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"A Handful of Dates - by El Tayeb Salih"
http://exploringafrica.matrix.msu.edu/teachers/curriculum/m11/activity4.php
http://exploringafrica.matrix.msu.edu/teachers/curriculum/m11/activity4.php
Published Aug 10, 2007
I must have been very young at the time. While I don't remember exactly how old I was, I
do remember that when people saw me with my grandfather they would pat me on the
head and give my cheek a pinch - things they didn't do to my grandfather. The strange
thing was that I never used to go out with my father, rather it was my grandfather who
would take me with him wherever he went, except for the mornings, when I would go to
the mosque to learn the Koran. The mosque, the river, and the fields - these were the
landmarks in our life. While most of the children of my age grumbled at having to go to
the mosque to learn the Koran, I used to love it. The reason was, no doubt, that I was
quick at learning by heart and the Sheik always asked me to stand up and recite the
Chapter of the Merciful whenever we had visitors, who would pat me on my head and
cheek just as people did when they saw me with my grandfather.
Yes, I used to love the mosque, and I loved the river, too. Directly we finished our Koran
reading in the morning I would throw down my wooden slate and dart off, quick as a
genie, to my mother, hurriedly swallow down my breakfast, and run off for a plunge in the
river. When tired of swimming about, I would sit on the bank and gaze at the strip of
water that wound away eastwards, and hid behind a thick wood of acacia trees. I loved to
give rein to my imagination and picture myself a tribe of giants living behind that wood, a
people tall and thin with white beards and sharp noses, like my grandfather. Before my
grandfather ever replied to my many questions, he would rub the tip of his nose with his
forefinger; as for his beard, it was soft and luxuriant and as white as cotton wool - never
in my life have I seen anything of a purer whiteness or greater beauty. My grandfather
must also have been extremely tall, for I never saw anyone in the whole area address him
without having him look up at him, nor did I see him enter a house without having to bend
so low that I was put in mind of the way the river wound round behind the wood of acacia
trees. I loved him and would imagine myself, when I grew to be a man, tall and slender like
him, walking along with great strides.
I believe I was his favorite grandchild: no wonder, for my cousins were a stupid bunch and
I - so they say - was an intelligent child. I used to know when my grandfather wanted me
to laugh, when to be silent; also I would remember the times for his prayers and would
bring him his prayer rug and fill the ewer for his ablutions without his having to ask me.
When he had nothing else to do he enjoyed listening to me reciting to him from the Koran
in a lilting voice, and I could tell from his face that he was moved.
One day I asked him about our neighbor Masood. I said to my grandfather: I fancy you
don't like our neighbor Masood?
To which he answered, having rubbed the tip of his nose: He's an indolent man and I don't
like such people.
I said to him: What's an indolent man?
My grandfather lowered his head for a moment; then, looking across the wide expanse of
field, he said: Do you see it stretching out from the edge of the desert up to the Nile
bank? A hundred feddans. Do you see all those date palms? And those trees - sant,
acacia, and sayal? All this fell into Masood's lap, was inherited by him from his father.
Taking advantage of the silence that had descended on my grandfather, I turned my gaze
from him to the vast area defined by words. I don't care, I told myself, who owns those
date palms, those trees or this black, cracked earth - all I know is that it's the arena for
my dreams and my playground.
My grandfather then continued: Yes, my boy, forty years ago all this belonged to Masood,
-two-thirds of it is now mine.
This was news for me, for I had imagined that the land had belonged to my grandfather
ever since God's Creation.
I didn't own a single feddan when I first set foot in this village. Masood was then the
owner of all these riches. The position had changed now, though, and I think that before
Allah calls me to Him I shall have bought the remaining third as well."
I do not know why it was I felt fear at my grandfather's words - and pity for our neighbor
Masood. How I wished my grandfather wouldn't do what he'd said! I remembered
Masood's singing, his beautiful voice and powerful laugh that resembled the gurgling of
water. My grandfather never laughed.
I asked my grandfather why Masood had sold his land.
Women, and from the way my grandfather pronounced the word I felt that women was
something terrible. Masood, my boy, was a much-married man. Each time he married he
sold me a feddan or two. I made the quick calculation that Masood must have married
some ninety women. Then I remembered his three wives, his shabby appearance, his lame
donkey and its dilapidated saddle, his galabia with the torn sleeves. I had all but rid my
mind of the thoughts that jostled in it when I saw the man approaching us, and my
grandfather and I exchanged glances.
We'll be harvesting the dates today, said Masood. Don't you want to be there?
I felt, though, that he did not really want my grandfather to attend. My grandfather,
however, jumped to his feet and I saw that his eyes sparkled momentarily with an intense
brightness. He pulled me by the hand and we went off to the harvesting of Masood's
dates.
Someone brought my grandfather a stool covered with an oxhide, while I remained
standing. There was a vast number of people there, but though I knew them all, I found
myself for some reason watching Masood: aloof from that great gathering of people he
stood as though it were no concern of his, despite the fact that the date palms to be
harvested were his own. Sometimes his attention would be caught by the sound of a huge
clump of dates crashing down from on high. Once he shouted up at the boy perched on
the very summit of the date palm who had begun hacking at a clump with his long, sharp
sickle: Be careful you don't cut the heart of the palm.
No one paid any attention to what he said and the boy seated at the very summit of the
date palm continued, quickly and energetically, to work away at the branch with his sickle
till the clump of dates began to drop like something descending from the heavens.
I, however, had begun to think about Masood's phrase, the heart of the palm. I pictured
the palm tree as something with feeling, something possessed of a heart that throbbed. I
remembered Masood's remark to me when he had once seen me playing with the branch
of a young palm tree: Palm trees, my boy, like humans, experience joy and suffering. And
I had felt an inward and unreasoned embarrassment.
When I again looked at the expanse of ground stretching before me I saw my young
companions swarming like ants around the trunks of the palm trees, gathering up dates
and eating most of them. The dates were collected into high mounds. I saw people coming
along and weighing them into measuring bins and pouring them into sacks, of which I
counted thirty. The crowd of people broke up, except for Hussein the merchant, Mousa
the owner of the field next to ours on the east, and two men I'd never seen before.
I heard a low whistling sound and saw that my grandfather had fallen asleep. Then I
noticed that Masood had not changed his stance, except that he had placed a stalk in his
mouth and was munching at it like someone sated with food who doesn't know what to do
with the mouthful he still has.
Suddenly my grandfather woke up, jumped to his feet, and walked toward the sacks of
dates. He was followed by Hussein the merchant, Mousa the owner of the field next to
ours and two strangers. I glanced at Masood and saw that he was making his way toward
us with extreme slowness, like a man who wants to retreat but whose feet insist on going
forward. They formed a circle around the sacks of dates and began examining them, some
taking a date or two to eat. My grandfather gave me a fistful, which I began munching. I
saw Masood filling the palms of both hands with dates and bringing them up close to his
nose, then returning them.
Then I saw them dividing up the sacks between them. Hussein the merchant took ten;
each of the strangers took five. Mousa the owner of the field next to ours on the on the
eastern side took five, and my grandfather took five. Understanding nothing, I looked at
Masood and saw that his eyes were darting to left and right like two mice that have lost
their way home.
You're still fifty pounds in debt to me, said my grandfather to Masood. We'll talk about it
later.
Hussein called his assistants and they brought along the donkeys, the two strangers
produced camels, and the sacks of dates were loaded onto them. One of the donkeys let
out a braying which set the camels frothing at the mouth and complaining noisily. I felt
myself drawing close to Masood, felt my hand stretch out toward him as though I wanted
to touch the hem of his garment. I heard him make a noise in his throat like the rasping of
a sheep being slaughtered. For some unknown reason, I experienced a sharp sensation of
pain in my chest.
I ran off into the distance. Hearing my grandfather call after me, I hesitated a little, then
continued on my way. I felt at that moment that I hated him. Quickening my pace, it was
as though I carried within me a secret I wanted to rid myself of. I reached the riverbank
near the bend it made behind the wood of acacia trees. Then, without knowing why, I put
my finger into my throat and spewed up the dates I'd eaten.
I must have been very young at the time. While I don't remember exactly how old I was, I
do remember that when people saw me with my grandfather they would pat me on the
head and give my cheek a pinch - things they didn't do to my grandfather. The strange
thing was that I never used to go out with my father, rather it was my grandfather who
would take me with him wherever he went, except for the mornings, when I would go to
the mosque to learn the Koran. The mosque, the river, and the fields - these were the
landmarks in our life. While most of the children of my age grumbled at having to go to
the mosque to learn the Koran, I used to love it. The reason was, no doubt, that I was
quick at learning by heart and the Sheik always asked me to stand up and recite the
Chapter of the Merciful whenever we had visitors, who would pat me on my head and
cheek just as people did when they saw me with my grandfather.
Yes, I used to love the mosque, and I loved the river, too. Directly we finished our Koran
reading in the morning I would throw down my wooden slate and dart off, quick as a
genie, to my mother, hurriedly swallow down my breakfast, and run off for a plunge in the
river. When tired of swimming about, I would sit on the bank and gaze at the strip of
water that wound away eastwards, and hid behind a thick wood of acacia trees. I loved to
give rein to my imagination and picture myself a tribe of giants living behind that wood, a
people tall and thin with white beards and sharp noses, like my grandfather. Before my
grandfather ever replied to my many questions, he would rub the tip of his nose with his
forefinger; as for his beard, it was soft and luxuriant and as white as cotton wool - never
in my life have I seen anything of a purer whiteness or greater beauty. My grandfather
must also have been extremely tall, for I never saw anyone in the whole area address him
without having him look up at him, nor did I see him enter a house without having to bend
so low that I was put in mind of the way the river wound round behind the wood of acacia
trees. I loved him and would imagine myself, when I grew to be a man, tall and slender like
him, walking along with great strides.
I believe I was his favorite grandchild: no wonder, for my cousins were a stupid bunch and
I - so they say - was an intelligent child. I used to know when my grandfather wanted me
to laugh, when to be silent; also I would remember the times for his prayers and would
bring him his prayer rug and fill the ewer for his ablutions without his having to ask me.
When he had nothing else to do he enjoyed listening to me reciting to him from the Koran
in a lilting voice, and I could tell from his face that he was moved.
One day I asked him about our neighbor Masood. I said to my grandfather: I fancy you
don't like our neighbor Masood?
To which he answered, having rubbed the tip of his nose: He's an indolent man and I don't
like such people.
I said to him: What's an indolent man?
My grandfather lowered his head for a moment; then, looking across the wide expanse of
field, he said: Do you see it stretching out from the edge of the desert up to the Nile
bank? A hundred feddans. Do you see all those date palms? And those trees - sant,
acacia, and sayal? All this fell into Masood's lap, was inherited by him from his father.
Taking advantage of the silence that had descended on my grandfather, I turned my gaze
from him to the vast area defined by words. I don't care, I told myself, who owns those
date palms, those trees or this black, cracked earth - all I know is that it's the arena for
my dreams and my playground.
My grandfather then continued: Yes, my boy, forty years ago all this belonged to Masood,
-two-thirds of it is now mine.
This was news for me, for I had imagined that the land had belonged to my grandfather
ever since God's Creation.
I didn't own a single feddan when I first set foot in this village. Masood was then the
owner of all these riches. The position had changed now, though, and I think that before
Allah calls me to Him I shall have bought the remaining third as well."
I do not know why it was I felt fear at my grandfather's words - and pity for our neighbor
Masood. How I wished my grandfather wouldn't do what he'd said! I remembered
Masood's singing, his beautiful voice and powerful laugh that resembled the gurgling of
water. My grandfather never laughed.
I asked my grandfather why Masood had sold his land.
Women, and from the way my grandfather pronounced the word I felt that women was
something terrible. Masood, my boy, was a much-married man. Each time he married he
sold me a feddan or two. I made the quick calculation that Masood must have married
some ninety women. Then I remembered his three wives, his shabby appearance, his lame
donkey and its dilapidated saddle, his galabia with the torn sleeves. I had all but rid my
mind of the thoughts that jostled in it when I saw the man approaching us, and my
grandfather and I exchanged glances.
We'll be harvesting the dates today, said Masood. Don't you want to be there?
I felt, though, that he did not really want my grandfather to attend. My grandfather,
however, jumped to his feet and I saw that his eyes sparkled momentarily with an intense
brightness. He pulled me by the hand and we went off to the harvesting of Masood's
dates.
Someone brought my grandfather a stool covered with an oxhide, while I remained
standing. There was a vast number of people there, but though I knew them all, I found
myself for some reason watching Masood: aloof from that great gathering of people he
stood as though it were no concern of his, despite the fact that the date palms to be
harvested were his own. Sometimes his attention would be caught by the sound of a huge
clump of dates crashing down from on high. Once he shouted up at the boy perched on
the very summit of the date palm who had begun hacking at a clump with his long, sharp
sickle: Be careful you don't cut the heart of the palm.
No one paid any attention to what he said and the boy seated at the very summit of the
date palm continued, quickly and energetically, to work away at the branch with his sickle
till the clump of dates began to drop like something descending from the heavens.
I, however, had begun to think about Masood's phrase, the heart of the palm. I pictured
the palm tree as something with feeling, something possessed of a heart that throbbed. I
remembered Masood's remark to me when he had once seen me playing with the branch
of a young palm tree: Palm trees, my boy, like humans, experience joy and suffering. And
I had felt an inward and unreasoned embarrassment.
When I again looked at the expanse of ground stretching before me I saw my young
companions swarming like ants around the trunks of the palm trees, gathering up dates
and eating most of them. The dates were collected into high mounds. I saw people coming
along and weighing them into measuring bins and pouring them into sacks, of which I
counted thirty. The crowd of people broke up, except for Hussein the merchant, Mousa
the owner of the field next to ours on the east, and two men I'd never seen before.
I heard a low whistling sound and saw that my grandfather had fallen asleep. Then I
noticed that Masood had not changed his stance, except that he had placed a stalk in his
mouth and was munching at it like someone sated with food who doesn't know what to do
with the mouthful he still has.
Suddenly my grandfather woke up, jumped to his feet, and walked toward the sacks of
dates. He was followed by Hussein the merchant, Mousa the owner of the field next to
ours and two strangers. I glanced at Masood and saw that he was making his way toward
us with extreme slowness, like a man who wants to retreat but whose feet insist on going
forward. They formed a circle around the sacks of dates and began examining them, some
taking a date or two to eat. My grandfather gave me a fistful, which I began munching. I
saw Masood filling the palms of both hands with dates and bringing them up close to his
nose, then returning them.
Then I saw them dividing up the sacks between them. Hussein the merchant took ten;
each of the strangers took five. Mousa the owner of the field next to ours on the on the
eastern side took five, and my grandfather took five. Understanding nothing, I looked at
Masood and saw that his eyes were darting to left and right like two mice that have lost
their way home.
You're still fifty pounds in debt to me, said my grandfather to Masood. We'll talk about it
later.
Hussein called his assistants and they brought along the donkeys, the two strangers
produced camels, and the sacks of dates were loaded onto them. One of the donkeys let
out a braying which set the camels frothing at the mouth and complaining noisily. I felt
myself drawing close to Masood, felt my hand stretch out toward him as though I wanted
to touch the hem of his garment. I heard him make a noise in his throat like the rasping of
a sheep being slaughtered. For some unknown reason, I experienced a sharp sensation of
pain in my chest.
I ran off into the distance. Hearing my grandfather call after me, I hesitated a little, then
continued on my way. I felt at that moment that I hated him. Quickening my pace, it was
as though I carried within me a secret I wanted to rid myself of. I reached the riverbank
near the bend it made behind the wood of acacia trees. Then, without knowing why, I put
my finger into my throat and spewed up the dates I'd eaten.
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