6

Dasi-thakrun from the other side of the village arrived, a smile on her face. “I’ve come for the two pice, Bou,” she said. “Indir Pisi took a custard apple from me yesterday. She told me to come and ask for the price today.”

Sarbajaya was busy with her household chores. “She bought a custard apple from you?” she said, astonished.

Dasi-thakrun was a thoroughly businesslike woman. From a bit of tamarind to a single stalk of greens, she never gave anything away without payment. Her amiable expression vanished. “Go and ask your husband’s sister if she took it or not! Did I come here at this hour of the morning to lie for a mere two pice? I told her I wouldn’t sell it for less than four, but since she said the old woman had a craving for it—well, I let it go for just the two.”

Rage left Sarbajaya speechless. The idea that anyone in a village would actually pay money for a fruit like a custard apple—a fruit that grew in such wild abundance in the woods and jungles that even the cows and calves grew tired of eating them—was simply beyond her comprehension.

Just then, the old woman Indir appeared from somewhere. Sarbajaya practically pounced on her. “Tell me,” she began, “you’ve lived through three ages and have one foot in the grave, shouldn’t you have a little consideration for the money of the person whose roof you live under? You went to buy a custard apple? Where am I supposed to find the money to feed you custard apples today and who knows what tomorrow? Go and find the money for your little indulgence yourself! Aren’t you ashamed to satisfy your cravings at someone else’s expense?”

The old woman’s face had fallen. She tried to manage a small smile. “Oh, come now, Bou—it was a ripe custard apple, so I thought I’d have it, just this once. How many more days do I have to live, after all? Just give her the two pice.” Sarbajaya’s voice rose to a shriek. “You think money grows on trees, do you? You have your own brass pot and bowls—go sell them and pay for it yourself!”

Then she grabbed her water pot and went out through the back door, heading for the ghat.

Dasi stood there for a moment longer. “Well, that’s the last time for me!” she declared. “I’ve never had so much trouble selling something in my life! And I’ll say this to you too, Indir Pisi: if you didn’t have the money yourself, it wasn’t right of you to take that custard apple. Don’t you go taking things on credit like that again. But you two can have your quarrel. I’m a poor woman. I’ll be back this afternoon. Just make sure my two pice are ready for me.”

As Dasi left, Khuki followed her out to the courtyard. “Pishima is an old woman,” she was saying, “and you scold her for taking one custard apple? Don’t people get cravings, eh, Dasi-pisi? It was a lovely custard apple—she gave me half of it yesterday. Do you have a tree at your house, Pisi?” Then she called out, “Listen, Dasi-pisi, I’ll give you a pice. I have one in my doll’s box. Ma has locked the room and gone to the ghat. When she comes back, I’ll sneak it to you. Don’t tell Ma, will you, Pisi?”

A little before noon, the old woman Indir was leaving the house. In her left hand, she carried a small, grimy cloth bundle; from her right, her brass-sheet ghoti dangled. Tucked under her arm was an old mat, its edges so frayed that the reeds were sticking out.

“Oh Pisi, don’t go!” Khuki cried. “Pisi, where are you going?” She ran up and grabbed the back of the mat, trying to pull her back. “If you go, I’ll cry, Pisi, I really will!”

From the veranda, Sarbajaya called out, “Fine, go then! But why leave by bringing misfortune upon this house? Leaving at an inauspicious time without eating, just so something terrible will befall this family—is that what you want? If you didn’t have such a twisted, malicious mind, would you be in this state?”

The old woman did not turn back. Khuki followed her for a long way, crying.

The old woman went and took shelter at the house of Nabin Ghoshal, on the other side of the village. When Nabin Ghoshal’s wife heard the whole story, she put a hand to her cheek. “Good heavens, I’ve never heard of such a thing, Khuri! You stay here. You’ll stay right here with us.” After about two months there, the old woman left and took refuge first at the house of Tinkori Ghoshal, and from there at the house of Purna Chakraborty. At each house, after a few days, the warmth of the initial welcome would evaporate, and the family would begin to show their irritation in various ways. They would advise her to make up with Sarbajaya and go back home. The old woman tried one or two more houses, always holding on to the hope that if no one else, at least Harihar would send for her. But three months went by, and no one came to eagerly call her back. Durga hadn’t come either. The old woman knew that the other side of the village was a long way off; a little girl couldn’t come so far. She went to that neighborhood once or twice, hoping, but she did not see Khuki. One cannot find shelter in others’ homes for twelve months of the year. The thatched hut belonging to Chinte the milk-woman in the east para was lying empty—after two more months, the villagers arranged for the old woman to live in it, agreeing that they would all contribute something to help her. The hut was tiny, with walls of wattle-and-daub, and stood far from the other houses, in the middle of a bamboo grove. She would hear from people that Sarbajaya had apparently said: “Let everyone see how proud she is. She’s not welcome in this house anymore. Someone who couldn’t even bear to look at my children’s faces—she’ll never darken my doorstep again. Let her go and die in a ditch.” Those who had promised to help were very enthusiastic for the first few days, but gradually their interest waned. The old woman would think, why did I get so angry and leave that day? Bou tried to stop me, Khuki cried so much, she pulled at my hands…! Overcome with self-pity, tears would stream down her two hollowed cheeks. “To think such sorrow was in my fate for my final days,” she would say. “If only my daughter were alive today…”

It was Sankranti, the last day of the month of Chaitra. The sun had been fierce all day; now, in the evening, a light breeze was blowing. In the Gosainpara neighborhood, the drums of the Charak festival were still beating; the fair was not yet over.

From wandering from house to house in the sun, and from her anxieties, the old woman had started running a slight fever every evening. She was lying quietly on her mat on the veranda, an earthen pot of water near her head. Her brass-sheet ghoti had, in the meantime, been pawned for four annas to buy rice. Parched with fever, she would occasionally sip a little water from the pot.

“Pishima!” The old woman threw off her quilt and shot up. Khuki was climbing the steps to the veranda, and behind her was Raji, the daughter of Behari Chakkotti from their neighborhood. Khuki was wearing a clean sari, and something was tied up in a bundle at the end of her anchal. The old woman could hardly speak. With a surge of emotion, she reached out her frail arms and drew the girl to her fever-hot chest.

“Don’t tell anyone, Pisi, don’t let anyone find out. I came secretly after watching the Charak festival. Raji came with me. Look what I’ve brought for you from the fair!”

Khuki opened her bundle. “Murki, Pishima. Two pice worth of murki for you, and two kadmas, and a wooden doll for Khoka.” The old woman sat up properly. Fiddling with the items, she said, “Let me see, let me see. Oh, my precious jewel, look how many things she’s brought! May you become a great queen, to have such kindness for your poor old pisi! Let me see Khoka’s wooden doll! Oh, a lovely doll! How many pice did it cost?”

After a flurry of conversation, Khuki said, “Pisi, your body is so hot!” “It’s from wandering about all day, that’s all. That’s why I thought I’d lie down for a bit.”

Child though she was, Durga understood the real reason her pishima was wandering in the sun. She lovingly stroked her pishima’s arm, which was thin from sorrow and starvation, and said, “You must come home. I have no one to tell me stories in the evening or anything. You’ll come tomorrow—won’t you?”

The old woman was overjoyed. “Did Bou say something to you today?” she asked, her voice trembling with excitement.

Raji said, “Khuri-ma didn’t say anything, Pishima. Khuri-ma doesn’t let her come here. She scolds us if we suggest it. But you should go, Pishima. If you just say a few words, Khuri-ma won’t say anything more.” Khuki added, “You must come tomorrow, Pisi, Ma won’t say anything. I’ll go home now then, Pisi. Don’t tell anyone, will you? But you must come tomorrow morning.”

Waking in the morning, the old woman felt a little lighter. When the sun was a bit higher, she tied her two torn saris and a grimy gamchha into a small bundle and set off for home. On the way, Gopi Bostom’s wife said, “Didi-thakrun, are you going home? Has Bou-didi’s anger cooled?” The old woman beamed. “Durga came to call for me yesterday evening,” she said. “She cried and cried, and said ‘Ma told me to come—Come on, Pisi, let’s go home.’ So I told her, ‘You go on today. I’ll come up to the house in the morning, when the sun is out.’ My little girl cried so much, she didn’t want to leave!… So I’m going this morning.”

When the old woman entered the house, she found no one was there. After a whole night of fever, the long walk in the sun had perhaps exhausted her weakened body. She set down her bundle and sat on the steps of the veranda of her own room.

A little later, Sarbajaya pushed open the back gate, returning from her bath in the river. Her eyes fell on the old woman sitting there, and she stopped for a moment, speechless with astonishment. The old woman smiled. “Oh Bou, are you well? I’ve come back, after all this time. Where else can I go at this age, away from you all… so I thought…”

Sarbajaya walked forward. “What brings you to this house?”

Her expression and the tone of her voice stifled any further desire in the old woman to smile. Before she could answer, Sarbajaya continued, “There is no place for you in this house anymore. I told you that the other day. What face do you have to show up here again?”

The old woman froze, as if turned to wood. No other words came from her mouth. Then, suddenly, she burst into tears. “Oh Bou, don’t speak like that! Give me a little corner of this place. Where else will I go in my final days, tell me? At least in this home where my family has always lived…”

“Enough! You don’t need to invoke this family home. It’s not as if you lie awake worrying about its welfare. Go, get out of here this instant, or I’ll make a terrible scene.”

The old woman had perhaps not expected things to turn out like this. Like a drowning person who, as they are going under, clutches at anything they can find, the old woman looked around her, aimless, her fists clenched, searching for refuge. Today she felt, somehow, that the refuge of so many years was truly slipping away from beneath her feet, and there was no way to hold on to it any longer.

Sarbajaya said, “Go now, don’t just sit there, Thakurjhi. The day is getting on, and I have work to do. I cannot possibly give you a place here.”

The old woman picked up her bundle and, with great difficulty, got to her feet again. As she reached the main gate, her gaze fell upon the broom she used to sweep the courtyard, propped in a corner of the wall. No one had touched it for three or four months. The very grass of this courtyard, the lemon tree she had planted with such care, that deeply beloved broom, Khuki, Khoka, the homestead of Brojo Pise—in her seventy years of life, she had never known or understood anything beyond these things.

Now, forever, they were all moving far away. As she walked past the sajne tree, the bundle tucked under her arm, the mistress of the Ray house called out from behind, “Thak-ma, where are you going back to? Aren’t you going home?” Receiving no answer, she said to herself, “Thak-ma has gone completely deaf these days.”

In the afternoon, someone came from the other side of the village. “O Ma-thakrun, I think your old woman is dying! She’s been lying by the Palits’ granary since noon. She was on her way back in this heat and couldn’t go any further. Go and have a look, one of you. Isn’t Dada-thakur home? Can’t you send him?”

It was true that under the large machan beside the Palits’ granary, Indir Thakrun was dying. On her way back from Harihar’s house, she had begun to feel unwell; unable to go on in the sun, she had lain down right there. The Palits had carried her to the Chandi-mandap. After rubbing oil on her chest and back and fanning her, and then seeing her condition worsen late in the day, they had laid her down on the ground. Many people from the Palit-para stood gathered around. Someone was saying, “But why was she out in this sun? It’s been so brutal today.” Another said, “She’ll come around in a minute. She’s probably just fainted.”

But who would come all this way? Hearing the news, Dinu Chakravarty’s eldest son, Foni, came to see what was the matter. Bishu Palit said, “It’s no faint. The old woman won’t survive.” Hari-jetha was probably not at home, but word had been sent. Everyone said, “Give it here, Dada-thakur. Thank goodness you’ve come. Please give her a little Ganga water. Just look at this, will you? In a Brahmin neighborhood, of all places, and there’s no one to give a dying person a drop of water in her mouth?”

Foni handed his walking stick, made of beichi wood, to Bishu Palit and knelt by the old woman’s face. Taking some Ganga water in the cup of his hand, he called out, “O Pishima!”

The old woman opened her eyes and stared blankly at his face, but no answer came from her lips. Foni called again, “How are you, Pishima? Are you feeling very ill?” Then he poured the Ganga water into her mouth. But the water did not go in. Bishu Palit said, “Try one more time, Dada-thakur.” A little while later, as Foni gently closed the old woman’s eyelids, a great gush of water from their sunken sockets streamed down her two withered cheeks.

With the death of Indir Thakrun, an old era in the village of Nischindipur came to an end.