17

Annada Ray, a gentleman of the village, had recently fallen into a great deal of trouble.

With the arrival of the land survey, tents had been pitched in the north field. The chief survey officer had opened an office on the riverbank in the middle of the field, and a host of minor officials had come with him. All the gentlemen of the village were landowners to some extent; having poled the vessels of their lives to the safe shores of these ancestral properties and driven the poles deep, they had been living out their days like inanimate objects—devoid of enterprise, motion, or activity. Their lives had been passing quite pleasantly, in fact, but now every one of them had run into some trouble. Ram, perhaps, had been enjoying Shyam’s land as his own without a second thought; Yadu was peacefully occupying twelve bighas while paying taxes on ten. What had for so long been conducted in perfect peace was now thrown into turmoil.

Though the trouble was more or less universal, Annada Ray’s was of a different kind, or perhaps a little more severe. He had a kinsman who had long been resident in the west. For all this time, he had been enjoying this absent kinsman’s mango and jackfruit groves and his land without hindrance, and he had been entirely confident that, if he could manage it during the survey, he would have it all—or at least a portion of it—registered in his own name. But who knows what village hand had penned a letter to the said kinsman, for the result was that, some ten days ago, the kinsman’s eldest son had arrived to look after the property during the survey. Not only was the morsel snatched from his lips, but there was further trouble besides. The rooms belonging to that relative’s share of the house were the best ones; for the last twenty years, Ray-mashay had been occupying them himself, but now he had to give them up. The kinsman’s son was a college boy with refined tastes—he slept in one room and studied in another. The strong-box, mortgaged goods, and documents had to be moved out of the upper room. The ground-floor room where he stored the beams and rafters bought cheap from Palitpara would also have to be vacated shortly.

It was late afternoon. A few men from the neighbourhood had gathered at Annada Ray’s chandimandap—this was the usual time for the pasha game to begin. But today, business was not yet finished. Annada Ray was dismissing, one by one, the debtors who had come to see him.

Just below the edge of the veranda, a young peasant’s wife, a small boy with her, had been sitting veiled for a long time. Now, sensing her turn had come, she stood up. Ray-mashay lowered his head a little and, looking at her over the top of his spectacles, said, “Who is it? What do you want now?”

Untying a knot in the end of her sari, the peasant’s wife said in a low voice, “I’ve managed to get some money together, with great difficulty. Please take my money… and unlock my granary. We’re in such hardship, Master Thakur, what more can I say—”

Annada Ray’s face brightened. “Hori,” he said, “come count her money. Check the ledger—the date, the interest, calculate it all one more time!”

The peasant’s wife took the money from the knot in her sari and placed it before Harihar on the edge of the veranda. Harihar counted it and said, “Five rupees?”

“Alright,” said Ray-mashay, “credit it to her account. Now then, where’s the rest of the money?”

“Take this for now, I’ll give the rest later—I’ll work my fingers to the bone—I’ll pay it all off. For now, just take this and unlock my granary. Let me feed my little one a few mouthfuls and keep him alive, then—the holes in the roof can wait—”

She spoke with such calm assurance, as if the key to the granary were already in the palm of her hand. She had yet to learn what sort of man Annada Ray was.

Ray-mashay cut her short. “Well! The audacity of this woman is something to behold! Nearly forty rupees owed, with principal and interest—and she brings five rupees and says, ‘Take this and open the granary.’ The ways of these low-born people are a world apart. Go on now, don’t pester me in the middle of the day—”

The peasant’s wife was not unknown to the others at the chandimandap. Dinu Bhattacharjya, whose eyesight was poor, asked, “Who is that, Annada?”

“That’s Tamrej’s wife from the other side of the village. Didn’t Tamrej die just four days ago? He owed me forty rupees, principal and interest, so on the very day he died, I put a lock on his granary that afternoon. And now it’s, ‘Unlock the granary for me, do this for me, do that for me—’”

The ground could have fallen away from beneath her feet and Tamrej’s wife would not have been more startled. She now understood the situation a little better. She stepped forward and said, “Don’t say such things, Master Thakur. My little boy had a silver nim-fol pendant, from last year. So I sold it at Bhonda the goldsmith’s shop and he gave me five rupees for it. I didn’t want to sell the child’s ornament, but what could I do? Let me just feed him a little and survive for now, I thought. Later, if the master gives me time, I will have another nim-fol made for my boy. Please, Master Thakur, give me the key.”

“Go on, go on—off with you now. Do you think these matters of money are settled by weeping and wailing? They are not. What would you understand of it? If your husband were here, he would have understood. Now go, don’t be a nuisance. Those five rupees will be credited to your name. Come back with the rest of the money, then we’ll see.”

Annada Ray took off his spectacles, put them in their case, and got up, preparing to go inside the house. Tamrej’s wife cried out in a desperate voice, “Where are you going, Master Thakur? Please arrange something for my boy! What will I feed him? I don’t even have a single paisa to buy a handful of puffed rice. If you won’t open my granary, then give me back my money.”

Ray-mashay snarled at her. “Go on, go on, you wretch, don’t come here whining at dusk! I’ve got a fistful of money going down the drain and she couldn’t care less. ‘Open the granary, give me back my money!’ What have you got in that granary anyway? Four sholis of paddy at most. Will that settle the debt? Those five rupees will be counted toward what you owe, I have to look after my own money! And I’m supposed to provide for what her son will eat? What her son will eat is no business of mine. Go on, file a lawsuit and get it opened if you can!”

After Annada Ray had gone inside the house, Dinu Bhattacharjya said, “Tell me, daughter, how many days has it been since Tamrej—I didn’t know—”

“It was on Wednesday, Baba Thakur. He brought home some bhangon fish from the market. I cooked it with onions, served him his rice. He was perfectly fine, ate a hearty meal. After eating, he said, ‘I’m feeling cold, cover me with a quilt.’ I did. And oh, before the evening star had even risen, I saw he was no longer moving or making a sound. Before noon the next day, he had left me on the streets—left my boy on the streets—” Tears choked her voice. In a pleading tone, she said, “Could you gentlemen please say something to him? Ask him to give me the key to the granary. Life has become so very hard. Do you think I won’t repay the loan? I will, no matter what it takes.”

Just then, the talk was cut short by the arrival of the newcomer, the kinsman’s son. Dinu said, “Come, Niren-babaji, come. You went for a walk toward the fields, did you? This is the land of your forefathers, you know. Tell me, what do you think of it?”

Niren smiled faintly. He was no more than twenty-one or twenty-two, with a strong build and handsome features. He was studying law at a college in Calcutta, a man of an exceedingly quiet nature. Though sent by his father to see to their affairs, he neither understood nor paid any attention to business matters, spending his days reading novels and firing his gun. He had brought a shotgun with him; he had a great passion for hunting.

As Niren went to enter his room upstairs, he saw Gokul’s wife sitting on the floor, picking at something. As he neared the doorway, his eyes fell on his expensive imported lamp, which was sitting on the floor. Its glass shade was shattered, the pieces scattered all over. Hearing the sound of his shoes at the door, Gokul’s wife started and looked behind her. She had been gathering the pieces of glass into the fold of her sari. It seemed that, while cleaning the room as she did every day, she had tried to light the lamp and had somehow broken it, and was now hastily trying to remove the evidence of her crime before the lamp’s owner returned. Caught red-handed, she was utterly mortified. To lighten the offender’s burden of shame, Niren laughed and said, “Ah, Boudi, sitting here after breaking the lamp, are we? See, you’ve been caught, and you know I study law. Now then, Boudi, be a dear and make me some tea, quickly now. Let’s see what a capable person you are. Wait, let me light this lamp—lucky I have another shade in my trunk.”

In a shy voice, Gokul’s wife said, “Shall I bring a match, Thakurpo?”

Niren replied in a teasing tone, “You didn’t bring matches? Then what, may I ask, were you planning to do after taking down the lamp?”

At this, the young woman laughed. In a low voice, she said, “There was soot on it… I thought I’d wipe it a little… but just as I went to take the glass down, I don’t know, with these English contraptions…” Not finishing her sentence, she laughed shyly again and fled downstairs.

Although Niren had been there for ten or twelve days, he had not had much interaction with Gokul’s wife, who was his boudi by relation. From that evening of the broken glass, the awkwardness of a new acquaintance between them melted away. Niren was the son of a wealthy father, and on top of that, this was his first time in a Bengal village; the days in this lonely, joyless exile refused to pass. Once the path to friendship with his boudi, who was of a similar age, became easier, the morning and evening teatimes grew filled with the sweet pleasure of simple exchange.

That afternoon, Durga came by for a visit. Peeking in at the kitchen door, she asked, “What are you cooking, O Khurima?” The young wife said, “Come in, Ma, come. Will you give me a hand? I can’t manage it all alone anymore.” Whenever Durga came, she would often help her aunt with her work. As she cleaned the fish, she said, “By the way, Khurima, where did you get these crabs? People don’t eat these crabs.”

“Why wouldn’t they, silly! Bidhu the fisherwoman told me everyone eats these crabs.”

“Oh, Khurima, heavens, did you buy them?”

“Of course I bought them. Bidhu gave me that whole lot for five paisa.”

Durga said nothing. She thought to herself—Khurima is wonderful in every way, just a little naive! Who would pay money for these crabs, and who would eat them? Bidhu must have seen what a simple soul she is and cheated her. At the same time, her affection for this artless aunt of hers grew all the deeper.

Just the other day, apparently, Gokul-kaka had struck Khurima on the head with his wooden sandal—Swarna the milkmaid had been telling the story at their house. She too had been at the river ghat that day, bathing. When Khurima came to bathe, she didn’t dip her head under the water, afraid it would sting. Durga’s heart had been breaking with sorrow for her that day, but she hadn’t said a word, lest Khurima be embarrassed—shamed in front of a whole ghat full of people. And yet Ray-jethi had asked, “Boma, you didn’t wash your hair?”… Khurima had smiled and replied, “Not today, Didima, I’m not feeling well.”…

Khurima had thought that no one knew she had been beaten. But as soon as she left the ghat, Ray-jethi had said, “Did you see how badly Goklo beat the girl? The blood is all matted and stuck in her hair.”… It was so wrong of Ray-jethi. If you know, my good woman, then why ask in the first place, and why tell everyone else?

After washing the fish and putting it away, Durga said timidly, “Khurima, do you have any paddy for chire? Ma was saying that Apu wants to eat some, but we haven’t bought any paddy this year.” Gokul’s wife whispered, “Come back in the afternoon.” Gesturing with a glance toward the main hall, she said, “Come when he’s asleep!”

Durga asked, “Khurima, who is this visitor you have at your house? I haven’t seen him even once.”

“You haven’t seen Thakurpo? He’s not here now, he’s gone out somewhere. Come in the afternoon, you’ll meet him then.” Then Gokul’s wife smiled and said, “You and Thakurpo would make a fine pair, you know.”

Durga turned red with embarrassment. “Oh, stop!”

Gokul’s wife laughed again. “Why stop? What, is our girl not good enough? Let me see…” She took Durga’s chin in her hand and tilted her face up slightly. “Just look at this beautiful face, like an idol of the goddess Durga. So what if her father has no money?”

Durga shook herself free and said, “Oh, Khurima, you’re just too much…” Then she practically ran out through the back door. As she went, she thought—Khurima is wonderful in every other way, just a little naive, otherwise would she really…? Oh, stop!

No sooner had Durga left than Swarna the milkmaid arrived to milk the cow. From inside, the young wife called out, “O Shonno, my hands are full. The calf is tied to the pituli tree in the outer courtyard—go get it. And the pot is on the veranda, washed and ready.”

Sakkhi Thakrun’s prayers and ablutions were at last complete. She came outside and, turning her face toward the local Kali temple to the north, began to offer her obeisance, intoning in a drawn-out, chanting voice, “I beseech you, Mother Siddheshwari, grant me my days, Mother, see me across the ocean of this world—Mother Rakshakali, protect me, O Mother!”

From the kitchen, Gokul’s wife called out, “O Pishima, I’ve saved some coconut nadu for you. Have two and drink some water.”

Suddenly, Sakkhi Thakrun called from the veranda, “Bouma, come over here and see this.”

The sound of her voice made the heart of Gokul’s wife leap into her throat. She feared Sakkhi Thakrun as she feared Death himself. It could be said with certainty that when distributing mercy and kindness, the Lord had shown Sakkhi Thakrun no partiality. Leaning over the washed utensils piled in a corner of the veranda, she pointed with her finger and said, “Look with your own eyes, can you see? A clear water-mark, you see it, don’t you? Shonno picked up the pot from right here, and then those defiled vessels, touched by a Shudra, were taken back into the kitchen, contaminating the seven kingdoms! Hah! Our caste and lineage are utterly ruined!”

Sakkhi Thakrun sat down on the veranda in despair, as if she could not have been more distraught had she received news of the death of a beloved son.

“This is what happens when you bring in a girl from a wretched, luckless house. Where would she learn the ways of gentlefolk? How would she know? You washed the utensils, but did you not check if the defilement was gone or if it remained? It’s past midday, and I was thinking of having a little water! A Shudra’s leavings! I would have had to bathe and die this instant—it’s a mercy I didn’t touch the pot!”

Gokul’s wife stood there with a sorrowful face, thinking, Why on earth did I tell that wretched Shonno to pick up the pot? I should have just done it myself.

Sakkhi Thakrun snarled, “Why are you just standing there like a brazen hussy? Go and throw out the pots and pans. Go and scrub the utensils again. Smear the kitchen with cow-dung paste and go take a bath. All these good-for-nothing girls from wretched houses have come together to ruin this family.” Seething with rage, Sakkhi Thakrun went back into her room; she could not bear the harsh sunlight outside.

By the time she had finished all the tasks she was ordered to do, the day had almost ended. When she went to the river to bathe again, her face was drawn and shrunken from the sun, from hunger and thirst and exhaustion.

The shadows at the ghat were deep and heavy; on the far bank, the sunlight glittered on a tall silk-cotton tree. Around a bend in the river, a boat with its sail raised was being rowed past the curve. A man standing near the rudder was drying a cloth, letting it fly loose in the wind like a banner. In the middle of the river, a large turtle raised its head to breathe, then submerged again with a long whoosh… and a plop!

A cool, fresh scent rose from the river water. It was a small river. On the far bank, a cormorant sat perched on a bamboo fishing trap.

At this time of day, she always remembered her childhood—

Cormorant, little cormorant, Come up on the land…

Gokul’s wife stared at the cormorant for a while. She remembered her mother’s face. There was no one else in the world to look upon her face with love. Was her mother even old enough to die? All that was left of her poor father’s family was a single brother, a ganja addict, who had no fixed address and could be anywhere at any time. Last year, during Puja, he had come and stayed here for four days. She had secretly given him what little savings she had in her trunk, a quarter-rupee here, a two-anna coin there. Then one day he suddenly vanished. After he left, it came to light that he had bought an alpaca shawl on credit from a Kabuli seller and had given his brother-in-law’s name for the account. There was a huge uproar over it. So many criticisms of her father’s family, so much humiliation! Since then, there had been no news of her brother.

As evening fell and she paused in her work, her heart ached for that helpless, rootless brother of hers. Gazing at the lonely path across the fields, she would imagine him, a homeless wanderer, perhaps walking alone down some dark, deserted country road far away, with no place to lay his head at night, no one to look upon his face.

A wave of emotion welled up in her breast, and through her tears, the shadow-filled river, the fields, the ghat, the silk-cotton tree on the far bank, the large boat at the bend in the river—all of it dissolved into a blur.