My First Beehive

I have vivid memories of my fourth-grade year. Those days, my father's work kept him away from home, and my family moved to my uncle's Wadi. For those unfamiliar, a Wadi is a small community located far outside the main village in farmland, where only a few people reside. The Wadi had a two-room school that only went up to fourth grade, and our class had only ten students. Aside from me, there was only one other boy in my class named Prakash, while the rest were girls. Prakash, became known as Pakya, while I was called Vikya, as it is common in Marathi to abbreviate names. Pakya and I quickly became best friends, and as it turned out, he was also my distant cousin.

Our family lived in the heart of the Wadi, surrounded by ten to fifteen other houses. Meanwhile, Pakya lived near our maternal uncle's farmland, which had five or six houses for their extended family. To reach this farmland from the Wadi, we had to cross two beautiful streams surrounded by lush green trees. While walking along those streams in the canopy of the trees, Pakya and I would make grandiose plans for all sorts of adventures until we finished the 10th standard. Unfortunately, our plans often failed, and we found ourselves in trouble with the folks in the Wadi, resulting in some well-deserved beatings. Poor Pakya always bore the brunt of the punishment, and he received more than his fair share of thrashings. Although I was always treated like a guest by other people and spared from punishment, my mother made sure I received my fair share of the whippings.

We created such a buzz in Wadi that people still remember the infamous legendary duo of Vikya-Pakya. This is no exaggeration. The first entry in our long list of misadventures was our first attempt to extract honey from a wild beehive. 

Pakya was obsessed with beehives since he was a kid. He was always in awe of his older cousins and their relatives who would bring home huge honeycombs from wild beehives. Until I reached fourth grade, I had only seen beehives from afar and had never even tasted honey. But thanks to Pakya, I was soon a beehive enthusiast like him. He shared all kinds of information with me, from how to extract honey, to where to find the honeycomb, and which bees to avoid. In Marathi, extracting honey from a wild beehive was literally called "flogging the beehive." And fueled by our excitement, we decided to try flogging a small beehive ourselves. 

One day, Pakya announced that he had discovered a small beehive. While I can't remember the exact date, I do recall the aftermath of the sorghum harvest - the fields in the Wadi were dotted with massive piles of dried fodder called Ganj, each measuring at least 15 feet in height and 20 feet in width. These towering yellow structures were scattered in the corners of every farm patch. 

Pakya had spotted the beehive on a small, barren plot of grassland located at the far end of my cousin-uncle's property. The hive was nestled on a small Tarwad bush and was incredibly minuscule in size, no larger than a grown man's palm, perhaps even smaller. In fact, it was so petite that an experienced person would have waited at least another month before attempting to flog it.

After school that day, Pakya and I raced to check out the small beehive, planning to raid it on Sunday morning. We thought we had the perfect plan. Pakya suggested using smoke to blind the bees, so he brought dried cow dung patties - the same fuel used for clay stoves called Chulhas. He even brought an old, half-torn bicycle tire just in case we needed more smoke. He also brought kerosene, a dirty rag to soak it with, and a box of matchsticks, which he had swiped from the Chulha in his house. Meanwhile, I thought I was being clever by bringing plastic bags my mother kept in the house. They were the kind that came with groceries like peanuts and pulses, and I planned to use them to protect our hands from bee stings. But Pakya was one step ahead - he had brought a big, old blanket to protect himself from the bees.

It would have been better if only the two of us had gone, but Pakya rounded up a whole gang of kids far younger than us from the neighborhood. However, it wasn't Pakya's fault; they would have followed us anyway since it was a Sunday. As we arrived at the Tarwad bush, I covered my hands with plastic bags, while Pakya shielded himself with a blanket. We positioned other children at a safe distance away from the bush and began to light the cow dung patties. It turned out we had no idea how to light them properly and ended up using too much kerosene sparingly. Finally, we gave up and opted for the tire instead. Pakya wrapped a rag soaked in kerosene around the mouth of the tire, lit it, and handed it to me.

The fire was burning brightly but there was little smoke. I entered the bush from one side and held the tire under the beehive from a safe distance. As the smoke began to rise, a few bees stirred and flew around, but the rest simply moved to the other side of the hive to avoid the smoke. Although I was frightened by the sight of the bees flying around, Pakya had already assured me that they were not stingers. And the plastic wrapped around my hands provided a sense of relief that at least my hands wouldn’t get stung. We were doing everything right, but the flames seemed to grow stronger than the smoke. Whenever the smoke shifted to the other side, the bees that had flown earlier returned to their places and resumed their positions. Nonetheless, my confidence skyrocketed as I realized that the bees were still not biting us. 

After a while, boredom set in, and Pakya came up with the ultimate solution. He suggested that we violently shake the branch to which the beehive was rested, and when the bees fly up, we should break off the entire branch and run for our lives. Apparently, this was the go-to method for experienced bee wranglers who seldom rely on smoke to get the job done. But the thought of attempting such a daring feat made me tremble with fear. I protested vehemently, warning Pakya about the potential danger of getting stung. However, he simply brushed off my concerns and took full responsibility for the plan. As for me, I stood at a safe distance, watching the scene unfold.

He wedged himself in a tight space in the bush and shook the branch of the beehive vigorously with one hand, causing most of the bees to fly away in a frenzy. Then he tried to break the branch, but it didn't work. Usually, the branches of the Tarwad bush were easy to snap, but this time it somehow proved to be difficult. Pakya became frustrated and asked for my help. He said he would cut the honeycomb instead of breaking the entire branch but there were still a few bees that kept returning to the hive. It was up to me to use the burning tire I still held in my hand to drive them away.

As I tried to chase the bees away, one of them managed to sneak into the plastic bag on my arm and stung me in a couple of spots. I let out a loud scream, dropped the bag, and ran away. I swore to myself that I would never attempt to disturb a beehive again. However, Pakya tried to console me by saying that since I had already been stung, I might as well have some honey and then take revenge by burning the hive. The possibility of revenge lifted my mood, and the pain from the sting had also lessened by then. The tire continued to burn brightly, fueling my determination. I removed the protective plastic bag from my other hand, returned to the bush, and began to drive up the bees vigorously. Another bee stung me on the other hand, but this time I gritted my teeth and endured the pain, seeking vengeance. Eventually, Pakya scraped the honeycomb off the branch.

The honeycomb turned out to be very small with only a tiny amount of honey. If I had known the ratio of the honeycomb size to the beehive, I would have stayed far away from it. Unfortunately, because of the children who were with us, we didn't even get enough honey to taste. But to our satisfaction, we burned the honeycomb completely.

As we set the honeycomb ablaze, the thick kerosene-soaked rag we used was consumed by the flames, causing the tire to catch fire. Burning embers of rubber rained down, igniting the dry grass below. We watched in awe as the flames spread in an intricate circular pattern, forming a ring of fire about one and a half feet in diameter. The flames licked at the edges of the circle, leaving behind a charred, black disc of grass in the center. Quickly Pakya threw the blanket on it and smothered the flames.

We were all mesmerized by the circular black disc engraved onto the yellow, dry grass on the barren patch. Pakya was so excited that he suggested we create another one. I started the fire on a different part of the grass, and we watched eagerly as the circle grew larger, reaching up to four or five feet wide. Pakya had to work harder this time to extinguish the fire. He quickly grabbed the blanket and expertly hit it a few times on the side of the circle to put out the flames. The resulting burnt grass display was even more stunning than the last one and Pakya suggested we should create an even larger one. 

I headed straight for the center of the barren patch and lit the fire. However, the grass started burning faster this time. This was because the wind had picked up fueling the fire. We were unaware that grass burns faster in the wind. Pakya sprang into action, attempting to extinguish the growing circle of fire. Unfortunately, the circle had grown too large, and when he extinguished it on one side, the flames would rekindle on the other, burning more fiercely than before. The wind whipped up the flames, and they grew into a frighteningly massive blaze. Moments ago, the gang of children who had been guiding us by pointing out the locations of fires suddenly turned and ran back the way we came, their enthusiasm replaced by fear. Overwhelmed by terror, Pakya and I also fled the scene. 

We sprinted towards the gang and threatened them to keep the fire incident a secret from their parents, warning of dire consequences otherwise. Pakya reassured me that people regularly burn the barren patch, so we need not worry as long as no one knows who set it ablaze. Feeling anxious, I decided to take a different route and went to the Wadi. I didn't return home until evening, hoping that no one would suspect my involvement in the incident.

It would have been better if only the barren patch had been burnt, but unfortunately, my cousin-uncle's fodder Ganj was located right next to it at the corner of the field, and the fire destroyed it as well. That fodder was worth five hundred rupees, a considerable sum for my uncle at those time. It wasn't until later that night I realized what had happened when my grandfather came home and told my mother about our adventure. As expected, the children who had witnessed our escapade had already spread exaggerated versions of the story, making us look even worse. While I don't remember being physically punished, Pakya received severe thrashing. However, my mother's disappointment was palpable as she sat with her hands on her head for a long time. The taunting from her continued for many days.

The next day, news of our fiery feat spread like wildfire throughout the Wadi. Everyone knew that the Vikya-Pakya duo burnt the fodder. Everywhere we went, people would tease us about it. But we continued with our misadventures, making sure that no one would ever forget about us. 

------------------------------ Vikram Khaire 20 March 2023 (Translated from the original Marathi story ‘Pahil Mavhal’ with the help of Google Translate and ChatGpt.)