small silver-framed pictures of Rosa and her late husband (I presumed), a picture of two girls dressed in white holding hands together in front of a communion pew, and two more pictures of what I presumed again was the grown-up version of one of those girls holding a baby in a christening gown while the man beside her who I presumed was her husband was holding perhaps two-year old girl.

“That’s Joe, my husband,” Rosa spoke to me. She must have seen me glance with curiosity at the framed photographs. “Those are my two girls. Susan is the one with the husband and two children. Eileen is in New York.”

 I did not press her for any more information regarding her family. I was ready to play.

When I was seated at the piano, the three of them seated at some remove on the comfortable sofa, I turned to Rosa and asked: “Is there any song you would want to hear, Rosa?”

She gave me a look that seemed on the verge of tears: “Can you play Noche de Ronda? That was Joe’s favorite. It was our theme song.”

I knew the song quite well. Being Latinos in sentiment and inclination if not in appearance, Filipinos of a certain age in my country knew and sang this song. The song was written by the same composer who composed “Granada” Agustin Lara.   It starts off like this:

 

Noche de Ronda
Que triste pasas
Que triste cruzas

Por mi balcón

Roughly translated it means:

Night of the guard’s watch,

How sadly you pass

How sadly you cross

By my balcony

 

The main verse starts with the “moon” and ends with “tears”, so you would be correct in  thinking it a sad, bittersweet song in ¾ time written by a Mexican composer, whose full Spanish appellation, if you must know, was Ángel Agustín María Carlos Fausto Mariano Alfonso del Sagrado Corazón de Jesús Lara y Aguirre del Pino.

 I played the song. When I finished playing the last chord, I glanced at Rosa and saw that she was weeping. Pepe and Juana drew close to her, stroking her hand and shoulders.

Pepe gave me a quick look, and said: “I have a request, Manny. Can you play “The Entertainer’?

 I was happy to play the sprightly jazz-rag tune. I did not launch into it with mindless gusto, but with a tentative touch, starting slowly, and then gathering a little more speed where it needed to go. By the time I had played the last descending riff of the joyful music, I saw that Rosa had regained her composure, though I still caught the glisten in her eye.

 Songs mean many things to different people. What would seem sentimental claptrap to some is a fount of memories to others.  And so it was with Rosa. Who knows how many mariachis they had requested to play this song on special occasions, or how far back the origin of their romantic attachment to it went back? The years flew by quickly. One of them is gone, and she would follow him too, unless, in the mysterious byways of human nature, she finds another man to cling to. But at sixty, that would probably take some diligent motivation, if she had a mind to do it.

 I played more songs that night but then, inevitably the visitors had to leave.

“Will you have some café con leche before you go, Manny, Pepe, Juana?” asked Rosa hopefully, even pleadingly. Pepe and Juana demurred, but I said:” Sure, I will have that and some of the tamales de mandorlas.”

 Later, when we went outside of Rosa’s home, up in the hills above El Paso, we could see the plains below lit with many lights. In the desert air, there was no smog or humidity to obscure their brilliance. Somewhere in the darkness, there was a dividing line, a wall roughly following the course of the Rio Grande that here is a mere ditch, a wall separating El Paso, USA from Ciudad Juarez, Mexico. But these cities of the plain, with its many lights, and a particularly brilliant configuration of lights shaped like a giant star on the south side of the Franklin Mountains would seem to be merely one entity enveloped in the same darkness and lights. A Noche de Ronda, in a manner of speaking.

 “How beautiful this evening is,” remarked Juana.

“I agree,” said Pepe. “Someone had the Star lit tonight.”

“Thank you Manny for a lovely evening,” Rosa said to me as she gave me a soft kiss on the cheek. “I hope we can have another evening like this someday.”

“I hope so too,” I replied sincerely.

There is always another time, is it? I thought. And then again…

Many years later, having been away from El Paso for a while, and happening to pass that way again, I once again saw Pepe and Juana.

“It’s October! We’re going to the Albuquerque International Balloon Festival”, Juana beamed.

“We always go every year,” added Pepe. “Are you going?”

“Maybe,” I said. Actually I had made my own plans to go, but I would be including a side trip to Santa Fe and Taos, New Mexico. I had rented my own car and booked my own hotels. Pepe and Juana would insist that I go with them, but I didn’t want to inconvenience them with my company. It was their trip together, as man and wife still in love with each other, still serving in church, despite their advancing age, and now renting an apartment. They had sold their  longtime home where they had raised their kids till they were of age to have families of their own..

“It was too large for the two of us,” confided Juana. I agreed. I had been to their house.

“And Rosa, how is she?” I asked.

“She sold her house too and is now renting, ” replied Pepe. “She felt too lonely in that lovely house. Her kids don’t want to live there anymore.”

“And the piano?” I asked.

“She donated it to Goodwill,” said Juana. “She tried to play again, after your visit, but it was too hard for her. Too many memories, too many ghosts, she said.”

 I never saw Rosa again.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

TOTAL ECLIPSE OF THE MOON

                 8:00 AM.

That’s what the clock face read when I looked at it with sleep-drowned eyes.

I had awakened with a start in the pitch-black darkness of my cabin, not because of a noise, but because there was none. The engines had stopped. The ship was dead in the water.

I waited for an announcement on the ship’s PA. Nothing.

I sat at the edge of the bed trying to clear my head. The air-conditioner was still on. The lights still worked. Except for the fact that the ship had stopped moving, everything seemed normal. Still, I felt a rising sense of dread, a premonition that something was wrong. I stood up, opened the door and peeked outside. Two or three other heads poked out of their respective doors.

“What’s going on?” I asked one of the heads. “I don’t know,” the head nearest me replied.

“I heard something but it was on the speakers on the corridor. Couldn’t make it out,” said another head further down the corridor.

Just then the ship’s alarm went on, but it wasn’t the usual seven short and one long blast. It was three short and one long. A voice materialized from the overhead speakers and said: “ Code Oscar, Code Oscar. Man overboard. Man overboard. This is not a drill. Repeat, this is not a drill.”

I went back to my room and lay on bed.

Somebody had fallen overboard. Essentially this did not concern me, but all the same, I felt uneasy. Who fell, crew or passenger? Why and how?

Most of us on the M/V Glorianis had looked forward to this day for a reason. Tonight, a rare celestial phenomenon was about to occur. Predicted by astronomers years ago, tonight the western hemisphere would witness a total eclipse of the moon. Everybody would be out on deck to watch the full moon being obliterated by the shadow of the earth as it passed in front of the sun. It was a sight nobody wanted to miss. Anticipation hung heavily in the air in the days leading to this night. Now, with this accident, anticipation had given way to a sense of horror. Accident or not, no one wants to hear about anyone falling off any ship.

I bathed and dressed, ears cocked out for more announcements. Through the hull of the ship I could hear the sounds of motorboats starting and shuttling to and from points beyond and near the vessel. I decided to go up to the open deck to see what was going on. By this time, an hour had passed since the announcement. In that time, the ship  had  actually turned back to retrace it’s route. Tender boats were launched and a search had been made. Another hour passed, and then another. Finally the boats were called back in.

The captain’s voice came on the PA. It sounded sad and heavy.

“To all ship’s passengers and crew. As you know, at roughly 800 hours this morning, the bridge received notice that an individual had jumped off from the ship. We immediately stopped and turned the ship around and initiated a search and rescue for this individual. However, we failed to find any trace of him. So it is with great reluctance that I have decided to call off the search. We shall be continuing on to our next port of La Guaira, in Venezuela. For your information, the crewmember’s name was Salvatore. He was a cadet, 21 years of age from Genoa, in Italy. May God rest his soul.”

I stared at the Caribbean sea, so blue and so inviting in this halfway mark between Venezuela and Hispaniola. Brilliant sunlight played and sparkled on the water’s surface. Warm ocean breezes caressed the skin. The waves wore small frothy white caps that seemed to beckon and say: “Come on in, the water’s fine.”

All throughout the afternoon till sundown, the young cadet’s fate was on everybody’s lips.

“So sad, so sad.”

“And where was he from, again?” 

“From Genoa”.

“Is that in Switzerland”.

“No, Italy. The one in Switzerland is Geneva.” 

“Ah. Why do you think he jumped?”

“I don’t know.”

“ I heard somebody say that he was being escorted to the clinic. He escaped, took off his shoes and socks, piled them neatly on the floor, and dove from the front of the ship.”

 “Why was he being escorted to the clinic?”

“They said  he  had  been  acting  and  talking strangely since he left Genoa. They said he was hearing voices.”

“Maybe he was just being homesick.” “Suicide sounds extreme for me.”

“So sad.”

The whispered consolations and expressions of horror and regret faded into the gathering dusk.

The moon, large and yellow, rose up from the eastern edge of the sea. People gazed at it with expectant faces.

For my part, I dined at the officer’s mess on mushroom soup, steamed rice, beef bourgouignon, and wrapped it all up with a New York  cheesecake and coffee. Nobody spoke about the cadet. Afterwards  I went up to the pool deck. The hour when the moon would fade into black was at hand. All around me passengers and crew angled to get a good view of the moon. Many reclined on deck chairs, looking up at the night sky. There was no need to wear eye protection because there were no ultra-violet rays or solar flares to damage the retina.

At 9:00 PM, a dark shadow started to pass over the moon. A collective “Aaah” arose from the gathered crowd. After 20 minutes, the moon completely vanished from sight..  An  eerie,  penumbral  darkness  suddenly engulfed the ship and the ocean around it.

The people looked up at the dark spot in the sky where the moon used to be. They were silent, rapt in the magic of this disappearing act. Somewhere in China, or wherever they still believe that an eclipse is the result of a giant dragon swallowing up the moon or  the sun, bands of rural folks must be out banging pots and pans and setting off firecrackers to  force it to cough it out and restore the natural order of the universe.

As I continued looking up, waiting for the moon to re-appear, everything else that happened during that day became a distant, fading memory.

 

A Journey to Marabut

Ever since I became aware of it, back in my seminary days in Palo, Leyte, Samar island had always been an entity known to me only from other students who came from there. They were just as ordinary as they come, although the way they spoke Waray-waray varied a bit from the Leytenos . Where the Leyteno would say: "Ano man iton?" (What is that?), the Samareno would say: "Ano ma' it'?") In time, because Samar was a hotbed of Maoist rebels since Marcos times and still, to a lesser extent, today, I never went to Samar, except once, when we made a class visit to the town of Basey. At that time in the middle 60's, the only way you could get to Basey was via pumpboat. When the San Juanico Bridge was built by Marcos, it was possible to get to Basey via motor vehicle in less than an hour.

The Drowned Village of Lake Phoksumdo

      A Himalayan Legend Retold

           by  Manny Panta

In the Dolpo region of Nepal, where the bharal and the wolves coexist in uneasy harmony, there is a lake of such depth and deep blue turquoise hue as to be beyond belief. No manner of creature lives in this lake, so the lake is extremely pure. The name of the lake is Phoksumdo Tal. Geologists and men of science will tell you that this lake was originally a valley that had been inundated by the rising waters of a river that in turn had been dammed by a landslide. An earthquake caused this landslide, the scientists say. But to the local Buddhist people, this was not so. In the depths of this lake, they say, lies a village, submerged by the wrath of a demoness.

     In the ancient days, Guru Rimpoche, one of the most eminent disciples of the Lord Buddha himself, resolved to convert the people of the Tibetan highlands to the Way of the Enlightenment. In those days the people of Nepal adhered to the old shamanistic ways of the B’on. The shamans were demons and demonesses who resented guru Rimpoche’s efforts and made life difficult for him. But guru Rimpoche, aided by the grace and power of the Supreme Buddha, the Lotus-born, prevailed, and he sent the demons and demonesses fleeing from Dolpo.      A demoness escaping from the guru passed through a village. This village was nestled beside a river at the bottom of a deep valley. Tired and exhausted, she sought shelter in the chief’s hut. The chief, recognizing her to be a demoness, called a meeting of his fellow villagers. He did not feel it was up to him to be hospitable to such a being.

     When the villagers had assembled, the chief announced:

     “My fellow villagers! This demoness is seeking passage through our village and requests shelter for the night. Furthermore, she also asks us that we not reveal her passage to guru Rimpoche, the One True disciple of the Buddha, the Lotus-born. What say you?”

     The crowd murmured and argued among themselves.

     A scruffy man with his front teeth missing declared: “The time of the demons and demonesses of the old religion is over. I say, cast her out!”

     An older man, still adhering to the ways of the B’on, retorted: “No. We are a hospitable people, even to demonesses. I say, let her stay and rest.”

     The demoness, who was in actuality a shaman, one of the priestesses of the old religion, stood up and pleaded:

     “I will leave at early light tomorrow,” she said. “In exchange for your hospitality and your silence, I will leave you a gift.”

She took off her necklace. Dangling from the necklace was a most brilliant turquoise stone. She held it up so the people could see how beautiful and costly it was. She then placed it over the chief’s head.

     “A token, a gift for all of you good people of this village.”

The villagers gawked at the necklace. The turquoise hung against the breast of the chief. The chief, seduced by the beauty of the turquoise, was beaming with pride.  To the villagers’ eyes the necklace and the stone must have cost a fortune.

      “I say, let her rest with us tonight,” the chief declared. “Though I may wear this necklace, this jewel belongs to all of you!”

     “Once again I beg you: let there be no word of my passage,” cautioned the demoness.

     The villagers murmured their agreement.

     The demoness rested that night in the hut of the chief, and before dawn had broken she fled up the pass on her way to Tibet. Shortly thereafter, guru Rimpoche arrived and immediately realized that something was amiss. He went to the village chief and asked:

     “Has a demoness passed through here in the night? “

     “No,” lied the chief. “No one has passed through our village.”

     The guru stared at the necklace worn by the chief, for the chief had not taken it off in his pride and vanity.

     “Where did you get that necklace?” he asked.

     “From nobody,” said the chief. “It has been with our family for generations.”

     Guru Rimpoche stared at him.

     “You lie,” he said. “Call the villagers to an assembly. I have something important to tell them.”

     The village chief called the villagers to a gathering outside his hut.

     “Good people of this village,” Guru Rimpoche said. “I come bearing the truth about the Way of the Enlightenment of the Lord Buddha. He showed us the way to peace and happiness and must not refuse Him. The old ways are the ways of the demons and demonesses. You must not give them shelter, both in your homes and in your hearts. Their time on earth is over. So tell me, did a demoness pass by here last night?”

     “No!” cried the villagers as one. “No demoness passed by here!”

     “Then,” asked the guru, “what is this necklace that your chief is wearing? I have seen a demoness wear the same necklace before. Do you deny that it belonged to her?”

     “Yes, we do!” insisted the villagers.

     “Then by the powers of the Buddha, the Enlightened and Lotus-born,” declared guru Rimpoche, “behold your turquoise necklace. It is nothing but dung, for you have been tricked!”

The chief looked down at the necklace. Sure enough, the stone that had looked so blue and precious was now nothing but a piece of dried-up turd. He angrily took off the necklace and threw it down to the ground in disgust.

     “We have been tricked!” he cried.

     The guru raised his staff in triumph.

     One of the villagers picked up the necklace, raising it up for all to see. Before the eyes of the villagers, the blackened material that used to be a precious turquoise crumbled into dust.

     “We have been tricked!” cried the villagers.

     “Yes,” admitted the chief. “A demoness passed by here last night. She fled before dawn and went up the pass to the north. She said she was on her way to Tibet!”

     “Then I shall pursue her,” said the guru Rimpoche. “I must not allow her to continue propagating the ways of the old. Farewell my friends, and remember, the Way of the Buddha is the Way to Enlightenment. You must reject the ways of the old, for this is the only Way that leads to True Happiness.”

     Guru Rimpoche left in pursuit of the demoness. He caught up with her near Mustang and imprisoned her in one of the ancient caves that dotted the cliffs there. The demoness, embittered by the betrayal of the villagers of that deep valley in the Dolpo, uttered a curse:              “May your valley tremble and fall down on you, miserable and treacherous people of the village, and may the waters of your river rise till nothing is left to show that you existed, save for the color of the turquoise that I gave to you.”

     As soon as she uttered these words, a fearsome earthquake caused the cliffs surrounding the village to collapse. At one end of the pass through which the river drained, great boulders rained down, blocking the passage of the waters. The waters of the river, unable to drain away, rose to the very top of the cliffs, submerging the village and drowning its inhabitants.

     To this day, if you go to the Dolpo region in Nepal, you will still see this lake created by the curse of the demoness. They call it Phoksumdo Tal. Everyone who has seen it remarks on its brilliant turquoise color. No living thing exists in it. By local edict and custom, it is forbidden to swim in its waters.

_______________________

ZORAYDAH'S TALE OR:THE TREE OF DIAMONDS

ZORAYDAH'S TALE OR:

                THE TREE OF DIAMONDS

                  by Manny Panta

In the great bazaar of Chandni Chowk in Old Delhi, during the reign of Shah Jahan, the same who built that shrine  to immortal love, Taj Mahal, there dwelt a seller of gold, silver, diamonds and other precious stones. He was prosperous, his business was thriving, and, spoiled by his success, he had become    quite greedy and cynical. He bought his jewels and precious metals directly from mines and impoverished widows for a pittance and sold them for huge profits to  the public. He built for himself a sumptuous haveli near the Red Fort. Its walls and columns of its courtyard were adorned by colorful tiles and paintings of scenes from the Mahabharata. There was continuous feasting at his house. When the Shah paraded in his richly caparisoned horses and elephants through Chandni Chowk, he and his family stood in front of their shop dressed in their finest clothes and jewelry to pay homage to the ruler. Life for the dealer was good.

     One day, a man in ragged clothes came into his shop. The seller looked at him crossly, thinking he was a beggar and shooed him away.

     “Please sir,” said the man in the ragged clothes. “I have something to show you.”

Overcoming his disgust, the dealer relented.

     “What do you have to show me?” he asked brusquely.

     “This,” said the man. He took out a dirty piece of cloth and undid the knot that secured it. The dealer’s eyes nearly flew out of their sockets when he saw what the man showed him. Staring back at him was one of the largest raw diamonds he had seen in his life. True, it looked like dried milk sap the size of a pear, but to his jeweler’s eye he could see that it had the attributes of a diamond.

His hand trembling with excitement, he snatched the stone, examined it with his jeweler’s loupe and sighed. It was real. He estimated that it easily weighed one hundred carats polished. If he had it cut into several smaller diamonds, his profits would be even more massive. As far as he could tell, the diamond had no inclusions. If it turned out to be flawless, it would be worth a rajah’s ransom.

     “Well?” he asked. “I can see that you want to sell this to me. How much do you want for it?”

     “Ah, sir,” said the man, “I do not quite know.”

     “It is diamond, that I must tell you,” the dealer said. “However, it is low-grade. I will give you ten thousand rupees for it.”

     “Sir,” said the man, “I am sure it is worth more than that.”

     “All right then,” replied the dealer, “twenty thousand and not a rupee more.”

     The man thought for a while.

     “You need the money, my friend,” encouraged the dealer, trying to distract the man from thinking too much. “You cannot eat diamonds for lunch.”

     “I accept your offer sir because I must leave tonight,” said the man. The dealer gave him twenty thousand rupees, and the man left.

     The dealer had his most skilled craftsman polish the diamond. He sold it for one million rupees to the Shah in Agra.  The Shah, dazzled by the size and brilliance of the diamond, caused it to be placed as a centerpiece in his processional turban where it provoked great admiration and envy among all those who saw it.

     Wealthier than ever, the dealer wondered whether he was going to see the man who sold him the diamond ever again.  He needed not have wondered. One year to the day of the sale of the diamond, the same man went into the shop of the dealer. This time he was dressed more smartly.

     “Do you recognize me?” the man asked the dealer.

     “Yes, of course,” replied the dealer. “Do you have anything for me?”

     “Yes, I do,” said the man. This time he produced a plain silk purse from which he produced the same kind diamond that he showed a year before. The dealer was even more mesmerized by this stone. If it turned out to be as flawless as the previous one that he sold to the Shah, it would make him even richer than he was now.

     “How much do you want for this?” asked the dealer, practically salivating at the mouth.

     “One million rupees,” said the man. The dealer looked up in surprise at him.

     “But that is outrageous!” he protested.

     “If you do not want it at this price, sir,” said the man, who did not look as abject as he did before, “then I shall look for another buyer here in Chandni Chowk.”

     “Wait! Wait!” said the dealer. “Five hundred thousand rupees. That’s my final offer.”

     The man looked at him and demanded: “Eight Hundred Thousand and that is my final price.”

     The dealer hurriedly calculated that he could easily sell the diamond to a maharajah or even to the Shah himself for double the amount.

     “Agreed!” he said, and paid out the rupees, albeit reluctantly.

Once again the man disappeared. Once again he would appear every year, bearing the same kind of diamond, striking a bargain with him that grew even more painful, but which proved to be extremely lucrative. His flawless diamonds now reached the noble families not only of India but of Europe as well.

     On the fifth year that the man paid him a visit, the dealer could no longer contain his curiosity.

     “Where did you get this diamond, sir?” he asked. “You must tell me its provenance.”

     “Ah, I cannot tell that to you, my friend,” said the man, no longer addressing him with the honorific sahib.

     “If you do not tell me now,” said the dealer, “I shall have you arrested by the Shah’s men. You won’t be able to refuse the Shah as you now do me.”

     “And what will you say to the Shah?” the man asked.

     “I will say that you are a thief,” said the dealer.

     The man considered this, sighed and said: “Yes. I might as well tell you. This diamond and the other ones before it do not come from a mine. They are the fruit of a tree. The tree grows from solid rock. Its roots go deep into cracks in the rock and into the ground. Once a year, it blooms and yields a single fruit. This diamond is that fruit. Believe or don’t believe me but it is the truth, by Allah.”

     “That is impossible,” the dealer exclaimed, incredulous at this assertion. “Diamonds come from deep beneath the earth!”

     “Yet, in this case, it does not,” said the man.

     “I must see this tree for myself!” said the dealer.

     “Then you must wait a year before it bears fruit again,” said the man.

     “I want to see it now, even if it hasn’t borne fruit yet,” demanded the dealer.

     The man sighed.

     “Then prepare yourself for a long journey,” he warned him.

     The dealer prepared a caravan, and at the direction of the seller of the diamond, traced a route inland from Delhi to Udisha, past the tiger-infested swampland of West Bengal and into a land where even the pebbles of the streams where rubies. But they pressed on and after many a hardship, they arrived at a valley with a pleasant river running through it. In this valley rose a rock of great height. Atop this rock, a solitary tree stood like a sentinel. It was stout at the base and many-limbed at the crown. The tree was leafless.

     “Is that the tree?” the dealer cried, trembling with excitement.

     “That is it,” replied the man. “We must climb up to the summit of the rock to be near it.”

     Grown fat from too much indulgence in food and drink, the dealer could not carry his weight up the rock. He called his servants to hack a staircase from the rock and caused himself to be hauled up on a palanquin.

     In time, he finally stood at the base of the giant tree.

     “You are in luck,” said the man who led him there. “It has been a year since the tree had borne fruit. I can see that it has produced a single flower. If you wait just a little bit longer, that flower will become a diamond.”

     After a week this came to pass. Up on a branch high up the tree, a milky white substance materialized from where the flower used to be. It was a raw diamond.

The man climbed up the tree and plucked the fruit from the branch. He went down and offered the raw gem to the dealer.

     “Behold!” cried the man. “The Fruit of the Tree of Diamonds!"

     “How is this possible?” cried the dealer, as he held the rock in his hand.

     “The roots of the tree probe into every nook and cranny of this rock and, by my reckoning, finds the diamonds from inside the rock,” offered the man.

     “If what you say is true,” said the dealer, “then the tree itself does not produce the diamonds. The diamonds come from within the rock!”

     The man looked doubtfully at him and said, “Perhaps.”

     “Why wait for the tree to render a single fruit once a year?” asked the dealer. “Why not dig for the diamonds now?”

     Despite the remonstrations of the man, the dealer had his men cut down the tree and the rock blasted until nothing remained of it but a pile of rubble. He was convinced that the rock extended into the ground and a fortune of diamonds lay within its seams. He returned to Delhi and recruited more men to excavate the place where the tree used to grow. In time the whole scenic valley became a wasteland. In time, as he poured money over his venture, he lost his shop, his customers and his haveli, so convinced was he that he had found a new Golconda.

     In the end, his expense and effort came to nothing. Several years of excavation rendered not a single diamond. All that he and his workers found were pebbles and rocks.

On his deathbed, as he lay ill and impoverished in a hut within the shadow of the cliffs that surrounded the now despoiled valley, the man who had first sold him the diamond came to visit him.

     “Where?”  the dealer cried. “Where are my diamonds?”

     The man looked at him sadly and said contemptuously: “The diamonds were the sap of the tree, didn’t you see? It took nourishment from the rock from which it grew. It drew the elements that make up a diamond from the raw matter of the earth. The tree combined these elements in its body and produced the fruit. You did not believe me. Now the tree and rock are gone, and so are the diamonds.”

     The dealer stared at the man, gave a deep sigh of disappointment and died.

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