Calls of Green-eyed Men
Their calls echo through the fresh morning air.
Birds roosting in the nearby tree take off at once.
I press my handbag close to me.
The voices are unfamiliar, and so are the two figures standing by the fruit stall.
As I near, three more men emerge from behind a truck and walk towards the fruit stall, each carrying a wooden crate.
I keep my head straight, but my eyes stray to the fruit stand. Just then, all five men turned towards me. My heart skips a beat, and my eyes instantly cut ahead.
“Madam, check these fruits from our orchards. Fresh and firm. No pesticides or chemicals. Born out of love and care,” one of the men chants.
“Peaches like you’ve never seen before,” proclaims the second.
“Mangoes that smell divine,” sings the third.
I manage a small, fake smile as I shake my head and quickly pass them by, picking up my pace.
......
As I cross the threshold, I am irritated by the whirring ceiling fan in the living room, which is empty.
I head to the study room, softly nudging the door open, which stands ajar.
My sister is in her usual spot, bent over the notepad on the desk, hurriedly scribbling something.
I wait, but she doesn't look up.
“Why is the fan on in the living room when no one is there?” I try to sound stern, though I suspect my voice holds any real weight.
Sama continues to scribble, completely ignoring me.
I finally let out the sigh I have been suppressing.
“I have told you plenty of times not to leave any lights or the fan on if you're not in the room.” This time my voice does carry my frustration.
“It won’t happen again,” Sama says, her writing hand coming to a stop as her back straightens.
She still doesn’t look at me, so I casually turn to a nearby shelf, running my hand over the bindings.
“Do you know that fruit stall near Alok's incense shop on the way to my school?” I ask, turning to her and leaning against the wall beside the shelf.
“Ah, huh?” Sama looks at me, her eyes as disinterested as her tone.
“Well, that fruit stall is gone. Another fruit stall has come up there.”
“Mmm.” Her gaze lowers to the floor, and I know the next instant they'll be back on her research paper. So I hurry.
“You know… I don't know myself… I mean…” Sama is looking at me now with pinched eyebrows. “Maybe it's nothing, but… I thought there was something off about those men.”
“What men?” I have got her entire attention now. I suddenly feel stupid about what I'm going to say.
“The men working at the fruit stall. They may be owners, workers, or brothers. I thought—maybe I imagined it—I'm not sure now.”
Sama lets out an audible sigh, her attentive expression changing to one of irritation.
“Their eyes looked identical. It was as if they were glowing—no, not glowing, but more like they all had these hazy greening-bluish eyes.”
“Maybe they were wearing color contact lenses.”
The idea was preposterous.
“Why would they do that?”
She stretches her upper body forward. “I don't know. When are you getting your scooty from service?”
I’m not happy with the change of subject. “In the evening.”
“Mmm. If you make coffee, make some for me,” Sama says, leaning over her research papers.
......
I find a spot next to a neem tree and park my scooty there. Digging out a kerchief from my purse, I wipe my face. I hate crowds, and since it was Sunday, the narrow street was thronging with people. I head straight to my destination.
Casting a wary look at a scraggly dog dozing off at the entryway, I notice the store is empty except for the owner.
He looks up from the newspaper, and an affable smile spreads across his face, dimpling his chin. Something flutters in my heart and stomach. He folds the newspaper and places it on the counter. I hand him the grocery list and watch as he becomes preoccupied with gathering the items.
He adds up the prices and carefully places each item into a cloth bag. Then he hands the bag to me.
“756,” he says.
I give him the money, wishing I could prolong this moment.
“How’s your father?” I ask.
“He’s getting better. I wish I could visit him more often, but I can’t afford to keep the store closed any longer. Ojas can’t handle the store in my absence because of our newborn.”
I turn my gaze to the street. Yes, his wife! I keep forgetting that she exists.
“I heard your sister has come to visit you,” he continues, drawing my attention back to him.
“Yes, she’ll be staying with me. She quit her job in Mysore and is pursuing her PhD.”
“Oh, I see.”
The dog barks, and we both look at the canine that has raised its head up and is staring at the street, where two teenage boys on bicycles appear to be squabbling.
I should probably leave. I return my gaze to the store owner, and we exchange a courteous nod and grin.
I navigate my way back to my parked scooty. I'm dying to get out of this chaotic street.
When I reach home, I'm surprised to find Sama on the veranda.
As I shut the gate, she asks, "What took you so long?"
I grab the grocery bag from the storage seat of the scooter. Does she need tea or something? Other than that, she shouldn't be missing me.
"Why?"
She rises from the top stair of the veranda. Why was she sitting on the steps instead of one of the chairs?
“Can't I ask? I mean, our neighborhood supermarket isn't that far, so I was wondering what took you that long?”
I walk right into the kitchen, and Sama follows me.
“I didn't go to the neighborhood store. I went to the main market.”
“Oh.”
I know she doesn't care, but I feel the need to explain.
“Actually, I have been going to this particular store for two years now, so—”
“Oh, okay,” her tone clearly suggested what I thought. She wasn't looking for an explanation.
“Did you buy any fruit? Bananas?” she says, gazing expectantly at the grocery bag.
Oh, no! I forgot about the fruit. The girl eats bananas like a monkey. Maybe my sister was a monkey in her previous life.
“I forgot.”
“Oh.” Sama moves to the corner. “Hey, there's that fruit stall on the way to your school, right? It’s not too far. We can go now.”
The memory of the men’s ethereal eyes flashes through my mind, along with their hungry smiles. There was something unsettling behind those smiles that I couldn’t put my finger on.
“Shall we?” she asks.
Can't this monkey not survive a day without bananas?
“Do you want tea?” I try to distract her.
“No. You know what? I'll go by myself,” she replies, walking out of the kitchen.
My heart picks up pace.
Their eyes!
“Wait! I'll come with you.”
......
The lake on the other side is still, reflecting the sun’s descent like a mirror. Birds chirp, and their calls fill the air. Some people are taking an evening stroll.
Customers are standing in the fruit stand, aglow with lights.
Two green-eyed men stand behind the fruit display. One man helps the customer choose fruits while the other, a towering fellow, weighs them and deals with the payment. The tall one has a horse face: long and narrow with lantern jaws and large teeth.
Glancing around, I see two others sitting on a nearby stool, while the fifth person calls for customers in a rhythmic, melodic tone.
The fifth one catches sight of us, and his face beams with a grin.
My heart does a somersault.
Sama moves towards the stall as if hypnotized. I can't blame her; the array of fruits on display is eye-catching.
Baskets brimming with apples, kiwi, oranges, pear, persimmon, pomegranate, peach, plum, cherries, jamun, dragon fruit, mangoes, Indian gooseberry, and litchi appear like a visual feast.
A lady next to me is checking peaches with dark, purplish-crimson skin and large sizes. I have never seen this type of peach before. One of the green-eyed men emerges from the outside and, without asking, slices a peach, offering half to the lady. I notice the flesh is crimson just below the skin, with yellow streaks throughout.
The lady takes the fruit and munches on it. The man’s gaze shifts to me, his lips curving into a slight smile. I quickly look away. I have never understood how people could sample unwashed fruit.
I look at Sama, who, like me, seems overwhelmed by the variety of fruits. She is so entranced that she fails to notice her favourite small bananas hanging from a wooden pole just beside her.
Sama inches closer to me and whispers, almost conspiratorially, “Some of these fruits are unseasonal. How is this even available now?”
Exactly my thought. Some of them are monsoon fruits and shouldn't be available for the next four months.
“I'll take a kg,” the lady next to me says, her mouth busy chewing and her eyes glued to the nearly finished piece of peach.
The man nods, selects some fruit, and walks away to hand it to the tall one. The smile on his face as he walked reminded me of a cat.
Suddenly, a thought strikes me. I look at the men and notice that only the tall man's eyes are green.
The one with the cat-like smile is watching me. His eyes look brown, similar to my own. A customer asks him the price of lychee, which distracts him, and I look away.
The fruit stall is packed with customers. I can’t help but wonder if these people are curious about how unseasonal fruits are even available now.
“Madam, do you need help selecting any fruit?” A voice comes from behind me, and I almost yelp.
I look over my shoulder. He was one of the two people sitting outside.
Why on Earth would I need anyone’s help in selecting fruits?
I manage to shake my head despite the loud pounding of my heart. My eyes then skittered over to my sister, who had not yet selected any fruits nor had seen the bananas, and looked around the stall, like a lost puppy.
“Look at these pears. They’re so juicy that one bite will leave you wanting more. And these jamuns, I bet you have never seen such plump jamuns before.”
Indeed, the dark purple fruits look plumper than normal.
“And check out these glossy red cherries; these sweet-and-tart kiwis to snack on; and this dragon fruit with its velvety, earthy pulp that you can add to your salad.”
In the basket, one of the dragon fruits had been cut open as a sample, its stark white flesh a contrast to the hot pink exterior.
As more and more people came in, the noise level around us went up.
“Madam, do you want to taste the plum? Or perhaps try the Alphonso mangoes?”
I wanted to ask him how the mangoes were even available now, but my mouth remained silent as my body tensed from other bodies passing behind, beside, and next to me. My breathing was becoming more rapid and shallow.
“Madam?”
I turn to face the man, his mouth pulled up in a lopsided grin, like some sly fox. I stare at his face for a beat; yes, he has a fox-like feature as well.
I look away in the direction of my sister, but two heads block my view of her.
“Madam?”
I feel dizzy. I manage to push past the other customers and, once outside, draw in deep breaths and watch more and more people enter the stall.
I finally catch sight of my sister, whose hand is gesturing at the small bananas on the wooden pole. I feel something crawling in the pit of my stomach. I rush inside, shoving past an elderly man, grab Sama’s arm, and drag her outside.
“Madam? Your bananas?”
I ignore the voice and Sama’s confused protest, but I don’t let go of her hand until we reach my parked scooty, a safe distance away from the stall.
“What was that about? Are you okay?” she asks.
“I don’t feel good.” It wasn’t really lying.
“What happened?”
“Let's go home. Let me lie down for a while, then I’ll go get some bananas for you.”
She opens her mouth, probably to suggest that if I can wait for a few minutes then she can rush in, buy the bananas, and return quickly. But I don’t give her the chance, as I squeeze my eyes as if I have a splitting headache.
…….
She is scolding a student, her face twisted in needless fury while pointing to the notebook on her desk. The female student seems close to tears, her shoulders rounded and eyes cast down.
Aarohi, the teacher, almost tosses the book aside while looking away. The chastised student gathers her notebook and scurries out of the staff room. I and other female teachers exchange a look. We say nothing, pretending to be preoccupied with our own work.
But aren’t we curious?
Aarohi called off her engagement to her longtime boyfriend. We don’t ask why, and no explanation is offered.
I circle grammatical and spelling errors in a student’s notebook with a red pen.
What did he see in Ojas to marry her? My mind chirps suddenly, surprising me.
Setting down the pen, I grab my water bottle. Were they childhood sweethearts, or were they strangers brought together by their parents?
I catch a whiff of something nutty and turn my head to the side, where a teacher is munching on something out of a steel container. She’s always eating something in the staff room. Perhaps to keep herself from worrying about her dyslexic child’s poor academic performance, which has not improved despite having the best tutor in town. While there are a few special needs institutions in India, they are mostly located in major cities such as Mumbai and Delhi.
“Isn’t it quite hot today?”
I look across to the source, the staff’s oldest teacher. Others mumble agreement. She had a sharp, v-shaped face, which could make her look intimidating and unapproachable, but she was, in fact, someone you could let your guard down with. She’s been having a hard time with her mercurial adult son, who recently declared that he has taken a vow not to participate in the traditional life of work, marriage, and parenthood. Although she seems to have accepted it stoically, as she did when he came out, her stiffness whenever she discusses it suggests otherwise.
Isn't a relationship a source of both joy and suffering?
“So many mistakes! How is that possible when I am dictating everything?” Aarohi comments, looking frustrated and incredulous.
We teachers glance at each other again before returning to our work.
I leave school around 3 p.m. and proceed to the main market. Honestly, I have everything at home, yet I’m here. I park my scooty in the usual spot near the neem tree and make my way to his store. My feet come to an abrupt stop a few meters from the store. He is not alone. Ojas, holding their baby in her arms, is sitting behind the counter where he normally sits. He’s gesturing around and towards the shelves, as if telling her where each item is. Is he leaving for someplace? Maybe to see his ailing father? I swivel around and head back to my scooty.
Even from a distance, I can see customers crowding around the fruit stall. What is the craze? I have never seen so many people line up when the previous fruit stall was here. Could it be due to the out-of-season fruits available to these guys?
Nearly a meter away, I notice my scooty slowing down, as if it’s taking a break. I silently swear. Why was it happening in spite of the servicing, and especially near this fruit stall? It has happened three times now, bordering on spookiness.
When my scooty comes to a halt, I scramble out of the seat and kick-start, glancing at the stall and praying that no green-eyed men notice me. At the fifth kick, the scooty decides it’s had enough of its break and springs back to life.
“Madam?”
A sound akin to a croaking frog escapes me.
The man has a cocky grin that I’m starting to hate.
I quickly stride onto the seat as if I’m in a rush.
“Madam, you left that day without purchasing the bananas. Today we have brought two additional mango varieties—Kesar and Mankurad. They’re fresh and organic, produced by the union of fertile earth and water.
Wow. Does he really think I’ll believe that mangoes can be sold at this time of the year without chemical interference?
I shake and say nothing. And his smile drops instantly.
“Why? Don't you like mangoes, madam?”
I never thought I'd despise the word “madam” as I do now.
A customer emerges from the fruit stand, both hands holding plastic bags bulging with fruits. His face is sallow, as if he's sick, but his eyes reveal a disquieting glimmer of manic enthusiasm.
My scooty rolls forward.
“The fruits of our orchard have the power to grant your deepest wishes, madam.” The green-eyed shout from behind, and I get a cold chill.
When I arrive home, the door is locked. I take the phone out of my purse, and there’s a text from Sama—I’mgoing to the library. Will be back in the evening.
That is where she goes three times a week.
I feel very tired for some reason. After freshening up, I eat some fruits I bought at the main market and take a nap.
When my eyes open again, my room sits in gloom. I sit up so quickly that I feel dizzy.
When it passes over me, I go to the spare bedroom, which I have temporarily given to Sama. The door is ajar. I poke my head through the gap and find the room empty.
“Sama?” I call, looking towards the bathroom.
No response. So I go to where I know I’ll find her, and there she is, both legs up on the chair, her head tilted sideways, supported by her hand, and her eyes closed.
I'm about to call her when my gaze falls to the plate on the desk. A single half-eaten peach with a dark purplish-crimson skin rests on it.
A wave of coldness stipples my skin.
“Sama.” My voice shakes as I stare at the fruit.
“Uh?”
I turn to face my sister, who looks at me groggily.
“Where did you purchase this?” I gesture at the plate. “From that fruit stall?”
Perhaps my face reflects my distress, as her brows furrow. “Yes, why? What's wrong?”
I look away. I am not sure what is wrong.
“I'm sorry, I ate all of it. I hadn’t planned to, but once I ate one I couldn't stop myself from eating it all,” Sama says. She then glances at the plate, her eyes widening slightly, and she picks up the half-finished one.
“No!”
Sama bit into the flesh, returning the pit to the plate.
“Why? It's only a peach. Are you alright?”
“When did you purchase it?”
Sama was looking at my face intently.
“While returning from the library.”
“I did not know you liked peaches.”
“I didn't, but I'm glad that I purchased them.”
I didn't know what to say.
“Actually, I went to the fruit stall for a reason, and I saw what you saw.”
She plants her feet down, one elbow on the desk.
“Their eyes. They were wearing their contact lenses today. Hazy green.”
I glance at the plate with a gnawing sense of dread and then back at her.
“Why did you go there?”
“I was curious since the other day, so I did some digging.”
I study my sister’s face, remembering how as a teen she had dreamed of being a private investigator.
“Have you heard of Manchand land? It’s an hour from here.”
“Yes, an arid land where nothing grows,” I reply.
“It was once a thriving farmland. Then something happened. Within a few months, the once fertile land became barren. The owners tried everything to revive the land but were unsuccessful. Not even weeds would grow there.”
I know the story. It was so perplexing that some agricultural experts and researchers from the neighbouring cities had studied the region to know the enigma. They tested the soil for nutrients, and all was good. Nobody could figure out why there would be no vegetation there.
“Some believed it was cursed,” Sama says as if reading my mind, then looks out the window.
“What has it got to do with the fruit stand?”
She returns her gaze to me.
“That land is now a flourishing orchard. Various fruits are grown there now. Do you know who owns them?” Sama raises her eyebrows.
I feel like a student who knows the answer but is hesitant to say it.
“The green-eyed men?”
She leans back with a satisfied smile.
“Manchand isn’t the only land that these men have brought. There are other lands whose story is similar to Manchand’s—land that was once rich turns wasteland, and then these guys come along, buy it, and transform it into an abundant orchard.”
“Where are they from?”
“Now that is a mystery that no one knows. Some say they’re from Himachal, while others say they’re from Rajasthan—
“How do you know all this? Is it on the internet?”
Instead of responding, Sama looks at the plate. I noticed her glancing at it throughout our talk.
“I think I’ll go buy more of that stuff. God! I never thought peaches could taste so good. And they’re so refreshing. I guess those guys are doing some magic on their orchard to produce such delicious fruits. You know, for the first time in a week, my mind felt so clear and sharp, and I was able to write more than I could in a week combined. My hand just seemed to move effortlessly. I haven’t been able to make much progress this past week. I was losing my focus quickly, but look how much I wrote an hour ago!” Sama taps on her laptop, illuminating the screen, which displays a document.
“The fruits of our orchard have the power to grant your deepest wishes, madam.”
Their words slash through my mind.
When she plans to head out, I complain about a searing headache, forcing her to stay and prepare dinner.
But how long can I keep her from buying fruits from the green-eyed men?
In the night I dream of green-eyed men, their faces morphing into animal-like features, holding my hand and gently leading me inside their stall, their fruits on display glowing with an otherworldly glow. And the men whisper, “The fruits of our orchard have the power to grant your deepest wishes, madam.”
I reach for a pear and bite into it, and the next thing I know, I’m standing next to him, and he is looking at me the way he looked at Ojas, with familiar love and affection.
…...
I speed up my scooty about a hundred meters away from the stall. I have been doing this for the last four days, and my vehicle has not disappointed me by abruptly stopping near the stall.
Customers spill out of the stand, their hands heavy with bags, their eyes wide with mad, frantic eagerness, and their faces pale, sickly, and sleep-deprived.
Sama has the same look.
I have stocked the refrigerator and the fruit basket on the dining table with all kinds of fruits from another stall, but Sama still visits this one while I’m at school. She says that other fruit sellers' peaches do not taste the same as green-eyed men’s peaches. The problem is they don’t taste the same anymore. In fact, she laments that the peaches she bought from the green-eyed men over the last three days tasted like a bulb of water in her mouth.
She is restless, hasn’t worked on her thesis, and is reminiscing about the luscious taste of the peaches she tried for the first time. Where has the taste gone?
She doesn’t seem to be sleeping either. I have been hearing noises at night.
My own sleep is stippled with recurring dreams, where I’m with him, holding hands, laughing, and taking walks along beautiful trails. He looks happy in my company, as if he’s at home. Then a disembodied voice crackles, “The fruits of our orchard have the power to grant your deepest wishes, madam.”
I wake up with a dull ache in my chest and a humming drone in my ears.
I have been dreading going to work, passing by the fruit stall, and getting noticed by any green-eyed men.
Right as my scooty passes the fruit stand, a green-eyed man with long jet-black hair waves both hands and beams at me.
“No fruit today, madam?” His voice reaches me from behind.
When I cross the threshold, Sama is pacing the living room, tapping a pen to the side of her head.
“My head is blank. I don’t know what is happening. I am not able to write anything. And… and when I went to buy fruits, they were kinda rude to me, and the fruits tasted so bland. What is happening?” She sounds and looks distraught.
“Why would you go to buy fruits when I have already bought enough for us?” My patience is thinning at this point. But Sama doesn’t seem to have registered my voice, her moist sleep-deprived eyes gazing out the door. “Why were they rude to you?”
She throws her hand in the air in frustration. “I don’t know! Not only me but they were rude to all the customers. They behaved as if we were beggars and not customers.”
How odd!
For the next two days the situation doesn’t improve. Sama paces the room, makes no progress in her thesis, barely eats any food, or longingly looks out of the window or door.
…...
Sama complains of a headache and goes to bed early.
I sneak out of the house just before the green-eyed men close their fruit stand.
The starless, moonless night has plunged the area into deep shadows.
Far to the right, the lake is still, tar black.
There are no customers around, and no lights illuminate their stall. Two shadowy figures are carrying crates towards a van nearby. The second in line pauses in mid-stride, his gaze directed at me.
“Madam!”
Three figures swarm out of the stall like ants following a trail of sweets.
“You’ve come at last,” one of them says, and the other two hastily scuttle inside.
The fruit stall burst out in a gentle luminosity.
“Isn’t this perfect timing, Madam? You came just before we closed,” says the one who has just returned from putting the crate in the van.
Maybe my jittery nerves are causing me to hallucinate, or maybe not, because their green eyes appear to pulsate like soft, dying embers.
The one with glossy jet black hair falling all over his shoulder emerges from within the stall and hops towards me. He reminds me of a raven I saw while visiting Himachal Pradesh.
He holds out a plate full of different fruits neatly cut and arranged in circles.
I must say, they look very tempting. Then a flash of Sama’s face with fevered eyes shoots through my mind.
I take a step back, and the raven-like one takes one step forward. I take another two quick steps to the side. His eyes narrow.
A thick, viscous silence falls.
“Why do you deny our fruits? You’ll never find such delicious fruits anywhere else,” the fox-like says, and when I shake my head, he snarls, teeth bared.
“Try it!” Hisses a slender green-eyed man with a slim face. “Try it now! You will not regret it. The soil that nourishes these fruits is unlike any other on Earth.”
Others murmur their agreement.
“The water we feed them is from holy streams.”
“Yes!”
“Our fruits are nurtured at the hands of the very divine.”
The plate is thrust at me once more, and I shake my head.
Their eyes glower.
“Don’t you want your deepest wish to come alive?” The cat-like purrs.
I do, but at what cost? Isn’t there a sacrifice to be made and something to lose?
“Think of your deepest desire, Madam. Think!” The tall, horse-faced urges.
Now the plate is pushed close to my face, and my hand instinctively swats it away.
A mix of mewl, yelp and hiss escapes the collective mouths.
Their jaws slacken, eyes wide and round as moonbeams.
The cat-like staggers backwards as though I have struck him.
“How? How could you do that?” He sputters, clutching both sides of his head, staring at the ground at fruit fragments scattered about.
Others look just as appalled.
Horse-face covers his face, shaking his head wildly.
“You! You can’t do that! You shouldn’t have done that! No one—NO ONE—has ever, EVER, rejected our fruits. But you! How could you?” Hisses one like a snake about to wallop me down.
The lightning inside the fruit stand flickers, and all eyes slowly turn to it. I bolt out of there, running fast and not daring to look back.
Once I get home, I make my way to Sama’s room. She doesn’t usually shut the door, so I slip in quietly and watch her sleep.
Through the crack, the bathroom light leaks, revealing her peaceful face. I see a curve on her lips, and I smile. I know that she’s having a pleasant dream for the first time in days.
******
