10

Several months had passed.

Sarbajaya brought a pitcher of water up from the well at Bhuban Mukherjee’s house; Apu, clutching a fistful of his mother’s sari, had followed her back. Setting the pitcher down, Sarbajaya said, “Now why must you follow me around like that, tell me? I have to finish my chores before I can go to the ghat, don’t I? Will you let me work or not?”

Apu said, “Oh, never mind the work, you can do it later, Ma, you go to the ghat now.” Then, hoping to win his mother’s sympathy, he added in a most pitiable voice, “Don’t you think I get hungry? It’s been four days since I’ve eaten!”

“And what am I to do if you haven’t eaten? You’ll run about in the sun and give yourself a fever—do you children ever listen to a word I say? I have to get through all this work before I can go to the ghat. It’s not as if I’m sitting idle, am I? Now stop being so naughty—I don’t have the strength to work according to your commands, go on.”

Apu tightened his grip on his mother’s sari. “I won’t let you work, not for a second. You work every single day, can’t you skip just one? Go to the ghat this instant—no, I won’t listen to any excuses… Let’s see you get any work done now!”

Gazing at her son, Sarbajaya said, “Don’t be so naughty, shame on you—I’m almost finished, just be patient for a little while longer. I’ll go to the ghat, then rush back and put your rice on to cook. What’s the use of making mischief? Let go of my sari. Tell me, how about I fry you a few poltar bora?”

An hour or so later, Apu sat down to eat with great enthusiasm.

He lifted the glass and, gulping, emptied half of it. After a few more mouthfuls, he scattered some rice under his leaf-plate, finished the rest of the water, and sat with his hand raised, indicating he was done.

“Are you eating or not? Just a moment ago you were panting for rice… for poltar bora… but you’ve left everything behind! What have you eaten, then?”

Sarbajaya mashed up a bowl of milk and rice and sat down to feed her son. “Let me see you open your mouth—oh, your fate! It’s not as if I’m feeding you sweets and delicacies, just a little rice—but to see the state of my son… his face falls every time he sits down to eat. What will you eat to survive? Did you come here to survive? You’ve come only to torment me, that’s all. Don’t turn your face away like that, shame on you. Open wide, my little treasure. See, just this one mouthful and we’ll be done. Besides, tonight is the Manasa Bhasan festival at Tunu’s house. Don’t you know? Let’s get you fed quickly, and then we’ll all go—”

Durga entered the house. She was returning from her wanderings. Her feet were caked with dust, and a lock of hair stood up straight from her forehead, nearly four fingers high. She was always roaming about on her own—she rarely played with the other boys and girls of her age in the neighbourhood. Which bush had ripe baichi berries, which tree in whose garden had grown its first mango buds, which bamboo grove had the sweetest jujubes—all this she knew like the back of her hand. As she walked, her eyes would scan the sides of the path, ever watchful. Was there an iridescent beetle sitting somewhere? If she spotted the ripe fruit of a kantikari plant, she would immediately sit down to gather it, to serve as eggplants for her playhouse. Or perhaps she would be sitting somewhere on the path, testing various shards of pottery by throwing them, seeing which would be best for aiming in the game of Ganga-Jamuna; whichever proved best in her tests, she would carefully tie in a knot at the end of her sari. She was always intensely occupied with her doll-box and the furnishings of her playhouse.

She came in and looked at her mother with the eyes of a culprit. Sarbajaya said, “So, you’ve arrived! Come, the rice is ready. Do me the favour of eating, and then you can head out again, wherever you’re headed. It’s the month of Baisakh—go look at what other people’s daughters are doing, performing the senjuti ritual, worshipping Shiva. But this great big girl of mine—day and night, it’s just wander, wander, wander. She went out before the sun was even up, and now, with the afternoon well past, she finally comes home. Just look at the state of your hair! Not a drop of oil, not a touch of a comb. Who would say you’re a Brahmin’s daughter? You look just like someone from the Dule or Bagdi caste—and you’ll be married into a Dule or Bagdi house, too. What are those treasures you have tied in your sari? Open it.”

Timidly, Durga began to untie the knot at the end of her sari. “In front of the Ray-kaka’s house, on the kalkasunde tree…” she began, then swallowed. “It’s… it’s a lot of orioles, that’s all.”

There are many stony-hearted creatures in this world whose hearts do not melt at the word ‘oriole’. Sarbajaya exploded in fury. “A curse on your orioles! All this useless junk and rubbish you tie up and carry around day and night. Today, if I don’t drag your doll-box out and throw it into that pond by the bamboo grove, then my name isn’t—”

Before Sarbajaya could finish her sentence, something happened. In the lead was Sej-thakrun from Bhuban Mukherjee’s house, followed by her daughter Tunu and her brother-in-law’s son Sotu, with four or five other children trailing behind them, all entering through the front door. Without looking at anyone or exchanging a single word with anyone in the house, Sej-thakrun marched straight up onto the inner veranda. Turning to her son, she commanded, “Go on, bring it out. Get that doll-box, let me see.”

Before anyone from the house could say a word, Tunu and Sotu together had dragged Durga’s tin doll-box out of the room and set it down on the veranda. Tunu opened the box, and after a moment’s search, she pulled out a string of beads and said, “Look, Ma, here’s my necklace. She stole it the other day when she came to play.”

Sotu, rummaging in a corner of the box, produced a few unripe mangoes. “Look, Jethima,” he said, “she’s picked the mangoes from our Sonamukhi tree.”

It all happened so suddenly, and their actions seemed so mysterious to everyone in the house, that for a long moment no one could speak. Finally, finding her voice, Sarbajaya asked, “What is it, Khurima? What’s happened?” She rose from the kitchen veranda and came forward anxiously.

“Look for yourself what’s happened, just look at this masterpiece of hers! Your daughter went to play the other day and stole this string of beads from Tunu’s doll-box. My daughter has been searching everywhere for days. Then Sotu went and told her that he saw the necklace in Durgadidi’s box. Just look at this business! You think your daughter is some innocent? She’s a thief, a thief of the worst kind! And look at this—the mangoes in my garden can’t even form on the branch before she’s stealing them and hiding them in her box.”

Stunned by the suddenness of the twin accusations, Durga leaned against the wall, frozen, and began to sweat. Sarbajaya asked her, “Did you bring this necklace from their house?”

Before Durga could answer, Sej-bou said, “Do you think I’m lying! Here, just look at these mangoes. Do you recognize Sonamukhi mangoes, or not? Is that a lie too?”

Taken aback, Sarbajaya said, “No, Sej-khuri, I didn’t say you were lying! I’m asking her.”

Sej-thakrun waved her hand and said sharply, “Ask her or do whatever you want, but that girl will not turn out well, I’m telling you. If she has taken up the art of stealing at this age, you’ll find out what she becomes later! Come on, Sotu, tie up those mangoes. Thanks to that wretched girl, we can’t even lay eyes on the fruit in our own garden! Tunu, you have the necklace?”

For some reason, a flicker of anger ignited in Sarbajaya. She was not one to back down from a fight. “I don’t know about the string of beads, Sej-khuri,” she said, “but as for the mangoes, whether she picked them or gathered them from the ground, they don’t have a name written on them, Sej-khuri. And if a child did happen to bring them—”

Sej-thakrun became a vision of fire. “My, what clipped and cutting words you have! So, the mangoes don’t have a name written on them—is that so? Can you tell me from which of your gardens they came, then? And tell me this—the money didn’t have a name written on it either, but you were happy enough to hold out your hand and take it, weren’t you?”

“It’s been over a year now—‘I’ll give it today, I’ll give it tomorrow.’ I’ll be back later, have the money for me. I can’t hold on to that debt any longer. I’m telling you, have the money ready.”

Sej-thakrun and her entourage exited through the door. Sarbajaya could hear her, on the path, replying to someone in a loud voice, “That girl from this house, she stole this string of beads from Tunu’s box and what does she do but hide it in her own box. And look, these mangoes—the garden is right next door, so she thinks she can pick as many as she likes. When I went to say something, she started talking back to me so cuttingly,”—here Sej-bou mimicked Sarbajaya’s way of speaking—“‘a child brought them, children do such things… It’s not as if your name is written on them, is it?’” Then, lowering her voice, “Is the mother any less of a thief, that the daughter learned for no reason? The whole house is full of thieves—”

Tears of shame and sorrow welled up in Sarbajaya’s eyes. She turned and, grabbing Durga by her tangled thatch of hair, with the same hands still smeared with dal and rice, she rained blow after blow, slap after slap, on the girl’s back, crying, “You curse, you plague that’s come to infest this house! If you died, the trouble would be over! But you don’t die, so I can’t have any peace! Get out of this house, get away from me! Go! Get out this instant!”

As the blows fell on her, Durga, terrified, fled out the back door. A few strands from her torn, rough thatch of hair remained in Sarbajaya’s hand.

Apu, still at his meal, had watched the entire affair in astonishment. He didn’t know whether his sister had stolen the string of beads or not—he had never seen it before—but he knew for a fact that the mangoes were not stolen goods. The previous afternoon, his sister had taken him with her to gather mangoes in Tunu’s garden, and these few had been lying under the Sonamukhi tree. His sister had picked them up; he knew because since yesterday she had said many times, “Oh Apu, this time I’ll pickle those mangoes, won’t that be nice?” But because their mother had been inconveniently present at home, the proposal had not been put into action. Now the mangoes, which his sister had been so looking forward to, had been taken away like this, and on top of it, she had been beaten so badly. He was furious with his mother for tearing out his sister’s hair. Whenever that unruly lock of hair stood up on his sister’s forehead and fluttered in the wind, for some reason, he would be overcome with a great tenderness for her. It was as if his sister had no one, anywhere; as if she had come from some other place, all alone, and had no companion here. He felt a constant urge to find a way to dispel all her sorrows, to fulfill all her wants! He would not let his sister suffer even the slightest hardship.

After his meal, afraid of his mother, Apu went and sat inside the room to read. But his mind kept darting outside. When the afternoon sun began to fade, he searched Tunu’s house, Potli’s house, Nera’s house—one by one, he searched them all. His sister was nowhere. Rajkrishna Palit’s wife was coming from the ghat with water. He asked her, “Jethima, have you seen my sister? She hasn’t eaten rice today, she hasn’t eaten anything. Ma beat her very badly today. She ran away after the beating. Have you seen her, Jethima?”

Walking down the path beside their house, he thought—what if she’s sitting in the bamboo garden? He went and searched the whole area. He came back in through the rear door and saw that no one was home. His mother had probably gone to the ghat or somewhere else. The shadows of late afternoon were falling over the house. On a drooping, dry twig of the bamboo grove that leaned near the front door, his familiar yellow bird with the drooping tail had come to sit. Every day, just before evening, it came from somewhere to sit on that very twig of that very bamboo grove—every day, every day, every day. So many other birds were chattering in the surrounding woods. The dense shade of trees filled Nilmoni Ray’s abandoned homestead. Standing on the veranda, Apu looked towards the top of the distant peepul tree. A little bit of reddish sunlight still gilded the treetop; something white was swaying on the highest branch—either a stork, or someone’s torn kite, caught and dangling. It was as if shadows and darkness were descending over the entire sky. The world was deserted… no one was anywhere… In the ruins of Nilmoni Ray’s homestead, the new, dark-green leaves of the taro patch gleamed. His heart suddenly cried out. It had been so long since she had left, and she still wasn’t home—where had Didi gone?

The children of Bhuban Mukherjee’s family were running around the courtyard, playing hide-and-seek. Ranu saw him and came running. “Look, Apu’s here… He’ll be on our team, come on, Apu!”

Apu pulled his hand away and asked, “I don’t want to play, Ranudi. Have you seen my sister?”

Ranu asked, “Dugga? No, I haven’t seen her! She’s not at the bakultala, is she?”

He hadn’t even thought of the place under the bakul tree. It was true that Durga was often there. From Bhuban Mukherjee’s house, he went to the bakultala. Evening had nearly fallen. The bakul tree, its branches spreading far and wide, stood dense and sprawling; it was dark underneath. No one was there… what if she was hiding somewhere behind the trees? He called out, “Didi! Oh, Didi! Didi?”

Only a few storks in the dark tree rustled their wings. Apu looked up fearfully. A little way from the bakul tree, by the edge of the pond, there were date palms. It was the season for half-ripe dates; his sister was sometimes there. But it had grown dark, and bamboo groves flanked the pond on both sides; he didn’t have the courage to go and look there. He moved closer to the trunk of the bakul tree and called out loudly a couple of times. Some creature in the bhatsheora bushes, startled by his voice, rustled away towards the pond.

On the way back home, he suddenly stopped dead. In front of him was that gab tree. To walk under the gab tree alone, after dusk! Disaster! His skin prickled with goosebumps. Why he was so afraid of passing under this particular tree, he did not know. There was no reason, he was just afraid; and because there was no reason, the fear was all the more intense. He had never stayed out of the house so late before—today, he hadn’t even noticed. If his mind had not been so preoccupied and distracted, he would never have come this way.

Apu stood for a while, staring at the dark space beneath the gab tree, and then turned back. There was another way to his house—a slight detour through Potli’s courtyard would allow him to escape the clutches of the gab tree’s unknown terror.

In the evening, Potli’s grandmother was sitting on the veranda telling stories to the children in the breeze. Potli’s mother was cooking in the kitchen. Under the trellis in the courtyard, Bidhu the fisherwoman was standing, demanding payment for the fish she’d sold.

Apu said, “I was looking for Didi, Thakuma… coming back from the bakultala—”

The grandmother said, “Dugga just went home! Just a moment ago. Run, quick—she’s probably not even reached home yet.”

He broke into a run towards his house. From behind him, Potli’s sister Raji shouted, “Come tomorrow morning, Apu! We’ve marked out a new court for Ganga-Jamuna! Behind the husking shed, under the neem tree! Tell Dugga!”

As he neared his house, he suddenly stopped dead. Durga was running out of the front door, screaming in terror. Right behind her, his mother was chasing her, hitting her with something in her hand. Durga fled down the path towards the gab tree. From the doorway, their mother screamed after her fleeing daughter, “Go, get out! Get out for good! And don’t you ever set foot in this house again! A curse, let the curse be gone. I’ll see you to the chhatimtala myself!”

The chhatimtala was the village cremation ground. Apu’s whole body seemed to freeze, turning stiff and heavy as stone. His mother had just stepped back inside and was picking up the clay lamp from the edge of the veranda. As he tiptoed into the house, his mother looked at him and said, “And where were you until this late hour, may I ask? You’ve only just had your rice today, haven’t you?”

A thousand questions were rising in his mind. Why had Didi been beaten again? Where had she been all this time? What had Didi eaten for lunch? Had she stolen something else? But, too frightened to speak, he moved like a clockwork doll, doing as his mother said and going into his room. Then, timidly, he turned up the lamp, took out his small bundle of books, and sat down to read. He was only on the Third Reader, but his collection contained two thick, heavy English books, a list of Ayurvedic medicines, a tattered copy of Dashuray’s Panchali, and an old almanac from the year 1303. He had collected these by asking for them from various places, and though he could not read them, he opened and looked at them once every day.

He stared at the wall for a while, lost in thought. Then, turning up the lamp once more, he opened the tattered Dashuray’s Panchali and was flipping through the pages distractedly when Sarbajaya entered with a bowl of milk. “Come on, drink this up.”

Without a word, Apu picked up the bowl and began to sip the milk. On any other day, it would have been very difficult to persuade him to drink milk so easily. After only a small amount, he lowered the bowl from his lips. Sarbajaya said, “What’s this? Come on, finish it all. If you leave even this little bit of milk, what will you eat to survive?”

Without protest, Apu raised the bowl of milk to his lips again. Sarbajaya saw that he was holding the bowl to his mouth but not sipping; the hand holding the bowl was trembling… Then, after holding it to his lips for a long time, he suddenly lowered the bowl, looked at his mother, and, overcome with fear, burst into tears. Sarbajaya said in astonishment, “What happened? What is it, did you bite your tongue?”

As soon as his mother’s words were out, the dam of his fear finally broke, and he burst into racking sobs. “I miss Didi so much!…”

Sarbajaya sat in silence for a brief moment, then moved closer and began to stroke her son’s body, speaking in a calm voice, “Don’t cry, don’t cry like that. She’s just sitting at Potli’s house, or Nera’s. Where would she go in the dark? You think she’s not a naughty girl? She went out at noon and we didn’t see hide nor hair of her for the rest of the day. No food, no drink. She was sitting in the Palits’ garden over there, eating unripe mangoes and rose-apples. I’ll send for her right now. Don’t cry like that. You’ll get a fever again. Hush now!”

Then, with the end of her sari, she wiped away her son’s tears and held the bowl to his lips so he could finish the milk. “Open up now, my little treasure, my darling. As soon as he’s home, he’ll call for you—you’re absolutely mad—where did this little madman spring from?—just one more sip—yes—”

It was late at night. On the taktaposh in the north room, Apu and Durga were lying down. The space beside Apu, where his mother slept, was empty, for she had not yet finished her work in the kitchen and come to bed.

Their father, having finished his meal, was sitting in the next room smoking his hookah. It was he who, upon returning home, had found Durga somewhere in the neighbourhood and brought her back.

Ever since coming home, Durga had not spoken a word to anyone. After her meal, she had simply come and lain down in silence. Apu put a hand on her. “Didi, what did Ma hit you with this evening? Did she pull your hair?”

Durga said nothing.

He asked again, “Are you angry with me, Didi? I didn’t do anything.”

Durga answered softly, “Oh, you didn’t? Then how did Satu find out the string of beads was in my box?”

In a rush of protest, Apu sat up. “I swear it, Didi, on your life, I didn’t show him! I didn’t even know it was in your box—Satu came over yesterday afternoon, we were playing with that big red bhanta seed of his—and then, you see, Didi, Satu opened your doll box and was looking through it—I told him, ‘Hey, don’t you touch my Didi’s box, she’ll scold me’—he must have seen it then—”

Then, stroking her arm gently, he asked, “Did it hurt very much, Didi? Where did Ma hit you?”

Durga said, “Ma gave me such a slap right by my ear—it started to bleed, and it’s still throbbing. Here, feel it with your hand! Look! Right here—”

“—Here? You’re right! It’s cut! Should I put a little lamp oil on it for you, Didi?”

“Let it be. Listen, tomorrow afternoon, let’s go to the Palits’ garden, all right? The kamrangas are so ripe! They’re this big! But don’t you tell a soul! Just you and I, we’ll sneak off together. I picked and ate two this afternoon—they’re as sweet as gur—”