An old man grabs his feet and begs, “Babu, I haven’t eaten for two days — just a handful of rice, Babu…”
Debasree Chakraborti | Kolkata
On the right bank of the Kansabati River, deep in the forest, stands the old temple of Lord Shiva. No one in these parts can say exactly how old it is — for generations, people have only heard stories about this temple from their mothers and grandmothers. Like any ancient temple, it has its share of mysterious tales and legends. Seeing this crumbling temple in the middle of the jungle, one can tell that the area was once quite prosperous. But after hundreds of years, that prosperity has faded like an old painting. With no repairs for ages, the whole region has become overgrown by forest. Nearby, there are one or two villages too — their condition is the same: reeling under the shadows of hunger and illiteracy.
Bandhua, a boy from Bimashol village, is coming to fish by the Kansabati. The path from Bimashol to the river is flanked by forest on both sides. Humming a tune to himself, Bandhua walks on — during spring this region takes on a flaming orange hue as the Palash trees inside the jungle bloom all over. Today Bandhua feels happier than usual. He found a torn fishing net on the riverbank and mended it, fixing it inside a broken basket. This time of year, the river’s current runs strong — if he wades slowly through the muddy shallows into the midstream, the current will sweep plenty of small fish into his net. He’ll sell these fish at the training school — yesterday some sir and madam came there from Kolkata. If he sells to them, he’ll get a good price. With that money, he’ll buy rice, lentils, oil, and salt for home. Today is Friday — there will be a market at the foot of the hill this evening. Thinking about all this, his eyes fall on the broken Shiva temple. From here he can’t see it clearly — the place stays dark even during the day. Pushing through the dense trees, Bandhua steps closer to the temple. Now he’s forgotten all about fishing — what he’s seeing, is it real or just his imagination? From within the forest comes the droning of crickets, like they’re protesting in chorus. He smells the heavy scent of wild creepers — the trees are exuding a stronger fragrance today, as if nature itself is protesting in silence. Bandhua understands their feelings. After walking a little further, he feels something slither over his foot — perhaps a snake. His legs turn cold.
On the broken wall to the right of the temple, a peacock sits staring intently at something below. There’s the murmur of people talking. Who could it be? Bandhua creeps closer. To his left, on the path, he sees a Tata Sumo parked — he recognizes this vehicle, it belongs to the training school. He hadn’t noticed it while coming. Now he quietly goes and stands behind a wall. There’s a gap where a brick has come loose. The gap makes a perfect little peephole. Bandhua peeks through and sees the sir and madam from the training school chatting among themselves, oblivious to the surroundings, strolling down the jungle path toward the car.
The peacock flaps its wings noisily from the broken wall. A chill runs through Bandhua’s body. He steps out from behind the wall and moves forward — he no longer has the strength to stand. He collapses to the ground. He doesn’t know when his basket fell into the jungle. Placing his hand on his forehead, Bandhua begins to weep. Then a scream, so piercing it splits the sky. The jungle birds take off together, startled by his scream. The peacock lets out a harsh cry from the broken wall and flies away. Bandhua hears the car engine start. He slowly lifts his eyes toward the ancient banyan tree growing out of the temple walls — its massive branch holds the hanging corpse of Dumri, the village girl. Dumri’s bulging eyes droop toward Bandhua — fresh blood still drips from her nose and mouth.
Bandhua buries his head between his knees and shuts his eyes tight.
Dumri Soren’s husband, Somnath, was dumped dead in the village one night by the police. His entire body had been shredded by bullets — smoke still rose from the holes. Dumri had sat staring at those wounds with her year-old child on her lap. People came from the city, took photos, and those photos were printed in newspapers. Dumri was swept away in a flood of promises that only pushed her deeper into madness. No one in the village had enough to eat — what could they give her? With her hair tangled and her child on her hip, she went door to door begging. Some called her mad, others called her a witch. After all, a woman who devours her own husband must be a witch. Her hunger grew day by day — with nothing to eat herself, where would milk come from for her child? When Dumri went to the BDO’s office, everyone said, “She’s the wife of a Maoist — so she must be a Maoist too.” Her child wailed with hunger for milk — “Rice, just a handful of rice, that’s all I need,” Dumri pleaded. She sat outside the BDO office gates, chanting “rice, rice” like a one-woman strike. But no one so much as glanced her way.
Bandhua would watch from a distance, smacking his forehead — they didn’t have food themselves, what could he possibly give her? Seeing the BDO sahib’s shiny gold chain, he once thought of snatching it, saying — “This chain is forged from the grains stolen from our mouths — it’s ours, not yours.” But he couldn’t do it. One evening he heard the news — the madwoman’s child had died, screaming “milk, milk.”
No one looked for Dumri after that. She disappeared from the office gates.
Bandhua stares at the body — Dumri climbed the wall, tied the rope, and hanged herself. The rope is familiar — very familiar. It was the same rope they used to bind Somnath’s hands and feet.
Bandhua’s eyes burn red, like blood-flowers. Something long discarded stirs in his memory. He gets up and runs into the jungle.
Like every year, the future administrators have come from the training school to “inspect” the villages. After belching out last night’s giant prawns, one of them says, “So, everything’s fine here, right?”
An old man grabs his feet and begs, “Babu, I haven’t eaten for two days — just a handful of rice, Babu…”
The man looks uneasy now. He sees the skeletal figures inching closer toward him. He had heard these villages were ravaged by a tuberculosis epidemic — it really wasn’t safe to come here. Why did they even send them to train in such places?
He kicks the old man away and steps back. Then — a few gunshots. Screams. The red earth of Bimashol’s furrows drinks the red blood deep inside. Bandhua sits crouched in the jungle with a gun.
Read: Trafficking – A Short Story from Kolkata
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Debasree Chakraborti is a renowned novel writer of Bengali language. Based in Kolkata, West Bengal, India, she has done Master’s in Modern History from the Kolkata University, and authored some thirty books, mostly the novels, with historical perspective and themes. Her novel is ‘Maharaja Dahir’ that covers the history of Sindh from 662, the year of first attack on Sindh by the Arab armies till date, was published last year and translated by Nasir Aijaz into Sindhi language.
