“Kill me, kill me.” mother shouted, from the kitchen. It’s her daily phrase, this time a warning to my father, not an invitation.
Father came late from the office, didn’t eat his tiffin. The box that nested warm chapatis, boiled eggs, onion fries came back hinged, unappreciated. The hotchpotch would go now to the fridge, in the household’s icy realm, where the diligent food maker’s present mood resided.
That day my mother died. The attack came to her suddenly, stealthily, making her hit the kitchen tap, blood gushing out of her head, staining her beloved kitchen sink that she had polished a minute ago. We did not go to fetch her on time. As father was sulking at the verandah. I was playing outside the blind bee.
It was the end of a love story, I suppose. Because father loved mother. Mother loved father. They loved me and I loved them back helplessly. The whole procession of each other’s love came to a sudden halt.
Because, after a week, my father died too. In their bed, more silently than my mother, with a pesky smile on his lips and an old alluminium tiffin box sitting on his chest like a brittle minar.
A stubborn monk came to the village of Bahiruli. But how stubborn he was was not apparent till Sudama, the weaver, went one day to offer him a dish of fruits and milk. Sudama- otherwise a hard headed man- under his wife’s counsel took it upon himself to buy the fruits from the Wednesday’s market. It costed him the price of four cotton plaids (which was equal to the price of six kilograms of rice, or, twenty-five bundles of hay- depending on what a man lacked at the moment: food, clothes, or a shade). But the wife was adamant and Sudama preferred to abide by the woman than acting like a Yaksha to his ever-depleting coins.
As per the prescribed decorum (while in front of a pious man)- with folded hands and a trembling voice- Sudama begged, “Let me be at your feet Baba- let me water your feet- my life would then be complete. I would be content, then. Only. See! See. See, how blessed is the village where you have appeared. And blessed is your diminished son who is no one but me. And my wife too … I can tell now, Baba … who is not even here … my wife … she is blessed too … already … at home. My ancestors … who are not even living …” He paused for a moment to assess the impact of his outburst; and then, pressed on with the same vehemence: “Where do you come from, Baba? The Himalayas, I presume. Don’t try to fool me, baba. I am only your diminished son- but I too can see. That is how your skin is glowing like copper. How your eyes observe Gods everyday. But, how sweaty must you be feeling now, Baba, he-he, in this horrid weather of the plain. Here, here, let me fan you with my plaid.” at the same time assuming a certain adventure and strain to be a part and parcel of the monk’s life.
The monk- in response- hurried out from the behind of a snake gourd bush- where he was resting- presumably- noisily, trampling the fallen long red fruits and a part of the shrub on his wake- with red eyes- as if he got out of a deep sleep just then, unwittingly, wafting the smell of a burnt charcoal or something like that, and spat on the ground in front of Sudama in a wild fury. Sudama, who was well versed on the subject of eccentricities that were displayed by the superior men was nonetheless stunned. The behaviour- didn’t resemble either that of the Devas or the Danavas, or the ferocious Rishis or raging Munis or even the Asuras- not even the most vindictive ones- as they were portrayed at the nightly village plays or were recited at noon by the Pola Giri’s widow from the Shastras on the Ekadashi days.
Thereafter he didn’t have the heart to tell the monk that he had a few more favours from him to ask. Like, say: His wife, Pramoda, whom he loved dearly and irrefutably didn’t love him as much in return. Whatever money he had inherited from his father had been dwindling and he didn’t know how much more miserly he should be in his affairs. His eldest son failed in the school examination- which was not such a trouble as the boy would be promoted as per the school norm. But Sudama found in him the first thin streak of rebellion against paternity which was worrisome.
The strange event of the morning turned even stranger when Sudama reported the encounter back to his wife and she began to laugh. “He is a stubborn monk. A stubborn monk. An egoist and stubborn.” she said. “That’s why I made you visit him thinking, ‘How worse can he be with you? You are no less stubborn yourself.’ Oh, but, he triumphed. He triumphed. But, you forget him, now, you hear? Forget him. Let him be. Let him live alone and be dry as he is.” she said, without a sign of remorse or shyness which bothered Sudama.
Then in a strange act of intimacy Pramoda brought her mouth near to her husband’s left ear and whispered, “Hear. Let me tell you one secret. The Pola Giri’s widow wants to bear a child. See, nothing big. Only a child. So she went to that hokum-god and asked. She said, ‘Prabhu, I keep fasts. I go to pilgrimages. I read sacred books for days. But, still, where is my peace? Those books are not my relatives, those are not my friends. They keep me alone. They keep me awake at nights and still do nothing to help. Have pity on me, Baba. Give me a son, avatar. He would be my joy, my own, and my walking stick when I am old. I will leave this village and I will go to the town and I will not ever come back. But this life is unbearable for me.’ She said that to him. Hear? Willingly. She said that to him. Do you know what the Baba said?”
Sudama, astound, whispered, “What?”
“The Baba said, ‘I would rather live with the rats.’”
“What? Rats? Rats? What does he mean by rats?”
“Who knows.” Pramoda replied.
Without comprehending Sudama experienced an indecipherable wildness, within himself.
Exasperated he imagined how it would feel to lay with the Pola Giri’s widow in her hut, on an old soft straw mat, at night, and, how it would feel to father a child with her, and God willing, a daughter. He felt sad that an opportunity so grand like this would only be offered to someone who seemed to have a higher stature than himself though that person might be such a careless man.
Sudama itched to complain, “He is a monk, that’s why he could afford all these nonsense. If he were a weaver like me this foolish behaviour would have made him an utter failure and an incomplete man.”
Fearing repercussion he kept quiet.
Griefs that my father carries,
I carry them upon my shoulder.
My mother’s unmended heart –
I carry in a silver jewelry box.
All my brother’s sorrows,
Bland in hate, blind in helplessness,
I prance to carry them like
A dancing dagger on my belt.
Afar alone, love dew that
My girl yearns, I carry it in my throat –
In dry, whilst a noon time song
Spatters the sound of rain.