The Sky of Drought’ Anil Gharai Nana Mandi’s world lost its splendour, became dark when he had no work in hand. Just as he was about to leave his house in the morning on his cycle, Shankhi said, ‘Go, but come back early. Do not bring stale rice or vegetables from the hotel. I feel sick after having those. They are nauseating.’ For the last few months, Shankhi had not been feeling li! ¢ ! aving anything. She felt an aversion towards food. Within six months of their marriage, she had become pregnant; this became a source of tension for Nuna. He had been working in the local factory at the time of their marriage. Then the factory closed. The contractor left for another place. A few months passed by in this manner. Shankhi made a wry face and sarcastically said, ‘If you don’t earn, even a good saving will eventually run dry. Rakhi’s husband goes to the new settlement to work, Heard there is much opportunity there. Go and see if you can find some.’ ‘It was not easy to work every day,’ Nuna said. ‘You need a chopper with a haft and an axe for the work at the settlement. If the people are not satisfied with the work, they won't pay. Plough four to eight gardens, sow seeds, fence, cut the bushes, and the like.’ Nuna was tired after a few days’ work. Reclining on Shankhi’s bosom, he groaned, ‘I cannot work any more, and my blood has turned to water! Is it possible for all to do all types of work?” * Translated by Sharmila Lahiri Maitra from the original Bengali ‘Kharar Akash’ 55SURVIVAL AND OTHER STORIES ‘You have to. There is no option. Even if you do not think of us, you have to think of the one who is coming,’ Shankhi retorted. She was dreaming about the future, dreams more colourful and brighr than the bright mustard flowers. Nuna lit a biri, a poor man’s cigarette, and looked at the blank sky. It was the middle of Ashar, and yet no trace of rain. The buds of the kadam tree were withering. They could not bloom in the absence of rain. There was a strong gust of wind moving about with an angry demeanour, not like a hurricane, but like a kharish snake with a snarling, raised head. If one went out early, the sun was tolerable. The Babus of the colony were fed up with the excruciating heat. No one wanted to employ helping hands at the time. If a worker approached them they would advise them to come back after the rains. It was no good working on the land in the heat. Seeds could not be sown. Ploughing required great effort. Nuna Mandi had come back with a glum face, his efforts being of no avail, on three consecutive days. Shankhi was annoyed. She complained, ‘Only the lazy fail to find work. Is there any dearth of work in this big world? You need the wish to work. You have lost the initiative to work altogether!’ Nuna looked at the drought-stricken sky and wondered about the change he noticed in Shankhi. She used to speak with such affection before! Her words were laced with honey then. Things had changed to such an extent that her words sounded bitter, had a venomous touch. The girl was too proud of her beauty, Nuna thought. The glitter of her youth resembled the hyperactive koi fish. The fact that she was different from the other girls of the slum was evident in her body language. Every gesture, hint and insinuation of her speech was a marker of that. She didn’t want to mix with the others easily. She walked with her head high, nose-up-in-the-air attitude, very much like a freshwater catfish. Nuna had noticed all these things. He tried in vain to make her understand that one needed to socialise in order to survive. Shankhi’s ego would not allow her to hear her husband's advice. Instead, she castigated him for his low mentality, his being so common, Nuna did not protest, for he knew that it would only lead wo further quarrels.‘Tue Sky or Droucut In the morning, she said, ‘Go, but don’t come back empty-handed. The ration is totally spent. There is nothing to be caoked today. I can feed you water only!” Shankhi’s words echoed in’Nuna’s mind as he went in search of work. Sometimes he felt that it would be better to end one’s life than lead a life of such dejection. But thoughts of Shankhi prevented him from committing any foolish deed. . The day gradually rolled on. Sitting in the settlement’s tea- stall, with the scorching sun moving westward, Nuna stared at the open fields ahead. There was a club in the locality, where the;locals celebrated Durga puja every year. The previous year’ the couple had relished kedgeree offered to Ma Durga, distributed by the, club members. He had a strange thought: would Ma Durga not have pity on him on that particular day? He uttered the name of Burubonga. At that very moment two crows flew across the sky with their patent cawing cries. As though on cue, a fat pig suddenly rushed out of the neighbouring bushes. It ran hither and thither. Bishu, the tea’stall owner, had noticed it before. He said that a mad dog had bitten the pig. For the last seven days the pig had been behaving in a restless manner, running about with a swollen body. He alio said that the people of the neighbouring Harijan slum were afraid that the infected pig would harm humans. They were sure that it would not survive. The fear of rabies hung in the air. Nuna saw that the pig was lying on the ground and rolling on its sides. Guttural sounds were heard. Suddenly, its movement stopped altogether. The sounds could not be heard any more. The owner of the pig ran forward with a stick in hand. Wiping his forehead with his other hand, he uttered a sigh of relief. ‘Thank God,’ he murmured, ‘Goddess Shitala knows what would have happened if the swine had survived!’ It was time to make a ditch and bury it, he thought. That would end the matter. , Nuna had paid attention to the owner's words. He scratched his chin and went forward, ‘Uncle, why bury it? Give it to me. | will take it home, cook and eat it. Even the poison of snakes is destroyed when the dead snakes are barbecued, this is merely the saliva of a mad dog’, he said to the owner. 7SURVIVAL AND Ortier Stories The owner was happy to find an easy way to get rid of the dead pig, Nuna tied the pig's body to his eycle’s carrier and felt happy a the thought that Shankhi could he given good food. He would of course not disclose the details of the dog-bite to his wife. Ifshe knew pethaps she would not allow them to relish the pork. Ie was already dark when Nuna returned home. He cut up the pig then tan to the nearby grocery to fetch potatoe and other necessary ingredients. He was thrilled at the prospect of having pork for dinner Shankhi was not feeling well the whole day. She was suffering from acidity and flatulence. Still she cooked the pork with great care. Then she handed her husband a plate of cooked meat. She commented on the huge quantity of food and wondered who would eat so much She suggested that they give out a bit to their neighbours. But Nuna was unwilling to part with the food. It was such a rare privilege. He wanted to savour the dish. The thought of sharing it with others did not appeal to him. He acted like a jubilant child. Shankhi looked athimand complained about herown discomfiture. ‘I will nor eat anything today. I have heartburn. I will drink a little limewater. That may reduce the acidity,’ she said. ‘Wait, I will fetch ajwain from the nearby shop,’ said Nuna, and looked at Shankhi complacently. Shankhi replied in a weary voice, ‘There is no need for that. Sleep is the only remedy. Don't worry about me. This is a common problem at this time.’ : At night, as they lay on the bed, Nuna’s satisfied fingers played upon his wife's belly. There was expectancy in his movements, but the tired wife was unresponsive. Coldly she said, ‘Not tonight. It's late. Go to sleep.’ The moon sank in the sky. A sudden starm was brewing, and it agitated the external world. With a jerk, Nuna got up and vomited all over the bed. The strain of the retching brought teats to his eves. Lighting a lamp, an apprehensive Shankhi tried to help. ‘What made you vomit?’ she queried in an anxious voice. Nuna's face had become pale with fear. Somehow he sputtered, ‘The sow was bitten by dog. Uncle was burying it, but... Before he could finish, Shankhi let out an ear-splitting scream, ‘O my God! What will happen to me” she cried. Then she broke amad 58Te Sky or DROUGHT down, ‘O Father Bongaburu, please save my husband! | will offer a pigeon to you in return for my husband's life! Nuna Mundi was taken to the Sub-Divisional hospital, and was administered saline. Tubes had been inserted in his hand and nose. Shankhi could see the laboured breathing of the restless man. He was gasping. The doctor said, ‘His condition is not good at all, serious. We have to wait for seventy-two hours. We are trying our best.” Seventy-two hours was a long wait, pondered Shankhi. As she sat beside her husband, she watched the saline solution trickling down from the bottle into the tube attached to Nuna’s hand. There was a definite transformation in the sky outside. The sky of drought had given way to torrential rains. The swirling winds were blowing with great force. Shankhi was struck by a sudden trepidation. The sky over the parched earth at times spoke of jubilation, of rain. ee Glossary Ashar: the third month of the Bengali year when the monsoon starts kharish: a poisonous snake Burubonga or Bongaburu: a mountain god of the tribals harijan: the fifth category in Hindu society (‘panchama’) Shitala: goddess of pox and other epidemics 59On Water and on Shore’ Gobinda Shoundo They shouted ‘chain biinesh’. The syllables of the word were so drawn out—'‘ch-a-e-e-i-i-n’—by Sharma while the word itself was pronounced with such a squinting of his eye that his diction could have invited comparison only with that of the sahibs. Sashi, open- mouthed, seemed to swallow Sharma’s words This Nagen Sharma, after all, was last year’s Nagenbabu. What he had said that day was still ringing in Sashi’s ears. ‘You understand, Sashida, you are to unload your catch in my warehouse. My warehouse will take all that you unload. Never at any time shall I be able to say “so mtich!”—“only that much”. You may haggle a little, but you'll gain nothing from that. All will depend on the market price; 'll only keep aside an amount as commission, and you'll get the rest of the money.” ‘No, no; how will you manage then? You too have your little ones at home,’ Sashi objected. Almost thrusting a long cigarette into Sashi’s mouth, Sharma ignited his Chinese lighter with a click. Sashi was helpless. ‘O~ Ah ~Ooh ~ Hmm'—Sashi first hesitated, and then having no other alternative, lowered his mouth and lit the cigarette. The red glow of the lighter spread a red hue over his white stubble and over the dark skin on his wrinkled face. ‘And now I want to settle the terms of my business with you. Please listen to me, Sashida, Tomorrow you receive payment for * Translated by Subhajit Sen Gupta from the original Bengali ‘Jale Dangai’. 64ON Warer AND ON SHORE today’s consignment of fish—the money then will be all yours. I receive tomorrow's haul. You get paid for that the day after. This means that both you and I are bound by the terms of our agreement. There is no question of either of us getting away from the other. You understand, Sashida?” Sashi, meanwhile, was drawing blissfully on his cigarette. The cheeks were accustomed to smoking. He often placed one whole chhilim of tobacco in a massive hookah-bowl and thrust the blazing fire, lighted in it by a combination of wood-chips and coal, to the very bottom of the bowl. The smoke emerged hissing and in torrents as from the chimney of a steam engine. The hookah-bowl was passed from one person to another. This was not possible with a cigarette. Having smoked a cigarette to half its size, one couldn't pass it on to anyone else. Sashi was toothless. The saliva from his mouth moistened much of his cigarette. How beautifully was warehouse- owner Sharma smoking his! His cigarette seemed to remain just as it was. The ash was shaken over with a snap of the fingers, the cigarette itself dangled loosely on the edges of his lips. Never before had Sashi witnessed from such close quarters the fine art of smoking a cigarette. Sashi fished when the tide was low. With a patia boat twenty times an arm’s length, six to seven men and a fishing net, Sashi moved out into the open sea. The ways of the sea were at his fingertips. He could well do without a radio. He didn’t care two hoots for what the meteorological department had to say. The roar of the sea, the sultry weather, the scorching sun, the sounds of the estuary and such other phenomena enabled him to foretell the weather. He had no compass. Gazing at the stars in the pitch-dark night, he told the directions with certainty. Occasionally he had to encounter difficult questions that his pupils asked. ‘All right, so we have the stars to tell us the direction, but what do we do on nights when there are no stars?” Sashi smiled a wry smile and said, ‘The answer to that is not easy. Still we ought to know, or should we lose our lives in the open sea? I am spared if | know the answers while there is still time.’ Sashi’s experiences in life had given him the answers to such questions, but no one acknowledged their worth. They were of consequence only to Sashi himself, and to the six sturdy young men 6SURVIVAL AND OTHER StoRiES who were his companions and pupils, and to their small, indigent families. No other soul in the world understood. Toiling almost to death, they had to draw up to the shore the fish washed by the seawater and glittering like pearls, and then sell them—driven by sheer necessity. This is what made Sashi sad. Once, Sashi had found himself in the midst of a storm out at sea. It was a cyclone. Almost out of the blue, the seawater swelled enormously and rose to a fearsome height. Exerting himself to the utmost and clutching the rudder with both hands, he yelled, ‘Weigh anchor—cyclone!” Six young men, despite all their efforts, failed to weigh anchor. It was a strong, thick cable; there was no way it could be cut and the boat severed from it. The long billhook, which was always close at hand, could not be found. The boat was lifted into the air a few times, men and all, and then as it was flung into the sea, it sank into its depths like a fruit of the banana tree. What followed was terrible indeed. It was each man to himself. We've come into this world alone, and must depart alone. Even the staunchest atheist would, at that moment, have said his desperate prayers to the Almighty: ‘O god, save our lives!’ Sashi’s words were still laced with courage. With the boat on the verge of sinking, Sashi seized the long bamboo pole that hoisted the boat’s sail and plunged into the sea. Then he cried out to his companions, ‘Leave everything else and hold on to the bamboo pole, let your bodies float on the water! Put one arm around the bamboo pole; keep your heads safe and away from it! And with your other arm and your legs, swim hard through the sea water! Jai Ganga Mai ki Jai!’ A day and a night passed as they kept floating on the sea, until Sashi’s eldest son was drawn to his death by the current. Frozen and numbed by rain and cold, his hand had involuntarily slid from the bamboo pole. Sashi saw his son drifting away but there was not a thing that he could do. He could not even bring his hand to his forehead to beat upon it in despair. He did not know how many days passed by. When he regained consciousness, he was in a hospital. On that occasion Sashi had to lose two of his companions besides his son. Hearing of the incident, the warehouse-owner had given him an idea last season: ‘Why do you place your life at such tisk, Sashida? Tie 66ON WaTer AND ON SHORE the boat to my launch so that you may fish in the sea sitting snugly like a babu.’ The idea was not bad. Sashi was ageing; the body refused to take too much. When the petrol-driven launch approached from a distance, letting out smoke and carving its passage through the sea, and blew its electric horn, Sashi was thrilled. He thought, ‘Yes, this is the real friend of the water!’ Sashi had spent one whole season going out to fish in the open seas with his boat tied to the launch. That season Sashi caught a great deal of fish, and several consignments were dispatched to the markets in Kolkata. Warehouse-owner Nagen has his launch on the water and his lorry on the shore. It lacked only an ice-manufacturing machine. No cold storage. Nagen would try to build even that once he had more money. Charged with emotion, Sashi voiced his approval: ‘That is what you should do, Master, so that we poor people may earn something.’ In his happiness, he narrated his story. ‘Listen, Master, those were the days when we could make a living only when we caught fish in the sea and sold them in the markets. Business was possible only if there were small- time customers in the retail market; else, all the fish would have to be thrown away. Once the sanitary inspector came and rolled his eyes upwards in anger. He scared us, “You will all be tied up and sent to prison.” Driven into a corner, we dug up the ground and buried the big, broad-bellied ilishes, all of which had rotted, with our own hands. It is very painful to bury fish with one’s own hands. It’s like the loss of one’s own son, and it grieves me to death. Today, thanks to your kindness, those days are over. The lorry arrives immediately to carry away the catch of fish, whatever the quantity. Ice manufactured in machines is at hand. Crushed ice, the chests, the packing, all got ready like clockwork.’ Sashi had not seen such elaborate arrangements in all his life. This was a revelation. He was an experienced man of the water; this was an experience that belonged to the shore. What he had to go through reduced him to tears. The launch-owner's orders were that the fish would be shared on a fifty-fifty basis. Half the catch would be his_—the rest of the fish would be split between Sashi and his six friends, and much of the proceeds from the sale would go towards the rent, running into thousands of rupees, that needed to be paid for the erSurvivaL AND OTHER Stories use of the boat and the fishing net. Fishing in the sea was a lottery It could make a king of one person instantly, and cause another to lose all and turn a pauper. Luck favoured Sashi. So many silver ilishes were snared that the launch seemed hard put to draw the net. Sashis joy knew no bounds. Warehouse-owner Nagen lighted cigarette after cigarette, using the glow from one to light the other. The chests were all tied up and made ready for the journey, and then his lorry, along with several others, set off for Kolkata in the wee hours of the morning. The next day Nagen returned from Kolkata. His hair was dishevelled, and his eyes were as red as a pair of hibiscus flowers. He seemed to be unsteady on his feet. Nagenbabu snatched his shoulder bag and flung it into his office room; then, finding Sashi in front of him, put his arms around him and started sobbing loudly. Sashi, struck with wonder, was rendered speechless. The sight of this rich, respectable man embracing an ordinary fisherman like him and crying really shook him up—Sashi himself began to weep. The reason behind Nagenbabu’s tears was still unknown to him. It was eventually left to Nagenbabu to calm Sashi down. ‘Sit down, Sashida, sit down. Steady yourself. The misfortune is not mine alone, Sashida, it is yours as well.’ Sashi dried his tears with the end of his piece of clothing and, in a voice choked with emotion, asked him, ‘What shall we do, Nagenbabu? What has caused the misfortune?” Drawing out a couple of bidis from a side-pocket of his stained shirt, Nagenbabu extended one in Sashi’s direction. O god! To see Nagenbabu with a bidi between his lips! Sashi had forgotten the art of smoking bidis himself. His words punctuated by sobs and gasps, Nagen began to speak, ‘We are ruined, Sashida, we are ruined! | had to pay up a fine in order to be let off.’ ‘Why, why did they levy a fine—for what?” ‘The ice that had been loaded was a trifle inadequate. There was a huge quantity of fish, without the corresponding amount of ice required to prevent it from going bad. The tax collector intercepted our vehicle. This resulted in a delay. The ice melted, the sun grew hot—and all the fish rotted. Wherever we went, we saw people pressing handkerchiefs to their noses. The corporation people arrived. 68On Warer AND ON SHORE The police arrived, and, at our own expense, we had to carry the fish to dhapar math and bury the whole lot there. Finally, we tucked some money into the hands of the police lest we should have to serve a term in jail. | take a solemn vow, Sashida, I would rather beg for a living than carry on with this business.’ Sashi was silent. The light of the bidi in his hand had gone out long ago. As Nagenbabu clicked his lighter aflame and held it out, Sashi seemed to regain some strength. ‘No. No more bidis for me.’ Flinging away the burnt bidi that he had been holding, Sashi burst into tears. ‘We had such a lot of fish, and all gone bad. The pain in the hands still hurts. Having to constantly open the knots on the fishing nets has cut and chipped the fingers. Will ever god give us those days back again—Hai Bhagaban!” Nagenbabu offered consolations. ‘Do not weep, Sashida, do not weep. Let me lose my all if it is so destined, but I’ll never disappoint you. My business deals are with you. I have lost everything today; your concern and sympathies will ensure that I shall have it all back tomorrow. When I see smiles emerging from your lips, I feel at peace with myself.’ ‘Hey Panchanan, hey Pocha, give Sashi and his friends their tiffin!” Panchanan, the boy who ran little errands at the warehouse, arrived with glasses of water, and several large rajbhogs and samosas lying enticingly on a china plate. In a commanding voice, Nagenbabu cried out to the manager of the warehouse, ‘Come on, Managerbabu, give Sashi and his friends three thousand rupees.” Under the present circumstances, Sashi hesitated to stretch out his hands for the money. If one were to calculate the dues, one would be driven crazy. Still, it grieved Sashi to stretch out his hands and accept as his dues money from the man who had just returned after having lost everything. But there was nothing that Sashi could do about it. Six families were expectantly looking forward to this money. Rice would reach their homes; their household fires would be lit. This would bring smiles to the lips of the children; Sashi could not be ungrateful. Holding on to the money, he declared in a voice choked with emotion, ‘Nagenbabu, I have no option but to take this money. I'm taking it as loan. If my . Ma Ganga and Baba Mahakal are kind, | shall pay back your money.’ CcSuRVIVAL AND OTHER STORIES The old year had given way to the new. Nagenbabu was here again But he was now almost unrecognisable. Every line that he now spoke was punctuated with English. The packet of cigarettes in his hands had a smart look about it. There was no possibility of the cigarette being moistened by saliva, for the filter was almost an inch and a half long. The smoke emerged filtered and clean. Releasing a mouthful of smoke into the air, Nagenbabu said, ‘You are surely acquainted with the word “chain”. “Shekol”—that is what you may call it. You pull at one of the rings, and the next one moves. Now there is no further fear of ice falling short of our requirements.’ Spurting a fountain of water towards the sky to the accompaniment of a quick succession of whirring sounds was his ice-manufacturing machine. As many as three lorries, instead of merely one, were lined up. Converting several of the sea-going fishing launches into cold storages had been one of Nagenbabu’s wishes. The bank had not earlier acquiesced in this, and so the desire had to be suppressed with considerable effort. He had waited till god himself chose to be generous. ‘Is god yours alone” Deep down, Sashi was seething with anger. ‘So you lost all you had and still the bank gave you alll this money? A lie! The fish turning bad, your weeping, al! those were cock-and-bull stories.’ Then... then, Sashi, what will you do now? Fall once more into the clutches of Nagen’s kind? As Sashi taxed himself with deep thought, his mind got reduced to a chaotic mass. He couldn’t decide whom he should trust at that moment. He kept groping and feeling his way in the deep, empty recesses of his mind, till finally a time arrived when he grew still. He realised clearly enough that the water and the shore were not the same. ‘If there is a large haul of fish, the fish of the water will have to be sold at the price of water. If that too is not possible, | shall pour the fish of the water back into the water. Even then...’ ‘Sashibabu, I need your co-operation this time round too.’ And then, having spent some moments releasing several rings of cigarette smoke into the air, Sharma asked him once more, ‘Sashibabu, I haven't received any reply. Are you thinking something” Sashi, his eyes shut, made no reply except a muted ‘Hmm’. assy 7ON Warer AND ON SHORE Glossary Bijnesh: distorted pronunciation of ‘business’ by people not knowing English well Babu: generally suffixed to the name of someone who is addressed respectfully ‘-da’: suffixed to the name of an elder brother or to the name of a person out of a sense of respect, irrespective of age chhilim: a certain amount of tobacco placed in a hookah-bowl patia: wooden boards that make the floor of a boat Jai Ganga Mai ki Jai!: a passionate wish that the river Ganges, reverentially addressed as mother, may be victorious ilish: a fish usually found during the monsoon, a perennial favourite with fish-loving Bengalis bidi: a small rolled-up tobacco leaf tied with a thin string, smoked more in villages and in suburbs than in cities dhapar math: dumping ground for urban waste, particularly the one in Kolkata hai bhagaban!: a cry of despair addressed to god rajbhog: a large spherical juicy sweet, much loved by Bengalis Ma Ganga: a reverential term for the river Ganges which is worshipped in many parts of India as a female deity, and is frequently addressed as ‘mother’ Baba Mahakal: a reverential expression for the idea of eternity or endless time; eternity is here thought of in terms of a ‘father’ shekol: chain aThe Son ofa Peasant® Nakul Mallick At noon, Sudhanya Sarkar liked to be seated cross-legged on a low, wide stool at his baithakkhana, looking outside through the open window as far as his eyes could see. Badyinath prepared the hookah, gave it to the kattamashai and stood beside him waiting for any errand. The kattamashai had a few puffs from the hookah freshly filled with water and sounding bubble-bubble-bubble, and then turning to Badyinath asked, ‘How many ploughs are working in the field today?” Badyinath replied with folded hands, ‘About forty, kattamashai.’ ‘| see. Are they all on the same field?” ‘No. About twenty are on the north field, and another twenty on. the west.’ Sudhanya Sarkar once again cast a look at the distant sun-baked field. Sitting in his baithakkhana he could see the major portion of the surrounding garden, pond, and the adjacent cornfield. There were two pukka buildings, five tin-roofed atchala rooms, and four ponds with pukka ghats. His was a joint family comprising fifty-sixty members, with another twenty or so farmhands staying with his family. More than half of the residents of Boulgram were related to this family, and they loitered around from one courtyard to another. Sudhanya Sarkar was the chief among them, the central figure, and their guardian. He was the kattamashai of this whole locality, not just of this family. He owned about five hundred bighas of land, apart * Translated by Dr Amzed Hossein from the original Bengali ‘Chashar Beta’ 118SURVIVAL AND OTHER STORIES trom leasehold of about one thousand to twelve hundred bighas. Moreover, he had businesses in paddy, chilli and jute. He was equally concerned over the welfare of his workers, tenants and relatives. His ancestors had Bowali as their surname. However, because of the abundance of landed property, cash and jewellery, and the leadership and authority exercised by the family, they got the title of Sarkar. Following this tradition, many addressed the head of the family as Sarkarmashai. Gazing intently for quite a long while towards the northern fields, Sarkarmashai said, ‘Baidyanath, look who goes there; call him here.’ Baidhyanath went out of the baithakkhana and putting his rounded palms around his eyes, peered at the distant fields. “Who goes there” ‘Sir, it seems the man is Bishtucharan of Sarmangal village.’ ‘Ask him to come here.’ Baidyanath shouted at the top of his voice, gesticulated. Bishtu Mondal came slowly, with apprehensive gait, shoes in hand and hiding those behind his back. He stood in front of the baithakkhana with downcast eyes. Sarkarmashai took the last puff from his hookah, cast a glance at his face and asked, ‘Bishtucharan! Where are you coming from?’ Bishtucharan replied, ‘Sir, I went to Kajaria.” ‘But why are you carrying your shoes in your hands in this sultry noon?” Bishtucharan was not mentally prepared for this kind of query. He stared at Sarkarmashai with trepidation for a moment, bowed his head and kept mum. Sarkarmashai grew more curious; ‘What's the matter? Why don’t you speak? he asked. Bishtucharan dropped the pair of shoes on the ground, felt embarrassed, and still couldn’t bring himself to reply. ‘What's the matter” Bishtucharan hesitated several times, then said slowly, ‘Sir, I was coming with my shoes on; on the way I came across Gomostamashai of Khalia. When he noticed I was wearing shoes, he became furious. He said to me, “Youchandal, son ofa chandal, walking with your shoeson!” I couldn't make out anything. The old fellow said, “Take off your shoes "4‘Tue SON oF A PEASANT and carry those in your hands while you walk at least in my fiefdom, you son of a chandal! You think you have become a gentleman, you illiterate fella? Are you showing off like a babu?” So I took off my shoes and came along carrying those in my hands.’ Sudhanya Sarkar could easily realise the genesis of this incident. [twas the arrogance of Moti Majumdar, the landlord of Khalia. They had been on the lookout for some excuse to humiliate the Sarkars for a long time. Listening to Bishtucharan’s reply, Sarkarmashai remained silent for a while, then burst out, ‘And you too took off your shoes in no time, and picked those up in your hands, you coward! Why couldn’t you say, “Have I bought these shoes with your father’s money?” ying this he continued to mumble something to himself, gave another dressing-down to Bishtucharan, then sent him off inside the house to have some rest. The only high school of this region was situated at Khalia village that was dominated by the higher castes. The students came from distant villages surrounding the area. Although the students from the lower castes were in the majority in this school, they remained like untouchables, and dared not protest against the wrongs and injustices committed by the upper-caste students who were in the minority. There was no one from the lower castes among the teachers. Sudhanya Sarkar had petitioned the school authorities time and again regarding this, but to no avail. Every year, Saraswati puja was organised in the school with great pomp. The students from Sarmangal, South Khalia, Satpar and Kanaipur paid more subscription, but they were denied the right to offer anjali sitting inside the pandal. They had to worship the goddess standing outside and then go away just taking the prasad. This had been a matter of concern for everybody for quite a long time, but there was scarcely anybody to lead a protest. At the far end of Boulgram lived Khagenbabu, an old primary school teacher. Although he had discernment and farsightedness, he looked a beaten man because of his struggle for existence amid poverty. Occasionally he spoke about the development of the society in the company of Sarkarmashai. One day he said, in some context, ‘Sarkarmashai! A community can be great only when its self-respect 115SURVIVAL AND OTHER STORIES 's aroused. Our degenerated caste has no sense of self-respect. They have physical power as well as money power, and yet they are humiliated by others. A small number of people in society have kept them as their slav Sarkarmashai asked him with humility, ‘So, sir, what should be done?” The old teacher said, ‘Just think about it, our children are far more in number in the school, yet they will offer anjali standing outside, whereas those few boys will sit inside!” Sarkarmashai didn’t reply; he stood up, concluding the discussion. He thought for some time. Slowly he walked up to the cemented edge of the pond, then looking up to the neighbouring house called out, ‘Gopal, are you there? As soon as Gopal heard the call, he came out and stood in front of him. Sarkarmashai ordered, ‘Make an arrangement for a meeting of the villagers in the evening.’ The leading figures as well as ordinary folks from not only Boulgram but also from the four or five adjacent villages gathered in the evening. The leaders like Chandra Barai and Ratan Barai who were opposed to Sarkarmashai also arrived. It was unanimously resolved that during the ensuing Saraswati puja the boys from these villages, along with the boys from Kajaria and Khalia, would offer anjali sitting inside the pandal. The news spread from village to village. The proud zamindar of Khalia village, Moti Majumdar, roared, ‘The uncouth peasants, sons of peasants, have no sense of proportion, they want to reach the top of the tree at one go. Those low-caste fellows have got the right to worship—this is more than enough; now they even want to enter the temple! Never will this happen.’ This comment also reached the ears of the people of Boulgram, Sarmangal and Satpar villages. Sarkarmashai sat down to think again. Next day he called the students of the five villages and said to them, ‘Don't be afraid at all. At the time of offering anjali you'll enter the pandal first.” The boys asked, ‘If there’s any scuffle?” Sarkarmashai reassured them, ‘I'll see to that, I'll be just behind you, many more villagers will be there,” 16Tue SON OF 4 PEASANT Matters proceeded as planned. On the day of worship, five thousand villagers were present in the school playground. The samindar, Motibabu, was apprehensive, and arranged for protection by bringing eighteen policemen armed with rifles. During the last phase of the worship came the time for offering anjali; the boys from the low castes attempted to enter the pandal, the boys from the upper castes resisted them, the former defied the latter, and pushing and fisticuffs among them ensued. Motibabu directed the police from a distance, ‘You go forward, stop the scuffle.’ From behind, Sudhanya Sarkar retorted, ‘What scuffle! Let all the students together offer anjali; where’s the need for the police!’ “No, that can’t be,’ answered the zamindarbabu. ‘That must be,’ replied Sudhanya Sarkar. The zamindar grew furious, ‘What, such tall talk! Hey, boys! Don't let even a single one of these shudras enter the pandal, drag every one of them out by the scruff of their necks.’ Sudhanya Sarkar turned to the police and said, ‘Don’t you go near the pandal, stand outside at the far end. There’re only eighteen of you; you won't be able to do anything. You see, about five thousand people are sitting in the ground. You won't even have the time to shoot from your rifles. We'll hurl you along with zamindarbabu into the ditch, carrying you all on our shoulders. Take my advice, and go back.’ Immediately after this, Sarkarmashai said to his boys, ‘Turn out those who have so long offered puja sitting inside the pandal, and occupy the place.’ Moti Babu shouted, ‘This is not right, Sarkar. Things will go on as they have continued so long.’ Sarkarmashai said, ‘No. Let what have continued so long change alittle.’ No sooner had they finished their war of words than fighting broke out in front of the pandal. The villagers who were on the side of the zamindar saw the helplessness of the police and took to their heels to save their skin. Amid this chaos, nobody noticed when the Brahmin priest ran away picking up the rice, bananas and other offerings for puja. The rituals of the worship remained incomplete. uzSurvival AND OTHER STORIES Next day, Khagen, the schoolmaster, arrived at the baithakkhana of Sarkarmashai. He said, ‘Sarkarmashai, what do we gain by quarreling with them? Why don’t we build a separate school” Sarkarmashai said, ‘Mastermashai, | can build a school within twenty four hours. But the point is—if we build a separate school, we'll he considered defeated. They are only a few families; our students are more in number, and yet they'll swing their lathis over our heads? I wish to challenge them a little; if | build a separate schoo!, whom do I fight against? They'll remain above us forever; we want to cut them down to size and rise above them.’ Mastermashai said, ‘Then you have to be a member of the school managing committe Sarkarmashai said, ‘They haven’t taken even one shudra member or teacher so far.” ‘Therefore, we have to protest very strongly.’ Sarkarmashai said with humility, ‘I'm not a learned person, mastermashai. If we want to resist them, we need learned people like you. Mastermashai replied, ‘Nobody can be an educated person by parroting just a few textbooks, Sarkarmashai. Who else has so much presence of mind and courage as you in this society? It is you who have to contest in the election. We will all back you.’ Sarkarmashai remained silent for some time, and then said, ‘If you all think it proper, then make arrangements for that; what more can I say?” The election at the school was held a few months later. At the initiative of Khagenbabu, the retired schoolmaster, and with the united effort of the common people of three or four villages, Mr Sudhanya Kumar Sarkar was elected a member of the Managing Committee of Khalia High School. This was the first time a person from the lower castes had an access to the management of the school. The Committee had as its President the zamindar of Kajaria village, and as Secretary the zamindar of Khalia, and the rest of the members except Sarkarmashai were all from the upper castes. They resented the unexpected assumption of responsibility by Sudhanya Sarkar. From the very first meeting of the new Managing Committee of the school, Sudhanya Sarkar started raising various demands. His chief 118Tue Son or A PEASANT demand was that at least two to three teachers from the lower castes must be appointed in the school. The President, the Secretary and the other members stared at him with dilated eyes at this distasteful demand, and all were speechless. The headmaster said, ‘No qualified teacher is available from your caste.” Sarkarmashai said, ‘What are you saying, sir! [ myself will search and bring them.’ The Secretary taunted, ‘One must be qualified to judge the eligibility of an ideal teacher.’ Sudhanya Sarkar was not mentally prepared for this kind of retort from Moti Babu, so he was shocked! Although he didn’t have much learning, he was never outwitted by anybody. He felt hurt by the supercilious attitude of the Secretary. That day he came out of the meeting without giving any reply. A few days later, Sarkarmashai was puffing away from his hookah sitting in his baithakkhana. Looking at the distant fields, he observed that the steward of the zamindar was coming along with security guards and lathi-wielders. Sarkarmashai called out to his nephew, ‘M-a-h-e-n!” He was counting coconuts out of a mountain-like heap; as soon as the call reached his ears, he left his work, came to him and stood waiting for the order. Sarkarmashai examined the fire on the kalke at the top of the hookah with his right thumb, then casting his eyes at the south fields said to his nephew, ‘Can you see who goes over there?” The nephew could recognise the person just at one glance and said, ‘Uncle, he is the steward.’ His uncle ordered him, ‘Go, run there, and tell the steward not to walk over our land with shoes on.’ Mahen stared at his uncle’s face in surprise. To tell the zamindar’s steward such humiliating words! Sarkarmashai rebuked his nephew, ‘Why are you so afraid? Go, tell him, “My uncle has asked you to please walk carrying your shoes in your hands.” Mahen could not understand anything. He knew that he had to obey his powerful uncle’s order with bowed head: there was no scope for questions. He went out quickly. When he came near the steward, 119SURVIVAL AND OTHER STORIES he stopped abruptly. His heart began to palpitate; he gathered courage. Seeing him stop abruptly, the steward cast a hard look at him. ‘Who are you” The steward slowed down to a halt. ‘Hm, what do you want to say” Mahen said in humble tones, ‘Sir, uncle has asked you to walk with your shoes in your hands.’ Blurting out the words, Mahen got back his self-confidence a little, then elaborated his statement, ‘Sir, please don’t walk over our land with your shoes on.’ The steward shouted, ‘Oh, the arrogance of Sudhanya! He dares insult me! Guard! Catch hold of this lowborn peasant’s son.” Mahen warned the guards, ‘Don’t you dare come near me, or else I have to call for my uncle.’ The steward uttered some filthy abuses for Sudhanya and then quickly walked away with his guards. Turning back he expostulated, “So Sudhanya seems to think no end of himself? Wait, wait, I'll teach him a proper lesson.’ A few days later the zamindar’s messenger served a notice informing that Sudhanya Sarkar had been summoned. All his brothers forbade him to go, ‘Dada, you needn’t go.’ ‘Why?’ ‘Zamindar Babu will insult you.’ ‘If I don’t go, they'll regard me weaker,’ said Sarkarmashai. He paid no heed to any warning. Along with ten or so companions, Sudhanya Sarkar entered the cutcherry of the zamindar. Zamindar Babu was inside his own house. One of the clerks came and spread out a wide mat. The followers of Sarkarmashai sat down, but he remained standing. Having been informed, the zamindar, Moti Majumdar, entered the place a little later with proud steps and sat down on the particular chair kept for him. When he saw Sarkarmashai standing there, he called out the servants in the house, saying, ‘Is anyone there? Bring a stool.’ Someone came with a stool, put it in front of Sarkarmashai and went away hurriedly. Sarkarmashai did not sit down. Moti Babu said, ‘Sit down, I have to talk to you.’ Sarkarmashai replied in a grave voice, ‘I needn't sit down. Say what you have to say.’ Having seen him not taking the seat, Zamindar Babu became apprehensive; again he shouted an order for someone in the house, 120Tue SON oF A PEASANT ‘Who's there? Bring a bench here.’ Immediately a bench—somewhat higher than the stool—was placed there. Sarkarmashai did not sit even on that, just stood there erect. Zamindar Babu said again, ‘Sit down.’ Sudhanya Sarkar replied like before, ‘No, it’ all right. I needn't sit down.’ Zamindar Babu lost his temper at his behaviour. He asked very loudly, ‘Why, you have objection to sit down even on a bench? Do 1 have to offer you a throne? Immediately, Sarkarmashai replied, ‘Then you too have to sit down on a bench.’ “What! You have the guts to say this? Insulting me in my own house!’ shouted the zamindar. Sarkarmashai said, ‘Unless one shows respect to others, one’s own honour doesn’t grow. I may be a small holder of tenanted land, but as you have your claim of honour from your ryots, so I too have the same claim of honour from my ryots.” ‘Shut up. If you have the sense of honour, why did you insult my steward?” Sarkarmashai boldly replied, ‘Your steward was meted out the same kind of behaviour as he had inflicted on my tenants. No more than that.’ ‘What do you mean?” "Your steward told my tenant while he was going through your land to carry his shoes in his hands.’ The zamindar asked the steward, ‘Who was that fellow?” The steward replied respectfully, ‘Sir, he was Bishtucharan Mondal of Sarmangal village.’ The zamindar, Moti Babu, said, ‘Oh, that was all right; you spoke rightly. Won't there be the division between the high and the low? Won't there be any difference between the kings and the subjects? No difference between the honourable and the commoners? Can that really be?” Sudhanya Sarkar remained silent for some time, then straightaway asked, ‘So to which side does our Bishtucharan Mondal belong?” The zamindar replied, ‘You can try to understand it.’ Sarkarmashaisaid, ‘I understand thatas he isa Mondal, he isconsidered low: if he were Bhatchaj, Mukherjee, Majumdar, then perhaps—” 121