LIL BAHADUR KSHATRI
MIRAGE
(A
selection of ten short stories)
Translated
from original Nepali
by
DINESH POUDEL
[Translator's Note: Lil
Bahadur Kshatri's is not a new pen to the readers of Nepali literature His
short novel 'Basain' has placed him among select few Nepali novelists. His
short stories superbly picture many different aspects of everyday life of the
ordinary Nepalese. They are rich with distinct hues, musicality, regional
flavours and perfumes of Nepali language. –Dinesh Poudel]
Content
1. Mirage
2. Permanent Abode
3. Revenge
4. My
One Day
5. Ten
Years' Penance
6. One
of Them Must be True
7. Through
Those Ten Stations
8. Purana
and Pursuits
9. The
Face is Not Shrouded
10.
Gold Cage
1.
MIRAGE
He was out on the beach again, watching the waves.
They swelled and kept sweeping themselves, and enveloped the beach with the
same frequency and vigour every time. The surging waves went wildly to the
shore and returned calm and subdued to disappear back into the sea. Each wave
had its own ferocious roar. It was as though each roaring wave had an army of
other waves behind it and went to the shore in a mood to attack. It surrounded
a dry patch of sand and celebrated its victory with much merrymaking and dance.
But in no time the joy disappeared and the bliss proved to be transitory. The
tidal anger abated and it returned to its own recess. They left a long sigh of
despair in the air.
Life is a voyage amidst victories and defeats, he thought.
Both joys and sorrows follow your footprints. The passing joys have to support
you through lasting agonies and sorrows. So, man endures an endless pain for a
mere transitory joy. And one fails to know how much he has to endure, hoping
for something hopelessly.
He used his philosophical reflections to suppress
something that had nagged him for a year.
He had no strength to stay there any longer. A vague
fear developed somewhere in his heart. The sounds of joys and sorrows that
emanated from the noise of the sea waves frightened him. He rose, and slowly walked
along the sandy beach towards his hotel.
He saw two people sitting on a sea-beach bench. He advanced
towards them. The man was oldish: much of his hair was grey; and the white
beard growing on his hollow cheeks seemed unshaven for over a week. He was in white
kamej[1]
and suruwal[2].
And the woman was a beauty. He guessed she was twenty-four or twenty-five. She'd
fashionably attired in a modern costly silk sari and blouse.
He couldn't help proceeding towards them: the
dazzling beauty of the young woman made him go and have at least a good view of
her. When he reached close enough, he picked through the bits of their
conversation that they were his own tribe. They were father and daughter.
He was astonished to hear voices ring in Nepali
tongue at this far end of the land, in the territory of India so very far from
his home. Obviously, he was enchanted more by the beauty of the young woman
than by the lure of his native tongue. Bewitched, he stood in front of them.
The father and daughter were surprised. He broke silence
in Nepali, 'From your conversation I have learnt you are my folk. Where are you
from?'
Their faces illuminated. The old man got carried
away to find a compatriot at this distant land; he asked back in Nepali, 'Oh! So
you too are a Nepalese?'
He nodded in an affirmative response. And then the
old man spoke to answer his question, 'Well, what can we say where we are from!
Nepal, Kathmandu is our home. This is my daughter. She got married last year.
Her husband works in Arunanchal, up beyond Assam. I'd been to see her. From
there, we both have come here to have the Jagannath darshan.'
'Only two of you? Not her husband?' He asked. His
question cast a dark and melancholy cloud over their faces. After a long sigh,
the man spoke, 'That very matter is eating us alive, baboo[3].
We came here because of his insistence. And we had to leave him on the way, and
for ever. '
'For ever? What do you mean?'
The old man opened up with his long tale of woe in
response to his curiosity, 'Baboo! Luck prevails. How helpless we are in front
of it! How happily we'd started from that faraway Arunanchal hill! We had
planned a few days' pleasure trip. Swami Jagannath darshan[4]
had enticed me; and my daughter and her husband were both tempted by pleasure
of the sea-beach stroll and beauty of the boundless seas. I'd never ever
imagined that my daughter's life-boat would wash away on this travel. How could
I imagine she would be a widow this early?'
The man remained calm. This increased his curiosity,
but the old man remained glum for a long time. He broke awkward silence, 'But
you didn't clearly say how this fate fell on you.'
The old man spoke somewhat absentmindedly, 'You must
have learned through papers of the train mishap at the bridge bomb-blast across
a river in Assam. We were in the very unfortunate train. We father and daughter
have remained unharmed but her man is snatched from us.'
'But how come? Weren't you together in the same
carriage?' He looked at her: she was motionless as a picture; and only God knew
what words could describe her beauty.
'It's exactly how the fate prevails! Whatever has to
take place will happen! Well, we were in the same compartment. One of his close
friends was in the carriage three wagons behind us. He said he felt like going
to the friend's carriage and have a short chat with him. He added he'd come
back to us at the next station. So, he got off the carriage, and we saw he
entered his friend's one. In a short while there happened the accident. When
our carriage and the one behind us had just crossed the bridge it collapsed
with the blast. Many carriages sank in the river. The ones yet not arrived at
the bridge fell off the railway and overturned. Countless people were crushed
to death, countless more drowned in the river. Many others were injured and
were taken to hospitals. We searched for him for two days. We made a thorough
search everywhere around the spot. When we couldn't trace him, we came to
conclusion that he was drowned and washed away down the swift river.
'We were at our wit's end. We weren't in a condition
to return home immediately. We were bound and determined to this destination;
we dragged ourselves down here hoping to lessen the terrible shock of the
accident. It's already ten days we've arrived, but we haven't yet been able to
think of our return.
Though outwardly he expressed a deep sympathy
towards them, he didn't know why he felt a tinge of an undefined hope inside.
After some time, the three started for their hotels. He left them at theirs and
then he went to his own, assuring them to see the other day.
He had been brooding over the same issue all the
time before, but now he had found a new subject to ponder. The issue that
occupied him for so many days had been replaced by the thought of the daughter
and father's difficulties. The picture of the bewitchingly beautiful face of
the young woman who had been labeled a widow struck him all the time.
The other day, he reached their hotel fairly early.
The old man invited him inside, 'Please, baboo, do come in.'
He said, 'Let's go and stroll on the sea-beach,
shall we?'
'Well, baboo, I don't feel well. I'm not strong enough
to walk at this moment. I ask chhori[5] to
go around with you to the beach and have a little fresh air,' he replied.
'No baba[6],
forget that. How can I leave you all alone here and go out myself?' The
daughter hesitated.
'Why? Which wild animal can devour me here? Please
go with the baboo and enjoy a stroll along the beach for a while. She shouldn't
mope in the hotel the whole day, should she, baboo?'
'You're right, hajur[7].
We have come all the way to visit this place. Why stay in the hotel and
squander the precious time? Let's walk. Evening stroll at the shore cools the
body, soothes the heart and refreshes the mind.'
She accepted his point as if she'd been waiting for
this coaxing. With his melancholy and wishful eyes, the old man gazed at them
go out and disappear slowly into the vast expanse.
Now the father and daughter had different walking
schedules. The father got up early in the morning, after finishing personal
cleanliness and bath he went out to perform parikrama[8]
around the temple of Jagannath. Sometimes, he reached the sea-shore for a
stroll. He disliked evening walk. He asked his daughter to go out with him in
the evening. The daughter didn't want to miss the opportunity to have the
pleasure of evening walk at the beach with the young man. He, too, was
delighted to have her company. Occasionally, the old man gave company to them
in the evening, but soon he felt tired and returned to the hotel. Time was
driving them into a routine, the sores in the hearts were gradually healing and
a new flash of desire had appeared.
He had discovered her name: Jharna[9].
Jharna had studied up to B.A. But the marriage proposal that came all of a
sudden deprived her of the final exam.
One evening, when they were watching the continual
waves of the waters he asked her, 'Jharna! I can understand how painful the
separation from one's man can be, however, we humans have no option but to
suffer however severe the wounds are. What are you thinking of your future?'
Taking advantage of his senior age and growing intimacy he addressed her using
the pronoun 'timi'[10].
Jharna maintained her composure and said, 'Well,
it's quite natural to be in a state of shock when one's husband is missing
immediately after marriage, but I must confess I have regained my own existence
with this misfortune. He was my guardian and protector- not a friend for life.
My husband was the sea. He was exactly like this sea; where I, a mountain
spring, didn't have any existence. Waters and waters everywhere but not a single
fresh drop to quench one's thirst.'
Jharna stopped with this. He tried to persuade her
go on; he'd failed to find all the meaning in her words.
After a short pause, Jharna resumed, 'Please listen,
my story is this: I was a college student. I had started school late and thus I
was already twenty-three or twenty-four. Nepalese parents fret and worry if
they fail to marry their daughters by this age. Girls' looks and characters are
not sufficient to get a desirable partner; especially in the modern and civilized
urban life. Display of material riches come in the way. Dowry is not a Nepalese
tradition, but a modern and civilized man has an eye for it. After graduation, young
men look for a high connection for employment; they look for family connection
to a secure and lucrative job.
'Father is from an unremarkable background. He is a
lower-middle class pensioner. He has neither any connections nor prosperity. He
didn't try to lure a rich man for me; he'd wanted a well educated person: a
college teacher or an engineer; that was all. But he didn’t have powers to
snare such men.
'One day, a man approached Father and talked about a
man. He said the prospective man was a rich engineer working in Arunanchal, a
state in the far north-eastern India. He had nobody in the family. He didn't
feel it necessary to see the girl once this man recommended. He wanted a simple
wedding at some temple, and he wanted 'yes' or 'no' immediately.
'Father was impressed by his employment as an
engineer and his wealth. He accepted the proposal.
'I saw my husband first only at the wedding ceremony
in a Devi temple. He was a forty-nine or fifty year old widower. This was his
second marriage. He had a daughter from his first wife. She was already
married. His wife had died two years before.
'I found him more a guardian and provider than a
partner for life. I have got from him every protection I need. He had a
profound love for me, but with more hue of parental care than a husband's love.
I could never see him in his eyes, and my personality was submerged into his. I
was choking. I was suffocating.'
Jharna stopped again. Now it was his turn to speak.
He said, 'What a surprise! My life is so much similar to yours! Can you guess
why I've come all alone this far just to see the seas from my home at
Kalimpong? I've lost my wife in this sea. It's been a year.'
'Lost your wife? But how?'
'My misfortune is somewhat similar to yours. We'd
come to enjoy the sea to satisfy my wife's repeated demand. We saw the
mesmerizing views of the endless sea together. Manu insisted on swimming in the
sea as the others here. I had little choice and followed her as if I was a
robot man. I had never been able to stand against her wishes. My one hand was
at the boatman's clutch and the other was at Manu's grip. We were going further
ahead towards the deeper sea against the smaller waves. When we were a bit
further, a strong wave tore into us. The boatman held me firmly and made me
duck down, but Manu was terrified and let go of my hand. The waves pushed her
deeper into the sea, well before I could catch her again. The boatman searched,
other boatmen arrived and made every effort to rescue her. People shouted and
clamoured. The boatmen assured us the next wave would push her back to us. But
nothing happened. Many strong and weak waves came and went back; but neither
Manu nor her dead body was found. She disappeared into this vast sea for ever.'
'Oh! What a nasty accident! Please forgive me; I
never knew your tragic story before. I was pouring only mine.' Jharna expressed
her condolence.
'It's natural that one feels wretched when he loses
his wife he is tied to in a nuptial knot. It may be awkward to admit but I find
separation from Manu a kind of liberation. I can feel my existence now.'
'Why? Didn't you love your wife?'
'Once you are in wedlock, you don't need to love
deliberately; love germinates and grows by itself. I loved her; that was quite
obvious; that was quite natural and understandable. But there are many factors
that decide the ultimate love in a couple. Their natures need to be
complementary to one another; their opinions need to meet at some point. My
story parallels yours; we've got only to change the genders. I didn't use to
see Manu as my wife; she was a dictator. Though wife, she was not dutiful to
me; she compelled me for dedication instead. I was terrified of her obstinacy,
cynicism, suspicion, and harsh remarks. My personality was subdued under her
domineering manners and eccentric behaviour. Now I find myself a free man; and
I feel I have retrieved myself from some quagmire. Even so, I feel an undefined
emptiness, a kind of loneliness and some inexplicable sadness somewhere inside.
To relive through those past moments I planned to spend this vacation here at
this sea-shore and thus I'm here.' Now he paused to hear her response.
They spent a long time together in the lonely shore and
returned late. He left her in her hotel and he advanced slowly towards his own.
He couldn't sleep for quite some time. A voice was
ringing in his heart, as if it was a dream; as if somebody was calling from a
distance, saying, 'Chetan! Whatever you've told Jharna, you have told the
truth, but you have not disclosed the core. You cannot reveal that. Your talk
is an empty prattle. Manu did leave your hand; but not only had the
circumstances conspired against her. Manu was
trying to reach your hand; you were the cause of her drowning in the sea. You urged
her swim into the deep sea; and thus forced her flow into the waves. Do you
hope a new life after committing this mortal sin? Won't your inner self torment
you all the while?'
Chetan – that was his name – is drenched with sweat.
Man tries to find fault with others to cover one's own flaws. He wondered,
'Isn't Jharna's accident mysterious, like mine? Is her husband a victim in an
accident, or victimized? The two remain intact, and the third one simply
disappears; is it possible? And, Jharna was utterly dissatisfied with her
marriage.'
These musings were futile attempts to console
himself.
The other day, they had their usual evening walk.
Both of them appeared fresh. At one point of their conversation, Chetan presented
a suggestion. He said, 'Jharna! Both of us are hopeless about retrieving our
partners; we are wildly running towards nowhere. Both of us have become
driftwoods. Going along the trail of life when yoked with mismatch spouse is a
formidable task. Life is ever so long journey along the foot tracks through the
mountains and a single person can easily collapse on the way. Jharna! Since the
moment I first saw you, since the time I heard your tragic story, an
alternative is evolving in me. If you don't have any objection, can't we both
accompany each other in the long journey through deserts of life? Conjugal life
is like a gambling. I see no harm in putting our life at stake once more'
'It may be
possible for a man to be yoked to another woman in a couple of weeks after his
first wife is dead, but I don't think a woman can so easily take it. And more,
I have my guardians.'
'I was only expressing opinions. I don't mean to
leap into action immediately. If our opinions are alike, we can take time.'
'Time may show. I have surrendered myself to the
whirlpool of time.'
Chetan's views reached Jharna's father. It was all
the old man's clever ploy. He was inwardly happy at his success.
On the third day of Chetan's proposal the three
decided to return. They planned to go to Arunanchal where Jharna's home stood.
He followed them on the pretext of helping them a safe return. He would then
return his home at Kalimpong.
The nearer their destination, the farther from each
other Chetan and Jharna found themselves. He was thinking he had messed up his
life. His inner self repeatedly said to him, 'You murderer! The day the truth
discloses to Jharna, how hateful you will be in her eyes! Manu's soul will
never let go of you. You have wiped peace off your heart the day you murdered
her.' At times he envisaged Manu standing in front of him and pointing her forefinger
at him. Her sharp tone of voice rang in his ears.
On the other hand Jharna was thinking, 'Pah! Pah!
It's not even two weeks since your husband is lost, his body is not yet found;
it's you who he had dedicated his life to! And you, what are you doing?
Following a ruthless man who has disposed of his wife in the sea? And in such a
hurry?'
Both of them were restless. Both of them were in
turmoil. Both were thinking, 'This journey should never come to an end. Life
should always float in the dilemma of hopes and hopelessness.'
In the town of Itanagar, the state capital of
Arunanchal Pradesh, the three of them arrived at a small pretty bungalow, a
living quarters of a government official. It was where Jharna and her husband
used to live. From the end of the courtyard they could see a middle aged man
sitting comfortably in an armchair and reading a newspaper.
All of a sudden, Jharna came to tears and threw
herself at the man's feet. Words found their way through her lips, 'My Master!
You are safe! Thank God! How lucky I am!'
‘Why cry, dear? I am safe and sound! Wipe tears!'
The old man approached him and asked, 'But when and
how could you arrive home, dear Son-in-law?'
'Oh, it's many days. I swam into the river when the
carriage fell. As the river was flooded, I swam down the river a long distance.
At long last I was able to get a grip on a bush. And then it was easy. A nearby
villager cared for two days. And then I was fully recovered. And then I came to
the bridge to look for you two. I couldn't trace you, and hoped you'd returned
home. When I found you hadn't arrived, I was in a plight. And who is he?' He
pointed at wide-eyed Chetan.
Jharna answered him wiping tears, 'He is a
travelling companion. He's here to accompany us. He's been a great help for us
I must say.' She turned towards Chetan and said, 'See! How time had cruelly
snatched my swami[11]
from me, and kindly given back to me again!'
Chetan managed to force a smile into his lips and
said, ' It's great news. There can't be a greater relief than to find him safe
and sound here.'
After a pause, he continued, 'Jharna! You have arrived
at your destination. I have a long journey ahead. I must take leave of you all.
Stay well.'
He hit the road. Thoughts traversed him; they were
now his companions. The existence of the freely flowing pure and fresh waters
of a spring in the hills had once again come to disappear in the vast seas. Now
he had nothing of his own; nothing tormented him any more: neither joys nor
sorrows, nor fun nor frustration.
'I was driven to swimming into the whirlpool of
illusions only to free Manu. I was beguiled into emptying my filled pot by the
coquetry of the shining sand grains.
Life is no more than a mirage. We achieve what a
thirsty traveler achieves from the dew drop that shines in the endless sandy
desert. The agreement of our desires is the merger of land and the sky in the
horizon. The progress in life is nothing but a waste of borrowed moments of
life from the eternity.
He couldn't calculate
what distance he'd covered floating in the thoughts. In fact, he didn’t know
his destination.
2.
PERMANENT
ABODE
Even in the long life of seventy five years his one
wish had not come true. The wish was quite commonplace: to erect a house and
make a permanent living at a place suitable in every way. Everybody knew him as
Junge Jamdar[12].
He used to sport a long moustache while he was in the police force. Though
little, he was paid an allowance for it. The constables called him Junge Jamdar
at his back, and he was known in the neighbourhood with the same name. In front
of him, however, everybody addressed him respectfully as 'Jamdar ba[13]'.
Few people cared his real name–
Sherbahadur.
He had no worries about residence as long as he was
in the job. He used to live in the quarters provided by the department. But he
was troubled at the thought of where to make a long-lasting house as he was
nearing the age of retirement.
He thought of moving to his ancestral village. But
he had never made any inquiry or shown interest about the old place while he
was still employed. Who would welcome him if he moved to there with his wife
and children now? He didn't know the state of affairs there. His brothers,
cousins and their children could have been living on his share of family land.
How could he expect from them to leave the land they had been tilling till now?
Who knew what confrontation would ensue? And more, how could his children
reared in the towns befit the new rural atmosphere?
'No. I think I should choose a small but good and
suitable plot of land and make a nice home somewhere here.' He thought. Now he
began thinking of a good neighbourhood where he could pass his retired life in
peace; and where his children were safe.
He had his owns standards regarding a residential
location. This is a modern time and we must provide quality education to
children. The inner villages are not suitable as they don't have good schools
and colleges. He couldn't send his children in costly boarding schools; that
was beyond his means. Children sent away from parents might not be properly
taken care of, too.
Also, living in the crowd and hubbub of a town is
not good. Living is always comfortable if you have a home a little away from
the heart of the city. One's home should be in a peaceful atmosphere and away
from the crowd. A spacious courtyard, a small backyard, a little garden: that's
what one wished for.
We could compare his choice of a location to the
wishes of the demon king Hiranyakashipu. Hiranyakashipu had besought a boon
from Brahma[14],
"O Lord! My death shouldn't take place in the daytime; it shouldn't be in
the night. I should neither die in the sky, nor on the land. I shouldn't be
killed by man, nor by beasts nor birds; I don't want to die inside a house, nor
outside; no weapon should be the cause of my death nor should any tool kill
me."
Junge Jamdar's choice of neighbourhood was almost
unattainable. He thought his homestead should stand not in the city, not in the
town, not away from the city or town, not in the crowd and not in an
uninhabited land. He wanted the advantages of all these places and couldn't
stand the disadvantages of any. He wished for a place where comforts of both city
and villages were available.
Time flew. He couldn't make up his mind regarding a
permanent dwelling though he was at the threshold of retirement. One day Junge
Jamdar put himself into action for a temporary living. He purchased a small
residential plot and built a little house in the town where he was working. He
said this was only for the time being. The family moved to this house when he
retired.
Almost thirty years of his retired life had passed
in the same place but he had not constructed the house of his imagination. He
was somehow living in that narrow and humble little abode.
It would be unfair to say that he was too poor to
construct a spacious and attractive house for his family. But he'd realized the
locality was unfit for him. Both of his next-door neighbours were unfriendly.
Discord brewed up and grew up as time passed. A neighbour always spied on him;
he found fault with him for no sensible reason. The other was a drunkard; and
he was always hollering until midnight. He thought, 'No point in living here
for long. I mustn't waste my hard-earned money on a neighborhood like this. We
will be living in this wretched place until we find a suitable place. '
One day Junge Jamdar toured a neighbouring village
in the same old search of a permanent living space. He found the atmosphere
quite good there. Most of the locals were his own race. It was understandable
that one needed one's own folks in crises and difficulties, and in joys and
jubilations. The fresh air and clean environment, spacious and open land, you
could grow fruits and vegetables if you wished; you could eat rice from your
own field if you bought a patch: he calculated everything and made up his mind
to come to settle here permanently. He erected a house suitable to meet his
needs.
The house was ready, but with the house arose a
problem. Who would live here? His son was recently employed in the town. The
grandson was in the school there. Leaving her husband and son back in the town
the daughter-in-law couldn't come here in his service; that was out of
question. The old woman found life hard in the village and chose to go to town
to live with the son. The old man was now all alone.
His elder daughter was married and lived with her
husband. They had a son and a daughter, too. They had no land of their own.
They lived in a rented room and worked as farmhands for a living on daily
basis. They were always in dire straits.
Junge Jamdar considered, 'I think I should purchase
a small piece of land near mine and offer my elder daughter. They can live here
and meet their family expenses by working on a rented land and shared crops.
They may be a support for me, too.'
He bought a piece of land nearby, and had a hut
constructed. He called his daughter and her husband. They moved to this new
home.
But his son-in-law had his own intentions. As a
Nepali proverb goes, 'Swallow the whole hand if offered a finger,' his
son-in-law had a scheme. The daughter also sided with her husband. They wanted
the old man to leave all the property in their care, and go to town. They had
clearly hinted once or twice, 'Why should you trouble yourself so much at this
old age, Father? You have a home in the town already. All the family can eat a
handful of food together there. Why should you live all alone here? Nobody's
available here to cook for you. We are barely earning a day's meal. And the
government pays you a pension; why take so much pains? As for taking care of
the homestead, we are available and ready.'
Both began to torment the old man. They prevailed.
Circumstances frustrated him and he left the village 'entrusting' his land and
house at their disposal. He came back to his little old home in the town. Thus
failed his first attempt to make a lasting abode.
Once, a distant cousin sent invitation to Junge
Jamdar to his son's marriage. The cousin always used to say, 'Brother! Come
here. We shall settle together. Though a village, this locality has all the
facilities of a town. We have schools and colleges, and our people are a huge
community here.'
He accepted the invitation happily. He wanted to
know about the place. He thought of buying a plot if the area was suitable. He
went to attend the marriage. But his real purpose was to assess the
neighbourhood.
He'd expected a crowd and hubbub in the marriage.
The settlement had over four or five hundred households. Almost all of them
were his own tribe. Almost all were his folk. It was time for procession, but
there was nobody except four or five immediate neighbours.
'Brother! Haven't you invited the neighbours? We are
ready for procession, but nobody turns up. What's wrong?' He asked the host.
'Well, I have sent the invitation. But they are
not showing up. Folks from another street don't come; we have a conflict; one
stays away from the other. As for this neighbourhood, they are annoyed at my
refusal to a donation; they may not attend. We can't wait if they don't appear;
we must proceed.' The host replied.
Junge Jamdar was taken aback; such a big village,
all are relations: and this rift? Neighbours are solace in grief and delight in
success. If they are useless in such occasions, what use are they? Towns are
better. Townspeople never have this rift and discrimination.
The old man was hopeless. He forgot the subject of
settling there. The other day, he took leave of his cousin and came back home.
Thus failed his new plan of permanent settlement.
Junge Jamdar visited and studied many other locations
to make his dream come true. At last he chose a hilltop. He made necessary
arrangement to construct a wonderful house there. Later he came to know the
place was a favourite haunt of bandits. Men from the neighbouring villages were
the bandits and the locals had to keep vigilance every night. Life was unsafe.
He decided to drop this idea as well. How could he think of living where life
itself was at risk? His number one requirement was security.
And then Junge Jamdar purchased a land near a river.
He was convinced that the riverbank was a small heaven on the earth; that the
fresh and cool air, the peaceful atmosphere, the clean environment, plentiful
supply of water and the beautiful view of the river was what he had always been
dreaming of. If one had to live a life, he had to live at the riverside.
He planned to start the construction soon. He
visited the site. To his surprise, the land was nowhere. He found his land
engulfed by the muddy river waters; she was sheepishly flowing through his
land. Now he realized his mistake. He understood why the broker was in such a
haste to sell it. How could he, an experienced and careful man, beguiled into
buying a river bed?
It was already thirty years since he was retired, he
wasn't yet been able to decide to settle anywhere permanently. He was still
unable to quit the little humble hut he had made for a temporary purpose; nor
had he ever been able to quit the idea of an ideal settlement. His dream of a
comfortable and permanent dwelling hadn't yet thus materialized.
The infirmity awarded by his seventy five years had
left him in the bed. The bedridden old man turned the pages of those years. Now
he saw life itself temporary; and the house was nothing more than a roof under
which one passed his life. A house couldn't be long-lasting. Everything was
short-living here. He now saw the dream of a permanent abode was soon coming
true; with the end of life; with death.
Why was he running
after a permanent dwelling? It was nothing more than an illusion. He realized
now he was nearing an eternal abode; it should have occurred to him well
before. He breathed a long sigh of relief.
3.
REVENGE
A beautiful little bungalow stood in a peaceful
spacious area off the main street. The housewife's taste and sense of art
reflected in the many kinds of colourful flowers blooming to decorate the
courtyard.
Far away in the horizon the setting sun was welcoming
the evening. The birds were rushing towards a nearby pine tree for the night halt.
The main entrance of the house was open but nobody was seen around.
'Whose house is this? Who is inside?' A thin man
called out from the courtyard. He had crossed the middle age bar. His beard was
white but most of his hair was still black; his dress was ordinary but his face
still reflected the pride of a military officer. The man had well maintained
body shape.
A middle aged woman appeared from inside. She looked
mature and experienced in the face, and her dress displayed simplicity,
cleanliness and attraction. She noticed the man standing in front of her and,
it was not clear why, she was momentarily shocked. She took a long time to
respond to him; at last she asked in an exhausted tone– "Who are you
looking for? Who are you?"
'You can tell me a traveller who has missed his
destination.' He didn't show a shock or surprise. 'Please allow me some rest
here before I introduce myself. If you ask your question to yourself, I don't
think you need my introduction.' The man clumsily walked towards the sitting
room in an air of familiarity as if this house was his own.
The woman was now in a fix. She was again in a new
turn of life. In front of her, the road divided into two. Her one mind said she
should shower harsh words on him and chase him away; but another mind said no,
her revenge mustn't be that simple. She wanted to award him a severe
punishment. She slowly advanced towards her bedroom and lay down on the bed.
Her mind was teeming with thoughts. Her past replayed one after the other in
the head.
Sheela – this woman – was a pretty damsel thirty
years back. She entered a military officer's house as a bride. She wasn't
married for love with Lieutenant Madan. Love for her was a fantasy. She had a
mere glimpse of Madan before wedding. She had imagined she'd devote her life in
the service of the muscular young man.
When Madan was commissioned to training, Sheela's
father was the Major-in-Charge of the center. Madan received training under his
supervision. And then he worked under him. Madan was a young man with all
virtues of a military officer. It was obvious that Madan – a smart, handsome,
dutiful young man from a good family background – should catch the Major's interest.
The Major saw a right candidate for his daughter in him. One day he proposed
his daughter to Madan in a tone of order. How could a junior officer like him
reject that? The wedding took place right away. Madan and Sheela entered
conjugal life.
Sheela was endowed with virtues of an Aryan woman. She
took love to be more fusion of souls and union of hearts than physical
proximity. She wanted to assimilate her soul into her husband's and wished to immerse
herself in the pleasant sea of her husband's love.
Madan was as dry in the conjugal life as romantic
outwardly was. The freedom offered by his military life had been central in his
personality traits. Stay late in the club, attend parties, play cards and drink
wine with colleagues: these were his nightlife. The military life had tied him
in the day and then nightlife had tied him in a tight grip. He always spent his
nights at the ball dances with tempting damsels and Sheela spent her nights
measuring the distance with him. Madan had only some measured words for
Sheela's queries. Most of his answers were a 'yes' or 'no'. In short, for
Lieutenant Madan home was nothing more than a camp to pass a few hours, and
Sheela was nothing more than a living puppet to satisfy his carnal desires.
Sheela had left no stone unturned to win his heart.
But attempts to win a heart are futile where no heart exists. None of her
efforts could bring any change in Madan's behaviour and thought.
Sheela heard about her husband. Rumors were that
Madan was in league with an Anglo-Indian hybrid. He used to be with her in the
dance halls until late in the night. Many had seen them walking together in the
streets.
Poets sing that women are the embodiment of
tolerance. Women possess qualities of perseverance and tolerance beyond words.
They can tolerate the intolerable stabs in the heart. But when the husband
intrigues with any other woman… no, a feminine heart has a limit here; she
can't stand it.
Sheela was grief-stricken. She was wounded with the
insult. When he returned late that night, she asked him, 'Where were you in the
night?'
'You know I was in the club. Why should I give an
explanation tonight all of a sudden?' He retorted.
'Why? I am your wife. I know I have every right to
ask that. How long can a respectable woman tolerate your outrageous acts?
Everything has a limit.'
'Oh! So the limits have been crossed? So the ants
have grown their wings! If I am too far, you have liberty to go anywhere. I
won't come in your way!'
Anguish welled in her heart. Sheela let out a scream
of pain, 'You cruel! Am I a hindrance now? Are you threatening me to clear your
way? If that's how you lead your life, I won't stick to you. What do you think,
can't I live without you?'
'Go away. Don't disturb me.' Madan cried out loud in
anger. He switched the bed lamp off. Maybe he fell into sleep, or maybe he
acted to be sleeping, but he remained motionless for long.
Sheela just sat there, sunk deep in thought. And
then she came to a resolve. She packed some necessary belongings in a suitcase.
She left home. Initially, she had planned to go to her parent's home, but she
changed her mind. She headed towards the railway station. A train was going
eastwards. She got on it. Now she felt relieved. Thus started her journey into
an unknown horizon.
She was pregnant at the time. She had a burning fire
of revenge in her heart. She vowed to revenge on Madan in a unique way. She had
no intentions to hurt him though. She intended to prove that a woman could stand
on her feet by herself. She could lead a respectable life, a dignified life.
She could struggle for a life worth living. She could train her child for a
secure future in absence of the father, too.
Sheela's life hence had been a life of struggle: a thirty-year-long
struggle. She'd arrived in a small town and begun her new struggle. Many had
supported her and many others had tried to take advantage of her misfortunes. At
first she took the teacher's job in a girls' school. She continued her
education privately from school final to the Master's Degree.
She became now a higher secondary school teacher.
She gave birth to a son and educated him. He was a college teacher now. Sheela
had now become a mother-in-law of a dutiful daughter-in-law.
She had regularly been inquiring after Madan: his
keeping that Anglo woman, her leaving him in two years, finding another woman,
and divorce, and so on. She had not heard about him since last five years.
After those many years Madan was in front of her as
a stranger; and she was melting; her determination was wavering.
Engrossed deep in the past, she was not aware of the
growing darkness outside. Both son and daughter-in-law had gone away to a
neighbour's to attend a ceremony.
She rose and switched the light on. She entered the
sitting room slowly. The old man was sunk into an armchair, deep in thought. He
raised his head slowly and asked her, 'Could you probably recognize me?'
'I had known you many years ago, and then had
forgotten for good. Now please tell, how could you be kind enough to remember
this poor woman?'
'It took ages to discover you, Sheela. I made many
circles of this round world. I am here at yours to repent my nasty deeds. I
want to take you all to my own world.' He made a timid glance at her.
'Is return possible? No, not at all. I have somehow been
able to drag my life this far in the daytime; now it's almost the end of the
day.' With this remark, Sheela rushed into her bedroom. The servant came and
prepared a bed for the old man.
Sheela's door didn't open till mid-morning. The son
and daughter-in-law who'd come back home late in the night knocked at the
mother's door; they found it only pushed close. They pushed the door open but
she was not there in the room. A small note was left on the chair. Two lines
were written addressed to Madan– 'A woman surrenders her soul to a single man;
that also only once. If she is dumped and if her dignity awakes it awakes
fully. My revenge is now complete. I am now free.'
In the same note, two more lines were added. These
were for the son. 'Until now, I could never satisfy your wish to know your
father's identity; the time had not yet come. But now the time has come. You
are in front of the man who fathered you. My best wishes to both of you.'
Madan let out a scream, 'No, Sheela! You can't do
that! Your revenge is too harsh! You had better shot me dead!!'
The son and
daughter-in-law were in tears.
4.
MY ONE DAY
It's a holiday. I have changed my usual routine and
got out into the street early this morning. I want to reach Fancy Bazaar
through Judgefield. There are two benefits of this walk: first, it's a pleasant
stroll, and second, it's a good time for shopping. Near the Judge-field from
fairly a good distance, you can see a throng of people. The man addressing them
from the raised platform must be a leader. The loudspeakers propagate his voice
into the vast expanse. I reach near. No, he isn't a political leader; he's a
stoic, a great soul. Fragments of his speech ring in my ears.
"Man is the noblest of all creatures. To eat,
to dress and to take pleasure in bodily activities is nothing more than
beastly. Man is a sagacious being. He can self-contemplate and self-deliberate;
he can self-analyze. Spiritual development is the supreme goal in life; that's
the true life. That's the truth in life."
Now I'm pretty far. The speaker's voice is heard no
doubt, but the words are blurred. 'Self-contemplation, spiritual development,
truth in life....' Very old ideas but they always appear fresh new. What's
the truth in life? Where and how can one attain that? I ponder over it for
quite a while on my way to the marketplace. Spiritual development and
self-contemplation seem to follow me along the street.
A seller's four-wheel kerosene drum appears at the
bend. People are in a queue. A sudden realization strikes me; that I'm running
out of kerosene soon. Cooking gas is scarce. At the store, they always bark the
same ready-made answer, the same prescript, "Contact tomorrow." You
have to call on them daily to realize the 'tomorrow' into the 'today'. One must
burn the stove: not to eat to live. But one must eat to live.
My body arrived at Fancy Bazaar while the mind was
drifting far and wide. Folks call it Faansi Bazaar, and it's truly so: a
slaughter market. Adjoining to it is a jail where dreaded convicts were hanged
during the English Raaj[15].
Fancy Bazaar is today's modified word.
An area is filled with green-groceries. The crowd
looks like a swarm in a wild beehive. Din and hubbub. A bunch of customers to
each shop.
"How much are the cauliflowers?"
"They are ten rupees a kilo."
I'm struck down. "Last year they were five
rupees a kilo at this season. Double the price in a year?"
I think hard. "But it wasn't this big crowd
last year. It's not the price but the purchasing power of a class of people
that has risen. Whatever the price, they are ready to pay; what they care is
that the goods be easily available.”
"How much are the tomatoes?"
"Sixteen rupees a kilo." The whiskered
greengrocer relaxes himself. His words are heavy.
The items I can afford for are the squash roots,
drying radishes, green papayas and greens. I adorn my bag with these cheapest
things and make way home.
It's quite hard to live a life. The contemplation to
win rice, dal[16]
and greens is not enough. Where is the room for self-contemplation? How?
Suddenly the two lines I'd scribbled long back flash into my mind:
When
I can subdue the flame of hunger
I
will search for the food for the soul.
From here, a shortcut to my home is through the
overhead railway line. Through this I've to take the street up to the railway
station. Hanging my grocery bag onto my shoulder I head for the station. Under
the bridge dwells a different world. It's a shared home of refugees, beggars,
gypsies, lepers and the manual laborers who have toiled in the day and have
failed to earn a cheap shelter. You can see a perfect unity in diversity. Their
minds are not corrupt with 'self-contemplation'.
They never care for hoarding worldly riches. They make feast out of whatever
falls into their hand after a long day's hard struggle. They are content with
that. If they fish something out, they are happy; if not, no worry. Have or
not, their bellies are prepared for that.
Those who haven't got a place under the overhead
bridge are taking refuge at the narrow space at the flanks of the railway
between the bridge and the station. Their roof is the blue and the porch is the
dusty open. Several brick or stone fireplaces are set up here, there and
everywhere. You can see rice boiling here, and curry boiling there. At other
place they are cutting foul smelling, almost rotten fish and at some other
place they are 'dressing' a chicken.
I can see a crowd of people there. Curiosity drags
my feet fast forwards. My eyes fall on a fireplace where the fire must have
died long earlier, and the two handfuls of rice and water on the aluminium pot
is not even half-boiled. A woman standing by the stove is howling at an old,
timid man in his rags. Some twelve-year-old girl in her tattered filthy frock
is leaning against the woman. She is lean and thin and upset, but she's still a
picture of vitality. The gatherings around them have become cheerful
spectators.
"Brazen lecher! How dare this gray-haired dog
eye this little girl lustfully? Out to ruin my delicate daughter, eh!" The
woman is spouting nonstop.
"This old duffer is quite wayward. Reaching his
hands up to the girl's bosom, he tried to kiss her cheeks," a spectator
sniggers.
"Let's call the police. It's a case of
attempting to rape a minor," another one remarks.
"Why call the police? Whack him thoroughly. He
comes to senses after a good thrashing," ejaculates some other spectator.
A little mischievous boy throws a pebble aiming at
the old man's head. Instead of ducking down, the old man shields his head with
both of his palms.
I gaze at the old fellow: a haggard countenance,
mere skin and bones owing to disease, hunger and grief. One can see only a
crooked nose and a pair of melancholy eyes welled up with tears. His thick and
graying beard has not seen a razor for weeks. Disheveled and knotted gray hair.
A ragged coat over a dirty shirt. A piece of squalid, gray loincloth, that
surely was white once, is wrapped round his waist. It barely reaches down to
knees.
Neither his age nor atmosphere around could drive
him to a mad attempt to rape such a little girl in broad daylight. How could
such senility go sex-starved so excessively? Even a lusty one, overwhelmed with
the urge, waits for a favourable time, place and circumstances. Here, the lust
itself has withered away for good.
"Whatever's happened to these folks? A sheep
reveals its true nature when it's out of its flock; people are transformed into
sheep when flocked together," I think aloud.
"What's up, old man? Did you really try to lay
your hand on this child?"
His noddle rises slowly. I can see his eyelashes
moistening.
"No, hazooor. Nothing of the sort. I was
beguiled into doing this by my daughter's strong illusion. Both my brains and
heart were deluded, I'd lost my senses."
"Now, forget whatever passed. Your daughter's
chastity is intact. Rather, rumours defile her if this stuff is dragged
on," I convince the woman.
"Now, you too go!" As if I'm irritated
with the old man, I force him out through the crowd. The crowd fades away
slowly, murmuring.
I had read a Nepalese impression on the man's
features. On the way, I ask him. He's a Nepalese Upadhyay Brahmin; Maniram his
name. We come to a tea stall near the station and I order two cups of tea and a
plate of puri[17].
Having offered the puri and tea to him, I hold a cup for myself. The man
seems satisfied in some measure. He swallows the puri at two gulps. I
order for him some more.
We finish it and leave the stall. On the way I ask
him, "Now, open your heart, old man. What was the real stuff?"
"Hajur[18],
my tale of woe is quite a long one. I wish we sat somewhere and shared
it."
I'm not willing to invite a new trouble to my home,
taking this haggard and clumsy old man in his filthy rags. I can see a vacant
bench at the porch of the parcel house by the station. There is silence
everywhere. We sit on the bench.
He pours out the story of his aching heart in a
fairly polished language.
"Hajur, I chanced to hear that Nepalese sons
dig gold out of the koilakhat[19]
and earn a few flakes in Khasia Hills. The son of a Brahmin, I'd studied a
little astrology. I'd read something of the Sanskrit grammar as well. I reached
Khelerihat to try my luck. I hoped I'd be able to exchange a few scraps of
paper with my art there. There, the people are thoroughly darkened in and out
with the game of the black gold for long. The local landlords coin money from
the huge lumps of black gold. And a lesser share goes to the contractors; and
the even a smaller share to the owners of trucks and pump-sets, and now
remaining goes to the headmen of the laborers. The Nepalese sons who squeeze
into the pitch-dark pits at the risk of life are exchanging the scanty residue
that can be obtained from the ashes a goldsmith melts gold on for their toil.
The hard earned is bargained away for wine and
gambling. At occasions their sweat is swapped for a wife. They are preserving
the culture of jari[20]
and elopement in those areas, taking them to be the codes and traditions handed
down to them from the forefathers.
My learning was of not much use there. All were
affluent. Life was pleasure and the pleasure life. Who would teach them about
fortune! Besides, I'm not a man with guts that one needs to scratch the black
gold out of the pits.
A contractor offered me a job of a junior
supervisor. I was to count the containers of coal, to record their weight, and
take care of his business. There's a small marketplace a little further away
from the mine. I settled in a small rented room in the vicinity of the marketplace.
Majority of the people in the neighbourhood was the Nepalese who worked in the
coal mine. My next-door neighbour was a family, Chhetri by caste. In fact,
Chhetri, Kami, Damai, Magar, Gurung and all are equal there. Manners, thoughts,
behaviour and their way of life have brought about a perfect equality among
them.
There were only man and wife in the family. He was
Khadge Poudel. When he was pleased he would snap at her calling 'Keti'[21].
He spoke Nepali with a thick Matwali[22]
accent although he was a Chhetri. It was probably because of his getting mixed
up with others and his tendency of assimilation.
One of the many traits Nepalese people inherit from
their forefathers was distinctly seen in Khadge. Disregarding health, he would
labor away a long day and then in the evening he would almost invariably head
for the marketplace and drop into a bhatti[23].
He never once remembered the way home before that. It would be almost
I regarded Keti a Nepalese Sita. She was an
excellent woman with her perfect features, grace, constitution, disposition and
virtue in my view. I would tag her a perfect Aryan woman if I have to qualify
her. Moreover, she had just got a fully-fledged womanhood.
The night Khadge could draw himself on his own feet
would the neighbourhood precisely fathom out the real import of Kurukshetra[24]:
it was not a shrine, rather the ugliest prototype of battlefield. Keti used to
undergo the mortification of the almost stripped Draupadi[25]
among the plenary of Kuru court. By and large, woman is the embodiment of magnanimity.
She bears with every insult, ridicule, abuse, threat, despise, injury and
hatred and remains the same: as goddess Guhyeshwari[26]
is the same even after drinking cauldrons of Sarvaras[27].
The later the night the louder Khadge's curses and
swears. Later he would feel like kicking a football. Keti would be the ball.
And a sentence would echo in a drunken Matwali accent: " I won't keep you
whore with me, I won't. Go now! Get lost!" And then you could hear Keti's
wails at the threshold. And then Khadge would vomit and then a foul smell would
propagate. Soon Khadge would start snoring, which meant the end of nuisance for
the night. And the entire neighbourhood would rest in the dead of the night.
I was a runt here in this atmosphere: in the market
among the circles of fellow workers and in the fair and fun and sports. I
wouldn't fit in anywhere else. I spent my evenings reading whatever books I had
in my room. It was the Ramayana or Birat Parva from the Mahabharata; or sometimes
it could be Muna-Madan or may be Buddhi Binod. I relished Hindi novels, too. I
read whatever I could find.
Another constant headache for Keti was how to pass
her dull evenings. There were no women in the neighbourhood. Even if there were
any, who'd always accompany her through those long evenings? She frequented to
my room to listen to my melodious recitals of the books. It was not decent for
her to be in a lonely man's room in the evenings, but she was unequivocally
confident of her own heart's illumination. Her man Khadge, the drunkard and
habitual gambler Khadge, was everything for her.
Once, it was late evening, I came to my main room
from the adjacent kitchen after I'd readied my meal. Having seated myself on my
bed, I started to recite the Ramayana. Keti had already come and perched on a
stool. A shadow appeared at the door. I lifted my head up. Khadge was standing
there. I was wonder-struck to see Khadge break his customary rules. No sooner
than she glimpsed him, she realized she was courting disaster and she slipped
out to rush towards her room. Before I could decide what would be correct to
say, words found their way through Khadge's lips, "Whatever the friends
have spoken is the truth, without doubt. This strumpet is pack with this
bastard katha[28].
Who'd let go of this damned katha before his head has been chopped off?
He went to his room, thundering. I guessed from my own room how his cruel limbs
and evil tongue pelted down on the guileless innocent Keti. Her howls and
whines, pleas and prays, explanations and apologies, all were suppressed under
his heartlessness. All were lost in the roar of an angry swollen stream.
"Go, you trollop! Go to hell with your
whoremonger. I won't keep you. I don't…. won't keep you anymore!" Khadge
thundered. I saw him drag her out to the porch. And then he locked the door up
and took himself off for nowhere.
The immediate neighbours showed up out of curiosity
only to become the subdued spectators, and slowly made their way back home. I
had no guts to go to her and express my sympathy or call her to my room. Even
if I did, no way would she be ready to accept my invitation, for sure. I knew
how self-esteeming she was. Khadge didn't return that night. Keti sat at the
narrow porch. For a long while she sobbed her heart out, shed bitter tears,
dozed off and then lay huddled up against a corner. It did never occur to me to
eat the ready meal. I put off the lamp and lay on my bed. Who would go to
sleep! I drowsed away the whole night.
"This whore is still positioned at my veranda,
eh? Couldn't your pimp take you with him? Go. Get lost! You can't stay under my
roof any longer'. Khadge's calling Keti names announced his arrival. I was
brooding in the bed. Khadge pushed his door open to enter. Keti followed him
in. She wailed and wailed. She fell to his feet, clarified repeatedly of her
not being an infidelity, but nothing could melt Khadge. Seizing by her neck he
whirled her out. He chanted only one mantra, " I won't keep a fallen
woman, I won't."
Now I saw Keti come up resolute. She wiped her tears
and spoke, "I understand why you do all this to me. I'm not a whore, but
it's she with whom you have affair. I've had enough of your cruelty. If I'm not
a need, you too are not needed. Having had so many blemishes, I won't lick your
arse. I'll go with him, with whom you branded me. He'll have a woman if he's a
masculine with a hair on his chest. To me you are dead from now on. I rub off
your vermilion[29]
for good."
She flew into a fury and
marched straight into my room. Not throwing a single glance in my direction she
rushed into my kitchen and bolted the door between the main room and the
kitchen from inside. In a little while Khadge locked his door blasting what not,
and disappeared.
I was in a real bewilderment. I couldn't work out
what would be the appropriate step to take. Afterwards, I called to her twice
or thrice in a subdued voice. I asked her to open the door but there was no
response. I weighed, "She's now heavy hearted. Time will relieve. No
interference now."
I washed my limbs and face with the water kept in a
jar for drinking. I dressed up, and spoke from my room so loud as she could
hear, "The night's meal is untouched. It must be good enough to eat. You'll
heat and eat that. I'm off to work and return only in the evening." having
said this, I pushed the front door shut and left.
My heart was not in the least at work, I did work
all day though. The door was still shut when I returned late in the evening. I
peeked at Khadge's door: it was still locked. Hesitantly, I pushed my door
open. The kitchen room door was still bolted from inside. Some other fear
gripped me. I banged the door and called her out twice or thrice.
"Don't call me Keti, the label the sinful had
stuck to me. My name is Purnakala."
I was relieved to hear her from inside.
"All right, I'll call you Purnakala now on. You
are truly purna[30]
in all sixteen arts. Now then, open the door. Shall I remain starved this time
as well?"
The door opened slowly. The meal I'd prepared the
evening before was intact till then.
"Didn't you eat rice?" I asked.
"No, I didn't. I fasted to mourn the
sinner," Purna's indignation poured out.
"All right, the other matters can be dealt with
later on. For now, throw the stale nosh away, and prepare a fresh one. I'll
fetch some green vegetables from the marketplace." I was speaking in a
tone of command, in the air of a husband.
"Will you eat the rice I cook? What about your
caste?"
"Yes, I will. One should be deprived of his
caste by his deeds, not by eating rice. I won't care a damn even if I'm
excluded from my caste." I replied.
I ate to my fill, and, I felt I was gratified after
ages. My age-long appetite was appeased. It was the charisma of Purna's hands.
In fact, woman's one form is Annapurna[31]
itself!
Late evening when the chores in the kitchen
finished, we came into the main room. I sat on my bed and Purna on a stool.
Many thoughts were crossing my mind. "What shall I do with Purna?" A
huge question lay before me. I didn't know what she thought of me. But there
was a storm in me. I was overwhelmed with a gust of chaste love that is
branched off the Ganges of veneration. I was hesitating to open up on one
point: there was quite a big difference of ages between us- almost sixteen
years. I was a married and then widowed man.
"What's to be done, Purna?" I broke the
long silence.
"Please anyhow arrange to get me to
Kakarbhitta. I can go from there. . My brother is an employee at
Bhairahawa." Purna said.
"Now you are broken with your man. You are
tarnished of having affair with me. You have rubbed his vermilion off. Why go
back to natal home? This room is already your home." I broached the
subject artlessly.
"The marriage hasn't yet broken up."
"Is there any formality left yet? Your hearts
are already broken up. Moreover, you've challenged me. I also am a man with a
chest with hairs on it. How can I give in so easily?" Following her words
up, I dared this further. She spoke nothing. She simply sat lowering her eyes.
She set her bed in the kitchen and bolted the door
between; I slept on my own bed.
Some more days passed. Khadge was not seen. His room
was still locked. I used to be off for work early in the morning and was back
home late. She had taken charge of the household. She prepared meal, washed my
dresses and tidied the rooms up. She was in every way a housewife but her bed
was still in the kitchen.
After supper one evening, I said, "Purna, now
you are the lady of this room, I think I should look for some other one. I don't
find it fair to make you sleep in the damp kitchen floor while I'm enjoying a
cozy khat[32].
"I'm okay. I get sound sleep."
"But can a parched one simply go on watching
the running stream for ever?" I was resolute that day.
"Don't know. The parched himself should
know." Purna thrust herself into the kitchen. I was given a green signal.
I followed her in and gripped her hand; produced my vermilion case out of my
shirt pocket and put a vermilion tika[33]
on her forehead, and strewed it on her center parting.
"Today onwards you are my friend for life. This
vermilion is the impression of my pure heart." Saying this I returned to
the main room.
I was impatient to see her reaction. Soon she came
up to me and bowed to my feet. I shifted her bed to mine.
The other day we left the place and rented an
accommodation somewhere else. It's not worthwhile taking trouble to explain you
how much dirt the neighbourhood and the community smeared at us. Khadge hadn't
needed a wife. He was used to wine and whores. That was how his days passed.
Nevertheless, I was as sound as a bell, and content
to have Purna. She got a son; he freed himself after wreaking tortures on us
for seven months. After a long gap a daughter was born to us. She took exactly
after Purna, both in features and in manners. The years slipped by so smoothly
that her twelve years were not even twelve months for us.
But how could a life be perfect, hajur? Life is
merely the wave running after the beach. Now the rising wave chases the shore,
now the wave itself withdraws off, leaving the shore alone.
A nasty storm reigned in this eastern zone of
Bharat; an epidemic spread everywhere. The slogan- 'Chase out foreigners. They
have encroached upon the natives from all quarters!' reverberated. A campaign
was launched.
A students' union was organized in Khasia Hills,
too. They took 'Chase out foreigners' as the robbing and looting the humble
Nepalese coolies and laborers who drenched themselves with sweat in their
service. And then they loaded them in trucks and transported across the border.
Nepalese were notified to evacuate the region in ten
days. The policemen issued the notice door to door. The students' union put up
posters and pamphlets on walls, roadsides and on the rocks.
The Nepalese took the notice as order. Terror ruled.
The rumor was that Nepalese simpletons who were always submissive to orders
started to come down to the plains by bus in flocks. The police crammed them
into trucks, and dropped them at Meghalaya-Assam border.
I was on the horns of dilemma. Had I been single,
there wouldn't be any worry. But Purna and our daughter Gita were with me.
Their safety was my sole concern. Here and there, in the neighbourhood there
were still a few Nepalese households left.
The mine was almost closed, as the Nepalese working
in this mine were dispersed. Who else would slice the black squeezing into the
dark abyss? Some contractors were assuring the Nepalese laborers, "Nothing
will happen to us. Don't go away. Come to work."
I hadn't been to work for two days. I had made up my
mind to take Purna and Gita to Sheillong to safety in a day or two.
One evening as usual I went to the marketplace. The
remaining few Nepalese fellows were chatting away their vexes and woes. All had
the same worry: terror. I realized I'd lost myself in the chat for a pretty
long time. My heart started to pound hard. I rushed back home.
The atmosphere at home shocked me. My trepidation
had come true. Gita was wailing, sitting at the verandah. There was no sign of
Purna. The neighbourhood was deadly silent, no soul was seen around.
I could learn this from Gita: some policemen came on
a van. They forced all Nepalese in the vicinity get into the van. Purna
protested vehemently, explaining that the head of the family had been out, but
nobody heard her. They put both Gita and Purna into the vehicle. When it was
time to move, nobody knows what occurred to them they released Gita. "You
will come with your father. Somehow I'll reach Silliguri and wait there. For
you both...." Purna hardly had time to speak this and the vehicle moved
off.
I couldn't hold myself in to imagine Purna's agony.
Tears gushed out. Moans and sobs non-stop. Gita went on howling clinging fast
on me. Afterwards, I hardened my heart and comforted her, "No cry chhori[34].
We'll catch her up tomorrow. We'll set off at first light."
Gita refused to eat. As for me, food was the last
thing I wished for. I consoled and reassured her and could bring her go to
sleep. I stuffed all the clothes and trifles into a tankard. I tied to my waist
whatever rupees I had, and then laid beside Gita- waiting for the next morning.
It must have been around midnight, somebody banged
on the door violently. I kept listening in an awful silence. Now the door could
break down I calculated. "Who's there?" I roared twice or so. No
answer. They kept on hammering at it. Now the door couldn't hold any more I
reckoned and I produced my khukuri[35]
from under my pillow. I gripped the bare khukuri at my right hand and unbolted
the door. "Who's there? Khabardar[36]!"
I raised my khukuri. They were two ruffians in the name of the students' union.
They lurched behind at the sight of my khukuri. But like a thunderbolt somebody
from behind charged a lathi[37]
on my hand. The khukuri fell to the floor. Another lathi fell upon my head.
More two ruffians had been able to break the backdoor and had entered. I fought
hard. But what could be done with the four of them? They tied up my arms at the
back and brought me under.
Gita had been looking for a chance. She fetched a
lathi and charged at the two of their noddles. Both ruffians staggered out of
the door. But the other two grabbed by her arms and dragged her out through the
back door. Outside, I was destined to hear her heart-rending shrieks. I tried
every effort to free myself, but in vain. Gradually I fainted. I was shocked
more of mental than physical pain.
When I regained consciousness a Nepalese young man
was sprinkling water on my face. He had undone my ties. Clothes, bedding, pots
and pans, cutlery and the tankard and the money I had tied to my waist were
gone. And there was no trace of Gita…….
Now I can't tell my story any further. Only this
much …. hajur! The fresh wound of torturous separation from my daughter drove
me almost crazy. For three days I desperately searched for her in Khelerihat. I
ran everywhere frantically. Nothing could be traced. A Khasia boy I knew said,
"The police dumped your daughter in a truck and carried to Guwahati."
In a couple of days, somehow I became able to arrive here. It's already four
days I've been here. Bus terminus, railway station, dharmasalas[38],
and the offices of Nepalese: I searched thoroughly everywhere. Nothing dug up.
Probably I mistook her to be my Gita. Then, who's the woman assuming to be her
mother? Seems I've lost balance of my mind. How can two people appear exactly
alike?
He concludes his narrative with a deep sigh. To me,
his story is a mere story, an enigma. But the expressions are not out of the
old man's mind; they are the laments of his aching heart, a call for truth.
"Now what are you going to do? Your Purna might
have reached Silliguri or Kakarbhita by now. Most possibly your daughter too
has reached there. Most of the ones carried by trucks are already out
there," I say.
"Yes, hajur. Now I too feel like heading for
there. If only I had got the bus fare!"
Now I'm entangled into a new problem. How to manage
the bus fare for this old man? One of my minds says, "Leave him here, and
run home. Let him fend for himself. There are innumerable of his kind in this
world. How many can be taken care of?"
But the other mind stops me. Leaving the old man
there I go home. I procure a hundred-rupee note form my almirah and then
return immediately. The old man is now missing. I keep looking around. I
discover him where he had been surrounded with a crowd in the morning but the
girl and her mother are no more there. The man is standing, wonderstruck.
"Now don't fall into illusion. The girl is not
your daughter. She was a Bengali girl. Catch a bus for Silliguri this evening.
Have this money." I put the hundred-rupee note in his hand. Those listless
eyes now beam with gratitude. I take leave of him.
In the night, after I've done all my duties of the
day I sit to put down today's account on pages of a diary. In the meantime, I
see what I've written, "Yes, man should self-contemplate, he should
self-develop. Man should know man. He shouldn't embrace beastly violence. He is
not a material that can be restricted with a string of racism; he is not a
sheep or goat that can be restrained by a circle of fences. Man is not foe of
man. Rather, he's brother. He's not a flame of violence; rather, he's a
soothing balm of love. This is self-development. The distance between you
and me will erase. One soul will definitely understand the other soul.
The disparity between yours and mine will eliminate. Both will
enjoy the right to life. The fundamental mantra should be this..."
I read after I've written up; I feel I've written
for no sake. This is a stuff written in diaries. This is purely a theory in
books; a stage declamation; a hypothesis in newspapers and journals. Truth is
the one that is found in real life; the one that we undergo; the one that we
bitterly experiences. We live by killing others. We fill ourselves by emptying
others. Tramping on humanity, we exalt the slogan of humanism to the skies.
5. TEN
YEARS' PENANCE
A steel factory in Tatanagar, Jamshedpur. The night
is illuminated with electric lamps. He's slowly walking. From the quarters
provided by the company towards gate number six. His duty is always at this
gate. In the day, in the night, and in the morning he's been waiting these
three shifts in turn at this gate for the last ten years. In the depth of these
ten years he's been burying his bitter past and he's been almost successful in
doing so. But this morning somebody has peeped in his past and unfolded it. The
string of his past that once he had snapped and rid himself of has now come up
to entwine round his arms with a stronger vigour. This string tries to refill
the gap of those ten years and tries to bring his life back. Now he is in a
quandary. The tussle between suspicion and truth continues within.
He has covered one and half a kilometer in this
mental strain. He finds himself at Gate Number Six. It's only a few minutes to
ten. His duty starts at ten. By now he has already taken charge from his
colleague. Now it's his shift till six in the morning. His fellow worker would
then arrive to be in the duty.
His mental conflict resumes as he perches on a stool
by the gate. One by one he analyses whatever took place this morning. The
incidents of the morning replay on his inner screen.
……
He had slept till late in the morning. This was so
because it had almost been eleven in the night by the time he'd arrived home
after duty. It was well after
He got up and placed some water on the kerosene
stove first. The water boiled; meanwhile he brushed his teeth and washed his
face and limbs. He brewed tea and drank. He rinsed a handful of dal with
a little hot water and put it on the stove. He decided to carry out all his
morning chores and do personal cleanliness while the dal was boiling.
Just then he heard someone call out from outside the
door. 'Is this Ganesh Man's rented room?' A middle-aged man appeared at the
doorway. By him was standing a nine-or-ten-year-old boy. He was in a sporting
T-shirt, baggy trousers and Chinese leather shoes. A small plastic bag was
hanging on his shoulders. The boy was fair-complexioned, delicate and cute
little bloom. He searched for some blurred familiar image in the boy's
features. He thought he had seen him somewhere sometimes.
For long he weighed up staring at both strangers;
and drawled, 'Yes. Who are you looking for?'
'For you, for sure! Aren't you Ganesh Man himself?'
The visitor spoke.
'Yes, I am. Come in.....' A reflection of
quizzicality spread in his face.
'Come on, boy!' The visitor entered and seated
himself on one of the two steel stools, and motioned to the boy to sit down on
the next one.
After a while he gave way to words, 'I'm from
Khasiya Hills, to hand this boy over to you. Seems you don't have the knowledge
of this boy! This is your son. You disowned your wife; you shouldn't disown
your own son, should you?'
Baffled with the visitor's words, he raised his question,
'How come is this never-seen, never-heard-of, and never known boy my son?'
'Lo! He is Maili Newarni's son, isn't he then yours
too? She is only your wife so far!' The visitor put his argument forward.
The visitor's remarks took him to float in the sea
of indecision. He faltered, 'Can a whore be anyone's wife? I did wholeheartedly
believe her to be mine but who knows how many men she had? It's already been
ten years since I left her. In these ten years nobody can tell how many
husbands she had.'
'But to the best our knowledge, she has no affairs
with anybody else. We don't know much of her before you took her your wife, but
since you left she is staunchly faithful to you. Nobody has dared to raise
suspicion against her. She has somehow managed to make ends meet. She delivered
the child, reared and has made this big. But now this boy too should know who
his father is. One needs a father's support. One mustn't go posthumous while
his father is living somewhere else. That's why she discovered your whereabouts
and has sent him. Oh, boy! Binod! This very man fathers you! Go and bow down to
his feet.'
The boy stood up and stooped to bow. He shoved
himself behind and said, 'All right….. That's beyond need….'
His visitor didn't wait for his responses. He resumed-
'I've handed him over. Mission is accomplished. Right henceforth I set off for
the hills. I've got to catch the train to Gorakhpur; so I'm off now. This is
your son. Bring up, take care of him, and make a man of him. If you can, bring
the boy's mother, too. She too knows you haven't remarried. She's kept waiting
for you all these ten years. Even if she had blundered any, she has done a
thorough remorse by this persevering wait. A letter she's written is in his
pocket. Please go through it. If you are not satisfied, please manage to return
the boy to her. If she could bring up this big since conception on her own– now
the boy can be a good assistance– she will more comfortably raise him further.'
The man turned to the boy and said in the same
uninterrupted flow, 'Now, remain here, will you?' Write a letter to your
mother. I'm off.' The man hastened out.
He was at a fix. He was taken aback when realized
his folly only after the man was gone– he should have senses to ask him to eat
and then go.
He saw the boy was heavy-heartedly watching the man
go away. Now he was filled with compassion for the boy.
'This must be my own son. Why should she send him to
me otherwise? Who finds one's own children a burden?' he weighed the situation.
And then he inquired about many different persons–
about himself, and about the mother. He learned a lot through the boy's lips.
He read the letter as well. The boy's name was Binod. He read in a Nepali
school in Sheillong. The mother met expenses from the meager earnings of the same
little betel stall. She kept telling Binod, 'Your father left before you were
born. We'll search for him when you are big.' And when the time was ripe and
favorable she'd sent him with the man. The mother had cried her heart out when
he was leaving for here.
The unbeguiling looks, humble manners and speech,
and everything about the boy produced a kind of magnetism in his heart. The
inner self accepted the boy as his own son but his mind argued- 'How could he be
my son? Women intrigue a myriad webs and scheme unfathomable ruses. Even the
scriptures call female morality in question. Once I was trapped into the
frailty's coo and woo and could somehow escape. Now I must be on my guard. I
must not be bewitched. Maybe she failed to harpoon a swain and now tries her
luck at me once again.'
Laden with this conflict, he got the boy bathe; he
fed with great care and warmth and had him sleep on his own bed. Exhausted by
the long train travel, the boy slept like a log in the daytime. In the evening
after supper he instructed and comforted him. 'Sleep confidently. There's
nothing to be afraid of here. People are all around.' And then he came to work.
He raises himself from the stool he is sitting on
and makes a circle round it. There swell all sorts of waves in his heart and
then recede again as those in the sea.
Now he comes to the open restroom meant for the
security guards. He lies down with his uniform and boots on on the long bench
there. Once again he starts to delve into his past. The stream of those
ten-year-old incidents comes into the screen of his memory one after the other.
He tries to remember them in a chronological order.
In those days he was employed in a bank in Khasia
Hills, Sheillong. He used to escort the bank vehicle while carrying money to
and from the treasury. For the rest of the day his job was to sit on a stool at
the main gate; a double-barrel gun on his shoulder. At times he would come out
to enjoy guwa-betel at the footpath
near the bank, his gun still hanging on his shoulders. He was drawn more to the
beauty selling it than to the guwa-betel itself. Everyone called her Maili
Newarni[39].
This Maili Newarni had beauty, youthful hue and feminine charm profusely. She
was around twenty-one.
She had occupied a small corner by the wall of the
bank at the footpath to set up her shop. Who would call it a shop really? A
small box-like almirah, having two parts: on the lower part, one face was open
and glass was fixed to the other face. On the upper one, the brim was bordered
with wood. Toffees, chocolate bars, small packets of biscuits and gram bhujiya in a few glass jars in the lower
part. On a large plate, neatly folded betel leaves seasoned with lime and
neatly pared guwas cut into fourths
would be displayed on the upper part. Eight or nine packets of cigarettes, a
few bundles of biris[40]
and a few match-boxes: this was all her shop. When it drizzled, she would cover
the almirah with a piece of raincoat and she herself would hold an umbrella;
but the shop would shift to the porch of the bank during a heavy rain.
Earlier, Maili Newarni used to live at some relative
of hers somewhere at Jhalupara. Her box-like almirah would remain at a corner
at the rear of the bank building after her shop closed. She would wrap up all
her 'merchandise' in a pack and carry home. She would bring them back next
morning, bring the almirah to the footpath and open her shop.
Nandalal Baje[41]
had made a hut behind the bank house. Later on she started to live there as a
tenant. There were two rooms for the bank security guards. He used to live in
one of them and in the other one Nandalal Baje himself lived with his wife and
children. Baje had extended a single-slope roof and added a narrow makeshift
room against a wall of his room. Maili Newarni had moved to that very room.
Baje too worked in the bank. He was saintly and lived an ascetic life with his
family. Maili Newarni found strong support and protection. Baje behaved as if
she were his own daughter.
Maili Newarni was not rich only in external beauty
but her inner charm and womanly virtues also went in equal proportion. He was
inwardly fascinated by her humble manners, golden tongue and gentle smile, too.
When somebody cracked a joke, Maili Newarni would simply disseminate a faint smile.
This smile also had promoted sale in her shop.
'Baje! Who on earth can this Maili Newarni be?' he
asked Nandalal one day.
'A fair-complexioned pretty, full-bloom damsel;
you've been noticing her, I think?' Baje's quite senior to him; he treats him
as a younger brother.
'I mean where she's from, why she is living here
alone this way, whether she has relatives or not, where her natal home or the
home by marriage is; I was asking these to be clear of. I too see she's a
beauty thing, don't I? He reiterates his queries.
'She is a Manipuri girl. Her parents had married her
off to a policeman from Kohima, Naga Hills. She left her man because of some
discordance and came to a relative here at Jhalupara. She made up her mind
never to return and now she is running the shop for a living'' Baje explained.
'Did she leave her man or he left her?'
'It's much the same, isn't it? Either way it's a
desertion.' Baje pauses briefly before continuing, 'All the same, the girl has
studied up to the sixth grade. She still reads books until late at night. She
helps my children study in the evenings. Impeccable behaviour. The girl is
immeasurably good. But, boy, she is not your match. She is a Newar girl, and
you are a Chhetri's son.'
'If hearts agree, can't caste barriers be crossed
over?' He makes his point.
'Yes, it can be. Caste consideration doesn't count
much these days. What one aspires after is a woman's considerate attitude and
affectionate ways.'
'To speak my mind, she is everything one could wish
for,' he stumbles.
'I'll convey your fancy. Won't that do? Inwardly she
has given her heart to you,' Baje concludes.
'But what if her husband appears in the scene,
searching for her?'
'He won't, why will he? He can't wreak the slightest
of vengeance even if he comes. She is already discarded by him. Moreover, jari[42]
is nothing new among us Nepalese.'
And then one day Baje himself takes both of them to
the Mahadev Khola and performs marriage rituals calling on gods to witness. Two
spirits unify. Maili brings spring to his dull life.
But … One day there appears a crack in their unified
spirits. One evening when Sheillong is damped with a biting wind he returns
home from somewhere away. He finds his wife conversing with a Sikh Punjabi in
privacy. No sooner the turbaned Punjabi sees him than rushes out of the room,
and Maili is scared to death. No coaxing and coercion produces more than 'He is
an old acquaintance' out of her lips. But suspicion fills his heart.
From Nandalal Baje's wife he learns that the Punjabi
was seen twice or thrice earlier, too. Maili speaks with him in a subdued
voice. They have noticed her sob in front of him once or twice. What they
talked about they don't know, nor has Maili ever made any mention of it.
Now the suspicion grows stronger. The rift goes
deeper and wider. Meanwhile, he learns from a Nepalese who came from Kohima
that once a Punjabi had kept his wife for two or three months. And then she had
fled. Now he had come to know she was here. The Punjabi had made a thorough
search everywhere.
He is straightforward by nature. He esteems honesty.
Straightforwards are blinkered as well. They can't tolerate others' crafty
acts.
He can't tolerate a wife with so much scandal
smeared on her. He decides to disown Maili.
He tells her, 'You are a fallen woman. One who sells
body sells the heart as well. You have deceived me. From now on I've nothing to
do with you'
Maili speaks timidly, 'Can't I speak? Hajur, please
listen to my clarification as well. Whatever we hear or see is not all truth.
One's eyes and ears, too, are often deceived.
'It's too late for clarification and hearing. This
truth should have been revealed prior to our getting into the wedlock. After
all, you are a woman of shattered fidelity already. Your fabrication is fully
disclosed. The connection between man and woman always stands on truth. But you
have poured venom into our life to start with. No trust on you any more.
He pours this out and withdraws from there. Then he
resigns from his job in the bank and hits the road to Tatanagar, Backed by a
friend there. Thus he dumps her.
But in these ten years he has no peace of mind.
Although he has deserted Maili, he's not been able to abandon her. Although he
has got rid of her he has not been able to dismiss her memory. His inside is
profoundly tormented with the thoughts of double crosses on one hand, on the
other hand warm moments with her break his heart. A deep wound at heart, he is
somehow dragging himself along.
It is well past midnight. He looks at his watch. The
hour hand is between twelve and one and the minute hand is at seven. Once again
he raises himself from his place and makes his rounds and then resumes his rest
on the bench. Maili's letter strikes him. He had hardly scurried through it
before, though. So, her produces it out of his pocket and attempts to read it
in a leisurely pace in the lamplight.
My
swami, my Prince!
This
woman prostrates at your feet everyday.
Today, after these
many years I am sending Son along with this letter. I could trace your address
a few years back, yet I didn't send any letter. The reason is Son was not yet
big enough to deprive of his mother's lap. The time was not yet ripe enough to
give him in his father's custody. I being a disowned woman discarded by one's
own husband, whatever message could I have to write to you?
Today Binod has
stepped into his tenth year. I've accomplished my duties as a mother- I've
raised him with the utmost care, protection, affection and love. Now he seeks
his father's shelter. A father has duty to prepare his child for the struggle
in life providing him with good education and guidance. Therefore I've sent you
our Binod.
You don't need
to doubt about Binod being your son. When you left me I was two months gone. I
suspected of it then, but I wasn't much sure. Fallen woman I maybe, but your
blood flows in him; he can't be fallen. As for me, the circumstances defiled
me. My greatest defect was not to reveal the truth to you; and for the last ten
years I've been doing penance for the same. And I know I've to carry it on for
the rest of my life. Again and again I had attempted to lay everything in front
of you but a fear to be deprived of your love stopped me. However, whatever I
feared most struck me.
I'm a daughter
of an ordinary farmer who kept cows. My mother died early and I was brought up
by my stepmother. It is natural that I was very shabbily treated; she had her
own children. My parents married me away to a policeman from Kohima when I was
just sixteen. I was married; yet I never slept with that husband of mine.
After the ritual
of bringing the bride back to my father's home my so-called husband never made
any inquiries about me. Years rolled on. Here, stepmother's harassment was on
the increase. A woman develops more self respect after she bears vermilion on
the parting of her hair. My self-esteem couldn't bear the insult by my maiti[43].
I figured- if my man doesn't make any inquiries, what's wrong in going me on my
own? What could be the objection to go to one's husband?
Early one
morning I caught a bus for Kohima. I could discover the whereabouts of my
husband. I came to know he was already transferred to a place called
Makokchung. I could also learn that he had kept a local Naga woman. I was
heartbroken, and turned about to the bus station. The bus for Manipur had
already left. Now I was at my wit's end. I couldn't decide what I should do. A
Sikh Punjabi was with a jeep. 'I'm going to Manipur. Get into my jeep. I will
take you there,' he offered me a lift. I had no option other than to take risk.
I gathered my courage and got into his vehicle. There were two other men from
Manipur with us.
It was quite
dark when we arrived at Manwa some halfway to Manipur. The two men got off
there. The Punjabi worked there in Manwa. He took his jeep to his tenement, and
he said to me, 'Now it is late night. The road is very risky. Pass this night
here. We'll go at dawn.'
There was no way
out but to trust him. I tried to suppress overwhelming fears with the weight of
trust. But is there a woman whose trust has survived the predicaments like that
of mine? He stabbed me in the back. The Punjabi devastated me. I was raped that
very night…. A disgrace fell upon my victimized life; I had lost my virginity.
Next morning the
Punjabi assured me he would keep me as his wife. I, too, surrounded by the
circumstances, consoling myself that that was my destiny, gave in. Making ends meet
was no problem. He did love me, really.
But sensuality
was stronger than love in him. He cared more for body than heart. His sexual
thirst would never quench. He'd come to his senses only in the daytime, in the
night he used to stuff all senses into the wine bottle and seal it up.
My life was
growing more and more cumbersome. I now took fright at the sight of him. I made
up my mind to escape from that hell.
One day when the
Punjabi was away I caught a bus to Dimmapur. I arrived at Dimmapur at evening. I
then took the train to Guwahati. At morning I was already at Guwahati.
I knew one of my
uncles by Father's side lived with his family in Jhalupara, Sheillong. The
uncle frequently visited us at Manipur. I headed for Sheillong.
I got at the
uncle's and got a shelter there. But his earnings was scanty and the family
large. I felt it wouldn't be fair to be his burden for long. I tried my luck at
the trade of guwa-betel with help and suggestion of a well-wisher. I could make
a living. The rest you know already.
I didn't let out
about my tarnish; it was not necessary. In search of me, he appeared in
Sheillong, too. He saw me twice or thrice at our very room as well. You caught
at it once. He wanted me to return to him. He promised he would add happiness
to my life. I begged him not to meddle with my present life and to stay clear
of my life. After you abandoned me, he made one more visit. Probably I was
possessed by Kali[44],
I pounced at him with a khukuri at my hand. He fled. Since then he has not made
appearance.
It is true I was
bebauched before I came to your life, my body was not immaculate. But you too
hadn't embraced me as a virgin. You knew well that I was ritually somebody
else's wife. The difference is just this: I wasn't deflowered by my ritual
husband. It was by a robber, with force.
I believe a
woman's fidelity dwells in the soul. A whore who sells her own flesh for a
living, too, sacrifices her heart whom she has heartily wanted to. Since we
met, my body, heart and soul are devoted to you and until circumstances compel
to act otherwise, they will firmly remain yours.
I don't think
all this stuff has any meaning any more. It may only provoke you. My dreams
would materialize if my Binod could enjoy his father's total love and become a
man; my ten years' penance would have meaning. That's all.
Your luckless
Maili
Her moving letter carried him. He spoke within
himself, 'My Maili! You are mine. I'm soon coming to meet you.' And then again
he thought otherwise, 'No, this, too, can be another of her feminine tricks.
The witch sends her son with this billet-doux, maybe it's her new bait to trap
me.'
He got to his feet and made around outside and
returned to stretch himself out on the bench. He dozed off and then fell asleep
for a moment. He woke with a start to find the eastern patch of sky crimsoned,
overpowering the electric lights. Soon the whole sky was brightened.
In a while Old Gurung arrived to take his shift,
saying, 'How's the news, Ganesh Mukhiya[45]?'
This Old Gurung was an army pensioner; he joined this factory when he'd left
the force.
He brought two tumblerfuls of tea from the canteen.
He poured all his past and his inner turbulence to Old Gurung over the tea, and
asked for suggestion.
After he'd heard everything, Old Gurung said,, 'Oh
Mukhuya! Should one fry one's heart and fret in this two-day life? Go, bring
your family now. For the boy's sake, too, you must bring her.'
'But that fallen woman…! How can I be sure of this
boy being my own son?' He brought his disbelief forth.
'Why harbour suspicion about the son being yours?
You took the boy's mother up almost a year after her affairs with the Punjabi.
Afterwards, nothing gives inkling that she had affairs with anybody else. As
for her being a fallen woman, waiting for you all these ten years with your son
in her lap is practically impossible for an ordinary woman. We must call her a
Sati[46].
If one tries to find fault, even Kunti who designed the Mahabharata had some
blemish, Mukhiyha.'
'She told lies to me. She should have disclosed the
truth to me beforehand. This only is my grievance.
There too the reason is the love for you. Both of
you are to blame, Mukhiya. Her mistake was that she kept the truth under cover,
not to try to digest the facts was yours. You both suffered ten years'
infliction for that. Both of your hearts are cleansed with ten years' penance.
Now it's high time you met, Mukhiya. Your hearts are already together, just go
and meet her.'
He brought his thoughts back to Binod, and rushed to
his quarters. He found Binod sobbing alone. As soon as he saw him he burst into
tears-
'I want to go to Mother….'
He kissed away his tears and said, 'Yes, we'll go to
meet your mother right tomorrow. We will bring her here.'
Both sunshine and rainfall gleamed in Binod's face.
………
6. ONE OF THEM MUST BE TRUE
I know a devotee. He prays everyday. You can call
him a pujari[47]
of a temple, a priest of a church, a monk of a monastery or a mullah of a
mosque. Connected to all these faiths and worshipper of all these religions, he
is a man of queer behavior. He has a separate prayer room in his home. On the
eastern wall, picture of Laxmi-Narayan, Shiva-Parvati, Ganesh and some other
deities are hung. He has a shaligram[48],
a holy conch, a bell, panchapatra[49],
an aarti thali[50]
and every necessity for worship.
On the northern wall there is a portrait of Lord
Buddha in a gilded frame. On the southern wall is the Cross. You can see
burning candles beside it. Huge photographs of the minarets in Mecca and
Medina, and the Crescent decorate the western wall. A volume of the Koran too
lies there.
Facing east, the devotee worships the Hindu gods and
goddesses in the morning. He prays, sings hymns and stotras[51],
blows the conch, and makes offerings of water to shaligram. He then
burns incenses to the pictures of the deities. In the daytime he's a devout
Christian, the room becomes a church. He burns candles and prays to Christ.
While the sun is setting, one finds him facing westward and articulating the namaz.
In the night he worships Lord Buddha. He chants Buddhists' mantras: Buddham
sharanam gachchhami; Dhammam sharanam gachchhami (I yield to the Buddha; I
yield to the Dharma).
I am delighted, and awed too, to see his peculiar
faith in faiths. Whenever I drop in on him I pass remarks on his prayer room.
"Your faith and reverence to all religions are
exemplary. Thus you've introduced benevolence by following all the creeds.
You've shown true path to humanity. All strives, battles and wars have almost
always purely occurred because of blind faiths. We hail our own religion as the
one and only best, and flay others'. The contest to 'My faith is the sublime
and the true' has given rise to appalling wars, and consequently humanity is
devastated at times. You've opened up a path of harmony to the world. If
everybody practises the deference to religions the way you've shown, the
foundation of differences will be eliminated.
The devotee simply beams; he doesn't say a word. To
me, even his beam becomes a mystery.
Once I happen to repeat my same old praises to his
religionism. He doesn't beam this time.
He says, "See, I'm swollen with your admiration
but the sixth sense constantly says singing my praises myself is
groundless."
"Why say so?"
"I'm neither doing all this out of faith in
these religions, nor for harmony of humanity. Rather it is out of my silly
selfishness. I can't believe in any of them, to be frank."
"What selfishness?"
"I studied, pondered over and meditated upon;
but couldn't get at a conclusion which religion is the true and who is the real
god. In the crowd of so many sects and creeds, my belief was a crow in the fog.
Therefore I decided, "Go on observing all, singing all and worshipping
all. One or the other must be true. I'll have the share of merit whichever the
truth may be. If all are true, I'll naturally accumulate a horde of merit or
dharma, won't I?"
I'm speechless.
.................
7. THROUGH
THOSE TEN STATIONS
I'd
better start to recount this episode with 'Long, long ago...' as grandmother's
tale; it's quite an old story that's why. The East–West Highway was not yet
constructed. One had to go from one part of the country to the other by way of
the Indian land. One had to go by Tribhuwan Rajpath and through Birgunj and Raxaul
if he wanted to go to Kakarbhitta from Kathmandu.
I was hanging about at the railway platform of
Raxaul station. The passenger train to Samastipur had already left. If only
they hadn't delayed me at Birgunj custom's office, I'd be able to catch it. I
was fretting. An unavoidable, tedious wait for the whole night and many hours
tomorrow lay ahead of me. To add to my misfortunes, I was all alone. But I spoke
to myself, 'Why complain about this journey from Kathmandu to Guwahati when one
doesn't find a friend good enough in the journey of one's entire life? Tagore's
two oft- quoted lines came to my mind:
'If nobody accompanies
you,
Walk alone, walk alone,
walk alone…'
This consoled me a little. The shrill scream of the
coolies at the platform irritated me. I scanned about. Not a soul appeared
trustworthy.
Two policemen came closer and asked me to lay open
my suitcase. Grudging, I opened and showed it to them, I didn't want to fall
into argument and interrogation. There were some dresses, notebooks and loose
sheets of paper in it.
'What paper are these?' the police officer inquired.
'I have a habit of writing. They are my scribbles.'
'I see! So you are a poet?' As if to be a poet is a
serious offence, he scoffed at me. I closed my suitcase; I didn't make a reply.
'Baboo, are you a Nepalese?' a voice caught my
attention.
I turned to the direction of the voice. A figure
clad in Nepalese cap, a shirt and an untidy suruwal[52]
presented himself.
'Yes, I am.' I made a short reply.
'Oh! How far are you going, Baboo[53]?'
He showed interest in me.
'Quite far, really, but for now I'm going to
Samastipur. I've just missed the train.'
'Oh, the train to Samastipur is due to arrive only
tomorrow afternoon. You'd better take one to Darbhanga tonight, rather than
pass a long dull night here. You can easily catch one of them to Samastipur
from there.
'Is it so? I don't know a thing. I've never made a
journey on this route before'.
'That is better, Baboo. Yes. I'm going up to
Sitamadhi. We can be together for ten stations. Rather give me the fare so that
I can buy you a ticket.'
I was on my guard now. One is liable to come across
types of tricksters on a journey like this. 'Who knows if this too is one of
them? How can one trust a stranger here?'
It seemed he sensed my doubts, 'One must stand in
queue for tickets.' He spoke, 'I'll do it. You'll mind your belongings. When
it's my turn in the queue, you can hand me the money.'
He didn't wait for my response. Instead he rushed to
the ticket-house. 'Pooh! What a distrust! He was an honest man!' I reproached
myself.
'But who knows?' My thoughts tilted to other side.
'How can one put trust in a stranger so headlong?'
Bewildered, I squatted there. A kind of uneasiness
surged in me. Now I sat carelessly on my hold-all. Several minutes passed. I felt
like glancing at the ticket-house, but daren't leave my belongings unattended
there. Dwelling upon multiple thoughts I directed my steps slowly towards the
first-class waiting room, my suitcase in one hand and bedding in the other. I
entered the room, put my belongings in a corner and then for some time stretched
myself out on an armchair.
'Perhaps it's his turn by now,' I got out of the
room and dragged my feet towards the ticket-house. I lost hope; the queue was
pretty long. My eyes looked for the familiar face in the row. I heard a call
from near the counter, 'Baboo, please give me the money, it's about my turn!'
Sure enough, he was behind just two others. I
produced a ten-rupee note out of my pocket and gave him. Soon, he placed a
ticket and a few one-rupee notes into my hand. He said, 'I bought you the
ticket for all the way to Samastipur. You don't have to take trouble buying
another one at Darbhanga.'
We were at the platform waiting for the train. It
pulled in shortly afterwards. It was not so much crowded; it was a passenger
train. He got on the carriage holding my bedding and suitcase. I followed him.
He put my belongings up above and wiped the seat below with his hands and
almost ordered me to sit there. He sat beside me. Soon scores of Madise[54]
swarm into the compartment, but my companion shoved them off. We sat pretty
comfortably. The locomotive picked up its speed slowly.
'Where are you going after Samastipur, Baboo?' he
inquired.
'I'm heading towards Guwahati, Assam.'
'If so, you'd better first go up to Barauni from
Samastipur, Baboo. You can catch the Assam Mail from there.'
'Let's see, whatever seems comfortable.'
'Where are you from?'
'Kathmandu.'
'I see. So your home is in Kathmandu, Baboo?'
'No. It's in Assam. I'd been to Kathmandu for a
visit.'
Silence reigned for quite some time. The Madises
sitting by started dozing off. The carriage was monotonously racing; tearing
the darkness.
'Where are you going from Sitamadhi?' I bring forth
a question to break the silence.
'I'm going to Janakpur, in the Kingdom of Nepal. I'm
a peasant in a small village there, renting a small farmland out at half the
crop. Wife, two daughters, a son and myself- we are a family of five. He gave
more than what I'd asked for.
Then again another stretch of silence prevailed.
'What can be done, Baboo? Seems I'm destined to a
perennial suffering. Before, I'd lived in the northern Assam for many years. I
had been able to earn a bit of money by planting sugarcane, too. I don't know
why, but it occurred to me that I should take all my property and settle
somewhere in the plains of Nepal. I thought of buying a homestead and secure my
family. I went into the eastern plains. But I was beguiled into offering every
rupee I had earned to a swindler and got my fingers burnt. One can't know a
man.'
'Yes? How come you lost your property?'
'What to talk of the brokers in the plains, Baboo?
They are downright cheats. What's the use counting those Nepalese as our own
cousins? I went there; it was my homeland, therefore. But there they lie in
wait at the passes, spying on a body that passes with a bundle and defraud him
of it. A cunning cheat feigned help to buy a plot of land. I pinned my faith to
him. I handed all my cash over to him. But why should he buy me a farm? He
stripped me and then made good his escape.
'How did you happen to place your purse at his
disposal just because he promised he'd help you buy a farm? You should have had
a look, measured the land and after the registration in your name should you
have paid the money.'
'I'm straightforward in dealing. He was able to stab
me in the back. Never mind, the wolf in the sheep's clothing robbed me of my
chance; he can't rob my stars. I'm somehow able to win two meals for my family
here near Janakpur now.'
'Didn't you go back to Assam again?'
'No, I didn't, Baboo. It dawned on me: if foreigners
are coming into our country and earning well, why can't we make ends meet? One
does have to sweat blood wherever one goes. There are good people and bad ones
everywhere. In the Terai one stripped me thus, and in the same Terai near
Janakpur another showed a matchless generosity. He offered me a house, domestic
expenses and a piece of land to till at half the crop rent. What more could one
wish for?'
We were about to arrive at Sitamadhi station,
perhaps. He said, 'Well, then, Baboo, I must get off at the next station. Wish
you a safe journey. Mind your belongings. Lifting luggage is quite frequent
here.'
While through those ten stations he make an
irremovable impression in my heart. Though we were from different places, those
two hours brought us quite close. A human heart touched the other. It's this
affinity of hearts that we are drawn to attachment as if for years.
The train stopped. We heard the clamour of a
station. He said, 'Now, Baboo, farewell. You are alone. Go very cautiously.
Don't trust the coolies. Be careful about the belongings.' His voice was gradually
changing into a snivel. He was now at the platform. He was joining his hands
fixing his eyes on me. In the light of the platform I could see- his eyes were
brimming with tears. The train picked up motion towards its destination,
leaving him there. My eyes, too, moistened all of a sudden.
Since then the time has covered such a long way, so
much water has flown through rivers and springs; the earth has revolved round
the sun twenty-eight times; twenty-eight springs and winters have passed by.
The face encountered only for a short while such long past is not at the back of
my mind now. But each of his affectionate words, warm attachment and the
ineffaceable impression of his regard are engraved deep on my heart. The love
he produced in me through those ten stations is still fresh within. This will
be as fresh to the end of my life; my heart doesn't doubt about it.
8. PURANA
AND PURSUITS
It was a seven-day public Shrimad Bhagawat Purana
oration in the Devi temple premises. I wend my way towards the temple more out
of the sense of responsibility than out of hunger for hearing: my name too is
enlisted in the management committee.
One the way a couple of young people are going a few
steps ahead of me. I can easily say they are going to listen the Purana: the
young woman has a worship plate with flowers and other offerings. I catch up
with them. They are engrossed deep into their own tittle-tattle.
"Bimala, we are not seeing each other for ages.
You are not out these days. For so many days I've returned from Church Park in
frustration" The young man spells his complaints out.
"Mama won't let me out. Somehow I'm out today
in the pretext of attending the Purana," the girl explains away.
"So this Purana is a windfall to us. They
commenced it yesterday, for more five days it goes on. Thus for more five days
we can meet."
"Who knows? Maybe I'll be allowed or maybe not.
Mother is not well. I doubt she'll consent."
"Say the pundits' speeches are very delightful,
and come even if just for a while. Mere a glimpse of you is such a great joy."
Both of them rest in the shade of a banyan tree at
the side of the lane. I proceed.
Further ahead two lads are slowly advancing towards
the Devi temple.
"There are rumors that they have been able to
collect a lot of donation here. Yesterday the prasad was so meager! Just
a few slices of banana, cuts of sugarcane, bits of apple and morsels of cheap
items! What's the use of going to the Purana if such a hell is the case,"
one remarks.
"But today they are planning to cook puri and suji."
"Really! Then let's stay until the prasad
distribution."
"It will be evening by the time they distribute
the prasad after the bhajan[55].
Let's rather go to the cinema. We can return from a metinee show in a fullness
of time." They take the direction to the cinema at the crossroads, and I cross
the road and head for the temple.
Two old men are plodding along.
"Where are you two oldies hobbling together?
You are going to hearken the Purana, I figure?" I open up a conversation
with a jest.
"Oh! Young man, what other vocation can we
pensioners assume? Somehow while away one's days. Listening the Purana yields
twofold benefits: knowing lores and passing one's days." One of them
speaks.
"Undoubtedly, on one hand you are enlightened;
on the other hand you are cleansed of your sins. And thus your day is fared
well. You'll kill three birds with a single stone, won't you?" I say.
"Young man, the Purana is like a huge tree. If
one aspires after twigs to eat, it's at hand, if one has a taste for leaves,
they are there, if one prefers fruits, they too are available. Only a few of us
crave kernel and can attain it. The know-nothings like us can pursue only the
leaves," the old man holds forth.
"What do you mean? How do you eat merely
leaves?" I want to know.
"See, if one is all agog at the pundit's
recital of the interesting lore and anecdotes, that is eating leaves. Whatever
the genuine essence of the Purana, is the real kernel. That, neither these
shallow pundits can expound, nor can we lowbrows comprehend. We are here simply
to while away our day listening to the shlokas[56].
At the gate of the Devi temple, my ears catch words
of two young daughter-in-laws. One has a tête-à-tête with the other: "At
last I'm able to escape from the eternal household chores for a moment today.
Mother-in-law didn't shake her head at my begging to be allowed to attend the
Purana. At home one has to hear the old hen's nags even if one keeps one's nose
to the grindstone night and day."
"So one has! How much to bear only the
entanglements of the household? One needs a brief respite as well, at
times," the other concedes.
I enter the temple. The pundit is preaching on the
importance of giving He is at the Book of Glory of Giving. What merit one
acquires from what giving, what can be the lowest rate of giving for a recital
of the Scriptures; he is presenting a list of them.
I'm curious to know who and who on the management
committee have turned up. I can't see any but two. These two appear in every
celebration and ceremony. Many say, "This is their trade. They not only smack
their chops at the public ceremonies, yajna-Puranas
etc., but also make a good living out of it. Most often they are the ones to
play most active role in the collection of donations.
I'm profoundly disillusioned. "If other members
are not touched by the sense of responsibility, why the hell should I bother?
Everyone has given way to the two who work for some temptation. I'd rather go
home and have a good rest." I think.
I retreat from the Purana congregation slowly. The
punditji's upadesh[57]
is in progress. The loudspeakers are blaring. One can hear from a fairly good
distance. "The donation to the Bhagawat Purana recitals might be one and a
quarter lakh......, but it must be at least one and a quarter
thousand........."
9. THE
FACE IS NOT SHROUDED
The bus that shuttles between forty-six kilometers
of Dharan and Biratnagar is at the end of Dharan bus-station. As if it's about
to move, it is fuming thick through its pipe and roaring monotonously.
Passengers are getting on in ones and twos. From the adjoining ticket counter
the bus conductor is yelling out to them, "Ticket here! Only by
tickets!"
There is another youngster clamouring at the
doorway, "Biratnagar! Itahari! Super express! Leaving in no time! Have
tickets first! Plenty of vacant seats!"
We were going to Biratnagar.
"Will you please go and occupy seats? I'll come
with tickets," said Durga bhai[58].
Whenever I arrive at Dharan, Durga bhai has to spare his two whole days
for me, disregarding all his day-to-day affairs. This is a compulsion: he can't
decline my demand. We are in a knot of love and respect.
I get on the bus and survey the seats.
Handkerchiefs, bags, umbrellas, caps and miscellanies are positioned on the
vacant seats securing against the newcomers. Only one or two places at the rear
bench are available.
It's difficult to reach there as the aisle is heaped
with baskets, sacks stuffed with goods and what not. Nonplussed, I come to a
standstill. " No room?" asks Durga bhai. Finding his way through.
"What can be said, all seats are occupied,"
I blurt out.
"Never mind, it's just up to Itahari. Then
there will be enough space. How far is Biratnagar itself! Only an hour or
so."
Biratnagar is the destination of this bus. The
distance is only that. It returns from there. Our distance is from birth to
death's door. Nobody surely knows in what form we return.
Durga bhai smiles, "Why do you brood only on
the philosophical thoughts these days?"
"The gray hairs I guess. Most of the distance
is covered. It's time to take pains with the beyond."
Now the bus is already jam-packed. Still the
youngster is clamouring, "Biratnagar! Biratnagar! The bus is off...!"
The conductor and the boy force their way into the bus. Giving two whistles,
the conductor pipes up, "Let's move, shall we?" The bus responds with
a slow advance.
Probably because the responsibility of this section
of the road lies on Dharan Municipality there are potholes and pits all over.
The bus almost tumbles and the passengers standing on the aisle find it hard to
manage their balance. It takes fifteen minutes for the bus to struggle out of
the three kilometers. Past Tinkune perhaps Malaya[59]
touches, the road is as smooth as a long wide plank, potholes out of question.
The bus is through Charkose forest and reaches Tarahara in next ten minutes.
There, a few passengers leave but more get in.
A man stands by me. You could guess him to be a
Malaya recruit: somewhat squat but stout, sturdy and bright personality. A
middle-aged man supports a stooped old woman get on the bus.
"Brothers enjoying seats, could anyone please
spare your seat for this doddering old mother? A hundred and ten years old!
Lord Ram!! Just have a darshan[60]
and you are cleansed of a hundred sins. Virtue is its own award but you'd earn
a lot of dharma if you could heartily offer your seat to her. What can I do, I
myself am hanging like a bat. Hey brother there! Could you kindly stand up for
a moment? Let's seat this aged and infirm mother." Pointing at a young man
sitting by him the sturdy soldierly man discourses. Here is a typical of our
hard-heartedness: the seated fellow turns deaf ear to him and gazes out of the
window. After all, the seat was his own.
My mind flies back to the city I'm living in. In
those places men generally provide for the softer sex depending on the age and
health. No one has to produce this elaborate advert for such a helpless elderly
one.
"That is their civility, this very is
ours," I muse.
A woman past the meridian of her life looking like a
Malaya recruit's wife (Look at her elegance and ornamentation!) raises herself
up in a convulsion and snaps, "Hey, mother! Come and sit down here. These
men are females not in sari but in their pantaloons. They can't stand for a
moment on their legs."
Pushing and elbowing everybody, she comes over to
the old woman. She holds the support bars at the roof for balance.
"I'm not wearing pantaloons, didi[61],
mine is a suruwal[62],"
someone barks out from a seat at the rear.
"So you are wearing a suruwal, eh?
Couldn't you find a sari anywhere?" The 'recruit's wife' turns back to
bawl at him.
A Madise happens to step on her foot in the crowd.
"Aiya...! This carcass does kill me! Can he do this to a woman? Can
he?" She breathes fire and brimstone at the Madise.
"No he can't. He can't step on your toes this
way. Now he did this unawares, what can be done? Call him on this Tihar[63],
put Tika[64]
and make him bow down to your feet[65],"
the cheerful 'recruit' laughs out.
"Who gives Tika to his charcoal? Can he trifle
with me? Can he kick me?" The woman had taken a drop possibly; the whole
of her body was teetering.
"Forget it didi. Don't make so much fuss of a
mere touch in the chaos. Rather come and sit here." Probably because his
masculinity is challenged or probably because he sees brute force prevail, a
man gives up his seat to her. Staggering, the 'recruit's wife' reaches the seat
and seats herself. But her abuses are raining down on the Madise.
The aged woman wishes the 'recruit's wife' a good
luck, and takes the seat proffered by her. The man supporting her is now
standing by.
I gaze at the senility's wrinkled and sagged skin in
her face. Thoughts flood in. I contemplate: "All want to live, but death
is inevitable. Death is the most apprehensive to all the living beings. I'm
curious to know how much satisfaction she has for such a long life.
Hesitantly, I broach into conversation,
"Mother, how lucky you are! You have a real long life. How do you
feel?"
"How to say lucky, dear?" I can't walk
without someone else's aid; I can't sleep; for ribs ache and pain. Appetite is
gone. It is better to go before one's limbs are crippled than live this long.
I've seen grandsons, great-grandsons, and great great-grandsons. My only desire
is to leave the world at some shrine. That's the only desire. I'm asking my
grandson to take me out to Banaras right hence if my health permits."
Even though her life is a burden, she's not ready to
face death. There's still a desire in death's disguise, to go on a pilgrimage.
Her desire proves her fear of death. She's looking for some excuses to live on.
The vehicle stops at Itahari. Most of the passengers
get off. The bus is almost empty. Durga bhai and I find seats.
The 'recruit's wife' too makes for the door,
speaking to the old woman, "Now, Mother, do go on. I'm at my
destination." The 'recruit's wife' gets off, staggering. The old woman is
going to Biratnagar. She wants to get examined. The man supporting her is her
grandson. He too finds a place to sit near his grandmother.
Three Tharus[66], a
woman and two men, get on the bus. They occupy seats behind us. There is a
three or four year old boy at the woman's lap. The boy is in filthy
underclothes. The woman is wrapped in a lungi[67]
and her torso is in a soiled and repulsive cloth that must have once been
white. She has somehow managed to obscure her bosom with one end of the 'white'
cloth.
Both Tharu men are in squalid shirts, and dhotis[68]
down to their knees.
One by one a new host of passengers crams into in a
short while. The driver perches on his seat and the vehicle moves on with a
steady whine.
The vehicle stops at Khanar and again at Duhabi.
Many of the passengers get off. It's a market day at Duhabi today, that's why.
Throngs of people flank the road. A few get on and the bus proceeds along.
Midday sun of Asoj[69].
It's quite hot still. I doze off as the cool draught enters the speeding bus. I
am in a state of semi-consciousness, a pleasant feeling. Pleasure is the
absence of consciousness, a state of deep slumber.
All of a sudden I wake up with a start. The two
Tharus sitting behind me are crying out. The woman screams in horror. I can
hear one or two more passengers' expletives.
"Maybe there's an argy-bargy on something. It's
quite commonplace in buses," I reckon and turn myself behind.
The child is stretched. His eyes are fixed. One is
trying to feel the pulse, the other is babbling. He is snapping at the woman
for her silly fears. He's comforting her. He's assuring, "There's nothing
wrong with the child, nothing is going to happen; your anxieties are
baseless." The woman is shaking the child constantly. She's making every
effort to wake him up. She pulls her dirty clothing aside to reveal one of her
breasts and runs the boy's mouth to the nipple, but in vain. The boy's lips
refuse it. They remain wide open.
The child makes one more stretch and seems to be in
a state of eternal composure. How serene! As if he is ridiculing the noisy,
clamorous world.
The woman starts wailing, yet she's rocking the boy.
She's trying hard to bend the stiff legs. She's still clutching at the feeble
straw of hope.
Perhaps the comforting fellow has lost hope; he's
hinting the bus driver to stop.
The bus arrives at Kanchanbari and stops. They get
off. The woman's eyes are in floods of tears. I am observing them. One of the
Tharus is telling her something. She now tries to cover the child's face with
one end of the cloth her body is wrapped in. Here now, she falls into a crisis.
If the deceased child's face is shrouded her unrevealable will reveal, both of
her breasts will disclose. If she veils her privacy, she can't shroud the dead.
It'll be a sheer insolence to the deceased. She is divided. She fluctuates
between the decency of a living and deference to the dying. She tries to have
equilibrium between decency and deference. She tries to find harmony between
life and death. The child lived a brief life of half-nakedness. Who would
complain if all his face were not well covered now? I don't know why, but the
impression of his frozen image is deeply engraved in my heart: half of the face
scantily shrouded. Still, only a vivid picture of the still body comes into my
vision.
The bus proceeds slowly.
"How sad ! The child went right off. They say
they were taking him to the hospital. Fools, they dilly-dally until they run
out of time. What can be done now?" remarks the conductor.
"There is an epidemic in the east these days.
Many children are dying of dysentery and vomiting, they say. They contract
dysentery and start vomiting. Soon there is death." Durga bhai's
explanation.
I look at the old woman. Here, the long journey of a
hundred and ten years' life is still looking for an extension under cover of
pilgrimage. There, a bud of humanity is withered before he could have a glimpse
of life. This one is the mystery of the Niyati[70]
one can't comprehend.
As usual we have planned to have the day's meal at
Sindhi Hotel after we'd finish our mission. But we are feeling low with the
recent incident. Our hunger fades away.
The bus arrives at the terminus. We get off and move
towards our target. Almost three hours pass before we're free of the tasks. Our
hunger is seeking after rice. We catch a bicycle-rickshaw and arrive at Bazaar
Adda, the downtown Biratnagar. Now, we are smacking our lips in the hotel.
We are the same; we are now unaffected; as if the
incident we witnessed earlier is not a real occurrence. Everything around us is
running as usual. I've got in the swing of life customarily as the customary
flow of the world.
Yet, but only at occasions, my memory opens up the
movie pictures. On the screen of my consciousness a host of pictures appear and
vanish. One by one the children, who refuse to undergo the world, soon follow
the nothingness.... And in it appears a shadow, where a living mother's dignity
is almost stripped off in an attempt to shroud a calm, stiff child's face.
..............................
10. GOLD CAGE
Today,
Bhola has decided to bring a change in his schedule. Yesterday he'd heard on
the radio that a great leader equal to a central minister in rank was coming on
a two-day tour to his town today. He has heard the leader's name– there can't
be any mistake, yes, his class fellow's name is Dhirendra– though everybody used
to call him Dhiroo.
Dhiroo
and Bhola used to go to school together. These two were the closest of all the
class-mates. Their houses were on the western end of the village. They walked
to school together, returned home together and played together. Childhood
memories are fondly kept in his heart. How joyful days they were! When the
river flooded and waterholes were full, their routine was affected. At three
when the school ended they didn't return home, they went to the waterholes.
They stripped off, left dresses on the bank and ran down to the water. They returned
home only when darkness fell; and they were awarded reprimand, and sometimes a
good smack, too. Sundays were holidays and they used to enjoy fishing by the
river or waterholes.
He
vividly remembers as if it was just yesterday Dhiroo and he trespassing
Palase's garden and stealing the ripening malbhog bananas. They had eaten two
bunches of half-ripe bananas and hidden the remaining in a bush by the school
building. Next day he'd heard Palase's mother cursing unidentified thieves. The
two boys had been up to her and Dhiroo had asked, 'What's wrong, mother? Whom
are you cursing?' The woman had said, 'Whom shall I ? I am cursing the thieves.
The accursed have stolen all the fruits from a ripening banana tree. '
Dhiroo
had said with feigned innocence, 'Oh! What a bad news! You have been robbed. They
shouldn't have done that. But forget that, mother, they have eaten from only
one tree, the whole garden is still yours. They can't rob you substantially.
The garden will offer you much more. Your curses are not necessary, I guess.'
The
woman was infuriated at his reaction. She'd said, 'Shall I worship a thief,
then? Or are you the thieves? Why are you talking like this?'
Bhola
was brilliant in studies, but Dhiroo always tried to avoid the lessons. He
always helped him to prepare for the exams. Dhiroo thus got through them.
Both
passed the school final. Bhola did better in the exams. His father was, though
fourth class, a government employee in a nearby town. He got admission in a
college in the town. Dhiroo's father was a simple farmer. They had a small land
and small income. Dhiroo didn't wish to go to college for higher studies, nor
could the family support him.
He
remained in the village. He started taking part in the public affairs. He
joined the vigilant group in the village. He became member of the village
development plan and other forums. He supported the village head in many social
issues and helped decisions. He involved himself in the construction works of
roads, streets, bridges and embankments. He became a builder, contractor and
social activist. He became the village panchayat member candidate in the
election. And somehow he was able to win. Soon he became the unanimous leader
of the region.
Time
is never the same. Man's life changes as time flows. The politics was in a
phase of new turn. People were fed up with the arbitrary decisions of the
ruling party. A new political party was emerging: the Republican Forum. Dhiroo
understood the call of the time and joined the new party. He involved himself
actively in it.
Elections
neared. The Republican Forum appeared as a new promise. Dhiroo obtained a
ticket for candidacy for the central representative from his own constituency
without much exertion: it was a new force and traditional political cadres
hadn't yet seen any future through this party. In our country, politics is the
only field where you don't require any qualification.
The
Republican Forum was a wave. People always flow in a wave. A wave flows where
it's low. Dhiroo won the election and became a member of the constituent
assembly. He possessed all the qualities necessary for a political leader: he
was good at servitude, falsehood, craft, hypocrisy, and arrogance.
His
party won majority of seats in the centre. The Forum became the ruling party.
Dhiroo suddenly rose to a central leadership. Fame, prestige, power, wealth,
vehicles, guards and everything arrived at his service. He constructed a modern
house in the town. In a short time he was able to add land, gold and bank
balance in the name of his wife, father, mother, brothers and sisters.
The
same Dhiroo was on a tour to the town as a central leader.
He
had made up his mind to see Dhiroo in the State Guest House. He had decided not
to go to school. He had sent an application to the principal for a day's leave
of absence. He sent away the children who come to his home for private tuition.
Bhola's
life is the same as before. He passed the BA with good marks. And then actions
for looking for jobs, begs and pleads with political leaders, and offerings to
officers: at long last he was able to secure a school teacher's position in
this town. He had to struggle to make ends meet. He's dragging life with
support of earning from private tuition at home.
His
father had been nagging and he got married the year before last year. He has a
son other than the wife in the family. Both parents are in the village since
the father's retirement.
Bhola
gets up early in the morning and takes bath as usual. He wears the best dresses
kept for formal occasions.
'When
are you leaving? Shall I prepare light food or will you eat meal?' His wife had
asked.
'What
light food or meal? Do you think he'll release me until I eat meal with him?
Maybe he'll ask me to stay overnight with him. How can he so easily liberate
me, we are meeting after so many years. I think I should ask him to visit our
home. What a shame, we don't have a single good room for his stay. He's so very
big leader personality! However, he is my childhood buddy.' he'd mumbled in
response.
'Yes,
he should visit us once and talk to these neighbours. How much do they insult
us! The landlord nags us to vacate his house. Let's call him here.' The wife is
satisfied herself.
'He
can't say 'no' to my request. Once he arrives here, these neighbours will
understand themselves. They will surrender to our feet. They know how important
leader he is in the center.'
He
is thrilled at a prospect of Dhiroo's arrival here at his home. When such big
leader arrives at his home, he would be a dignified personality in the
neighbourhood. All relatives and acquaintances will be amazed. The ones who
used to at his back will come to consult him. But if he refuses to come? 'I'm
sorry I'm busy now, I'll surely drop in on you during my next visit.' May be
he'll find some excuses. No, that can't be. He will forget hundreds of
important businesses just to see me. How close we were in childhood! We used to
be glued together all the time. Only a few night hours could separate us. Going
to school together, returning together, swimming in the river together, going
in search of tortoise eggs in the marshes together, and wandering about the
rice fields: how can one forget those days?
'How
savagely will he hug me when he sees me today?' He links his flight of
imagination with the present reality. 'All the people standing around us will
be shocked. I will rise to a grace in the eyes of members of his entourage, the
security personnel and onlookers. The local leaders will respect me. Maybe they
will approach me for favour. Many may come to me asking, 'You are old friend of
Honorable Dhrirendrakumarji; can you please help me out? If only he wrote one
or two lines for me. Could you please recommend?'
He
looks at his watch. 'Oh! I'm almost late. It's visiting hours. If I miss the
time, he may go out.'
He
gets ready in a rush. He shouts to his wife, 'I am off. Getting late! You will
clean the house. Maybe Dhiroo comes later today. It doesn't take long to get
here in a motor vehicle?'
He
saw lines of vehicles in front of the State Guest House. A huge crowd is
waiting. How to find Dhiroo? He walks about for some time. He collects guts to
ask a three-star police officer, 'Where is Dhirendra, the central leader? I
want to see him.'
The
police officer looks at him. He points to a small room and says, 'Please talk
to his personal secretary. He is in that room.'
He
pushes himself through the crowd and somehow he is able to reach the room. A
policeman tries to stop him but he is able to talk to a man sitting on a chair.
He guesses this must be his personal secretary and says, 'I'd like to meet the
leader.'
'Do
you have the appointment letter?' the man asks him.
'What
letter? He is an old school chum of mine. Please send message inside, he'll
come here to greet me.'
The
man gives a chuckle and says, 'You should have applied to the District
Sub-Director and acquired a permission letter if you'd wished to meet him. You
should have known you need an appointment letter.'
I
am not only to see him here. I am going to take him to my home. We are
childhood buddies. Please note my name and just inform him that I have come.'
'You
should understand that leaders of a country are not anybody's friends. They
follow pre-planned programme and timetable. Wherever they are going, the
vigilance party performs a thorough inspection of the location before their
arrival; we have to take necessary security measures. We have to report to the
high command and have consent before they can go anywhere. Do you think leaders
can run towards your home when they wish? '
'Can't
I just have a glimpse of my fast friend now then?' He is saddened.
Maybe
the personal secretary felt pity on him, or maybe he wanted to get rid of him,
he said, 'Please wait a minute. I'll try once, only for your sake. He has
appointments from many different organizations at this hour, and the time is
almost over. Let's see what he says.' He stood up and entered the room. A
sudden surge of hope flowed in Bhola's blood. He thought, 'Dhiroo will call me
in when he hears my name.'
The
secretary comes out of the room. He says, 'I am sorry to say but he's busy in a
confidential meeting with the District Committee. After this, he's attending a
Party conference. Nobody can see him at this moment.'
Bhola
said, 'Maybe you didn't tell him my name.'
'I
have pronounced. But it's not the question of name; it's the question of a
regulation. They have to follow a system. When the regulation is 'Nobody Can
See Him', nobody can see him, that's all. Even if it's his father, he can't see
him. Why don't you try to understand?'
'I
do understand. Now I can understand it's practically impossible to see one's
friend once he becomes a leader.'
'Please
do this: join the queue outside. It's almost time of his exit. Please try to
stand in the front. If you are lucky you can talk one or two words, too.'
Heavy
hearted, Bhola comes out. He is still clutching at straws. If his eyes fall on
him, maybe he can speak to him. Who knows, maybe he calls him, and embraces him
and asks him to get into his car! If that happens, the so called personal
secretary will see. I will complain how the secretary stopped me from seeing
him. The secretary will then learn a lesson.
People
are fallen in long queues. He elbows and pushes others to make room for himself
in a place where Dhiroo's eyes can possibly fall.
He
hears the police blow whistles.
'There
he comes out, he's coming!' people whisper.
A
crowd of police force way through the crowd. A bunch of pimps swarm around him
while he's walking. This reminds him of Nandi and Bhringi of Lord Shiva. A
crowd of photographers are pushing each other. The mass of people is advancing
from behind him. Poor Bhola is left far behind the crowd in this confusion. He
can't even clearly see Dhiroo.
When
the leader gets on his motor vehicle, he has a clear view of him. Yes, he is
Dhiroo. He thinks his eyes catch him, and he waves his hand. Maybe the leader
saw him, or maybe it's his habit; he smiles at the crowd, waves his hand and
joins his hands to greet.
With
its siren wailing, the bodyguard's vehicle swishes past the crowd. The leader's
vehicle runs behind it. A fleet of cars follows them and the motorcade
disappears into the street. People disperse.
Bhola
is now like a gambler who has lost all his property. He is returning home in
low spirits. The same Dhiroo, the same snotty-nosed Dhiroo, who always followed
him is now so inaccessible. Time has dug a wide rift between him and the leader
Dhiroo. One cannot cross this rift unless one has a bridge.
Bhola
is overwhelmed by feelings of inferiority complex. He is walking with a heavy
heart all alone along the street.
'Hello
Bhola Sir[71]!
Where are you from?' Somebody calls out. Now he comes to senses. He was Kishori
Prasad, a class-fellow in the college. He is a teacher in a high school. He is
striding towards him trying to catch up with him.
'Oh!
The year is closing soon; almost all of my casual leaves are going to lapse and
therefore I wished to spend a casual leave.' Bhola answers.
'No.
Seems you are deep in thought. I called you out loud twice but you couldn't
hear.' Kishori Prasad speaks in Nepali language with a lot of his Hindi mix.
'No,
not in any serious thought. Why should the lots like us need to give any
serious thought to anything? We have enough food. We don't have any dream of
being a big leader, do we?' Bhola pours out some bitterness.
'Oh
yes! You reminded me of the leader! Do you remember your childhood friend,
Dhirendra? He's arrived in the town. Did you see him?'
'No.
He's not my friend any more. He is now Dhirendra Kumar the leader. How can we
reach such a great personality? As for me, I had wanted to bring my childhood
friend Dhiroo to my home. But I see Dhiroo hasn't come; only Dhirendra the
leader has. Even a mere glimpse was so pricey. Bhola tells details of the story
of his going to the State Guest House to see Dhiroo, and thus soothes his
heart.
'Bholaji[72]!
We are happier than these leaders. We are free birds. Wherever we wish to fly,
we just fly; whoever we want to see, we just go and see. No restriction; no fear.
These leaders are caged birds. They are within the police custody all the time.
They can't go anywhere without pre-planned schedule. They can't see whoever
they like. They can't eat freely. They can't walk freely. Without police patrol
they can't take a single step. Life is always under a threat. Can you live
within so many chains? They need permission from the high command to take every
step. They are no more than the caged parrots. No more than caged parrots! Their
cage is a gold cage. Of course, it's springy and comfortable. But a cage is a
cage after all. How can a caged bird enjoy life as much as the freely flying
wild bird?'
Bhola
thinks about Kishori Prasad's opinions. The measured steps, atmosphere of
all-time restraint; the suffocation, restriction on seeing relatives, friends,
acquaintances and neighbours. Ugh! Can he live such a life? Can he restrain
himself within such limits?
The
inferiority complex and melancholy mood gradually wears off. He has no
grievances against Dhiroo. Or rather, he pities poor Dhiroo's plight. Kishori's
words ring into his ears, 'A cage is a cage, be it of iron or gold. How can we
expect a free breath of fresh air there?
Bhola
reassures himself. He brings the weaker aspects of Dhiroo's life to fore and
cures his own deep rooted inferiority complex. He puts a bandage on the hurt
caused by his complex and breathes a sigh of relief.
--------xxx-------
[1] kamej: a long shirt
[2] suruwal: tight fitting traditional Nepalese
trousers
[3] baboo: gentleman; sir
[4] darshan: visit; see
[5] chhori: daughter
[6] baba: father
[7] hajoor: sir
[8] parikrama: to go round by the idol of a
deity
[9] jharna: a waterfall
[10] timi: a less formal or more intimate term
for 'you',
[11] swami: the master; a guru
[12] Junge Jamdar: the Whiskered Head Constable
[13] ba: father
[14]
Brahma: the Creator
[15] raaj: rule
[16]dal: lentil soup
[17] puri: flat bread prepared in oil
[18]Hajur: sir
[19]koilakhat: coal mines
[20] jari: payment made to the former husband for
marrying his wife
[21] keti: girl
[22] Matwali: castes of people which, by
tradition, drink wine
[23] bhatti: wine shop
[24]Kurukshetra: the Mahabharata battlefield
[25]Draupadi: the wife of five Pandava brothers
[26] Guhyeshwari: the goddess of vagina
[27]sarvaras: mixture of all drinks and poisons
[28] Katha: a derogatory and offensive term for
Brahmins
[29] vermillion: vermillion on the central
parting of a Hindu woman's hair is the mark of marriage
[30] purna: the perfect
[31]Annapurna: granary, or the goddess of food
grains
[32] khat: charpoy, a bed
[33] tika: holy grain, etc put on the forehead
as a sign of good luck
and blessing
[34] chhori: daughter
[35] khukuri: Nepalese knife
[36] Khabardar: Attention!
[37] lathi: baton
[38] dharmashala: a charity guest house
[39]
Maili Newarni: the second (daughter/wife) from a Newar family
[40]
biri: a cigarette made manually with tobacco wrapped in dry leaves
[41]baje:
respected Brahmin, literally 'grandfather'
[42] jari: marrying other's wife; payment made to the former husband
for marrying his
wife
[43] maiti: natal home
[44] Kali: the dark angry goddess
[45] mukhiya: a respectful term for addressing a
Chhetri male ( literally 'the village headman').
[46] sati: a chaste woman
[47] pujari: priest, a person appointed for worship and other services in the temple
[48] shaligram: a holy stone
[49] pachapatra: five holy pots and spoons used
in worships
[50]aarti thali: worship plate
[51]
stotra: a verse in praise of gods
[52] suruwal: tight fitting trousers worn in
Nepal
[53] baboo: gentleman, or sir
[54]
Madise: the people living in the plains of Nepal. The Madise are slightly darker than hill people, their costumes and
languages are different from that of the hill people, and are thought by many
to be noisy lots.
[55] bhajan: songs in praise of gods
[56] shloka: verse
[57] upadesh: teaching; moral advice; sermon
[58] bhai: younger brother, a term used to
address men younger than one
[59] Malaya: the British Gurkha
[60]darshan: visit; see
[61]didi: senior sister
[62] suruwal: tight fitting Nepalese trousers
[63] Tihar: a festival of lamp
[64] Tika: a seven colour mark on brothers'
forehead put by sisters
to protect from evil spirits
[65] bow down to your feet: brothers bow down
and rest their forehead
at sisters' feet
to greet
[66] the Tharu people live in the Terai plains
of Nepal
[67] a lungi is a loincloth, usually colourful
[68] a dhoti is a loincloth, men usually wear
white ones and women most often wear colourful
[69] Asoj, the second half of October and the
first half of November, is the sixth month of the Vikram calendar,
[70] niyati: providence
[71] Bhola Sir: Teacher Bhola
[72] ji: a respectful term, like sir, madam or
master, suffixed after surname or family name
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