8

It was morning. Eight or perhaps nine o’clock. Harihar’s son was playing by himself on the verandah. He had a small tin box with a broken lid. He had tipped its entire contents out onto the floor: a wooden horse with the paint peeling off, worth four paisa; a dented tin whistle; and a handful of cowrie shells. These he had taken from his mother’s Lakshmi Puja basket without her knowledge and, for fear that someone might find out, kept them constantly hidden. There was also a two-paisa pistol and a clutch of dried nata fruits. His sister, thinking them pretty, had gathered a great many from somewhere or other; she had given him some and kept the rest in her doll’s box. A few pieces of broken pottery. Convinced that his aim with these potsherds in the game of Ganga-Jamuna was unerring, he had carefully stored them in his box; they were his most precious possessions. Of all these things, he had blown the tin whistle a few times and then, his curiosity satisfied, set it aside. He had finished fiddling with the wooden horse. It, too, now lay to one side like an inmate of a pinjrapole. At present, he had the Ganga-Jamuna potsherds in his hand and, imagining the squares of the game drawn on the verandah floor, was closing his eyes and tossing the sherds to see if his aim was true.

Just then his sister, Durga, called out from the foot of the jackfruit tree in the courtyard. ‘Opu! O Opu!’ She hadn’t been home until now; she had just returned from somewhere. Her voice held a note of caution. At the sound of a human voice, Opu, like a clockwork toy, swiftly hid the cowries from the Lakshmi basket. Then he said, ‘What is it, Didi?’

Durga beckoned to him. ‘Come here—listen—’

Durga was ten or eleven years old. She was slenderly built, her complexion not as fair as Opu’s, more of a dusky gold. She wore glass bangles, a grimy sari, and her unruly hair flew in the wind. Her features were not unattractive; like Opu, she had large, lovely eyes. Opu got down from the verandah and went over to her. ‘What is it?’ he said.

In Durga’s hand was a coconut shell. She held it low for him to see. Inside were slices of green mango. Lowering her voice, she said, ‘Ma’s not back from the ghat, is she?’

Opu shook his head. ‘Nuh-uh.’

Durga whispered, ‘Can you bring a little oil and some salt? I’m going to season these mango slivers.’

Opu cried out in delight. ‘Where did you get them, Didi?’

‘They were lying under the sindurkoto tree in Potli’s garden,’ Durga said. ‘Go on, bring a little salt and oil.’

Opu looked at his sister and said, ‘But Ma will beat me if I touch the oil jar! My clothes are unbathed.’

‘Just go, quick. Ma will be ages—she’s gone to do the washing. Quick, go!’

‘Give me the coconut shell,’ Opu said. ‘I’ll pour it into this. You go to the back door and see if Ma’s coming.’

Durga said in a low voice, ‘Don’t spill the oil on the floor, mind. Be careful, or Ma will find out. You’re such a clumsy oaf.’

When Opu came out of the house, Durga took the shell from his hand and mixed the mangoes thoroughly. ‘Here,’ she said, ‘hold out your hand.’

‘You’re having that many, Didi?’

‘Is that so many? Here—so much, honestly. Alright, have two more pieces. There, doesn’t that look lovely? Can you get a chili? I’ll give you another piece if you do.’

‘How can I get a chili, Didi? Ma keeps them on the high shelf. I can’t reach.’

‘Oh, never mind then. I’ll get some more this afternoon. The mango tree by Potli’s pond is covered in them. They fall to the ground in the midday sun.’

The jungle pressed in on all sides of Durga’s house. Harihar Ray’s kinsman, Nilmoni Ray, had passed away the previous year; his wife had since gone to live with her sons and daughters at her father’s house. So this neighbouring plot, too, lay overgrown with jungle. There were no other houses nearby. It was a five-minute walk to Bhuban Mukherji’s place.

Harihar’s own house had not been repaired in a long time. The front verandah was crumbling, its cracks sprouting thickets of stinging nettle and kalmegh. The doors and window shutters were all broken, tied to the bars with coconut rope.

The back door opened with a clang, and a moment later Sarbajaya’s voice was heard. ‘Dugga! O Dugga!’

‘Ma’s calling,’ Durga said. ‘Go and see what she wants. Eat that piece before you go. You’ve got salt all over your face, wipe it off.’

Though her mother’s call reached her ears again, Durga was in no position to answer just then. Her mouth was full. She began to eat the seasoned mango slices as fast as she could. Then, seeing how many were still left, she sidled over to the jackfruit tree, stood behind the trunk, and began to gobble them down. Opu, standing beside her, was wolfing down his own share, for there was no time to chew. As he ate, he looked at his sister and gave her a smile that betrayed his awareness of their transgression.

Durga flung the empty shell over the castor-oil-plant fence into the jungle on Nilmoni Ray’s property. Looking at her brother, she said, ‘Wipe your face, you monkey! You’ve still got salt on it…’

Then, with an innocent expression, Durga entered the house and said, ‘What is it, Ma?’

‘And where have we been, may I ask? How am I supposed to be everywhere at once? I’ve been washing clothes since morning till my whole body aches, and not a single stick of kindling have you broken in two, just gadding about from lane to lane, flaunting yourself! And where’s that monkey?’

Opu came in and said, ‘Ma, I’m hungry!’

‘Wait, wait, just a moment, my dear… Let me catch my breath! For you two it’s hunger day and night and errands day and night! O Dugga, go see why the calf is crying.’

A little later, Sarbajaya sat down on the kitchen verandah with her boti and began to slice a cucumber. Opu sat down near her and said, ‘Can’t you get out a bit of flour, Ma? It makes my mouth feel all strange.’

Durga held out her hand for her share and said in a timid voice, ‘Isn’t there any more puffed rice, Ma?’

As he ate, Opu said, ‘Oof, I can’t chew. My teeth are all on edge from eating mangoes—’

A sharp glance and a frown from Durga cut his sentence short. His mother asked, ‘Where did you get mangoes?’

Not daring to tell the truth, Opu looked at his sister questioningly. Sarbajaya looked at her daughter and said, ‘You went out again, didn’t you?’

Durga, looking cornered, said, ‘Ask him, why don’t you? I—I was right here, standing by the jackfruit tree, when you called—’

The arrival of Swarna the milk-woman to milk the cow cut the conversation short. Her mother said, ‘Go hold the calf. I’ve been calling and calling. Komole the calf, O Shonno, how can the cow survive if you come so late? If you don’t come a bit earlier, the calf stays tied up till this hour of the afternoon.’

Opu followed his sister to watch the milking. The moment he stepped into the courtyard, Durga landed a solid thump on his back and said, ‘You wretched monkey!’ Then she pulled a face at him and said, ‘“My teeth are all on edge from eating mangoes.” I’ll give you mangoes another day, you’ll see. Ashes, I’ll give you! This very afternoon I’m going to gather mangoes from under the tree by Potli’s cucumber patch and season them. The fruits are this big, sweet as jaggery. Shall I give you some? You can eat them then, can’t you? You stupid oaf! If you only had an ounce of sense.’

Sometime after noon, Harihar returned home from his work. He was currently employed as a clerk at the estate of Annada Ray in the village. He asked, ‘I don’t see Opu?’

Sarbajaya said, ‘Opu’s sleeping.’

‘And Dugga?’

‘She went out after her meal. When is she ever home? Her only connection to this house is for two meals a day! She won’t be back until she’s hungry again. Wandering about in whose-knows-whose garden, under whose-knows-whose mango and jamun trees. In this Chaitra-month sun, just you watch, she’ll come down with a fever again. She’s such a big girl, how many times can I tell her? Does she listen, does she pay any heed?’

A little later, as he sat down to eat, Harihar said, ‘I went to Dashghara today to collect a debt, you see. There was a man there, very respectable, five or six granaries on his property, a man of considerable means. When he saw me, he bowed low and said, “Dada-thakur, do you recognize me?” I said, “No, my good man, I don’t believe I do.” He said, “When your father was alive, he would always come for our pujas and rituals, gracing us with the dust of his feet. You are like gurus to us. We’re thinking of taking initiation, the whole family. So if you would permit me, I would make so bold as to ask—why don’t you yourself give us the mantra?” So I told them I wouldn’t say anything more today, that I’d come back in a day or two. You see?’

Sarbajaya, who had been standing with a bowl of dal in her hand, set it down on the floor and sat before him. ‘Well, now, what’s wrong with that? Go on, give them the mantra. What caste are they?’

Harihar lowered his voice. ‘Don’t tell anyone. They’re Sadgops. You have a habit of gossiping, you know.’

‘Who am I going to tell? Let them be Sadgops, go and give it. We’re in such hardship. Our only hope is those eight rupees from the Ray estate, and even that they pay only once every two or three months. And on the other hand, debts to the whole world. Yesterday on the way to the ghat, Sejo Thakrun said, “Bouma, I don’t lend money without collateral, but I gave it because you pleaded so. It’s been five long months now, I can’t let the money go any longer.” And Radha Bostom’s wife is tearing me to shreds, dunning me twice a day. The boy has no clothes—they’re patched in two or three places, and my poor child wears them, smiling and dancing about. I’ve reached the point where I just want to walk away from it all.’

‘They said something else, too, you see. They said, “There are no Brahmins in our village. If you were to move here, we would give you land and a place to live. It is our great wish to have a Brahmin family settled in our village.” They’re even willing to give some paddy land. They have no shortage of money! These days, Lakshmi is tied up in the houses of the peasants. It’s the gentlefolk who are left crying for a handful of rice.’

Sarbajaya was so eager she could barely speak. ‘Right away! Why didn’t you agree? You could have said, “Very well, we will come.” To have the patronage of such a wealthy man! What do you have in this village? Just clinging to this ancestral plot.’

Harihar laughed. ‘You foolish woman! Can one agree so quickly? They’re common folk, they’ll think, “The Thakur’s pot is on a precarious shelf.” No, no, that would be to cheapen oneself. No, let me first have a quiet word with Majumdar Mahashay and see. Besides, can one just get up and leave at a moment’s notice? Everyone will descend upon us, saying, “Give us our money, or we won’t let you go.” Let me see what comes of the consultation.’

Just then, his daughter Durga, tiptoeing in from somewhere, cautiously peeked from behind the outer door, and seeing the other party fully awake, crept along the wall to the outer verandah. She gently pushed the door to the main hall and found it shut. It was impossible to stand on the verandah, the heat of the sun burned one’s feet, so she got down from there and stood under the jackfruit tree in the courtyard. Her face was flushed from wandering in the sun. In a corner of her sari’s anchal, something was carefully tied. She had come in the hope that if the outer door was open and her mother was asleep, she could slip quietly into the house and lie down for a bit. But she did not dare to enter the house through the front door in front of her father, and especially her mother.

Stepping down into the courtyard, she stood under the jackfruit tree, unable to decide what to do, and looked around listlessly. Then she sat down right there and untied the knot in her anchal, taking out a number of dried rora fruit seeds. After staring at them for a while, she began to count them to herself: one, two, three, four… twenty-six. Then she began to place two or three seeds at a time on the back of her hand, toss them high, and then catch them on her upturned palm. She said to herself, ‘I’ll give these to Opu… and I’ll keep these in my doll’s box… How shiny and oily the seeds are… they must have just fallen from the tree today. It’s a good thing I went early, or the cows would have eaten them all. Their Rangi cow is a perfect monster, she goes everywhere. I brought some back the other day. With these, I’ll have a lot.’

She stopped her game and carefully tied all the seeds back into the corner of her anchal. Then, with a sudden thought, her unruly hair flying in the wind, she went straight out of the house again, full of glee.