Sabitri Roy

HARVEST SONG
 A lso by t h e A u th o r

Novels
sro *t ^«<*8
(Srijan, 1947)
fiz m t,
(Trisrota, 1950)

(Swaralipi, 1952)
m$t, Vofci
(Malashri, 1954)
C fW *fvf: a « P f 'T O , 'S ltfiR * « * 0
(Meghna Padma: Part I, 1964)
CWW fUf: IvStli TO, fc’IN
(Meghna Padma: Part n, 1965)
ZM C&, '& *1N >«<*4
(Samudrcr Dheu, 1968)

(Ghashful, 1971)
ifrr, >>mj>
(Badwip, 1972)

Short Stories
f&r fo j w,
(Natun Kichchu Nay, 1952)
‘The Stream Within’ (In The Stream Within:
Short Stories by Contemporary Bengali Women, Swati Ganguly
and Sarmistha Dutta Gupta, eds. Stree, Kolkata)

Letters

(Nil Chitthir Jhanpi, 1980)

 H A R V E S T S O N G
A NOVEL ON THE TEBHAGA MOVEMENT

Sabitri Roy

r
Foreword by
Tanika Sarkar

Translated from the Bengali

and abridged by

Chandrima Bhattacharya and Adrita Mukherjee

1—
 HARVEST SONG: A NOVEL ON
THE TEBHAGA MOVEMENT
was first published on Jan 2006 by STREE,
an imprint of Bhatkal and Sen, 16 Southern Avenue,
Kolkata 700 026

The first edition of the original Bengali text,

PAKA DHANER GAN, was published in three parts:
Part 1,1956; Part II, 1957; Part m , 1958.
The second was published by Suprakashani, Kolkata, 1986.

© 1986 Bengali original, Gargi Chakravartty

© 2005 this English translation, STREE

ISBN 81-85604-50-9

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced

or utilized in any form or by any means without
prior written permission from the publisher.

Design by STREE
typesetting by Krishna Gopal Das,
74T Sultan Alam Road, Kolkata 700 033
and printed by Graphique International, 12/IB,
Madhab Chatterjee Lane, Kolkata 700 020

Published by Mandira Sen for STREE,

an imprint of Bhatkal and Sen
16 Southern Avenue, Kolkata 700 026
 Foreword

In the three decades between the 1950s and the 1970s, Sabitri Roy
wrote a number of novels and quite a few short stories of extraordinary
range, richness and complexity. She preferred the novel form and gave
it an epic dimension: trilogies, like the present one, or substantial
volumes, they invariably used a huge canvas, moving across multiple
landscapes: streets and houses of Calcutta, villages and rivers of East
Bengal or the hilly forest habitats of tribal people in North Ben­
gal; small, enclosed domestic interiors as well as the broad public
grounds where political speeches are made to thousands. The novels
also moved across multiple historical situations: revolutionary
terrorism in the 1920s and 1930s, and anti-colonial Congress
movements; communal violence, partition, refugee lives and renewed
communal violence in independent India. Above all, she focused on
peasant and working class struggles led by the Communist Party of
India, then undivided, and on the life of the Party itself. Inevitably,
then, the canvas was crowded with men, women and children coming
from incredibly diverse, yet inter-cutting and interwoven social milieus,
each person going through several, contradictory and shifting
experiences of history, politics and relationships. The novels are as
big as Bengal itself, as various, as full of divisions, struggles, possibilities
and tragedies.
Yet, they are not documentary novels, records of anthropological
or historical situations. Nor are they formulaic, exemplifying political
diagnosis or resolutions. They are, above all, novels about human
beings and their relationships, each person a difficult and contradictory
individual, impossible to sum up, simplify or see as a fixed social type.
Class relations and struggles—a large part of the novelistic themes—
are experienced as a matter of personal histories, of relationships, in a
vi Foreword

way that the historian E. P. Thompson, for instance, had described

class to be.
It is difficult to pigeonhole the novels as an instance, above all, of
women’s writing since in matters of theme and language, the Bengali
novelistic world has not been very obviously gendered. It has been
especially hospitable to women novelists from the early decades of the
twentieth century, and it has not been only women who have written
about women, domesticity or intimate emotions. Sabitri Roy, Sulekha
Sanyal or Mahashweta Devi, moreover, wrote about the world of
politics, usually seen as a male domain. Indeed, I would say that they
wrote more, and more penetratingly about the experiences of the
political than most of their male contemporary novelists. Is there
anything, then, that would mark out Roy’s gender in the novels?
I want to use a somewhat slippery, amorphous concept of the woman
socialist or samajbadini as the distinguishing self-inscription of this
woman novelist. I do not use ‘socialism’ to refer to the Party politics of
the Socialist Party with which Roy’s novels have nothing to do. But
they are suffused with socialism as a structure of sensibilities and values,
as a passionate doctrine of egalitarianism and freedom of conscience. I
also use socialism advisedly to distinguish it from the communism that
the Party defined and practised. Roy had a curious, intimate and difficult
relationship with the Party. She was deeply committed to all the
struggles it initiated, she admired and valued communists as the most
significant people who appeared on her literary horizon. And yet she
distanced herselffrom its authoritarianism and its absolute certainties,
its instrumentalist and strategic use of human beings, its formulaic and
inflexible laws that reduced people to agents of historical processes. At
the same time—and here lies the greatness of her novels—just as she
critically wrote about these somewhat inhuman tendencies as well as
the more banal frailties like factional squabbles, hero worship and
blind reliance on commands from the Soviet Union, she also recorded
the non-extinguishable humanity, the deep, unflinching commitment
to the value of all human lives that the same communists lived out in
their daily lives, even as they followed Party dictates. Her communists
practise the most profound humanity, they are activated by a
compassion and gentleness that are, to them, more important than life
itself. Yet, their political vocabulary relies on the iron laws of history.
Her intuitive literary imagination, I think, identified the supreme
 Foreword vii

paradox at the heart of Marxism. This form of socialism, then, in its

insistence on the necessary mediation of the personal, the experiential,
the relational, may be a mark more of women writers and their greater
sensitivity to people and relationships that, in a certain historical
period—though by no means always and necessarily—may distinguish
between male and female perceptions of socialism.
Roy herself had lifelong exchanges with multiple political
formations. She grew up in the middle of heady anti-colonial civil
disobedience movements that Gandhians led, she had close relations
with revolutionary terrorists within her own family, some of whom
later followed Subhas Chandra Bose’s political trajectory of a war
against British imperialism with Japanese aid. She chose to many a
communist who had moved away from a life of the revolutionary
terrorist and who spumed the dedication to Bose’s path that several
members ofher own family espoused. She worked her own way through
these difficult choices, retaining from each certain convictions, and
valuing each as she distanced herself from almost all of them. Her
own preference, ultimately, lay closer to the path of communism,
particularly to the struggles that they had initiated.
To her, political thinking and choices were crucially necessary,
they represented the very stuff of life. At the same time, not only
would she refuse to cling to an imposed resolution, defined by others,
but she would also refuse to let go of the other dimensions of life which
might strain against the kind of politics that she found most significant.
She had deep spiritual and aesthetic needs, she felt bound to the beauty
of cultural creations which her comrades would denounce as the
pernicious products ofbourgeois individualism. While she would never
renounce her acute need for transcendental ideals, for aesthetic
principles in life, she also perceived, in her own way, the inextricable
problems that came with those values. She joyously celebrated the
beauty of ritual performance that light up so many female lives: she
also acknowledged the cruelties of the discipline of widowhood that
formed a part of the same ritual world. She adored the literature that
came out of a landowning, expropriative class and she acknowledged
the cruelties that such aestheticism masked and perpetuated. Yet, the
need for the beauty and the collective performance remained alive.
Nor would she, in any facile manner, claim that they could be sanitized
and made politically correct by a pruning process that would eliminate
viii Foreword

the inhuman and retain the joy and the beauty intact. She was a true
Marxist in the way she understood the ineffability of contradictions.
In this novel Bhadra embodies the conflicted choices more than any
other protagonist.
All her life, Roy suffered from acute ill health which made her a
nervous and excessively sensitive person, and which also added a
delicate and strained note, a quivering tremulousness to her prose. Her
frail body and limited movements made her introspective, even
brooding, but they allowed her novelistic gaze to alight on small,
shifting, nuances in human emotions and situations with a
pretematurally sharp clarity. She thus harvested certain significant
qualities from her misfortune that makes her writing more interesting
and capricious than of most others, a quirkiness that is not contrived
but ingrained. That occasional will-o’-the-wisp quality, however, is
fleeting, it is counterposed to acute and densely detailed observation
of many forms ofquotidian lives. The observation invites in an amazing
range of vocabularies, moods, voices: earthy and rustic, solemn,
weighty and educated, easy and bantering, sharp and savage, political
and polemical, loving and profoundly tender. The material details of
food, dress, cooking, different styles of household décor—in the novel,
from Kunal’s garage room to Anna Pishi’s suburban slum—add an
amazing aural, olefactory and visual range and depth to her writing.
Moreover, she was the first and perhaps the only novelist in Bengal to
describe communist households and ways of living in both urban and
rural milieus, to point at something like a communist everyday
aesthetic and cultural practice.
Bound as she was to her home, with the restricted yet rewarding life
of a mother and a wife, she could never move dose to the mainstream
of Party life. The patronizing and somewhat exploitative way in which
Botu in the novel treats Lata, and the occasional dashes between even
the loving husband, Sulakshan, and Lata when Sulakshan’s Party
commitments obtrude on his domestic responsibilities and when Lata,
despite her wholehearted endorsement of her husband’s life cannot
hdp feeling cheated by this life, are, perhaps, partially autobiographical.
They reveal the marginalization of the politically committed housewife,
the exploitation of her domestic skills and the domestication in a cruel
and conservative family environment that the Party enforced in the
late 1940s to enable male comrades undertake dangerous underground
 Foreword ix

activities without worries about the children who had started to appear
by this time. Women like Lata who married out of love and political
conviction, were pushed into a rural rich joint family, under the
discipline of patriarchal elders, and without much support or
comradeship from the Party.
Sequestered within her home by her poor health and her manifold
domestic chores, Roy, nonetheless, developed an acute sense of the
political turbulence around her. She was an eavesdropper on political
discussions that happened in her home and from which she was virtually
excluded, from the occasional explanations that more generous activist
friends would provide from time to time, and from the journals,
pamphlets and newspapers that overflowed the rooms of her house.
And also from snatched conversations with a husband who was
absorbed in fulltime political responsibilities and worries. The present
novel was written largely through the 1950s, when the historical
literature on the Tebhaga movement had not yet developed. If the
information flowed freely around her, there was no serious reflection
or sober analysis. It is remarkable, given that absence, how very astute
her own understanding of the movement had been. It corresponds
dosely, or actually antidpates so much of what the scholarship of
Sunil Sen, the autobiographical writings of Manikuntala Sen, or Abani
Lahiri’s oral history convey. The domesticated housewife, whose ardent
curiosity about political matters was ignored or spumed by busy
activists, had probably a keen sense of the happenings that the activists
did not always possess. What is especially remarkable are the
connections she makes among seemingly disjunct processes and actors.
The politics of the marketplace where the harvest is bought and sold,
the politics of rent, cash and kind, the politics of land relations among
sharecroppers and landlords, are conjoined to the transformation that
terrorist prisoners underwent in the prisons, as terrorists Partha and
Sulakshan emerge out of their long incarceration as committed
communists. The stationing of political detenus in remote rural areas
help diem develop skills of communication and alliance with the world
of Hajong sharecroppers and draw them into the problems of
subsistence and survival in a world marked by wartime profiteering
and hoarding, and redoubled exploitation of producers. On the other
hand, young communist families move back to their rural rich families
to ensure the safety of their wives and children, to expand Party bases
X Foreword

in rural areas, sometimes with the welfare and constructive activities

that their wives manage to engage in despite a grueling schedule of
housework and patriarchal discipline. Around them swirl and crash
the anti-colonial upsurge of 1942, the ravages of famine and impending
partition, the war on the Burmese front, the vicissitudes and changing
political lines of the Party. This stormiest of times in the history of
Bengal tear apart homes, violently separate lovers, crush the livelihood
and the protest of starving peasants. At the same time, they also allow
a brahmin widow to elope with a Muslim lover, an educated, middle
class widow fall in love with a peasant, low caste man and get drawn
into a dangerous and murderous movement forjustice and rights. They
allow a rural semi-educated woman, abandoned by husband and family,
to stand upright and reclaim love and fulfilment with a man from
distant Kerala, an educated journalist. Timeless patriarchal strategies
of control inflict death on a widow who has sinned by drinking water
on the day of the ritual fast without water, and a mother, suspected of
illicit liaison, has her baby snatched away from her: at the same time,
the same families and the same milieus witness unexpected female
resistance, defiance, new resources for self-making.
There is no final definition of these unruly times in the novel. If
change is depicted all the time, if times are such that all that is solid—
structures of patriarchy, class power, colonial rule—seem to melt into
air, no happy ending is, nonetheless, forthcoming. The fate of rebel
peasants seems grim, their passionate resistance possibly causing them
worse hardship than ever before. If the end of colonialism is imminent,
so is the division of the country and the people. If some lovers come
together despite deep transgressions of social norms, Sulakshan goes
into hiding as his wife and baby son ache for him. And the undying yet
unfulfilled love between Partha and Bhadra is driven apart, again and
again, by political necessity, emotional misunderstanding, social
inhibitions and class-caste divides. Bhadra’s final liberation from the
enticing, emotional constraints of her bhadralok family and its values,
her emergence as a peasant leader in her own rights, comes at a time of
the worst crisis of the movement and the most terrible tragedy of her
own life. The novel departs from the obligatory optimism of
communistic fiction, but it remains life-affirmative in a more profound
way. The very uncertainty or even failure of revolutionary hopes that
communists derive from their faith in the iron laws of history, actually
 Foreword x*

underlines more forcefully than anything else, the strength of

revolutionary conviction in the rightness of struggles against injustice,
even if there is no end to it.
Sabitri Roy, like yet another communist woman novelist Sulekha
Sanyal, was unacknowledged in her own lifetime. The Bengali
readership of those times found the preoccupation with political themes
unappealing. Roy wrote on cheap exercise books, in the middle of her
bouts of severe illness and her domestic obligations and everyday
duties, in stolen, jagged moments, snatching time to write. The Party
did not provide sustenance or attention. Indeed, her portrayal of what
she honestly considered to be a period of sectarianism and
authoritarianism in another novel made her into an outcast in Party
circles. Her husband was told to make her withdraw her book from
publication. Even apart from this history, I do not think that her kind
of socialism would have been acceptable to the Party. It was suffused
with a deep sense of existential problems and contradictions from
which there are no easy escapes, of contrary human needs and
predicaments which do not lend themselves to political resolutions.
The compulsions of the making of an individual selfwere as urgent for
her as were the realities of collective struggle. She wrote an and on,
without much recognition, worn out, finally, by public disregard for
her kind of writing. Yet, she took her writing so very seriously,
compromising with neither her personal style, nor commitments.
Writing on epic proportions, about a vast world of difficult people
going through difficult times, refusing to see any of them as less than
people. The loneliness of her creativity, at the end, was unbearable.
It was the Party’s misfortune that it could not comprehend what a
tribute this critical and disobedient novelist had paid to its history.
Hopefully, the translated work will be received by a different world of
readers who are not looking for easy answers.

Centre for Historical Studies Tanika Sarkar

Jawaharlal Nehru University, Delhi
December 2005
 Acknowledgments

I am happy that my mother’s novel, PahaDhanerGan, has been translated

into English, since this enables her to reach a wider audience, something
I have always felt that she deserved. I appreciate the sensitivity and
interest with which the two translators, Chandrima Bhattachaiya and
Adrita Mukherjee, undertook this task. I do not know how to thank a
close friend like Tanika Sarkar who, despite her busy schedule, readily
agreed to write the Foreword. I am especially grateful because she has
always been so appreciative of the my mother’s work. I am also thankful
to Rimi Chatteijee who edited the translation for us.

New Delhi Gargi Chakravartty

December 2005
 Contents

Foreword
by Tanika Sarkar
v

Acknowledgements
xii

Kinship Terms
j civ

Part One
1

Part Two
119

Part Three
247

Glossary
373
 Kinship Terms

Baba father
Borda eldest brother
Boudi older brother’s wife
Bouma daughter-in-law
Bouthakrun daughter-in-law in an established family
Dada/da elder brother, as suffix, eg, Parthada, a sign of
respect
Didi/di elder sister, as suffix, eg, Meghidi, sign of
respect
Dìdima maternal grandmother
Kaka father’s younger brother
Kakima/Khurima father’s younger brother’s wife
Ma mother
Mama maternal unde
Mamima/Marai maternal uncle’s wife
Pishima/Pishi paternal aunt
Thakurji husband’s sister
Thakurda paternal grandfather
Thakurma paternal grandmother
Thanmami maternal uncle’s wife in an established family
PART ONE

r
 f.
artha went racing on as the bitter winds raked him with needles

P of ice Darkness lay heavy on the fields on both sides, broken

only by the flash of fireflies here and there. Far away, a dog
was barking to drive away foxes: a small sign of human habitation. It
must be around two in the morning, Partha thought, looking up at
the sky. The stars kept their vigil—the sword gleamed from Orion’s
girdle
The chowkidar’s voice came trailing from the village. Partha
braked and turned his bicycle sharply onto the bank between the
fields, then picked up speed again. His ride past a few more villages
was uneventful—till he suddenly spotted a policeman at the ferryghat
and gave a start: a few more yards would have brought disaster. But,
policeman or not, he had to cross the river somehow. Stealthily, he
turned the bicycle again. The river, now quiescent, was flowing
listlessly in its shroud of early morning mist. Partha dismounted,
tied his dhoti tighter around his waist and, lifting his cycle onto his
shoulder, stepped into the river. The water was ice-cold, but he
gathered every ounce of strength, waded out and began to swim.
On the other side he found Jyotiprakash waiting behind the
Shib temple.
‘It’s freezing! How could you swim through that? That’s
revolutionary zeal indeed!’ Jyotiprakash muttered appreciatively. ‘But
don’t go to the railway station in wet clothes; they’ll suspect you.
Better spend the night at someone’s place. Do you know anyone
around here?’
‘Mastermashai, our primary school teacher, lives about two miles
from here.’
‘Stay there, then. But be careful: you’ve got to reach the right
place at the right time, otherwise everything will go wrong.’
Jyotiprakash handed over som ething heavy, wrapped in a
handkerchief. ‘Tie it to your waist,’ he said.
Partha plunged into the darkness again. He looked up; when
would it be dawn? A shooting star streaked across the sky. Far away,
2 Sabitri Roy

men guarding crops were beating tin drums. The faint scent of
mustard flowers hung in the air. He was moving past his own house
now; his parents, brothers and sisters must all be asleep. In a comer
of the yard, there was a haystack—he glanced at the tin shed, the
duck house, the cow chewing its cud in the byre. How old was
Lakshmi now? Or Aijun? Could he go in to them now, just once?
No. Partha steeled himself and moved on.
Racing along the river, it seemed to him he saw Lakshmi’s face
ahead of him—her nose-ring shining, the kandtpoka spot on her
forehead glittering. There was another flash in the sky—a fragment
from a lost star was shooting across it, a secret signal from the depths
of the night—when the cry of a newborn child assailed the silence.
The place it came from was Partha’s destination—the house of his
teacher. That hungry wail seemed to be cursing the mother for not
having enough milk in her breasts. Was the tiny voice a sign of things
to come?
The infant’s cry became a howl of rage. As Partha listened, the
mother’s voice, distorted with anger, could be heard too. ‘Here,
Debaki, aren’t you going to get up and heat the water? This too is my
cursed fate: you know the doctor’s told me to rest.’ As Partha waited
outside, a small domestic drama unfolded. In her sleep, Debaki had
heard the child’s cry; but she had not felt like giving up even the
meagre warmth of her thin quilt. Dinabandhu, Debaki’s father, came
out from a partitioned comer with a guilty look: as if to him belonged
the sole blame of having had a child at this late age, especially in
his impoverished household. He nudged his twelve-year-old
daughter. ‘Debi, dear, get up. Won’t you heat a little water for your
sister, child?’
After the harsh command from her mother, her father’s words
were soothing. Debaki could not stay in bed anymore. Rubbing her
eyes, she got up but could not find the oil lamp and stubbed her toe
on a brick supporting the rickety bed. In this cold even such a slight
hurt felt like her toenail had been tom out. Her mother’s bitter words
added to the pain: ‘Hey you! Won’t you ever wake up? You seem to
be blessed with all the time in the world to sleep. Go on, get up!
Splash some water on your face!’
Hobbling on her injured foot, Debaki groped for the lamp under
the bed. Then, it struck her that she had forgotten to set out the jute-
 Harvest Song 3

stalks for the fire. God! Now Ma would start screaming again. On
top of that she would have to go out in the dark to get the stalks from
the back of the kitchen. To make matters worse, an owl was hooting
eerily outside.
Grumbling to herself, Debalri opened the door. The lamp flickered
in the wind. Her mother, Subala, snapped again, ‘So you forgot to
bring in the jute-stalks yesterday evening? Old enough to get married
and still no sense! Very soon you’ll be under the thumb of your in­
laws; God knows how this careless girl will manage then!’ To Debaki,
however, the fear of going out into the dark with the owl making
those scary noises was far greater than the thought of anything her
future mother-in-law might do to her. Everyone knew ghosts slunk
about at midnight, but if she told her mother that all hell would
break loose. The beautiful trees of the daytime became monsters at
night: they seemed to grow huge limbs and stare at her with weird
eyes. The owl hooted on. Chanting Lord Krishna’s name resolutely,
Debaki quickened her pace. The ground was freezing: it seemed to
sting her feet. Getting the stalks from the back of the kitchen, Debaki
hurried back, looking straight ahead so she would not see any ghostly
limb stretching out towards her.
As soon as she stepped back into the yard, she noticed someone
standing there. Terrified, she dropped the bundle and started to run.
Partha called her back in a harsh whisper, ‘Here, Debaki, listen! Call
your father.’ To Debaki’s ears it sounded like a human voice;
reassured, she stopped and turned back. Partha repeated: ‘Call
Mastermashai. Don’t you recognize me?’
Debaki made him out at last. ‘Parthada? Is it you? Why, you’re
soaked! Did you fall off the bridge?’
‘Yes, sort of.’ Hearing the muffled bubbling of a hookah inside,
Partha said: ‘Mastermashai seems to be awake. I’ll be waiting in the
room to the west. Ask him to meet me there.’ As Debaki turned to
go, Partha called after her. ‘And, Debaki, send me some dry clothes,
will you?’
Debaki went inside. ‘Parthada has come! He’s soaked to the skin!
Says he fell off the bridge. He’s waiting for you.’
Partha? Dinabandhu looked surprised. Partha had been a pupil
at his primary school, won a scholarship to study in a government
school in Sylhet seven years ago and never returned since.
4 Sabitri Roy

Dinabandhu had heard that Partha had joined the nationalist radicals
in Sylhet, but even his own father did not know his whereabouts. For
the past year, the police were on the lookout for him because he had
joined the fight against the British rulers. And now that very Partha
was here in Dinabandhu’s house!
Picking up the lamp, Dinabandhu hurried out.
Debaki had already left a dhoti for Partha and an earthen pot
with charcoal burning in it. Partha asked for one night’s shelter;
Dinabandhu agreed. ‘Surely you can’t have had anything to eat the
whole day? Have some muri,’ he said with concern. Partha lied, ‘I
ate a huge meal before I left, then missed the train. I didn’t go to
Mansadanga, to our house. It’s too risky.’
‘You’ve done just the right thing coming here. They’re always
searching your house,’ Dinabandhu said. ‘You’re perfectly safe here.
I’m on good terms with the chowkidar. Besides, nobody is likely to
recognize you in this area. But I think you should take the night train
tomorrow,’ he added.
His wife, however, was not happy: Partha was on the run: he
might bring trouble. Partha himself took no chances. He had been
away for seven years and his looks had changed greatly, but
nevertheless he stayed indoors the whole day.
Dinabandhu bought chital fish from the market in Partha’s honour.
‘Make chital muithya, Debaki,’ he said, coming into the kitchen.
Debaki had never cooked chital muithya, but she started scraping
the flesh from the many fine bones with a shell. When she had
separated all the flesh from the bones she shaped it into little balls,
fried them, then boiled them in a spicy sauce. Subala, still impure
from giving birth, would not enter the kitchen; she stood at the door
and instructed her daughter. Partha was ecstatic at the food. ‘I haven’t
had such good food in ages,’ he said. Dinabandhu asked Debaki to
give Partha some more fish. He suddenly felt very tender; you never
knew what lay in wait for such boys.
After lunch, Debaki brought the hookah out for her father and
got Partha some pieces of supari to chew. He smiled at her and struck
up a conversation. ‘Don’t you go to school?’
‘We don’t have a girls’ school here. Baba gives me lessons from
time to time.’ Partha noticed the sadness in Debaki’s voice. ‘If you
 Harvest Song 5

want to study, I can arrange it. I know Ishani Devi of the town
girls’ school.’
Debaki’s eyes lit up. ‘Can you really? Will you ask Baba then?’
Dinabandhu did not venture out the whole day, anxious about
someone tipping off the police. He tried to reason with Partha. ‘Forget
all this now and get married. You’ve passed the Intermediate Arts
examination, and that’s no mean thing for a fanner’s son.’
Partha tried to change the topic. ‘Don’t you play the violin
any more?’
Dinabandhu’s instruments—his tabla, khol, kartal and violin—
lay on the bed in a corner of the room. He had earned a name for
himself as a kirtan singer, and got calls from distant villages to sing
on various occasions all year long. The local landlord held a daylong
kirtan session at Dol every year. Even Partha had been to listen to
Dinabandhu a number of times with his father.
Evening descended gradually as they talked in the courtyard.
Dinabandhu emptied the hookah in a comer of the verandah and lit
fresh charcoal. Finally, putting the hookah aside, he picked up the
violin.
It was quite dark now. Debaki took the lantern to the puja room
to light the evening lamp. Kunti and Sathi came home from their
play; Subala called to them. ‘Go to the pond and wash your hands
and feet.’
Debaki took the censer with the burning incense to every room.
‘O my lord, your name I say/Evil and danger go away,’ she chanted,
then set it down before goddess Lakshmi’s image and bowed her
head in a prcmam. But today she could not concentrate on the puja.
In the background, Raga Purabi poured from Dinabandhu’s violin,
carrying infinite prayers and endless desire into the sky.
That night, Debaki’s baby sister woke up at exactly the same hour
and Debaki found she had again forgotten about the jute-stalks. She
came down to the yard with the lamp; the same blinding darkness
and those unnamed fears accosted her again. Halfway across the
yard, a gust of wind blew out the lamp. Debaki ran back to the
verandah.
Partha was watching her from the door of his room. As Debaki
lit her lamp, Partha came up to her. ‘Scared? Let me come with you.
6 Sabitri Roy

What do you do with those sticks every night?’

‘I have to heat up water for my little sister,’ Debalri said. Her
irritation made her add, ‘Her Highness has to have syrup every night
Otherwise she can’t sleep.’
Partha noticed that Debaki was shivering. ‘Why don’t you cover
yourself when you come out? Even ghosts can’t get hold of you then,’
he said.
‘Pooh! As if there’s any such thing as a ghost!’ Debaki shot back.
Partha smiled. ‘Really? Is there no such thing? But there’s such a
thing as cold, isn’t there? If you put on a wrapper, even the cold can’t
touch you.’
The jute-stalks were hung in bundles behind the kitchen. Debaki,
not in a mood to admit defeat, took some out and broke them under
her feet, saying: ‘You call this cold? This is the end of Paush, but till
now we haven’t really felt the bite.’ Partha came from a farmer’s
family; he knew very well what a biting winter was like. Back home,
the only way to keep warm on such nights was by huddling close to
his brothers and sisters. He said no more to Debaki.
Sitting in front of the stove a little later, Debaki listened to the
concert of sounds filling up the darkness around her—the hissing of
water in the earthen vessel, the muted bubbling of Dinabandhu’s
hookah, the wind blowing among the trees outside. The same owl
could be heard hooting at a distance, but strangely Debaki was not
afraid of it today.
The water was boiling. The jute-sticks were almost burnt out.
Small dead insects were sticking to the lamp. Debaki, surrounded by
all these small things, sat barely aware of them. Tonight she was not
even angry with her sister, Iti. She picked her up tenderly; she was
doubly careful with the feeding spoon tonight. Poor thing, she must
be really famished to wake up crying every night. Having drunk her
fill of syrup, Iti lay in her sister’s lap. Debaki looked on lovingly. The
ordeal of having to feed every brother and sister at midnight had
started when Debaki was only eight, enough to put anyone off
siblings. But tonight she looked at her baby sister’s tiny hands and
feet with a new tenderness.
In the morning, when Debaki went to Partha’s room to make his
bed, she was surprised to find he was not there. But he had left his
wrapper behind. How could he possibly spend the night on the train
 Harvest Song 7

with only a thin shirt on? Suddenly a thought struck her. had Parthada
left his wrapper behind on purpose? But how could he know that in
their family die younger children were always handed down the older
sibling’s warm clothes? Now that Kunti was growing up, she was
using Sathi’s and the children were one wrapper short. Dinabandhu
received a shawl every year from the Bhuniyas for singing kirtans,
but Debaki and her mother had to spend the winter nights covered
only in their saris.
‘Baba, Parthada has left his wrapper behind,’ Debaki told
Dinabandhu.
‘If he has, why don’t you use it?’
Debaki could not quite believe what her father was saying.
Dinabandhu went on, 'You think he’s going to come back to collect
the wrapper? These boys are on a path of no return.’
He said no more. The morning mist around them seemed
oppressive. He travelled back in time, dreaming of how Partha, a
thirteen-year-old, used to sit at his door and listen raptly to his violin.
Suddenly Sathi came running, breaking his reverie with a cry of
‘Baba, the police are here!’ Even as he spoke the yard was thick with
red-turbaned men. The daroga had come with his boys and the
chowkidar. They searched every room of Dinabandhu’s house, even
the kitchen, the woodshed and the corner for the husking pedal. They
turned the huge rice jars and the spice containers upside down, but
nothing was found. A wild goose chase in this bitter cold! The daroga
lost his temper, two resounding slaps landed on the old chowkidar’s
cheeks. ‘Where’s the criminal, you bastard?’ Dinabandhu was secretly
pleased: the ungrateful wretch! Only the other day he had borrowed
money from Dinabandhu for his son’s treatment, and now he had
gone and squealed to the police!
Almost everyone had left by noon, but some farmers stayed to
talk about Partha. It seemed Partha and his men had been fighting
the British in the mountains. Some said Partha had been sentenced
to deportation. Dinabandhu listened quietly, worried, but in spite of
his fears he had to go out after lunch The elder Bhuniyas of Bilaskhan
had called him for a kirtan session where he would have to sing two
pcdas—Mathur and Manbhanjan. The Bhuniya house was about five
miles from Talpukur; Dinabandhu took up his umbrella. He could
hardly make both ends meet with the income from his school; hence
8 Sabitri Roy

he had to fall back on kirtan singing. Besides, he virtually lived for

music. One note from his violin, and he would be transported to the
enchanted world of the divine lovers, Radha and Krishna, and the
lovelorn milkmaids. All this had never appealed to Subala. ‘Show
me one respectable household which has tablas and stuff strewn all
over the place!’ she would grumble. 'As if we are a jatra company!
Why can’t you leave all this and find a job at the landlord’s office?
Dinabandhu went out silently. For the first three miles, the road
followed the river. A little further down the road, the farmers were
going to the market; the sight of them reminded Dinabandhu that
today was market day and he was short of tobacco. Quickening his
pace, he happened to notice that the field next to Aminuddi’s was
lying fallow. Didn’t that one belong to Mafi’s mother? Up ahead he
saw Jagai Banerjee, the surveyor, sitting under the banyan tree with a
survey map, tape measure and compass. Jagai called Dinabandhu
over. ‘Where are you off to, Dinumaster?’
‘To Bilaskhan. Are you here for Mafi’s mother’s plot?’
‘Don’t ask.’ Jagai took out two bidis from his pocket, offered one
to Dinabandhu and lit the other himself. Ali came up to them with
Mafi’s mother, who stood there wiping away her tears. The little plot
of land Weis all she had, and she barely managed to survive on the
rice and jute she grew on it. One day, out of the blue, she had got a
summons saying Mafi’s father had borrowed two thousand rupees
from the landlord’s office. Mafi’s mother was dumbstruck: theirs was
a hand-to-mouth existence—was it at all possible that Mafi’s father
could have borrowed and squandered away all that money? The
landlord’s nayeb, or agent, showed Mafi’s mother a bond with a thumb
impression. Mafi’s father had been long dead—only Allah could judge
if the thumbprint was really his. But the landlord’s word was law,
and now she could not hold back her tears.
Some village elders had also turned up. The surveyor started work;
from time to time he shouted at the gomasta, the revenue official,
‘Hold the tape measure straight, will you?’ Throwing away his burnt-
out bidi, he picked up his pen.
Amid this flurry of activity and casual laughter, Mafi’s mother
stood with tears welling up uncontrollably in her eyes. She looked
longingly at her land for the last time. Ali was seething. Dinabandhu
 Harvest Song 9

felt dismay too—was it fair to snatch away the land from this poor
woman? Couldn’t the landlord have given her two more years so she
could repay at least a part of the loan?
Suddenly they heard drumbeats from the village Everyone turned
to listen; it was an official proclamation: ‘Anyone using the road to
Mansadanga without paying the toll will be prosecuted.’
The surveyor lit another bidi. ‘Ha! So they think they can play
fast and loose with the landlord! Now they’ll understand, the
bastards!’
Ali protested, ‘But the villagers weren’t demanding anything
unjust, were they? That’s the only road to the Mansadanga haat, but
every monsoon it’s half-flooded. The bridge has been a ruin for the
past two years. They only asked the landlord to spend a little money
and repair it! If we have to wade through waist-deep water, why
should we pay the toll?’
‘Your forefathers waded through neck-deep water. They’d strip
off the gamchha that covered them and tie it round their heads,’
smirked the surveyor.
Ali shot back in fury, ‘What do you mean, my forefathers? There
are lots of people here whose forefathers have done the same It’s no
use talking about that. The villagers want the bridge repaired. How
can you levy a toll without repairing the road?’
The surveyor ignored him. ‘If you are so interested in the road,
why don’t you all pay for it from your own pockets?’
‘If we had money, would you be able to torture us so much? Would
you grab Mali’s mother’s land like this? Don’t the landlords have a
conscience? Isn’t there anybody to see that justice is done?’
‘The king will judge. Or the government. Why do you think you
are cursed with this fate? Because you cheat your masters. His family
will pay for Mafi’s father’s sins.’
Ali got up. What a wonderful way to explain justice!
A dahuk cried mournfully from the bushes. Dusk was falling; the
fields were bathed in the dying light. The crowd had dispersed; there
was only the surveyor and the accountant. They too were about to
leave. Gathering up his stuff, the surveyor said gravely, ‘That young
chap needs watching. He talks big. He must be the one behind all
this trouble about paying the toll.’
10 Sabitri Roy

f
After lunch, Dinabandhu set off for his school It was a long tin-
roofed building by the river, bounded by a tarred fence. Right in front
of it stood a huge old banyan tree, and inside there were a few very
old benches, an ancient blackboard and an iron chair for the teacher.
There were no desks for the students to rest their slates on.
Today Dinabandhu was to take a new arithmetic lesson. He wrote
on the blackboard: Tour chhataks and seven make eleven. Down one,
carry how much? Pocha, you tell me.’
Pocha was intently drawing a white owl on his slate. He had only
heard the word ‘eleven’. Getting up promptly, he answered, ‘Eleven.’
Dinabandhu was surprised. ‘You add up four and seven, get eleven,
and carry eleven? How many chhataks make a poaT
Pocha shot back: ‘In Brindaban’s shop, four chhataks make a poa,
in Harimudi’s, three and a half, and in surveyor Jagaibabu’s shop,
three.’
Dinabandhu was amazed. ‘In Jagaibabu’s shop, three chhataks
make a poa?’ Keshto backed his friend up. ‘Yes, sir, it’s true. If we
buy a poa of oil from the surveyor babu’s shop, even the one-poa
Lakshmibilas oil bottle that we use as the container doesn’t come
back full.’
Dinabandhu gave up. It was a punishment to have to teach such
idiots. He’d had some students worth mentioning when Partha had
studied there. It was from this very school that Partha had got a
scholarship. And these boys were such blockheads! He was through
with sums for the day, and decided to take up Bengali. ‘Name some
domestic animals.’ Pocha by this time had finished drawing the white
owl. He got up quickly to answer: ‘The lion, the tiger.’
‘Oh, so in your house you keep lions and tigers as pets?’
Dinabandhu asked.
Pocha was unperturbed. ‘No, sir, but they keep them at the zoo.
I’ve been to Calcutta to see them.’
‘I’ve asked you about animals that you find in houses, not in
the zoo.’
‘But, there are lots of houses in the zoo, sir. Not these tin-roofed
 11

houses, but concrete ones. There only lions, tigers and other
animals live.'
‘Yes, and now we shall have you too living there.’
Suddenly, they heard a thud; they rushed to the school’s windows
to see a huge chunk of the riverbank fall away. Dinabandhu ran out
to find swirling waters staring him in the face. Over the years, the
river had expanded and gradually eaten up the Shib temple, the old
banyan tree, the Kalikhola field . . . everything. Dinabandhu came
back inside. ‘Come, let’s do multiplication tables now.’
The students were very happy; they knew that school would be
over after the tables. Ram, the best student, led the chorus. ‘Twelve
twos are twenty-four.’ All the students chimed out: ‘Twelve twos are
twenty-four. ’The young voices carried over the fields awaiting harvest:
‘Twelve fours are forty-eight, twelve fives are sixty.’
School was over. The boys, dusty, in tom, dirty clothes, picked
up their things and headed home. Dinabandhu felt a certain
contentment. He was bringing up all these poor children, introducing
them to the heritage of their country—to the hills and plains, rivers
and valleys. Folding up the map gently, Dinabandhu locked the
schoolhouse and started for home.
The sun’s dying rays were playing on the waves, like the notes of
the Multan raga. Dinabandhu remembered that his violin had been
lying at Brindaban’s shop for quite some time now. He changed
direction, making for the shop. It was evening by the time he reached
it; Brindaban was sprinkling water on the doorstep and burning
incense by the picture of Ganesh on the wall. Bowing his head in a
pranam, he put the incense pot down.
Two customers were sitting on the bench outside. Having returned
Dinabandhu’s violin, Brindaban attended to them, measuring out
the musur dal, onions and salt. The two Muslim customers, though
they were strangers to Dinabandhu, made a request: ‘Why don’t you
play something for us?’
Smiling, Dinabandhu took up his violin. He was not so young
anymore, and yet what a wonderfully pliant hand! The lean fingers
played on the instrument. The pensive ragas, released from bondage,
flowed out effortlessly.
Stopping, Dinabandhu asked, ‘Do you know what I just played?
The Bageshri.’ Dinabandhu’s grandfather had been a Vaishnav.
12 Sabitri Roy

Singing kirtans had been part of his religion as well as his profession.
Dinabandhu’s father, too, had been a professional violinist in a theatre
group. Dinabandhu had inherited his love of music from both of
them. Though he was not a practising Vaishnav, he was steeped in
Vaishnav culture and music. Meghmallar, Multan, Malkauns, these
were his heart’s companions. Every day he used to wake up at the
crack of dawn to hear his father singing Ramkeli. His father had
been immersed in his music, only tenuously linked to the real world.
Darkness fell, a darkness that contained so much music, so many
ragas. Dinabandhu started walking home.

A branch of the Brahmaputra turns north, touching Bilaskhan,

Talpukur and Mansadanga. On its bank lived the Malos, the Tantis
—the weavers—and Kumors, the potters. There were also Bagdis;
Haris; Rajbangshis, a tribal group, and Muslim farmers. Their
religions might not be the same, but the joys and sorrows of their
lives were. Though they stopped short of entering each other’s houses,
they looked forward to the small gatherings in the courtyards.
Partha’s father, Sudam, was holding a meeting in his courtyard.
Many people had come. There were not only farmers, but weavers,
fishermen and potters as well. Everybody was agitated about the
announcement of the toll. Lakshman, Partha’s brother-in-law, had
been to every house to tell them about the meeting. Nearly everyone
had come.
Ali was the first to speak. ‘None of us will pay the toll; let’s see
how they make us. Do you remember how Keshto Kumor fell off
the bridge with all his pots? Everything was broken to bits, and he
hurt his back badly and had to stay in bed for over two months.’
Keshto’s son nodded. ‘And what about all that medicine and
ointment bought from the kabiraj? At least twenty rupees gone down
the drain.’
Lakshman spoke gravely. ‘They say they’ll shove us into jails if
we don’t pay up. Well, let’s see what they can do with their “criminal
prosecution”. Or for that matter legal, penal, judicial or whatever
 Harvest Song 13

prosecution. They may have money, but we aren’t cattle either. If we

cut our fingers, it’s the same blood, and not water, that comes out!’
Ali was livid. ‘Isn’t it outrageous? Only the other day, they seized
Mafi’s mother’s plot on the basis of a forged document. That insolent
amin babu! Says, “Why? What’s your problem? Swim the river naked!
People of your class shouldn’t suffer from modesty.” As if we’re
stray dogs!’
Lakshman flared up. ‘They are the dogs! Slimy, bootlicking curs!
The only difference is that their children go to school, and ours loiter
about. But it’s better to hold the plough than hold a pen and lick
boots for life. Why didn’t you tell this to that amin babu?’
Amulya, Sudam’s brother-in-law, replied. ‘We can’t send our
children to school because we don’t have money. But they can come
first in class as well—our Partha has proved that; he came first in
every exam from the start.’ Amulya was very proud of his nephew.
‘And Partha didn’t have any books to speak of. How he struggled!’
Kunja Majhi lowered his voice. ‘I heard that Partha has been to
Talpukur recently. Our chowkidar spotted him at the ferryghat. The
next moment, he was gone. Apparently he’s joined a dangerous gang.
They always carry lots of bombs and stuff. It was to catch Partha
that Daroga babu raided Dinumaster’s house.’
Sudam sighed. Amulya said, ‘Darogababu is «mother one: they’re
all alike. Always so nattily dressed, like peacocks. Where does the
money come from, I’d like to know? And its not just clothes—he
likes women too.’
Amulya’s brother added, ‘He’s a “gentleman”, don’t you know?
He can’t be satisfied with a mere wife.’ Laughter broke out at his
words. Amulya’s aunt chuckled. ‘My God! The way these young
lads speak!’
Amulya tried to change the subject. ‘Let’s not pick over the babus’
dirty linen: come back to the point.’ Ali concurred. ‘So it’s settled.
We are not going to pay the toll. Not even half a paisa.’
A shout went up. ‘Not even half a paisa,’ they echoed him.
But even before the shout died down, they saw flames leaping
over the treetops, and heard the screams as well. Everyone rushed
towards the spot. Ali’s house was on fire.
‘First put out the fire. Then you can find out how it happened!’
admonished Sudam. The women emptied pot after pot of water on
14 Sabitri Roy

the flames. The whole neighbourhood jumped to the task. Somehow,

Ali’s house was saved, but before anyone had made it to the scene,
Mail’s mother’s hut, with its thatched roof, had been reduced to ashes.
It had stood just beside Ali’s house.
Ali did not utter a word. His blood was boiling: he knew evil was
afoot He could see two sinister eyes burning in the darkness, a thin
moustache, a horrid, ugly face . . .
‘We have to report this to the police,’ said Ali’s uncle Aminuddi.
‘Police!’ Ali muttered through gritted teeth. He felt that a net was
closing slowly around him and his people.
Mail’s mother was sitting at her gutted door, wailing for her son.
Ali took her hand. ‘Wipe your tears, Mafir Ma. You will find your
Mafi in all of us. Come to my house for the night. We will build your
house again.’
‘Even if you build my house, it will bum again, Ali. That’s my
fate, to be cursed so,’ wailed Mafi’s mother.
‘We’ll build it again, every time it bums.’
Ali’s promise echoed in the darkness for a long time.

Dinabandhu was resting on the verandah. Subala came out. ‘How

come you’re back so early? What about the kirtan?’
‘I couldn’t make it today; I was delayed at Mansadanga.’
Dinabandhu explained. ‘Someone set fire to Ali’s house last night.
They think it’s Jagai. He’s friendly with the chowkidar. That rascal
could have done the job for money; it’s quite possible, you know.’
‘They’re wolves in sheep’s clothing,’ she said.
But Dinabandhu forgot everything as soon as he reached school.
It was the arithmetic class again; he scribbled the method on
the board.

‘For one anna five karas, for one quarter pi,

For one ganda one kak, and this isn’t a lie’.

Dinabandhu happened to glance at Pocha. ‘What’s this, Pocha?’

 Harvest Song 15

he asked. ‘Why are your pants soggy? Did you stop to collect snails
on the way?’
‘No, sir. Someone’s stolen the bamboo pole over the ditch, so I
had to swim.’
Dinabandhu was worried. Jagai must be behind this too. Jagai
had no problem crossing the river if there was no bridge; as a flunky
of the landlord he was allowed to use his master’s boat. But if the
local people were needled like this, there might be real trouble.
He let his students off early.
Today was market day, but how could he go if there was no bridge?
He needed to buy tobacco urgently. Back home, as he called for his
umbrella from the doorstep, Súbala reminded him of what they
needed: ‘Don’t forget the paddy, there’s only about half a maund left
and I’ve got to dry and boil it first. Then there’s Debaki’s sari. She’s
growing fast now. A three-yard sari is just not enough. If you buy her
a three-and-a-half yard sari, Keti can wear hers. How long can Keti
be in frocks either?’
Debaki came out. Dinabandhu noticed that his daughter had really
grown up in the past few months. She was going on thirteen; maybe
she was a little tall for her age; that was why her sari did not reach to
her ankle. She was quite fetching and had a slender figure. She was
not fair skinned, but smooth-complexioned, and there was a sweetness
about her too. Dinabandhu looked tenderly at his daughter. The poor
girl! She toiled all day and her mother screamed at her always. And
yet she was so cheerful!
Debaki dissolved into laughter. ‘Look what Baba’s done! He’s
brought a koi in his pocket!’ She showed the fish to everyone. ‘I was
folding up the clothes, when suddenly I found something squirming
in Baba’s shirt pocket. I was so scared! I thought it was a snake.’
Dinabandhu smiled. ‘I completely forgot to tell you. On the way
to Mansadanga, guess what I found stuck in a khejur bush? This
fish! First I put it inside my folded umbrella, but the sun was so strong
I had to open it to shield myself. What to do? I had to put the fish in
my pocket.’
He looked at the fish again. ‘See how big it is? It comes from the
lake, that’s why. There’s a lot of oil in it!’
‘Clean the fish, then cook it with turmeric and chilli,’ Súbala told
Debaki after Dinabandhu left. ‘In the old days your father wouldn’t
16 Sabitri Roy

eat at all without fish. But look at us now: we can’t get to eat fish
even in this land of ponds and rivers.’
Debaki’s heart went out to Dinabandhu. He was so fond of fish;
she could easily sneak out in the afternoon to catch a few with her
hook. But her mother must never know, or there would be no end of
it. Debaki quietly gave Sathi two paise. ‘Run along to Biindaban’s
shop and buy a couple of fishing hooks. And don’t tell Ma,’ she said.

As the villagers realized that it had indeed been the landlord’s men
who had set fire to Ali’s house, they became firm in their resolve not
to pay the toll. The landlord’s men came again, beating their drums,
threatening prosecution if the villagers did not pay up. But the village
was unruffled. ‘O faithful followers of the landlord,’ the little boys
sang, mocking the drummers.
Coming to the fields one morning, the farmers saw that a tent
had been put up by the riverside. There were about 50 policemen,
including the daroga, milling about the camp. Soon the daroga and
some of the men began marching through the fields towards
Mansadanga. The farmers watched in fear. One told Lakshman who
left immediately for home.
On his way he found boys running about everywhere; the police
had entered their houses and were beating up people. They had gone
into Lakshman’s house as well. The daroga had burst into Sudam’s
room and kicked him so hard that the weak old man, who had been
feverish for some days, had collapsed. Sudam’s wife, Mangala, heard
his screams from the cowshed and had found him lying there, his
nose bleeding profusely and his clothes drenched in blood. But the
daroga would not let Mangala near her husband. He had pushed her
away and pounced on Sudam again. ‘Tell me where your son is, you
scoundrel! You know very well where he’s hiding,’ the policeman
screamed as he showered blows on Sudam.
The daroga was still at it when Lakshman entered the house.
Furious, Lakshman walked up to him. ‘How can he know where
Partha is?’ he asked.
 Harvest Song 17

‘This is another of them,’ interjected a chowkidar. The daroga let

go of Sudam immediately and pounced on Lakshman instead. ‘So
you won’t give the toll tax?’ the policeman shrieked.
‘Not a paisa,’ Lakshman thundered.
Anger twisted the daroga’s voice. ‘Tie him up,’ he ordered one of
the policemen and went on ransacking every room of the house.
Then, rounding up some more young men, he took them and
Lakshman to the riverside tent.
Lakshman’s wife, Lakshmi, was by the river doing her washing
when she suddenly saw her husband and the others being marched
towards the police tent. She was stunned; only a few hours ago she
had served him some leftover rice and he had left for the fields!
Terrified, Lakshmi just sat there, when Lakshman called to her. ‘Go
home, Lakshmi,’ he told her.
She hurried back home. Her mother sobbed, ‘Where were you?
They took Lakshman away. And look at your father. . . ’ Sudam lay
unconscious in the courtyard. His face was swollen dreadfully;
Mangala changed the wet compress on his forehead.
It was noon but no one had gone into the kitchen since the
morning. ‘Lakshmi, go and boil some tapioca and milk for your
father,’ Mangala told her daughter. ‘Boil this rice and lentils together
also,’ she said, sifting the grains on a bamboo sieve. ‘God knows
when they’ll release Lakshman. There should be something for him
to eat when he comes back. Thank God your brother Aijun was not
at home or they’d have taken him too.’
At this point Sudam opened his eyes and asked for water. Lakshmi
helped him up and poured out some water from the pitcher. Mangala
brought out a piece of crystallized sugar and said: ‘Have this first.
It’s not right to have water on an empty stomach.’ Sudam’s face was
grotesquely swollen and his whole body throbbed with pain.
He looked around and asked: ‘Hasn’t Lakshman come back?’
‘Not yet.’
‘You should have gone to Priyotoshbabu at the Congress Ashram.’
Almost before he finished, Priyotoshbabu arrived. Mangala
brought him a wooden stool. ‘See how they have beaten up the old
man!’ she said.
‘I came as soon as I heard,’ Priyotoshbabu said. He felt Sudam’s
forehead. ‘You have a slight fever too,’ he said. ‘This is the curse of
18 Sabitri Roy

being a subject nation. If we stomach this outrage, they’ll transgress

all limits. The curs who lick British boots should be made to know
that we won’t take this lying down. We’ll call a meeting tomorrow at
Mansatala against this outrage. Tell all the villagers.’ Priyotoshbabu
got up. ‘I heard the boys have been taken to the police station. Let
me see if I can arrange for bail,’ he said.
It was evening. Mangala kept glancing at the road but there was
no sign of Lakshman. Less than a year ago they had married their
daughter to Lakshman. His parents were dead. He had only an elder
brother who worked in the docks at Chittagong.
Priyotoshbabu had sent Arjun to buy cotton from the town. On
his way back from the station in the evening, Arjun heard that Ali
had been beaten up severely at the police station. Appalled, Mangala
rushed to pray before the goddess Lakshmi for their release.
Lakshmi fed the cattle in the afternoon and quickly finished her
chores. She started getting ready for the meeting. Aijun went to bathe
in the pond.
At another ghat at the pond was Meghi, from the neighbouring
Brahmin family, scrubbing away at her pots.
‘Have they released Lakshman?’ she asked Arjun. Dropping her
voice, she added, ‘I heard they’ve also taken Ali?’ Arjun, neck-deep
in water, said: ‘Yes, and they’ve beaten him to a pulp.’ But he noticed
that Meghi’s face clouded at his words and there seemed to be a hint
of tears in her eyes. A little confused, he hastily added: ‘There’s a
meeting at Mansatala this evening.’
‘Ask Lakshmi to call me before she goes,’ Meghi said softly.
On their way to the meeting, the women from Malopara called
Mangala.
‘Aren’t you coming, Lakshmi’s Ma?’
‘Of course,’ Sudam answered for his wife and daughter. ‘You go
on, they’ll follow.’
Lakshmi reminded her mother that they would have to call Meghi.
When they were passing Amulya’s house, his mother-in-law called
out to say she would join them. She doused the fire in the wooden
stove, took off the vessel of parboiled paddy, and slipping a paan
into her mouth, came out.
When Lakshmi arrived, Meghi told her mother that she was going
to the Manasa temple. If Kala Tharan, Meghi’s mother, found out
 Harvest Song 19

about the meeting she would surely kick up a row. But Mangala could
not understant Kala Tharan’s reservations about Meghi going to the
meeting. They were gentlefolk, and Brahmins too, but so what? Did
it help them earn any more money?
On their way to the meeting, Mangala thought Meghi looked
very pale.
‘Is it ekadashi!' Mangala asked.
Meghi, widowed in childhood, was expected to fast on each
ekadashi, the eleventh day of each lunar fortnight. The kind words
were enough to moisten Meghi’s eyes. ‘No, it’s not ekadashi. I was
not feeling well so I skipped a meal,’ she said.
When they reached Mansatala they found that the meeting ground
was packed with people. A rope separated the women from the men.
The speeches had already started. But the police struck before the
speaker Krishnanatta could finish his speech. The meeting was broken
up. Mangala was stunned; even speaking up was a crime then!
Soon after, Section 144 was imposed on the area. Meetings were
declared illegal. More than four persons could not assemble in a public
place Pituni—a tax to pay for wear and tear on the landlord’s private
police force—was also levied. ‘It’s they who beat us, and then we
have to pay for their broken sticks,’ the villagers fumed.
One night, Priyotoshbabu visited every house to say that the next
day a civil disobedience movement would be launched. At the crack
of dawn, a bugle sounded from the bridge. Everyone, from villagers
to Congress volunteers, rushed there to find a crowd of policemen
on the other side of the canal. The magistrate and the police officer
from the subdivision had brought a Gurkha army battalion.
The fields stretched away, waiting, silent, but the silence was soon
shattered by a full-throated cry of ‘Bande MataramV ‘Honour the
Mother’, the rallying cry of the Congress. The volunteers started
marching across the bridge waving the tricolour flag, boldly defying
the order against group meetings. The first three rows of volunteers
were promptly arrested. As the air reverberated with the sound of
conch shells, Aijun and his friends, their young minds resolute, joined
the Congressmen in shouting their slogans.
The daroga left for the police station with the captive volunteers
in tow. The air still echoed with ‘Bande Mataram’ as the women
from their courtyards watched the men being taken away.
20 Sabitri Roy

Seven days passed. Ali, Lakshman and his friends had been
released, but the fields lay fallow. The farmers refused to do anything
in the landlord’s interest, though it was time to sow the seeds. Worried,
the landlord’s office summoned Priyotoshbabu. Ali and the others
were also called. The landlord himself greeted the Congress leader.
‘My tenants are like my children,’ he said in a conciliatory tone.
‘And you are fighting for the country’s freedom. But this country is
ours too. Why should we fight against each other? I have been away
for some time; when I came back I heard all this had happened. If
the villagers want the road to be repaired, it shall be done, of course.
I also mean to build a wooden bridge in place of the wobbly bamboo-
pole one.’ But, looking at Lakshman and his friends, he added, ‘Half
the cost, though, has to come from you. I’ll give the rest.’
A servant brought in tea and sweets for Priyotoshbabu. Ali
suddenly got up and left. ‘I smell a rat,’ he whispered to Lakshman
as he went.
The landlord handed the plate to Priyotoshbabu. ‘Try these sweets.
Notun Ma made them herself,’ he said.
Priyotoshbabu emerged from the meeting a happy man. The
landlord had promised to put in a concrete floor for the Congress
ashram. That very day, Priyotoshbabu went to meet the village elders.
When they later assembled in Sudam’s courtyard, the older farmers
who had talked to Priyotoshbabu argued that the toll should be paid.
‘Since the landlord has promised to repair the road, you shouldn’t
object to the tax,’ said Aminuddi, Ali’s uncle. But Ali, Lakshman
and Kunja were adamant: the landlord had not even agreed to
compensate them for the crops damaged by the police. Why should
they pay the tax?

Dinabandhu finally got the job at the landlord’s office and was told
that he would have to accompany the landlord to Calcutta for some
business. ‘Take Debaki along,’ Subala told Dinabandhu. ‘You can
put up at my elder brother’s. He’s written about an alliance for Debaki.
 21

They want to have a look at her.’

Debaki was very excited at the idea of visiting Calcutta. Subala
brought out two saris for her daughter; one a Shantipuri with stripes
and the other the Jamdani she had worn on her wedding day.
‘Be careful with the saris. Don’t tear them,’ she told Debaki
repeatedly. They had become threadbare, but Subala would not send
her daughter without two respectable saris at least. Though married
to Dinabandhu, Subala was from a well-to-do family: all her brothers
held good jobs in Calcutta. Her grandfather had got her married to
Dinabandhu because of his illustrious lineage.
A wildly excited Debaki boarded the train to Calcutta, but all her
happiness vanished the moment she stepped off the hackney carriage
and entered her Mama’s house. A crowd of female cousins
surrounded her immediately, staring at her. Debaki touched the feet
of her Mama and his wife, but she was unnerved—this was her first
trip here and everyone was a stranger. Her Mama tried to joke: ‘Don’t
be so shy. You’re not being paraded before prospective in-laws.’ A
cousin who was already married cut in: ‘But she’s practising.’
Under the scrutiny o f so many eyes, Debaki felt hot and
uncomfortable. She was saved, however, by one of the girls, who
looked kind. This cousin dragged Debaki to the adjacent room. ‘She
has come such a long way—let her recover first. And stop bothering
her,’ she told the others. ‘Isn’t your name Debaki? In which class do
you study?’ she asked.
‘I’ve finished the second part of the Bengali primer,’ Debaki
answered.
The other girls sneered. ‘Only the second part at this age!’
smirked one.
‘Can you count?’ the smallest one asked cheekily.
The kindly one rescued Debaki again. ‘Shame on you, Nila, you
shouldn’t speak like that,’ she said. Debaki tried hard to hold back
her tears.
In the course of the day, Debaki learnt that her saviour was called
Swapna. She also learnt that in Calcutta, girls her age went to school—
in carriages—and read lengthy books, while she could read only by
spelling out each letter. In the evening, her cousins began to get ready
for a stroll by the lake. Debaki was stunned by their dazzling saris.
22 Sabitri Roy

With floating clouds and swans printed on them, they were called
‘Meghdoot’ saris. ‘Bring out your sari, Debaki,’ ordered cousin
Shukla.
When Debaki appeared in her mother’s purple Jamdani, she was
examined minutely. ‘Why on earth does your sari have three borders?’
asked Nila. ‘It is a style that went out of fashion ages ago,’ her
Mamima explained kindly.
Debaki was upset. Swapna asked her to wear it in the ‘Habul
dress’ fashion. Debaki carefully watched Shukla putting on her sari,
then wore it like her—wrapping it around and pleating it in front,
almost like men wear dhotis. Habul dress indeed!
But all that her efforts inspired was a burst of laughter. In fact,
taking a look at herself at the long mirror, Debaki also started giggling.
Even Swapna laughed. ‘Come Debaki, I’ll help you with the sari,’
she said.
When they started for the lake, Debaki realized she was in trouble.
The sari was getting in her way. She was also uncomfortable in the
high-heeled shoes, borrowed from a cousin, that she had been made
to wear. With Nila prodding her, she took a longer step and promptly
landed in a heap in the middle of the road, tearing her mother’s
wedding sari!
Subala was angry when Dinabandhu returned home with his
daughter. No marriage could be fixed for Debaki as Subala’s brother
had said that the groom’s parents wanted an educated girl. A meeting
could have been arranged if Debaki had studied at least till class
seven or eight—they could have said that she was preparing for her
secondary examination. Her brother could have said as much before
they sent her; it would have saved a lot of money, Subala thought.
She became angrier when she found that Debaki had also torn the
Jamdani.
‘Such a big girl and still no sense. You are only good at gulping
down pots and pots of rice. I really don’t know what will happen to
you once you get married,’ Subala raged.
Debaki listened silently. She could not even tell her mother about
the Habul dress. So when Subala went to take her nap in the afternoon,
Debaki wore her sari like her cousins, put on her father’s high wooden
clogs, and started for Jagai Banerjee’s house.
Debaki could not wait to tell the Banerjees’ daughter-in-law about
 Harvest Song 23

Calcutta. She was Debaki’s dear friend, one with whom she had
shared still afternoons, nibbling away at a raw mango or a tamarind.
Her anchal, the free end of the sari, flying in the breeze, Debaki went
tripping along the fields.
Entering the house, Debaki first checked if khurima, Jagai
Baneijee’s wife, was asleep. Then she called boudi, her friend, to die
kitchen. The young woman was very amused at Debaki dressed up
like that. ‘Thakurjhi, why on earth are you wearing your sari this
way? And why are you wearing those wooden clogs?’ she asked.
‘This isn’t a sari—it’s a Habul dress. And these are not clogs—but
“high-heeled shoes”,’ said Debaki and sashayed up and down the
kitchen, walking ramrod straight while her ‘shoes’ clacked on the
hard floor. ‘Come Boudi, let me try this on you too’ Debaki said.
‘No thank you. But you keep up the good work, since you will be
married in Calcutta after all,’ Boudi said, grinning.
Debaki enlightened her friend further. ‘In Calcutta, no one paints
her feet with alta. They paint their lips,’ she said. Boudi roared with
laughter. ‘What! They put alta on their lips!’
On her way back after the afternoon session, Debaki met Mafi’s
Ma near Lakshman’s field. The pea plants were flowering. ‘Give me
some peas, Mafi’s Ma,’ Debaki said and got some from the old
woman. But as soon as Debaki reached home, Ketaki took the tale
to their mother. ‘Didi has touched Mafi’s Ma,’ she complained.
Subala was furious. ‘You’re getting softer in the head every day.
How could you touch a Muslim in the evening? Go to the river and
take a dip now. This girl will be the death of m e One day I shall give
you such a thrashing. That will put an end to such wanderings. ’ Once
Subala started there was no stopping her, so Debaki went to the river
immediately, Ketaki following her to see that she really took the dip.
Dinabandhu returned to find her standing in the courtyard, her
clothes dripping. ‘Why did you take a bath now? You’ll fall ill,’
he said.
‘She touched Mafi’s Ma,’ Subala answered.
‘Then you could have sprinkled some tulsi water on her. And
what if she did touch Mafi’s Ma? She’s also human,’ Dinabandhu
retorted.
‘All of you have turned Brahmos,’ snarled Subala. It was pointless
arguing with her.
24 Sabitri Roy

f
A year had passed since Parthada’s sudden appearance. Debaki was
watching Sukhada Pishi make a clay Laul for Maghmandal. Kunti
wanted one. Laul was the Sun god Surya’s son, who was worshipped
in January every year. Sukhada Pishi, the widow from the Sikdar
family, was adorning the idol with marigolds and atashi flowers.
Ketaki had finished the ritual last year and Kunti had started
this year.
In the centre of the courtyard, Sukhada had drawn Maghmandal
patterns with powdered rice, coal, brick dust and turmeric. She had
made intricate designs of flowers and leaves. The Laul meant so much
to a girl waiting on the threshold of life—the sun, the moon, the
stars in constellations stood for her young dreams. Sitting before the
fire and dreaming, Debaki hummed a tune to herself: ‘When the Sun
god arrives, on a bed he will sit/ On a mat of gold, he will rest
his feet.’
Next day, when Subala dozed off in the afternoon, Debaki came
back to earthly matters again and made some tamarind paste with
mustard for boudi. Debaki said: ‘I am off to see boudi. But don’t tell
Ma.’ In return she had to give some of the tangy mix to Sathi.
But she found all the doors bolted at the Banerjee’s house and
only Jagai, whom she called Jagadish kaka, was around. ‘They have
all gone to Manasabari,’ he told her. His eyes seemed to roam over
Debaki, surveying every part of her body. ‘Why don’t you make me
a paan?’ he suggested.
Debaki brought the betel leaves and made a paan, but as she was
about to give it to him, he grabbed her hand. Stunned, Debaki saw
how strange he looked, though an odd smile played on his lips.
Something was very wrong. ‘Please let me go. You’re hurting me,’
she cried, trying to wrench her hand free.
But Jagai Banerjee was not one to let go of prey so easily. He
pulled her even harder and muttered something in her ears. How
could Jagadish kaka suggest such a thing! Overcome with fear and
shame, she tried to pull herself away again. Desperate, she bit hard
into his hairy hand. Taken unawares, Jagai let go. She ran, at
 Harvest Song 25

breakneck speed, not caring if she was barging through the middle
of the fields. She dared not look back.
One day, she saw the postman approaching their house. He gave
Sathi a letter. It was addressed to ‘Debaki Das’. Debaki ran back to
the courtyard; Subala also came out. ‘Is it from Borda?’ she asked.
‘No, from the district headquarters, from Ishani Devi of the girls’
school. But first let me read it,’ Dinabandhu answered. Ishani Devi
had written to Debaki that she could study for free at her school. She
would get free accommodation at the school hostel as well.
Debaki thought it was a dream. But she also realized at once that
Parthada was behind it. The memory came back to her in a flash:
how good-looking he was! Everything about him—his bearing, his
manner—was so nice That winter night a year ago, like a tender
feeling, rose in Debaki’s mind. Did Parthada remember her still? All
day she was wrapped in a glow of pleasure Even as she went through
the usual chores—sweeping the floors, cleaning the lantern, filling
the lamp with oil and setting up the incense pot—her heart
was singing.
That night, however, matters took a very different turn. ‘Debaki
has reached marriageable age. What’s the point of sending her to a
school now? Send Ketaki instead,’ Subala suggested. It was decided
that Ketaki would be sent. Dinabandhu wrote to Ishani Devi saying
that he would send his second daughter instead of the eldest.
As the day of Ketaki’s departure drew near, Debaki went into a
kind of mourning, weeping all day long. She wanted to study so
badly! Finally, Dinabandhu understood her grief and gave the matter
a second thought. ‘My father’s younger brother, my kaka, lives near
the school. I’ll write to him and ask if you can stay there. As for the
school fees, I’ll have to arrange for them myself somehow,’ he said.
It was decided now to send both sisters to school.

From Talpukur to Kanchanpur it was five miles on a boat. The boat

journey was pleasant. The wintry river wound through the fields on
both banks while the clear blue sky stretched above. They passed
26 Sabitri Roy

fields planted with pulses, rice and mustard and the occasional banana
grove. A tattered mat, a pillow and a pitcher lay by the river someone
had died. Sathi kept looking back: they were the last reminders of
the dead. They reached Kanchanpur before dark. The jetty could be
seen at some distance. There were huge jute warehouses by the river
and big boats laden with jute were moored there. Huge stoves had
been lit on the boats: the aroma of onions and garlic frying wafted
to them.
‘Is the water level high enough in the Kamarbari Canal? Let’s
anchor the boat near the high school and walk the rest,’ Dinabandhu
suggested. Getting down, Debaki and Ketaki rearranged their saris.
Dinabandhu looked with appreciation at his two daughters, beautiful
in sky blue and mauve.
A large pipal tree had branched out of the ruins of a temple. Past
it, over the pond, Dinabandhu pointed out the girls’ school. It was
only a collection of tin sheds, with a signboard bearing the school’s
name. But Debaki was mesmerized: this was where she would study!
Dinabandhu’s kaka, did not live far from the school; hearing their
voices, the old man came out. Debaki and Ketaki touched his feet.
They called him grandfather, as was the custom. He was a widower
and the rest of his family lived away.
Dinabandhu left the next day after admitting his daughters to
school. He spoke to lshani Devi before leaving.
‘They are in your hands. It is still unusual for a family like ours to
send daughters to boarding schools. It is because you wrote to us
that I dared to go ahead,’ he said.
‘Please don’t worry. You have done the right thing. If parents
don’t realize that girls need to be educated, who will?’ lshani
Debi said.
Debaki tidied up her grandfather’s home in a few days. She took
charge of the kitchen too. Cooking for two was child’s play to her.
At school, she caught the eye of her teachers as well. At Saraswati
Puja she impressed everyone by cooking a huge amount of khichuri
effortlessly. ‘Let’s send up Debaki for a diploma in cooking,’ said the
cookery teacher. Debaki was surprised to hear that there was even a
test in cooking. This was a new life. The Debaki of old, who had
roamed about her village with her hair in tight plaits, her sari worn
above her ankle, her sisters and brothers dancing about her and her
 Harvest Song 27

head in the clouds, had cast off her old ways and was looking at
herself anew.
One day, as she was scraping the ash out of the oven, a small boy
came up and said softly: ‘Debidi, Parthada wants to talk to you. He's
waiting behind the cowshed.’ Parthada here? Looking about her
carefully, Debaki hurried to the cowshed. It was Parthada indeed.
He gave Debaki a small parcel wrapped in a handkerchief. ‘Keep
this hidden. Nobody should know of it. And no one should know
that you met me either,’ he said, and seemed to melt into the air.
Debaki stood rooted to the ground, almost afraid. Her heart was
pounding madly. She hid the parcel quickly in her sari. Opening the
parcel that night, she was taken aback. Her father had once bought
Sathi a toy pistol—but what lay in her hands was a real one! It was a
little bigger and heavier than the toy. Men could be killed with a
pistol, she had heard. She felt strangely excited that Parthada had
left her with such a dangerous responsibility. It made her feel grown­
up and important, as if she was one of their group.

Soon, there was more news of Parthada. Debaki was washing her
kitchen pots by the pond, at a spot where cane groves and dense
trees hardly let any sunlight in. Her washing was almost over when
she was startled by a voice. ‘Debidi,’ someone was calling her from
very close. She looked up to see Parthada’s errand boy again. ‘Please
come up here,’ he said softly. With her hands still full of the ash she
used to scour the pans, Debaki got up. ‘Parthada has sent this. Bum
it as soon as you finish reading it,’ the boy said. Debaki hid the letter
in her blouse.
Parthada had written only two lines. ‘Meet me today at the ashram
after school. Bring that thing with you.’ Debaki held the piece of
paper to the flame of the lamp and saw the curved letters turning
into ash. Parthada was here again!
Slipping the parcel into her blouse, Debaki went to school as usual,
but was tense the whole day. Suppose someone brushed against her
and discovered what she carried? She couldn’t concentrate on her
28 Sabitri Roy

studies and waited anxiously for school to finish.

After classes, Debalri came to Ishani Devi’s house with Lata,
Ishani Devi’s niece. Lata lived with her aunt and studied at the school.
The ashram that Parthada had spoken of was Pamakutir, housed in
four tin sheds on the school premises. One of them had a portrait of
Ramkrishnadeb; another housed the loom. The floors were of mud,
the roof of tin and the walls of bamboo matting. As soon as she
entered, she saw resting against the wall a huge picture o f
Parthasarathi, that is, Lord Krishna as Arjun’s chariot driver with
Arjun—who as also known as Partha—seated in the chariot. Ishani
Devi, with her glasses on, was looking through some papers, sitting
on a mat. And Parthada was stretched out on the daybed next to her.
Before she could speak Partha signalled with his eyes not to say
anything before Ishani Devi. Debaki immediately made up an excuse
to explain her visit. ‘Guruma, I want to submit a kulo painting for
the art exhibition, so I wanted to know when the exhibition will be
held this year.’ Ishani Devi answered affectionately: ‘Very soon—in
the coming month. Painting is a very good idea, but along with it
you also have to learn to weave the kulos.’ She carried on
enthusiastically: ‘My school has been set up to revive the old cottage
industries, but I am an old woman with not many more years left.
Young people like you should come forward; only then will your
education prove fruitful.’
After some time, Debaki asked for permission to leave. But as she
got up, she said: ‘I’m feeling very thirsty. Where is the water pitcher?’
'I’ll bring you the water. The pitcher is in the puja room and you
are not in proper clothes,’ Ishani Devi said and left the room to bring
her the water.
Quickly, Debaki slipped the parcel to Partha who hid it inside his
wrapper. He felt relieved that Debaki had handled the business so
well. Very softly, he told her: ‘Come again tomorrow, I want to lend
you some books.’
Partha was in hiding here, passing himself off as Ishani Devi’s
nephew. Only Ishani Devi knew he was wanted by the police.
The last rays of the sun lit up the picture of Parthasarathi on the
wall. Debaki’s gaze slowly travelled from the picture to the man before
her. ‘How handsome Parthada looks!’ she thought.
Ishani Devi came in with a glass of water and some fruits and
 Harvest Song 29

sweets. Take some prasad,’ she said, offering it to Partha. Looking

affectionately at Debaki, she said, ‘Debaki is doing very well, you
know, both in her studies and with the housework.’ She had grown
quite fond of the young girl in these few days.
Partha said to Debaki, ‘Why don’t you show me, then, by mending
my shirt? I’ve tried doing it three times already but the moment I put
the shirt on the stitches come apart.’
Debaki started laughing. Taking the shirt from Partha, she was
surprised and delighted to find a copy of Chalar Pathe hidden under
it. ‘For you,’ Partha said.
Back home, she found her father waiting. He had fixed up her
marriage at the Shibbari and had come to take her back. The groom
had passed his Intermediate Arts exams and was from a well-to-do
family. Debaki’s heart sank; this meant that her studies were over. At
night, lying in bed, she thought of her future. The prospect of marriage
did not seem real somehow: she tried to think of a new place, new
people around her, a new life . . . but it seemed to grow more and
more frightening.
And this also meant that she would not see Partha again. Ever.
As the realization sank in, Debaki started to sob uncontrollably.
The next day Debaki went to the ashram to return Partha’s shirt.
The afternoons were usually quiet as everyone went out to work.
Ishani Devi was looking over some papers. Seeing Debaki, she said,
‘Go in. Partha is inside.’
Debaki put down the shirt and without any preamble, said,
‘Parthada, please marry me.’
Startled, Partha tried to make a joke of it. ‘Couldn’t find anyone
better, could you?’ he smiled. What a child this girl was! But then
looking at her, he found what he thought to be a harmless joke had
hurt Debaki. Contrite, Partha changed his tone. ‘Why should your
parents agree to your marrying me?’ he asked gently.
‘If they don’t, we’ll elope, ‘Debaki said. There was not a hint of
hesitation in her words.
‘You are yet to grow up, Debaki. This is the time to concentrate
on your studies. You have to become independent first. Then you
can start thinking about marriage.’
‘That’s all over for me. Baba has come to take me back.’
‘Mastermashai? So you are not going to sit for your exam?’
30 Sabitri Roy

‘I shall sit for my exam only at my in-laws’,’ said Debaki bitterly.

Partha’s heart went out to her. He said, ‘Go back now. I’ll talk to
Mastermashai. Maybe he’ll change his mind.’
That night, Partha tried to reason with Dinabandhu. ‘Couldn’t
you possibly let Debaki go on with her studies, Mastermashai? She’s
so interested in them, and she’s also doing well in her exams. These
days so many girls even older than her are studying. Why can’t she?’
‘Actually, you know, personally I have nothing against it. But her
mother won’t listen. Besides, this groom is quite well off, so we don’t
have to spend money on her. We’ve got to think of that. We can’t
really afford to let this opportunity go.’
As he listened to Dinabandhu, Partha looked at Debaki sitting in
the distance, cooking rice. As she bent over the fire, Partha could
clearly see the sadness in her young face. He tried to convince her
father once again, but Dinabandhu remained firm.
Partha came over to where Debaki was pouring the rice stock out
from the rice.
‘It’s time for me to leave, Debaki,’ he said. ‘I don’t think I shall
see you again. I just hope and pray that you’ll be happy.’
Debaki’s hands went numb. The pot slipped, emptying the boiling
hot stock over her feet.
‘Get some soda, quickly. You must be badly burnt,’ Partha said
urgently. When Debaki got the pot of soda from the kitchen, he gave
her his handkerchief. ‘Soak this in soda water and tie it on your foot.
You won’t have blisters then,’ he advised her.
Quietly, Debaki did as she was told. Partha noticed that she was
crying. He watched helplessly as she went through the motions of
tying the bandage, wiping the rice pot and putting it aside. Then he
said, softly, ‘Debaki, I . . . I am leaving.’ It was as if he was waiting
for a word from her. Debaki made a conscious attempt to control
herself and asked, ‘You won’t forget me, will you, Parthada?’
Their eyes met. Partha was no more a detached bystander. The
anguish that he saw in her eyes was not hers alone.
‘Never,’ Partha said firmly.
Debaki watched Partha walk along the road by the pond and
merge into the darkness beyond. Putting the kitchen utensils back on
the shelf, she went to the pond with the oil lamp. The single spot of
light seemed to be almost throttled by the heavy darkness around.
 Harvest Song 31

Debaki sat down on the ghat and felt the cold water. Tears welled up
in her eyes. Finally, after what seemed ages, she splashed some water
on her face and got up. It was time for her grandfather’s dinner.

It was very early in the morning when Ishani Devi called to her niece
from the puja room. ‘Lata, can you go over to Sundar Tharan’s with
these flowers? She asked for some datura flowers for her Shiv puja.’
Old Sundar Tharan lived alone in the house next to Ishani Debi’s,
beyond the mango grove, as her son lived in Rangoon with his family.
Lata found the old woman sitting on the verandah, sorting bel leaves
for the Shiv puja. She was delighted at the flowers. ‘God himself has
sent these through you, dear. I was wondering what to do. Fragrant
flowers can’t be used for Shiv puja, you know.’
Lata looked up and was startled to find a young man of about
twenty-one standing before them. She had not noticed him coming
in. ‘Let’s see if you recognize me,’ the young man said to Sundar
Tharan.
The old woman brightened up immediately. 'So you remembered
your Didima at last?’ She hugged him, her eyes sparkling with joy.
Lata was surprised; she had not known Sundar Tharan had a
grandson, and such a handsome one at that!
Sundar Tharan asked her grandson to wash his hands and started
making his breakfast. She brought down the murki from the shelf
and cut pieces of coconut to go with it. Then, as she boiled the milk,
Sulakshan, her grandson, sat down to eat.
‘You don’t have any tea, do you, Didima?’ he asked.
‘Not in this life. May be I shall taste it in my next,’ said Sundar
Tharan, smiling. ‘I suppose you can’t do without tea? Wait a moment,
I’ll get some tea leaves from Lata’s house,’ she added.
Drinking Didima’s tea, however, proved to he quite an ordeal for
Sulakshan. ‘Better not try this again, Didima,’ he smiled, ‘I’ll make
my own tea.’
‘Why, isn’t it all right?’ Sundar Tharan asked anxiously.
‘Just right, exactly like one of those concoctions the doctor makes.’
32 Sabitri Roy

‘But I boiled the leaves for such a long time!’

Laughing, Sulakshan left it at that. In the afternoon, he saw Lata
making tea on the verandah. Sundar Tharan said with a twinkle in
her eyes, ‘I’ll ask Lata to make your tea. Can’t give you a doctor’s
concoction, can I? You only have to look at those lovely hands to
know she makes good tea.’
Sulakshan was a little embarrassed, but the name ‘Lata’ made
him look at the girl again. Now he knew why she looked familiar; he
had last seen her when she was a little girl in a frock. Since then
seven years had passed, she had become a young woman; almost
unrecognizable.
The next day, Ishani Devi invited Sulakshan to tea. They waited
for a long time and the tea grew cold, but Sulakshan did not come.
Ishani Devi asked Lata to make a fresh cup and take it to him. ‘He’s
probably too shy to come here,’ she said.
Sulakshan looked up from his book as Lata put the cup down on
the table. ‘Oh, I’m so sorry, I was supposed to go to your house for
tea, wasn’t I? It completely slipped my mind,’ he said.
Lata smiled. She understood this was just an excuse. Sulakshan
looked at her as he sipped his tea. Such a lovely face! And he
particularly liked those dreamy eyes.
Lata decided to spend some time with Sundar Tharan before she
left. She found the old woman chopping vegetables. ‘Thakurma, now
that you’ve got your grandson back we don’t exist any more, I
suppose?’ Lata asked.
Sundar Tharan smiled. ‘Of course. That’s why I was thinking of
making you my own. Why don’t you marry him?’
Lata blushed crimson. Trust an old woman to say such an
outrageous thing! Sundar Tharan, however, was thinking what a
wonderful pair the two would make. Lata was such a nice girl, and
so lovely too.
When Lata came to collect the teacup, Sulakshan asked her,
‘Which class are you in?’
‘I’m going to sit for my matriculation this year,’ answered
Lata shyly.
‘Don’t you read anything other than your school texts?’
‘I’ve read some of Bankim Chandra’s works, and some of
Tagore’s poems.’
 Harvest Song 33

‘Haven’t you read anything by Najrul Islam? Agnibirta, for

instance?’
Lata looked surprised. Then her eyes brightened and she said
soñly, ‘Yes, I have.’ As she turned to go, Sulakshan called her. ‘I shall
expect you tomorrow as well, with the tea,’ he said.
But the next morning, even before she left the house, Lata heard
that Sulakshan had been arrested. Filled with an inexplicable sense
of loss, she ran to Sundar Tharan. Wiping her eyes, the old woman
said, ‘He was here just for a week and now he has left me in tears.
Why did he have to come in the first place?’
A little later, Sundar Tharan took Lata inside and gave her some
papers. ‘He left these for you. You must keep this a secret.’ Lata
found a small unsigned letter with a bundle of lithographed sheets.
The letter read, ‘Give this bundle to the person who comes to Didima
with a signed paper. I hope you will honour this request.’

Kunja Majhi brought bad news from the town: seven revolutionaries
had been arrested at Nandanpur, and Partha was one of them.
Farmers out hunting porcupines had spotted them escaping after
robbing the landlord’s office there, and had chased them with spears.
Almost all the revolutionaries had been hurt, including Partha; and
apparently one had been stabbed right through. They were now at
the government hospital. Kunja had gone to the court next to the
hospital, and he had heard them screaming in pain.
Sudani sat immobile on his verandah, feeling helpless and numb.
Lakshman said, ‘What kind of people are these farmers? To go and
attack our boys and hand them over to the police!’
Kunja said, ‘Apparently they did not understand that the young
men were revolutionaries. When they came to know later, they
regretted it, but by then it was too late.’
Sudam went to Dinabandhu for advice.
‘I don’t know what to do, Mastermashai. His mother’s so worried
she’s stopped eating.’
‘Why don’t both of you go into town?’ Dinabandhu suggested. ‘I
34 Sabitri Roy

know a lawyer’s clerk there, he can make arrangements for you to

see Partha.’
The next day Sudam and Mangala went to the town and met the
lawyer’s clerk, who told them with a worried frown, ‘I don’t know if
they’ll let you see him. Let me try, anyway.’
The clerk’s wife offered Sudam and Mangala some rice on banana
leaves. ‘You haven’t had anything to eat the whole day,’ she said. But
Mangala could not force the rice down her throat. Tears stung her
eyes as she thought of her son lying in jail, writhing in pain. The
clerk consoled her, ‘I shall give it one last shot. Let me talk to our
lawyer babu, maybe he can do something. Don’t lose heart.’
A week passed, but despite all their efforts, they were not allowed
to see their son. On the eighth day, the clerk said to them, ‘The boys
are to be produced in court today. If you wait in front you might be
able to catch a glimpse of him.’
Sudam and Mangala reached the court well before ten o’clock.
The next three hours were spent in breathless anticipation, but there
was no sign of Partha. Only a few orderlies and witnesses wandered
about aimlessly. Sudam and Mangala sat there, their moods swinging
between hope and despair. Suddenly the lawyer’s clerk ran up. ‘Come
and stand here, under this tree,’ he said, ‘the police are bringing
them along.’
A crowd quickly gathered to watch the prisoners; within minutes
the road was full of curious onlookers. Some policemen came along
to clear the people off the road. Then in the distance appeared the
group of revolutionaries, in pairs, handcuffed together, their feet in
chains. Mangala stared at them, thoroughly bewildered. Where
was Partha?
Then Sudam nudged her and whispered, ‘Look, there he is.’
As they pushed forward, Partha caught sight of them. He smiled
at his mother and shook his head slightly. Mangala could not control
her tears. She ached to reach out to him, to touch him once, to bless
him—but she stood rooted to the spot, watching helplessly as Partha
walked past, looked back once and was gone. It was almost as if a
part of her own self was being wrenched away. Sudam tried to move
closer to the prisoners, but by the time he had shouldered his way
through the crowd, they had gone.
Was this the last time she would see her son? Mangala sat down
 Harvest Song 35

under the tree with Sudam beside her. The lawyers’s clerk came over.
‘Did you see him?’
‘Do you call that seeing, babu?’ Mangala said between sobs that
seemed to tear her apart.
‘Won’t we see them once again when the police take them back?’
Sudam asked.
The clerk shook his head sadly. ‘There’s such a crowd that they
probably won’t be taken back before dark. Or may be they’ll be sent
back by a different route and people won’t even know about it.’

Debaki’s marriage was finalized with the palipatra ritual. Dinabandhu

went to Sukhada of the Shikdar family to place an order for a
shitalpati. The Shikdar house was to the east of the lake. Everyone
in their family had left the village long since, to work or set up a
business in the town. Sukhada, the woman without a husband or a
child, was the only one left now. She earned her living weaving mats
and making cane trays and baskets. Her mats were the best in the
entire region.
Sukhada was weaving a tray when Dinabandhu reached her house.
She got out a low stool for him and asked, ‘I heard that Debaki is
about to be married?’
‘That’s why I came,’ said Dinanbandhu, ‘you will have to weave
a mat for her. It’s got to be beautiful, you know, more so because I
can’t afford quilts and mattresses.’
‘As long as there’s even a single breath in my body you won’t
have to worry about that,’ said Sukhada, smiling, ‘Debaki’s in-laws
will have no cause for complaint.’
Dinabandhu smiled too. Happening to look up, he saw that the
slats of the roof were loose. ‘It’s time to get them fixed,’ he said,
pointing to the slats, ‘the monsoon will be here any day now.’
‘Yes, I’ve noticed that. But it’s too much of an effort for me. In
the old days I used to help my brothers in such work. But now .. .’
Sukhada shook her head.
‘Okay, I’ll bring Ali along and get it fixed,’ said Dinabandhu,
getting up.
36 Sabitri Roy

Subala met Meghi’s mother at Mansatala.

Kala Tharan asked, ‘Why, Debald’s Ma, I heard that you’ve got a
really good match for Debaki?’
Subala said, ‘The groom’s mama has some property. The income
from that is enough for them, all the year round. They have seven or
eight day-labourers working for them or so I hear.’ Her happiness
was quite obvious. ‘The boy has been brought up by his mother’s
brother, his mama, who looks on him as his own son,’ she added
proudly.
‘Doesn’t he have brothers and sisters?’
‘Only an elder sister. She’s married; lives in Calcutta.’
‘That’s very good. He sounds just right. But then, your daughter
too is good-looking, and she’s studied for some time as well.’
‘I’ve fixed up next Monday for the halud kota,’ said Subala. ‘All of
you must come. I just hope that with your blessings the wedding
passes off well.’
On the day of the wedding, Sukhada stayed with Debaki for the
ritual of sohag mapa. Debaki, in a new red-bordered sari, had to fast
for the whole day and wear ten strands of turmeric-tinged thread
around her wrist while she measured out water for the better part of
the day. Sukhada came from time to time to remind her, ‘Repeat to
yourself, “This is how I measure my father-in-law’s love, my mother-
in-law’s love” and so on. The bigger your portions, the more love
you will get at your in-laws.’
Debaki snapped, ‘I can do without all that love.’ Helpless tears
stung her eyes as she raged against her parents for marrying her off
like this. If only she could run away, thought Debaki desperately.
Where was Parthada now? Couldn’t he have taken her away to some
distant place where no one would know them? Debaki prayed to
God all day: let something happen, anything, she prayed, so that the
marriage is broken off.
She could hear the women singing wedding songs.
We’re here in the morning.
To grind the pomegranate and the turmeric.
Come, let’s grind, and make the paste,
And bathe our Ram and Sita in soothing water.
Despite frantic prayers, nothing happened and Debaki’s wedding
 Harvest Song 37

passed off uneventfully. The next day, die palanquin with the newly
wed couple went away along the ridges of the fields. The rhythmic
song of the bearers grew feint until it was heard no more.

Sukhada was making a palm-leaf fan which would be sold at the

week-long Chaitra Sankranti fair at the town market. Lakshman had
promised to sell them for her. Her work done, Sukhada came over to
Subala’s house. A whole lot of work was left for the Sankranti and
Subala desperately needed help now that neither of her two grown­
up daughters was at home. Sukhada picked up a sieve and sat down
beside Subala who was already sifting puffed rice.
Kunti snuggled up to Sukhada.
‘Pishi, tell me the story of the two princes—Winter and Spring,’
she said.
‘Where did I stop last time?’
‘The Golden Parrot replied, “A pair of gold anklets, that’s what
you’ll wear next.” So the Princess put on the anklets, and then, one
by one, the peacock-blue sari, the diamond necklace and the pearl
nose-ring, then the Golden Parrot said, "The Prince who gets you
the Gajamoti will be your husband, and no one else.” The news spread
far and wide: Princes from distant lands started on their quest for the
rare pearl, Meanwhile, Prince Spring was staying in the forest with
the sanyasi. Two birds told him about the Princess and Spring
immediately set off.’
s Kunti was listening raptly, transported to a world of dreams, when
the mundane world broke in, in the shape of a tomcat licking its
whiskers. ‘It’s that tom again!’ exclaimed Subala, ‘He must have
polished off the fish.’ She rushed to the kitchen and came back
grumbling, ‘Just as I thought, the rascal. Ali had brought us such
fresh fish and I took so much trouble making paturi for Debi’s father,
and then this monster just walks in and helps himself!’ The cat did
not seem to be bothered. It went on licking its whiskers, curling up
under the bed.
Ali’s name rang a bell in Sukhada’s mind. She looked around
38 Sabitri Roy

and whispered, ‘Something’s going on between Ali and Meghi.’

‘Meghi? Kala Tharan’s daughter?’ Subala was shocked.
Immediately her thoughts turned to her own daughter. How lucky
she was to have married Debaki off safely! One never knew what
girls would be up to these days.
Sukhada stood up.
T il tell you the rest tomorrow,’ she said. ‘I will have to bring my
cows back from the field now.’
Subala asked Kunti to take some rice grains to Sukhada’s house
for making some more khoi. Kunti was glad to go out. The potters
lived just behind Sukhada’s house. Kunti looked in and was delighted
to find Keshto Kumor painting a clay doll.
‘Like it?’ Keshto asked her.
Kunti smiled happily. She looked at the basketful of newly made
clay dolls waiting to be sold at the fair—the ahladis or smiling dolls,
Radha in a bright blue sari, the baby Krishna, small horses, lions,
tigers, tiny playhouse utensils—perfect models of real things.
Sudam was busy making arrangements for the Nil Puja the
worship of Shiv, in his house. They had done the Hajra Puja the day
before, celebrating the marriage of Shiv and Parvati. It was believed
that a thousand gods were invited to the ceremony, hence the name
Hajra. This morning Subala had wiped the courtyard with cowdung
and water. Now she was getting the puja things ready—oil and
vermillion in a platter and some rice in a banana-stem boat.
Lakshman and Kanai, Amulya’s brother, were dressing up as Shiv
and Parvati. Lakshman smeared his body with ash and put on a
rudraksha necklace. Lakshmi was busy with the household chores,
but she managed to steal a few glances at her husband. How handsome
he looked, just like the real Shiv!
The Muslim children of the neighbourhood were standing at a
distance, watching the preparations for the puja. Mail’s Ma, standing
with them, joked, ‘Aren’t you scared, Lakshmi? Your husband seems
about to be snatched away by your rival!’
The ‘rival’, Kanai dressed as Parvati, was indeed looking gorgeous.
Kanai had painted his face yellow, worn a jamdani sari and put on
shining necldaces and bangles. During the day Shiv and Parvati visited
the houses in the villages with the Nil. On the way they met the Nil
troupe from Bilaskhan, the most famous in the region, Their Shiv
 Harvest Song 39

and Parvati were accompanied by sakhis, companions, dressed in

blight full-length skirts, dancing to the tune o f bagpipes. The beat of
drums filled the air. Kunti ran with Iti in her arms to the stage where
the Bilaskhan troupe was performing. Nearby, a Muslim man dressed
as a fakir was showing coloured pictures depicting stories of
traditional heroes. Almost the entire village seemed to have gathered
there, to watch the performances.
The next day Lakshman and Sudani went to the fair. On their
way back in the evening, they met Keshto Kumor, exhausted after a
long day at the fair.
‘How was business?’ Sudam asked Keshto.
‘Not good,’ replied Keshto dispiritedly. ‘Everyone seems to be
looking for Japanese dolls, and why not? Those dolls are absolutely
lifelike; and they even make sounds when pressed. My little clay dolls
can’t hold a candle to them.’ Keshto shook his head sadly.
Sudam looked at the almost full basket on Keshto’s head. He
himself had been unable to sell even a single hand-made wooden
spinning-top at the fair. The multi-coloured Japanese ones were too
strong competition. Only the little wooden husking pedals found some
buyers, but Sudam was not sure if even those would sell next year.
‘All those Japanese dolls and balloons might flood the market, but
they surely can’t replace things made by you potters,’ he said to
Keshto. ‘We have to depend on you for our pots and pans at least.’
‘God knows how long even those will be in demand. Haven’t you
seen the new aluminium utensils?’
Lakshman protested, ‘You shouldn’t worry about those. Nothing
can ever replace the idols you make of our gods and goddesses.’
On market-day, Mangala cut some drumsticks and picked a
basketful of cucumbers for Sudam to sell at the market. Sudam was
weaving a fishing net. He called out to Mangala, ‘Don’t pick the
chillies today, they’ll grow a little more. Keep them for next week.’
When it was time for them to leave, Sudam said to Aijun, ‘Call
Lakshman, it’s getting late. Amulya also wanted to come along.’
Amulya was going to sell gamchhas. They left for the market in the
early afternoon. Walking by the canal, Lakshman called out to Ali,
‘Coming along to the market, Ali?’
Ali came out looking sleepy.
‘Don’t wait for me. I have to drop in at Kala Tharan’s. She wanted
40 Sabitri Roy

me to sell a bunch of bananas for her,’ he said.

Lakshman winked at Ali, taking care to avoid Sudam’s eyes. Ali
reddened, but controlled himself immediately. Then he said, as if to
justify himself, ‘The only way they can earn money is by selling these
small things—they don’t have a steady income, you know. So I offered
to sell the bananas at the market, they will definitely fetch a better
price there.’
Sudam had not noticed Ali’s discomfiture. He said, ‘Why it’s not
just Kala Tharan whom Ah helps. In fact, most of his time is spent
running errands for others. He has no thought for himself, since his
uncle is there to look after all his needs.’
They went on their way. Still thinking about Ali, Sudam said,
‘Aminuddi doesn’t have children, and he doesn’t seem to have plans
for marrying again. Why doesn’t he will his land to Ali then? That
would take care of Ali’s future. Suppose Aminuddi dies and his wife
remarries, Ali will be left with nothing’
They were now halfway to the market. Sudam began to look tired.
‘Let me carry the drumsticks,’ Lakshman said. ‘Arjun, you take
the yams.’
Dinabandhu, who was walking behind, caught up with them.
‘Have you heard from Partha lately? Where is he now?’ he
asked Sudam.
‘In the Buxar hills, in some fort or the other. In fact, I was thinking
of coming to you for help. I need to write an application. The second
officer at the police station told me that Partha might be allowed to
come home for a week or so.’
‘That’s wonderful news. Come tomorrow, before I leave
for school.’
‘What do you plan to buy today?’ Sudam asked Dinabandhu.
‘A couple of handloom saris for my daughters, and a few others
things for home.’
‘If you want tant saris buy them from me,’ Amulya said. ‘Two
plum-coloured saris will be ready in a day or two. I’ve used number
eighty threads for them,’ he added.
‘Those numbers don’t make any sense to me,’ Dinabandhu said,
smiling. ‘If the saris are of good quality, that’s enough. The same
goes for your plum colour. It could very well be mango or jackfruit,
for all I care.’
 Harvest Song 41

Amulya smiled.‘Maybe, but it will matter a whole lot to those

who’ll wear the saris. Wait for a couple of days, I’ll bring them over
myself.’
They reached the market. Sudam went over to a man selling
bamboo poles. He needed to buy a couple to replace the ones in the
cowshed that had been completely ruined by termites. Ali was already
there. He was sitting in a comer with the bunch of bananas and
some eggs. Lakshman sat down beside him.
‘Who has given you these eggs to sell? Some other Tharan, I
suppose?’ he asked.
‘How can they be from a Brahmin house? Can’t you see these are
laid by hens?’
‘Some aunt of yours, then?”
‘Mail’s Ma’s. You know how they usurped her little plot of land.
Poor old woman, she doesn’t even have children to look after her. I
do whatever little I can.’
Dusk fell. People finished their work at the market and started
for home. ‘You all go ahead, I need to buy some molasses from
Brindaban’s shop to mix with my tobacco,’ Sudam said, ‘Ali, aren’t
you going that way? Let’s go together, then. How much did the
bananas sell for?’
‘Two rupees ten pause,’ Ali replied.
‘That’s a fair price. But then, the bananas are very good quality
too, so ripe and golden,’ Sudam said.
A little later, Sudam asked,‘Doesn’t Kala Tharan’s widowed
daughter live with her mother?’
‘Where else would she live—a Hindu widow like her?’ Ali changed
the subject. ‘You’ll be going to the shop, won’t you? I’ll cut across
this field and give Kala Tharan the money for the bananas. She had
asked me to buy her some vegetables too: she’ll be waiting.’
Kala Tharan was elated. ‘Two rupees ten? And to think that the
milkman offered only one rupee and eight annas for the same bunch!
I knew it would fetch a better price at the market, but our menfolk
can’t sit down there to sell things, even if we starve. It’s a question of
prestige—we are the so-called respectable people, aren’t we?’ she
sighed. ‘And it is even worse in my case, I don’t have a son. All I have
is this ill-fated daughter who had to come back to me the very year
she got married.’
42 Sabitri Roy

Though polite, Ali was outspoken by nature. He shot back, ‘Why

blame her fate? It was you who married your eighteen-year-old
daughter to a doddering old man of sixty.’
Kala Tharan thought it wise not to pursue the subject. She called
out to her daughter, ‘Meghi, Ali has brought us some vegetables.
Keep them in the kitchen, will you? I can’t move about too much
because of this cursed gout.’
Meghi came out with a wicker basket. Ali took out a few guavas
from his pocket. ‘From my friend’s garden,’ he said, stealing a glance
at Meghi. In that split second their eyes exchanged a million words.
Soon, Ali started for home. Meghi was on her ritual fast. The
image of her exhausted face seemed to hover before his eyes. It was
unthinkable for a Brahmin widow to fall in love with a Muslim man.
But what was there to be so terrified of? He could run away with
Meghi to some distant place, couldn’t he? The very thought gave Ali
a heady feeling.
At night, lying in bed beside her mother, Meghi sobbed her heart
out. Why had Ali been born a Muslim? She was sure he cared for
her. Today he had even noticed that she was fasting, whereas her
own mother acted like a cruel stepmother. Meghi had never known
what it was to be loved until this man came into her life; were they
fated to be parted from each other just because he was a Muslim?
Tears streamed from Meghi’s eyes into her long hair, as she lay awake
thinking of her hopeless love.
Mail’s Ma was trying to catch fish from the canal. At the height
of the monsoons, the whirling waters rushed to the river, carrying
clusters of weeds. On the other side, lush green paddy fields stretched
away to the horizon.
Meghi came along at this moment with Sukhada and Kunti, who
was carrying Iti in her arms. The little girl had been ill for some time,
and they were taking her to the Manasa temple to get some mati-pora
or sacred mud from the priest. Mail’s Ma looked at Iti and murmured,
‘The child must be having evil fits.’
Ali knew that Meghi went to the temple every Tuesday at the
same hour. Every week, when the moilah finished his namaz, Meghi’s
footsteps could be heard on the bamboo-pole bridge. Ali was waiting
in front of his house, in the deserted shed that used to be a madrasa
—a school for Muslim boys. The walls had fallen in, the doors and
 Harvest Song 43

windows were ruined, and only the roof remained intact. Ah sat
down there with a book: his favourite lyric, ‘The blind lover’s tale’.
As he read the immortal story of the blind beggar boy falling in love
with the princess, Ali wondered about Meghi and himself. Was their
love as fantastic as the story?
Kunti’s anxious voice was heard: ‘It’s such a rickety bridge, how
can I cross with Iti?’
‘I’ll carry her,’ Meghi offered and stepped onto the bridge.
‘You were right,’ she said a minute later, ‘it’s shaking badly. I
think I’m going to fall off.’ Ali came out.
‘I’ll hold the bamboo-pole tight,’ he said.
Meghi and Kunti crossed over to the other side. Sukhada had
stopped to pick some greens. Kunti called out to her, ‘Sukhi Pishi, be
quick, Ah bhai is here to help us cross.’
‘It’s all very well now,’ Meghi said, ‘but it’s going to be dark when
we return. We can’t possibly cross the bridge without help then.’
‘I’ll be waiting,’ Ali smiled.
Meghi blushed as an answering smile flashed on her Ups.
Kunti called out again: ‘Sukhi Pishi, are you still at it? Go on
picking greens then, we’re leaving.’
‘I’m coming,’ Sukhada hurried up to the bridge. ‘I just stopped
for a few kalmi stalks; that takes care of tomorrow’s lunch.’
They went away towards the temple. Ah opened his book again.
Could the princess of the story be more beautiful than the girl he
loved? If only he could hold her hand and help her across the bridge!
How soft and tender those hands must be!
Ah brought a pencil and a piece of paper from his house. The
lines of the lyrical poem kept playing in his mind as he scribbled on
the paper

‘Clouds gathered overhead, thunder roared,

The bou-katha kao bird wailed,
And I ran crying in the rain.’

On her way back, Meghi was about to step on the bridge when
Ali shot a meaningful glance at her and said, ‘You seem to have
dropped something.’
Meghi was scared and excited at the same time to find a small
44 Sabitri Roy

piece of paper lying on the ground. She picked it up and slipped it

into her blouse.
For the rest of the week Meghi reiterated the refrain in her mind
a million times: ‘The bou-katha-kao bird wailed, and I ran crying in
the rain.’ How could she let him know her feelings? Finally, after a
lot of deliberation, she wrote back in the same style:

‘Radha spent a sleepless night

Aching for her love,
Her long tresses hanging loose,
Wet with her tears.’

Meghi went to bed but could not stop thinking about Ali: now he
must be crossing the bridge near the Manasa temple, the moonlight
reflecting on his white shirt, on his raven-black hair—Meghi lay
awake, lost in her dreams.
After sunset, Meghi was getting ready to go for a dip in the lake,
when Kala Tharan started on her: ‘Don’t spend ages at the lake, d’you
hear? Having a girl like you at home is like nursing a snake in my
bosom. A widow like you should waste away in grief, but look at
you—becoming healthier instead. You were bom under an evil star,
your father died because of you, and then your husband, aren’t you
ashamed?' Kala Tharan went on spitting venom. Meghi left silently.
After the first dip in the lake, Meghi felt so refreshed that she
wanted to stay there a little longer. But she knew she could not afford
that indulgence. Covering herself with the wet gamchha, she stepped
out of the water to discover with a shock that Jagai was settled
comfortable on the stairs. ‘Let me go,’ said Meghi. “I will, if you
keep your door open at night,’ Jagai answered.
‘You’ve lost your mind, you senile old man. Let me go,’ Meghi
said sternly, but Jagai was heedless. Suddenly he gave a start, someone
else was there. ‘Now where has my goat gone? I hope someone hasn’t
sold it to the slaughterhouse,’ Sukhada was muttering to herself as
she made her way towards the pond. Jagai got up and planted himself
at another spot, staring intently at his fishing hook with an innocent
expression on his face.
At night Meghi barred her door carefully and put a grinding stone
against it. ‘There have been too many thefts of late,’ she said loudly
 Harvest Song 45

for Kala Tharan’s benefit. Kala Tharan felt scared. All she had were
her few bell-metal pots. It was this rainy season that helped petty
thieves hide among the tall jute plants.
Kala Tharan woke up in the middle of the night—someone was
trying to break through the fence. ‘Get up Meghi! They are here!’ she
screamed, but as soon as the intruder heard her voice, he ran away
with heavy steps.
Ali mended the fence in the morning. ‘I can ask Aijun to come
and sleep in the verandah/ he suggested.
Meghi noticed a cigarette stub lying near the fence. ‘The thief is
no stranger—he is one of us.' She told Ali what had happened when
her mother was not listening. Picking up the cigarette end, she also
noticed a two rupee note pressed into the fence.
It is Jagai Banerjee.
Ali was speechless. ‘That old man? He has such a litter of
grandchildren.’
‘But that’s the right age for men to start heeding such thoughts.’
Meghi replied.

It was the month of Shravan. There was water everywhere: the lakes
and ponds had overflowed and the fields were submerged. There
was no work for the farmers. Sudam spent the whole day weaving a
fishing net, and at night he read the Martasa Panchali, the story of the
snake goddess Manasa and how she vanquished Chand Sadagar.
Every evening, the Panchali reading occasioned a gathering in his
house. As he untied the worn-out manuscript handed down to him
by his father, his family and his neighbours—Amulya and Amulya’s
old aunt—would collect around him.
‘Chand said, “Shiv is my only lord I vow. Before no goddess will
my head I bow.’”
His audience followed every word with rapt attention as he turned
the page. Chand Sadagar, the prosperous businessman from Bengal,
had displeased Manasa, the snake goddess, by refusing to worship
her. But the goddess was intent on revenge. She struck on the night
46 Sabitri Roy

Lakhindar, Chand’s youngest son, got married, while Behula,

Lakhindar’s bride, lay deep in an enchanted sleep. Kalinag the serpent
entered the nuptial chamber and bit Lakhindar. Chand cursed Behula.
‘You comb-toothed witch with a forehead of blight, you have eaten
up your husband on the very first night.’ But Behula, undaunted,
stitched together a boat of banana leaves and started on her journey
to meet the gods along the river Ganguri, with Lakhindar’s corpse
lying on her lap. On her way she encountered many dangers, and
reached the place where Netai the washerwoman washed her clothes.
The audience breathed easy. Behula reached heaven and pleased
the gods by dancing before them. But Manasa would not be appeased.

‘It is not for me to revive Lakhindar.

‘You are a one-eyed witch,’ still says his father.’

Sudam closed the book. ‘You will be able to finish before Manasa
puja, I hope?’ asked Lakshman’s aunt anxiously.
‘We have to. Reading a Panchali is not a joke. We have to finish it
even if it means being up all night. If you have heard Lakhindar die,
you have to hear of his rebirth. Otherwise you sin,’ Sudam said.
‘Then let’s read in the afternoons also,’ Mangala suggested.
It was not easy for Sudam. All he had read in his childhood were
the primary texts. Such knowledge did not help him to be a fluent
and fast reader of a lengthy book. But he assured Mangala that the
reading would finish in time, without their having to meet during the
afternoons. Meanwhile he would have to get the tobacco seeds ready
for the season.
Manasa Puja was on the last day of Shravan. Mangala made an
idol of Lakhindar with rice grains and put it in a kulo, covering it
with a piece of cloth. Sudam would finish his reading today. Mangala
placed a bunch of mango leaves on the ghata and coated the leaves
with oil and vermilhon. A dhaki, drummer, was also there with his
huge dhak or oval drum. The courtyard was crowded with villagers.
The dhaki began to beat his drum. Mangala uncovered Lakhindar’s
idol. Sudam began to read.
Behula was back at her in-laws’ with her husband and his six
brothers—on one condition. Chand Sadagar would have to pray to
Manasa. But Chand was adamant. Behula would not settle for
 Harvest Song 47

anything else either and finally convinced him. But he turned his
back to the Manasa idol while offering the puja and addressed her as
‘Bhevi’ instead of 'Devi'. Due to divine magic, however, though
Chand said ‘Bhevi’, the word came out as ‘Devi’. Manasa was
pleased.
Everyone bowed down before the ghata. Lakshman’s aunt
distributed the prasad—rice and bananas mixed together, batashas,
sugarcane and cucumber.
‘Manasa, try as you may, you will not have Chand at bay,’ quoted
Lakshman as he ate his prasad. “We are also in the same state with
the police. Our hands and feet are in chains, but we refuse to bow.’
Later in the evening Lakshman went over to Aminuddi’s house
to listen to the Ghazi’s songs. Sudam asked Lakshmi to sleep in
Mangala’s bed dll Lakshman came back.
The strains of the Ghazi’s songs could be heard from the Muslim
neighbourhood. Sudam was sleeping in the verandah.
‘This Paush let us offer a puja to Ekdil Pir. Our herd is becoming
thinner by the day. The cows are blessed by Ekdil Pir,’ Mangala said
from her room.
‘That’s all right, but what about the expense? If we offer a puja to
the Pir it means we will have to provide sinni prasad for all the Hindus
and Muslims of the village,’ Sudam answered, not very optimistically.
‘But I’ll talk to Aminuddi about it.’

It was dark still. Debaki plastered the yard with cowdung. Her eyelids
were still heavy with sleep. Winter nights were long—and she had to
get up very early. The wind was biting cold and so was the ground.
She would have to bathe before the sun rose and before Rajen’s
Mami was up. She would also have to grind a huge pot of kesari
seeds to make boris. If the sun was out the mix would not be light
enough. She went to the pond at the back of the house to bathe. As a
young woman married into this family she had to use this pond,
inside the premises of the house, surrounded by dark clumps of trees
and plants. In the dark, the water looked darker with leaves rotting
48 Sabitri Roy

in it. The water was not ‘safe’, either. One had to take more than
one dip.
Debaki took a deep breath, took two quick dips, and ran to the
back of the kitchen, shivering in the cold. Wrapping the dry sari
round her body, she prayed to the sun to come out.
From the river ghat, across the winter mist, she heard women
singing the Maghmandal ritual. Kunti, too, must be at their ghat
reading the brata. Drying her hair, Debaki hummed the Maghmandal
song:
‘The Sun-God will come to me,
Into the river will he dip his feet,
On a silver bed will he sit,
Off a golden dish will he eat.’
For a few moments, Debaki was transported to another world,
her life before her marriage, to be rudely interrupted by Rajen’s
Mami’s screaming figure.
‘Is this where you shake the water from your hair? Aren’t you a
married woman? Haven’t your parents taught you anything?’ she
shouted at the top of her voice.
Silently, taking the dal with her, Debaki removed herself to the
part of the yard near the kitchen meant for ceremonial food, but
Thanmami was relentless.
‘And how can we expect polite behaviour from her? A woman’s
nature reflects the family she comes from. They got rid of her with
just a pair of bangles, even our barber gave gold ornaments with
his daughter!’
Her head covered with her sari, though her long hair was wet,
Debaki sat grinding the dal. Mami came over to inspect her work
and screamed again. ‘Is this how you do it? It should be much
smoother. You look like you have a man’s strength in your arms, but
you are such a dainty darling when it comes to work. If you really
are so delicate, ask your father to send a maid to look after you here.’
Debaki felt the tears welling up again. Her father’s only crime
was that he was poor and because of it her mother never spared him
for a moment, and here, too, it was the same. Thanmami’s fat arms
were covered with gold. The gold bangles on both hands were like
two serpents coiled. Two thick armlets encircled her upper arms. On
 Harvest Song 49

her ears were gold studs, set with red stones, her nose stud was an
opal, a heavy gold necklace adorned her neck. Why did Parthada
and his boys bother to rob the petty landlord’s house? Why didn’t
they just come here and snatch away all this gold from this monster
woman?
Why Parthada alone? Someone from this very house was an active
supporter of the nationalist movement—one of Rajen’s Mama’s sons
from his first marriage. He was behind bars now, but that was so
much better than living here. Every moment Debaki felt like running
away. Her school in Kanchanpur beckoned her every moment. The
schoolroom. . . Ishani Devi’s ashram. . . Parthada on the run, hiding
in the shed where the handloom was kept. . . The rows of betel nut
trees. Brahmaputra. . . the ferryghat, the police station, where were
the police taking Parthada?
The vision shattered again. ‘You bold woman, cover your head!
Don’t you know how to behave when you know that male relatives
are around?’ thundered Thanmami again.
After the dal, Debaki came back to the kitchen to grind the spices
for the day’s cooking. The youngest of Thanmami’s daughters, Tushi,
placed the spice tray in front of her.
‘Boudi, Ma has asked you to cook the leftover fish with mustard
sauce,’ she said.
Hashi, the eldest, settled down with her dish. ‘Is the rice done?
Give me some,’ she said.
From the store room Thanmami hollered: ‘Hashi, take some ghee
from here.’ Hashi had been married into a rich family and hence was
pampered even more. She was the same age as Debaki, who would
only get her first meal at two-thirty or three in the afternoon, after
feeding everyone lunch. ‘Hashi, ask Debaki to fry the fish fat for
you. Have it hot with the rice,’ Thanmami called out again.
On one of the two stoves of the wood oven Debaki put the dal to
boil; on the other she placed a kadai for the fish fat. After that she
would have to prepare the fish curry—for the school-going boys.
Thanmami did not have any sons of her own, but her sister’s sons
lived here.
From the day after her marriage, feeding not only the huge family,
but also the ten or twelve labourers working around the house, had
become Debaki’s responsibility. Boiling the rice for the labourers was
50 Sabitri Roy

a problem. It was ten seers of rice every day, and required all her
strength to strain and remove the water.
Hashi finished eating but left the dirty plate on the floor. Debalri
picked up the fish bones and the crumbs with the plate and went to
the pond by the house to wash it. The day labourers were felling
trees. ‘Bouthakran, can we have a little bit of fire? We want to light
the hookah. We haven’t had a smoke the whole morning,’ one of
them said.
Debaki brought a burning piece of coal in a ladle. These men
were the nearest to friends that she had in this alien house.
Next to the husking room was the room in which the paddy was
boiled where Anna, Debaki’s widowed sister-in-law, was boiling the
grains. It did not matter in the least to Thanmami that it was late
afternoon, that Anna had been on a fast since the previous day, that
she would have to prepare her own food after she finished her work.
Anna, whose late husband had been Thanmami’s stepson, was about
two years older than Debaki.
‘Here, have these,’ said Debaki, giving her two bananas she had
brought concealed in her sari. ‘Throw the skins into the oven.’
Anna was terrified at the prospect. ‘How could you think of such
a thing!’ she said. ‘Ma will be livid if she finds out!’
‘If she finds out I’ll say I’ve eaten them,’ Debaki answered.
‘As if that’ll help things. Now hurry up and get on with your own
work. The men have gone to bathe and will ask for lunch any time
and you will be in trouble if you waste time finding me something to
eat,’ said Anna.
Debaki set the wooden seats and metal dishes in place and began
to fold the paans. Thanmami served the food herself, reasoning that
Debaki, coming from the family that she did, would have no idea of
what to serve whom.
But the two bananas smuggled for Anna were untouched and
lying on the floor. Debaki panicked and began to gulp down big
mouthfuls of the fruits even as she folded the paan leaves into neat
triangles. Suddenly she heard someone approaching. Debaki pulled
the sari over her head to cover her face even more. Today would be
judgment day, she thought, wondering how she would speak to
Thanmami with her mouth full, her heart beating violently.
But it was Anna. ‘How does it feel now?’ she laughed.
 Harvest Song 51

Debaki wilted with relief. ‘It's you, Bordi!’

‘It’s you, Bordi!’ Anna laughed again. ‘I hope this teaches you a
lesson. Tell me you’ll never try to feed me again.’
‘You haven’t had a morsel since yesterday!’ Debaki protested.
‘But now you know that stealing food is no solution,’ Anna
answered.
The sharp sound of wooden clogs against the floor warned them
that Rajen’s Mama was approaching. Anna took her sari and gamchha
and left for the pond and Debaki pulled the sari over her head once
again and waited with the paan ready in her hand, with Hashi’s
mother watching her every move. This could become an occasion.
As soon as he left, it did. ‘How many times have I told you not to
let him take the paan directly from your hand?’ she screamed, but
rushed to confront her husband on the same matter. Debaki could
hear every word as she faced her husband. ‘Now I know why you
took care to choose her and her wretched family—because she will
act a whore even with someone who is like her father-in-law!’
Debaki came out and stood outside the kitchen, wondering what
the labourers, who were waiting in the yard for their lunch, might be
thinking. It was she who would have to serve them.
She was almost paralysed with shame, carrying out the huge pot
of rice to serve the men, but still she did not feel quite so bad, as this
remained the only task in her long day that she enjoyed. On the
plantain leaves spread out before them she heaped the coarse-grained
rice, kesari dal and a hot curry of small fish. She watched them with
satisfaction as they fell hungrily on their food. Debaki knew what
hunger was.
But she need not have worried about the labourers—they only
wondered how it was that she managed.
‘She is a very kind woman,’ one of them said.
‘But where is Rajenbabu?’ another asked.
‘D on’t you know? He is busy playing dariya bandha in
KanchanpurT
With everyone having eaten, Debaki and Anna carried the pile
of dirty pots and pans to the pond, as Thanmami settled down to her
afternoon nap in die western verandah.
‘But is your husband coming back tonight? He’s coming back
after seven days, which means you won’t get a wink of sleep tonight.
52 Sabitri Roy

After you finish with washing the dishes, run to your room and take
a short nap. Don’t worry—I’ll wake you up before my mother-in-law
gets up,’ said Anna.
Debaki blushed at the suggestion, though Anna did not have die
slightest idea of the truth. 'Your husband loved you a lot, didn’t he?’
she asked.
Anna looked away, her eyes becoming moist. A dahuk started to
sob at the other end of the pond. ‘He used to make up for everything—
all this hard work, not to mention his stepmother. It was hard to
believe that he was from this family, but then his mother was also
supposed to be a wonderful person, and his younger brother Sulakshan
is also like him. That’s why he couldn’t stay here. My father-in-law is
completely dominated by his second wife,’ said Anna, and paused to
add: ‘Sulakshan has been in jail for one year now—yet no one has
had the time to go and visit him once.’
The trinity of Hashi, Pushi and Tushi arrived at the ghat. Pushi
had in her hand chalta, sour kul, green chillies and coriander leaves.
‘Are you two going to be here all day?’ Hashi asked, fresh from
her siesta in her mother’s room. Anna was whisked away to make
the hot-and-sour chalta mix which the sisters were keen on, while
Debaki was allowed to stay with the dishes.
As Anna ground the green chillies on a stone slab, the three sisters
sat surrounding her, with bits of plantain leaves in their hands.
‘Put in some more chillies, Boudi,’ said Hashi.
‘How many more chillis do you want?’ asked Tushi, tears
streaming from her eyes as she licked the hot mix from her fingers.
‘Why shouldn’t she have lots of chillis? Her husband deals in
them after all,’ said Anna. They could take some liberty with the
younger women. Anna asked Debaki to join them and taste
the chalta.
A commotion interrupted their afternoon session the bohurupi
—

was here. Anna and Debaki ran to a window from where they could
look on the yard—the bohurupi, dressed as a city courtesan, was
waving a handkerchief at the men and making eyes at them. The
farmhands, who were all there, were in fits.
The bohurupi left for another village that night, the ringing of his
heavy anklets becoming fainter and finally disappearing into the night.
 Harvest Seng 53

Debaki came back to the kitchen to poke up the oven fire. The rice
was on the boil, spluttering noisily inside the metal pot. The wide of
the lamp in the corner seemed to shudder in die dark; in the trembling
light, Debaki felt uncomfortable looking at her own shadow. A cat
lay curled up against the other oven; it looked like Rangi, her own
pet at home. Debaki tried hard to keep her eyes open, but she felt so
sleepy that she got up. In the outer house the men were playing chess;
she would have to stay awake to serve them and no one knew when
their session would end. She brought out her small suitcase in which
lay a book hidden inside die clothes. It was the copy of ChalarPathe.
In the wooden stove the rice for the cattle was boiling and the flames
leapt up—but the fire seemed to leap up from the words of the book
on her lap, too. All traces of sleep vanished from her eyes. She read
breathlessly: a girl, about her age but a college student, was driving a
car up a hill, towards a sheer drop. And then the car started to hurtle
dow n. . .
A shadow fell across the book from behind. It was Rajen, who
had crept up noiselessly, to light a bidi from the kitchen. 'So you are
a secret novel reader?’ he asked condescendingly, but left after lighting
the bidi. With chess happening, nothing else could claim his interest.
Debaki hid the book inside her blouse.
But she woke up in the middle of the night to find Rajen rifling
through her clothes in the suitcase. He wanted to steal her gold
earrings, but what came into his hand was the book he had seen her
reading. He started: it was not a romance, but a banned book! What
daring! Rajen knew that the police kept an eye on the house because
of Sulakshan, his uncle’s son from his first marriage who was in jail,
and they could be searched anytime. If his Mama or Mami found
out that such a book was in Debaki’s possession, they would drive
them out immediately.
Debaki sat up. ‘Why have you opened my suitcase?’ she asked,
her voice steely.
‘Where did you get this book? Who gave you this?’ Rajen
countered, his teeth gritted, not bothering to answer her question.
‘It was there with me from before my marriage. Someone from
my village gave it to me.’
‘O f course,’ Rajen said. ‘Your village is crawling with
54 Sabitri Roy

swadeshiwallahs. They want to drive away the British, but where

would we be without the British? That you know your alphabet is
because of the Englishmen.’
Debaki was flabbergasted. 'If the British were really our friends,
a great man like Gandhiji wouldn’t have spoken against them.’
But Rajen did not expect his wife to aigue back. 'You have studied
only till the seventh standard, and already such a swollen head! What
would happen to you if you were a graduate!’ Debaki did not give an
answer, but her silence seemed to fen his anger even more.
The following evening Debaki was again in the kitchen and the
babus were at their chess, Mami slicing betel nuts, Anna making
lamp wicks, when a long shadow again crept up from behind. Debaki
started and saw it was Rajen, holding her copy of Oudar Patfu in
his hand.
'Give me back the book. I will send it back to Sathi,’ Debaki
pleaded.
‘I will give it back. Here,’ said Rajen and shoved it inside the
stove.
‘What have you done?’ Debaki cried and put her hand inside,
too. But before she could take the pages out, the letters of the black
print turned blacker and buist into ñames.
‘What are you doing? Stop being silly,’ Rajen shouted. But by
then Debaki’s hand was already burnt. That maddened Rajen even
more. ‘Let me see how you finish all this work now,’ he said and
stomped out.
It was very difficult to strain the rice, but Debaki did it. The next
morning when she came to clear the cinders, her tears fell on the
black mess. The spirit of the dark, young, brave girl seemed to speak
out to her from the ashes still.
But in the afternoon when she went to the pond to wash the
utensils, she could not hide it from Anna. ‘What have you done?
You burnt your hand with rice water? Wait, I will wash the pots,’
said Anna. ‘Does Rajen know?’
Did Rajen know? Debaki did not answer, but her eyes filled with
tears of gratitude for this woman. ‘Didi, you must have been my
own sister in my last life,’ she said.
‘You come to me before going to bed. I’ll prepare an ointment for
you,’ said Anna.
 Harvest Song 55

‘Whom do you have at your home?' Debaki suddenly asked.

‘If I had anyone, would I be staying here? My parentas died when
I was tiny, and my brother too when he was three years old,’ Anna
answered. ‘Here, take the water pot. I’ll just take a dip and be back.’

It was Dol. The Panch Ani zamindars had done up die dais. Radha
and Krishna’s idols with their golden ornaments stood resplendent
in each other’s arms. Krishna wore a golden crown, a seven-layered
golden necklace, a carved bracelet and even carried a golden flute.
The divine lovers were dressed in fine Benarasi cloths. The ground
was covered with abir, a pink powder.
But the real attraction was die evening—Dol meant a whole night
of kirtan. People from villages all around were here to listen to the
famous Kirtaniya, Dinabandhu Das—none other than Debaki’s
father.
Smearing his drum with sandalwood paste and arranging a
garland on it, Dinabandhu stood up to sing. Debaki was also there,
with the women from the Sarkar family. Without uncovering her
head, Debaki watched her father. He looked so wonderful—he was
wearing a white panjabi and a white garland around his neck. He
looked calm and completely at peace. He started the prelude: it was
through the persona of Sri Chaitanya Mahaprabhu that a devotee
could experience the love of Lord Krishna. But Radha was also a
devotee. Soon he was singing of Radha’s pain—the torture of her
love for Krishna, who was neglecting her. ‘Who w ill go to
Mathurapur? This pain of love can only be soothed if he hears of it.’
If only Debaki could cry like this. Why did she feel the emptiness of
Radha’s heart so strongly within herself? ‘The Shirma is empty, empty
is the city, Earth’s comers are empty, empty is the sea.’
But that is how a deity appears before his devotee—he manifests
himself, only to disappear. Krishna hurt all those who loved him—
Radha, Mira, Chaitanya. He went away from them, abandoning them.
But Radha realized his mighty presence in his absence—that was
when she attained knowledge.
56 Sabitri Roy

It was almost morning when the kirtan ended. Debaki could not
get over her father’s performance. He sang so well—as if he felt
Radha’s pain, her tears, with every part of his body. He was booked
to sing at the Tin Anis’ too, on the occasion of Baishakhi Purnima.
Debaki went to the pond with a heap of utensils, but she was
feeling light-hearted—her father surely would not go back home
without meeting her if he was so near. But she did not feel happy for
too long.
‘As soon as I got down from the bus, I heard that my father-in-
law was enchanting audiences with his kirtans!' It was Rajen’s voice.
‘I cannot face my friends now. Why did you all get me married to a
kirtan singer’s daughter?’
Debaki felt her cheeks burning with anger. Singing kirtans was
embarrassing, but living off one’s relatives and whiling away the time
by playing chess was not.
The men had finished their meal. Rajen’s Mama had slipped the
post-lunch paan into his mouth—when his younger son, Sukhomoy,
informed them: ‘Debaki boudi’s father is here.’
Debaki’s heart leapt up. She came out of the kitchen and saw
Dinabandhu. He had walked all the way in the sun, his panjabi was
soaked in perspiration, his face was reddened in the heat. Seeing him
after such a long time—she felt like running to him.
Rajen’s Mama came out to meet Dinabandu. ‘Rest a while and
take a bath. You can’t have had anything to eat yet, I take it?’
Dinabandhu smiled and answered: ‘No, I went out while it was still
dark. I had to spend a long time at the office of the At Anis asking
for some money.’ Rajen’s Mami was not bothered about the guest;
she was getting things ready for her Lakshmi puja, when Hashi came
and said to her. ‘Ma, all the plates have been used up. Take out a
fresh plate for Debaki’s father.’
Marking the idol with sindur and oil, Rajen’s Mami answered,
‘Yes, I think we will have to take out our silverware to serve him! Just
cut a banana leaf. That will do.’
Debaki was in the next room, folding the paans, and heard the
conversation. Then she saw Hashi serve Dinabandhu—she dumped
the rice on the banana leaf, but her father didn’t seem to mind at all.
He looked so happy, ate with such satisfaction. Debaki felt like telling
him never to set foot in this house again.
 Harvest Song 57

Dinabandhu finished his lunch and had his paan, looking around
him. The floors were neatly wiped, the shed full o f cattle, labourers
were working in the garden. These were signs of prosperity that
reassured Dinabandhu that Debaki was doing very welL He wondered
for a moment why her face looked so careworn, but then he decided
to blame it on her loving nature. Debaki must be missing her brother
and sisters too much, he thought.
From the kitchen Debaki realized that something was up in the
yard. Peering out of the window she saw that Rajen was beating up
one o f the labourers, Gajen Bagdi. Gajen was old enough to be Rajen’s
father, but Rajen was getting an inordinate pleasure out of hitting
the skeletal man mercilessly with his slippers. Humiliated, beaten
down, the old man looked pleadingly at Rajen with tears in his eyes,
while the children were gathered around to watch the fun.
‘Beast!’ said Debaki under her breath. She could not ever feel
anything for this man.
At night, Debaki confronted Rajen over the morning’s incident.
‘Why did you beat up Gajen Bagdi?’ she asked. ‘Because he would
not clean your latrine for free?’
Rajen was reading a novel, half reclining on the bed. ‘Now I will
have to explain before a kirtan singer’s daughter why I hit a Bagdi!’
he answered.
‘Of course,’ Debaki said.
‘How dare you!’ Rajen jumped up from the bed. ‘Here is my
answer, then!’ he said and Debaki felt a hard slap on her face. ‘If you
dare to question me any more . . . ’ he left the rest unsaid.
‘Go on!’ Debaki said, trembling with rage. ‘I am asking you again
why did you beat that old man?’
That was really the last straw for Rajen. ‘No decent woman speaks
like this,’ he screamed and began to hit Debaki’s face with his closed
fist. Her face was covered in blood, but Rajen paid no heed. ‘I will
kick you out of this house,’ he concluded, when he could finally get
himself to stop.
Debaki lay collapsed on the floor, still bleeding. She would have
to stay put with this man, this beast all her life. What she was also
very afraid of was that she was soon going to be the mother of his
child. . .
Rajen was snoring on the bed. Like a pig, Debaki thought. The
58 Sabitri Roy

darkness seemed to beckon her—with the lure of treading an

unknown dangerous path. A spirit risen from the depths of the
mountains was calling her away. Debaki was escaping—running
away—from the back door. She could not see through the haze of
the fog that floated over the paddy fields. She felt the pistol hidden in
her blouse under her red-bordered white khadi sari—die pistol given
by Parthada. But what if Parthada was not there? There he was—in
a khaki shirt. He was very near, but why was it so difficult to go near
him? She just could not reach die small bridge on the other side of
which Parthada stood. And the sky was becoming lighter—it was
almost dawn.
Debaki sat up with a jerk. It had been a dream of course, but it
was almost dawn outside her dream too, and her workday had begun.
She mixed the cowdung water and spread it on all the floors, and
then started off towards the ghat. She had left a badly burnt karai to
soak the previous night at the ghat. Anna was wiping the floor of the
husking room. She started when she looked at Debaki’s face. 'Why
is your face so swollen?’ she cried. ‘Your nose is also bruised.’ Debaki
couldn’t answer—she knew that she would burst into tears if she
tried. ‘You fell down?’ Anna asked again. Debaki shook her head,
biting her lips. ‘Rajen?’ asked Anna this time.
Debaki could not control herself any longer. She tried to—but
her whole frame shook with the tears she was trying to hold bade.
Tears flooded Anna’s eyes, too. ‘How will you escape this family’s
ways? Why are you crying?’ she asked, holding Debaki’s head in her
hands. ‘Do something. Write to your father. But who will post the
letter for you?’
The next few hours were to change Debaki’s life forever.
The monsoon was very late—the merciless sun had left all the
trees scorched. All the villagers were praying for rain, but there was
not even a hint of cloud. It was very difficult to work during the day,
but Anna had a lot to do. She was boiling the paddy in two large
vessels; it took a long time and there was much stoking of the fire in
the wooden stoves and putting in more dry leaves. Her throat was
parched dry, but she could not even think of drinking a drop of water
because it was ekadashi. Her stepmother-in-law had decreed that
Anna was to observe ekadashi the purest way, by fasting without
even drinking water.
 Harvest Song 59

But tiie Jyaistha scorching hot afternoon, was interminable, and

hungry, thirsty Anna could not bear it any more. She went behind
the kitchen and gulped down some water. Suddenly there was a shout:
‘Boudi, I saw you drink water!’ It was Tushi, perched on the jamrul
tree. She went running bade to her mother, dapping her hands, to
break the news.
Rajen’s Mami was only too glad to receive the tidings. She had
found a fault with Anna at last and did not spare her. She started to
scream, to ensure that no one in the household was in the dark
anymore.
‘All of you think that my daughter-in-law is the very picture of
virtue. But look at her, of all things she dared to break her fast on
ekadashi by sneaking behind the kitchen. I can well imagine what
kind of widow’s life she has led all these five years. Now I don’t have
seven pairs of eyes to look in all directions, but I can tell you that she
did not care much for what was good and what was bad. She didn’t
care at all—even after eating up her own husband!’
Anna did not know where to hide—this was the first time in five
years that she had broken a rule. But who would listen to her?
Everyone in the family would laugh at her shamelessness. Why this
family alone? Everyone in the neighbourhood would hear about it
by the next day. She sat all by herself in the husking room, going
over and over the day’s events.
Debaki came to talk to her once. ‘What if you drank some water?
It’s only water. Ishani Ma at our school would even have bread and
vegetables on ekadashi. If it were really a sin, Ishani Ma wouldn’t
have done it,’ Debaki tried to reason with Anna. But she could not
go on because she realized Anna was not listening at all. Suddenly
Anna broke into sobs. She was crying like a child. Debaki had never
seen her cry like that before.
The next morning Debaki was again on her way to the ghat. Her
screams woke up the household. Anna had hanged herself from a
beam in the husking room.
A week after Anna’s shraddha, someone came from Bagdipara
to take the surplus paddy. Gajen’s brother was measuring out the
grain for him. Gajen’s brother-in-law, who also worked for Rajen’s
Mama, was shredding the hay for cattle feed. He could not suppress
a remark: ‘Why are you taking the paddy?’
60 Sabitri Roy

‘This is the extra paddy. But who will now husk the grains for this
household? The one who used to do this has hanged herself.’ While
Anna had been living with them, the Sarkars had never had to employ
anyone for the job.
‘Why? If one of the women has killed herself, another is there,’
Rajen answered in an annoyed tone, for Debaki would have to take
on Anna’s chores as well from now.
‘But your wife will be at her father’s place soon,’ said Gajen’s
brother.
‘Why?’ Rajen asked, more irritated.
‘She is with her first child. If you do not send her home, what will
people say?’
Debaki with her first child? Rajen reddened a little, but he had
more important matters to think of. He came to his room and put on
his pads and kneecaps for the dariya bandha match. He had to start
off right away—today’s match was against the police team from the
thana. Before leaving, he touched his head to a wall and prayed:
‘O goddess Kali, please let us bring the shield hom e’
Debaki went to the husking room in the afternoon. While she
pounded at the husking pedal, Rajen’s Mami condescended to help
her—by throwing the grain into the machine.
She was in the kitchen in the night when she heard the commotion.
‘Rajenda has won the shield.’ Debaki now also heard a band playing
in the distance. Sukhomoy was breathless with excitement. ‘The SDO
presented Rajenda the best player’s medal. I don’t think he is coming
back home tonight. There’s a big feast in At Ani. They have
slaughtered a goat!’
Rajen did return, in the early hours. Debaki got a smell—had
Rajen been drinking? She looked at his face with suspicion and he
returned the gaze with an attempt at humour.
‘The zamindars get their women from the marketplace. But for
us poor men, the one in our home has to do!’
‘You are disgusting!’ Debaki cried. ‘Please go to sleep. You have
had a lot of fun already.’
Rajen lit up a cheroot and said: ‘Yes, and after all that fun, I want
a little cooperation from you.’
Debaki sprang up from the bed like a wounded animal. ‘You can
 Harvest Song 61

kill me, but I am not going to sleep with a beast like you in the
same bed.’
‘Is that so? You will not sleep in the same bed with a beast like
me? I will show you then/ Rajen roared.
Debaki stood against the window, holding on to the iron bars
with all her might. She kept her mouth firmly shut—she knew that
no one would come to her side even if she was cut into pieces now.
She would fight Rajen with all her strength: she was tough, her body
hardened by all her work. But how would she be able to hold out
against Rajen’s brute strength? Rajen pinned her to the floor and
pressed the burning cheroot on her breast.
'Let this be my sign of love on a woman who doesn't know her
limits. From now on I will also keep a cane ready to whip you into
shape,’ Rajen said, with a satisfied smile playing on his lips.
Debaki lay on the floor. She wondered if Partha suffered worse
at the hands of the police.

Partha eased himself into the armchair in the waiting room. The
two attending constables were seated on the bench across, rubbing
their chewing tobacco in their palms. It would be a long wait for the
train and Partha did not know where he was being taken. He guessed
it would be in a hilly region. The Intelligence Bureau official sauntered
off, looking for tea. The station was called Phuljhuri Ghat Junction.
Partha looked at the unfolding scene before him. The many trains
on different routes, steamers that could be seen arriving at the ghat,
the bustling coolies, passengers running helter-skelter with their
luggage, loud voices, tiny particles of coal, coils of smoke, a resting
engine, a homeless Muslim family on their way to Assam, dragging
their entire household in small bundles, silver bands shining on the
necks of the women, fear of an uncertain future lurking in their eyes.
After two years in prison, everything that met his eyes wore a
certain charm. But the prison in the silence of the hills, small wisps
of cloud wedged between the mountain slopes, the heated arguments
62 Sabitri Roy

of the state prisoners, the Irish commander, the guards—they too

were never far away from his mind’s eye.
Another steamer arrived. A young man, who had got down from
the steamer, looked at the label on Partha’s suitcase and stopped.
‘Put my things down here,’ he told someone. Partha saw that he, too,
was accompanied by a constable and an IB officer. Another detenu,
Partha thought, and looked with greater interest. The young man
had a bright complexion and sharp features. His glasses had thick,
black frames.
‘Namaskar,’ he said, approaching Partha with a smile. ‘You must
have guessed my background from my companions. And I know
you very well. Heard about you in jail. You’ve earned your certificate
from Sylhet, haven’t you?’
‘Quite right,’ agreed Partha. He had been baptised as a nationalist
while a student at Sylhet College.
‘My name is Sulakshan Sarkar. I live in Shivbari,’ the newcomer
said. ‘But you don’t have to introduce yourself—I know your name,
your history, even the sub-caste that you belong to.’
‘That as well?’ Partha asked, meaningfully. ‘Yes,’ said Sulakshan,
a hint of a smile in his eyes. ‘You were in Buxar. What’s the news
there? Did you get the books regularly?’ Sulakshan asked in one breath
and requested the IB official to order some tea. A young waiter from
the restaurant placed a tray in front of them—a pot of tea, milk,
sugar, bread and butter, omelettes. ‘Help yourself,’ Sulakshan said.
‘We had an Irish commander. He worshipped Tagore and anything
from Russia, so we had no dearth of the right books,’ Partha said.
Sulakshan was serving his term at Rangpur jail; he was on his
way to another term in Alipore. He was keen to know about the
other comrades behind bars.
*Jyotiprakash is still in Buxar, isn’t he?’ he asked.
‘He has become insane,’ Partha said.
‘Jyotida?’ Sulakshan exclaimed. He was silent for some time, then
said: ‘But tell me about the jail break in Buxar.'
Six hours passed like a moment and it was soon time for Sulalnthan
to leave. He opened his suitcase and took out a few books. ‘Keep
these. You are going to the back of beyond—these will be your only
company there,’ he said, and left. Partha watched his departing figure.
 Hcrwest Somg

He was like a spark, enlivening even the mindless chaos of a busy

railway station.
Partha was taken on another train journey, lasting an hour. Then
started an interminable boat ride. It was a moonless night; cultivated
fields lay on either side of the river, the darkness hanging over them,
and only trees could be made out by their outlines.
Partha’s new home was a tiny shed by the bank of a river, with
empty fields on the other three sides. The walls were made of bamboo
matting and the floor was earthen. The room was damp. There was
barely anything in it—a wooden cot, a table and a chair was all
the furniture.
‘So this is where I will live?’ Partha asked as he cast his eyes
around the room.
‘You will have to make do with it for some time,' the IB officer
replied politely. The local daroga was also there. He greeted Partha
and told him that he had arranged for his grocery and foodstuffs and
also for a maid who would cook for him. ‘You see that goalpost in
the football field? I live just behind it. Just pay me a visit there after
resting, for your daily attendance/ the daroga said.
When they left, Partha took stock of his surroundings. The soft
green shoots of the paddy plants were bathed in sunlight. Long,
narrow boats were afloat on the river. The hills in the distance framed
the whole scene. A group of girls were on their way somewhere, a
riot of colours in their batuns that left their necks and shoulders bare.
They wore a number of shell bangles and their features looked
Mongolian. They were Hajongs.
They stopped in their tracks when they saw Partha. One of the
two chowkidars who were yet to leave Partha’s side told one of the
girls: ‘Saraswati, go home and send your mother-in-law to wipe the
floor.’ Then the chowkidars left, saying they would bring Partha’s
groceries. ‘You are new. Let us do this for you today/ one of
them said.
Partha went inside to take out fresh clothes and his towel, for he
needed a good bath, but when he came out the girls were still standing
where he had left them. Only this time, the look of surprise was not
there; it had been replaced by amused glances that also spoke of
warm hearts. They wanted to reach out to him. Suddenly they said
64 Sabitri Roy

something, and started to giggle. Partha realized he had occasioned

the sudden mirth, but did not mind.
A boy barely out of his teens stepped down from a boat. He was
carrying rice, dal, dried red chillis and potatoes. His Bengali was
broken, but it was good enough for communication.
'I was asked to bring you these. My name is Sarathi. I live on the
other side of the river,’ the boy said. He paused, scrutinized Partha
for a good two minutes, and said: ‘The chowlddar had spoken to us
about you before.’ He paused again, peeped into the kitchen and
added: ‘I will bring some firewood for you right now.’
Partha was entertained by the boy’s simplicity, but impressed,
too. He was not very tall, but the strong muscles of his shoulders
suggested the strength of his character.
There was a small vegetable garden on an official plot a little way
from his shed. In its centre was a well. Partha bathed there and came
back to find an old woman, Saraswad’s mother-in-law, wiping the
floor. Saraswati was also back, clearing the cobwebs with a
broomstick.
‘Be careful. There are poisonous snakes about at this time of year,’
Sarathi warned, but almost before he had finished speaking, a huge
snake fell on the floor with a thud. It was a giant cobra. Sarathi leapt
outside the room, picked up a piece of firewood and started hitting
the snake with it. Wounded, the cobra shot up, spreading its hood,
ready to strike at Sarathi. Partha picked up an axe that was lying
outside and struck the snake, the axe coming down exactly in the
middle of its body. Still the snake tried to strike back, but collapsed
after a few attempts. Partha looked up to see that the news of the
snake had spread already and a crowd had gathered, which included
the daroga. Going back to the police station, he would enter the event
in the diary. A man who could kill a cobra with an axe was someone
to keep an eye on.
Before leaving the old woman warned Partha. ‘Be careful. The
snake’s mate will be lurking near.’ Partha liked the idea: now
he would have to wage a second battle against an avenging
serpentine lover.
Sarathi came in the afternoon again. ‘Dadababu, today is the haat
day. Do you want to come along?’ he asked. Partha shut his book
 Harvest Song 65

and said: ‘Yes.’ On his way back he could visit the police station. On
the way to the haat, Partha wanted to know as much as possible
about the area. Sarathi was from Paharpur village; most of the
villagers were farmers. ‘Don’t you know Ganesh Das? He was also
jailed. He went in because of the Salt movement,’ Sarathi said.
‘There are hundreds of jails in this country,’ Partha answered.
‘The prison where I was, was a fort on the top of a hill.’
They reached the haat—it was near the village, by the side of the
river. Sarathi bought provisions for his household and tied them up
in his gamchha. ‘You also buy some vegetables. There is no market
nearby and the next haat is three days later,’ Sarathi advised Partha.
‘Your bag is very nice,’ he said, looking at the cloth bag that hung
from Partha’s shoulder. ‘It will be useful when you come to
the market.’
‘One of my inmate friends gave it to me in the prison,’ Partha
said. ‘Come, let’s visit your hom e’
‘You really want to?’ Sarathi was very happy. ‘But we live in a
mud house, there’s nothing to see.’
‘I’m not going to look at where you live. I want to meet your
people,’ Partha said.
They crossed the river in a tethered ferryboat. Sarathi lived almost
a mile away from the river. Partha felt touched that though he lived
so far away, Sarathi had made three or four trips to his place already.
At Sarathi’s home, an old woman was seated at the loom that
resembled the kind that Manipuris used.
‘This is my mother,’ Sarathi introduced her. Sarathi’s father came
with a wooden stool for Partha and Sarathi took it upon himself to
act as interpreter. His elder brother Shankhaman and his wife also
came out. Shankhaman, too, had a constitution like Sarathi’s, and
Rasumoni, in a colourful batun like the girls who had visited him in
the morning, glowed with the robustness of youth.
Sarathi’s mother said something to Rasumoni. Partha realized
she was trying to arrange for some food to welcome Partha with. He
got up.
‘I will take your leave today, I can’t stay beyond nightfall—they
will probably send me somewhere else if I do,’ he said.
Sarathi came over again to his quarters, not listening to Partha’s
66 Sabitri Roy

numerous protestations. ‘You are new here,’ Sarathi said in a wise

tone. ‘Besides, the large tree that you passed on the riverside has a
spirit living in it.'
‘But you will also have to pass it when you return?’ Partha asked.
‘I have a root from the qjha. If you have that, no evil spirit can
touch you.’
‘Are there a lot of spirits here?’ Partha asked again.
‘Yes, That’s why our houses don’t have windows and we shut the
doors very carefully before going to sleep.’
‘Come over one afternoon and I will tell you many ghost stories,’
Partha said.
The chowkidar was waiting for Partha with a girl. ‘Darogababu
has sent Alapi to do your housework,’ the chowkidar said.
‘Come tomorrow morning,’ Partha told Alapi. ‘There’s no work
tonight. How far do you live?’
‘I live near the police station,’ the girl giggled. ‘Just you wait, I
will be here before you even get up. There’s only housekeeping for
one person—and a man, on top of that—so I will be able to manage
everything very easily. I will go to the market also. Nobody has ever
been able to find fault with Alapi’s work,’ she continued. ‘I used to
work for the junior magistrate before. If you want continental dishes—
mutton roast, chops—that too I can cook for you. But if you want
our own favourite sweet dishes; payesh, sandesh, why, I am equally
good at making those, too.’
Partha was a little irritated at this barrage of information. ‘Come
tomorrow morning and I will tell you what you have to do,’ he
said curtly.
Someone at the door woke him up next morning. ‘Where are the
kitchen keys?’ It was Alapi.
Partha had tea and left. Rows of mud houses lined the banks of
the river. The hills in the distance were covered with thick forests. A
hibiscus plant in a garden in front of a house was in full bloom. The
red blossoms were radiant in the morning sun—and from behind
them appeared a girl, as radiant as the flowers. It was Saraswati.
‘This is your house?’ Partha asked. She muttered something that
Partha did not understand. But he did not give up.
‘I will come to your house one day with Sarathi,’ he said. But he
was surprised to see that his words made Saraswati blush deeply.
 Harvest Song 67

Was it the mention of Sarathi’s name? Something told him it

could be.
When he came back, he could smell mutton curry cooking from
quite a distance. Alapi came and stood at the kitchen door. ‘They
killed a goat at Darogababu’s house, so I thought I would get some
for you,’ she said, looking coyly at Partha.
He came back to the room and picked up one of the books given
by Sulakshan from his suitcase. On the first page was written: To
Lata—Sulakshan. ’ It was in a careful hand. Leafing through the book
he came across a slip of paper that had Lata’s address, which was
also Ishani Devi’s ashram. Then was this the same Lata who was
Ishani Devi’s niece? Sulakshan must have forgotten about it and given
it to him with the others. It looked liked another happy story unfurling
but his pleasant train of thought was derailed totally by Alapi’s
appearance.
‘Please go and take your bath,’ she urged. ‘This will not do if I
am here, Dadababu, you must eat and sleep when you are supposed
to. You have to build your health again. Let people see what Alapi
can do to you. She asked, leaving in a fit of laughter.
Partha was forced to look up from the book after this interruption.
For some reason Saraswati’s face came into his mind. Why had she
blushed? It was very sweet, though, her embarrassment. But there
could be a problem if what he suspected was right. Saraswati was
married—to another chowkidar called Kartik. Partha had met him
at the police station. He did not seem to be a very nice man.
Partha went out again in the afternoon. He wanted to visit Sarathi’s
father, who was running a fever.
‘Dadababu, try to return a little early. I will cook khichuri for
dinner. It won’t taste nice cold,’ Alapi called out to Partha’s departing
back.
‘I will have to get rid of her,’ Partha thought. But does one get rid
of someone only because she talks too much?
Sarathi saw Partha approaching and came up to him.
‘How is your father?’ Partha asked.
‘There was no temperature in the morning. But from the afternoon
he has fever again and is shivering, too. We have fed him some holy
water from Kamrup Kamakhya,’ Sarathi said.
One look at Sarathi’s father and Partha realized it was malaria,
68 Sabitri Roy

and quinine was the only answer. ‘Is there a doctor around?’ he asked
Sarathi. ‘There is, but he lives about ten miles from here. The
missionary doctors also come on their rounds sometimes, particularly
if there’s a smallpox patient.’
‘Don’t worry. I used to come down with such bouts of fever quite
often. So I carry the medicine with me always. You come with me
now and take it. When the temperature comes down, give him a
dose after touching it at the feet of Kali Kamakhya,’ Partha said,
making a concession to Sarathi’s belief.
Next day, Partha was back at the crack of dawn. Gajen was up
and about in a few days, but then everybody took turns to fall ill.
Partha treated them all, buying up an entire dispensary of quinine,
Atrabin thermometers, bandages, iodine and other medicines,
becoming famous as a ‘doctor’ in the nearby villages. Many people
would call him for treatment. One thing he made clear from the
beginning was that he would not treat snakebites—he did not have
the medicine. He also gave Sarathi another protection against snakes:
an electric torch. Sarathi said that a root he always wore on his body
would keep the most poisonous serpent away, but Partha insisted on
the torch.
A few days after the malaria episode, sitting by the window, Partha
saw a small procession approaching. It was Shankhaman and
Rasumoni, followed by Sarathi, who came up and asked for some
water. ‘Where’s the pitcher? Buji is dying of thirst.’
Partha brought a glass of water. Giving it to Rasumoni, he noticed
she was in her finery. ‘Where are you off to?’ he asked, amused.
‘Off to her parents,’ Sarathi answered, grinning.
Alapi, who was at the well, set the bucket down there and came
up. ‘And what are you taking for your in-laws?’ she asked
Shankhaman in her teasing tone.
Rasumoni showed the bundle she was carrying. ‘We are taking
some bichibhat,’ she answered.
‘Leave some for Parthadadababu, ’ Shankhaman told his wife, who
poured some of the rice in a bowl for Partha.
Sarathi explained how the rice was made. ‘We don’t boil the grain
in water, but just steam it. It’s like puffed rice, long lasting. We treat
our special guests to it. Haven’t you heard the rhyme “Rice, when
 Harvest Song 69

vapoured/ Served with greens, needs to be savoured”?’ Sarathi asked

with another grin.
When Shankhaman and Rasumoni had left, Sarathi came and
sat inside and brought out a piece of paper. It was his tax receipt
from the landlord’s office.
‘Please see, Dadababu, if everything is all right,’ Sarathi requested.
‘How much have you paid?’ Partha asked.
‘Thirty-three rupees—three years’ payment.’
‘But the receipt only shows a payment of twenty-one rupees.
Which means the clerk has pocketed the balance.’
Sarathi was appalled. ‘But what will I do now?’ he asked. ‘This is
how we always pay!‘
Partha thought for a while. ‘I will write an application that you
will submit at the kachhari. And don’t forget to bring a receipt. How
many others have got such receipts?’
‘Almost everyone from this district,’ Sarathi answered.
‘Ask them to come and meet me. The SDO is supposed to come
here soon. I will go and talk to him.’

f
Partha decided to take the copy of Lettersfrom Russia to the police
station to post it to Lata. On his way he met Saraswati, who was
bringing eggs for him. Partha, who had picked up bits of the local
language, told her to go ahead even if he was not around.
It was payday—chowkidars were thronging the police station.
Saraswati’s husband, Kartik, his eyes bloodshot, his face shining with
obsequiousness, was also there, bringing the hookah for the daroga.
So this was Saraswati’s husband, Partha thought. He felt let down.
To the daroga he said: ‘Please send this book to this address today.
As the assistant sub inspector glanced over the book and put it away,
Partha noticed that Kartik was raking him with his vulture eyes.
On returning home Partha was surprised to find Saraswati still
there, sitting huddled up in a comer of the verandah, her eyelashes
wet with tears. Before her, holding a pillar, stood Sarathi, looking
70 Sabitri Roy

very grim. Seeing Partha, Saraswati got up and left with her basket
of eggs. But was there something about her today—a touch of
obstinacy, even rebelliousness, in the way that she walked?
‘What is the matter, Sarathi?’ Partha asked.
‘I want to tell you something,’ Sarathi said, entering the room. ‘I
want to marry Saraswati,’ he said, without any preamble.
Stunned, Partha looked at Sarathi. He knew nothing about
Sarathi’s community. ‘So are there no rules here against a married
person getting married again?’
‘In certain cases, if there are no rules, you make them. If the
husband beats his wife day and night, why should a woman stay
with such a man? We weren’t bom males to make women shed tears,’
Sarathi said, his hands clenched into fists, his strong wrists taut.

A few days after Sarathi’s revelations, Partha had a huge audience

as, armed with a bunch of receipts similar to Sarathi’s, he met the
SIX). The official, a young Britisher, was visiting the area on the
government steamer. The Hajongs crowded the riverbed below as
the officer promised that something would be done and asked his
clerk to make a note. As Partha climbed down the gangway of the
steamer, the SDO bade goodbye again from the deck. To the Hajongs
it was a historic encounter, reaffirming their faith in Partha. ‘Our
detenubabu will see the matter to its end,’ they muttered among
themselves.
The evening brought more events. As darkness fell, the lamp ran
out of oil. Partha went into the kitchen and found Alapi still there.
‘You haven’t left? How will you go back home alone?’
‘I am not feeling well. I think I have fever. I can’t return home
tonight. I will lie on this cot,’ Alapi answered in a tired voice.
‘You’ll sleep here?’ Partha asked, slightly anxious, for the wooden
cot was in the verandah. But as there was no second room, there was
no choice, and Partha came bade to his room.
After a long time, when he finally put down his book, Partha
remembered that Alapi, unwell, was asleep in the open verandah.
 Harvest Song 71

Had her temperature gone up? One step towards die verandah
completely overwhelmed him. Alapi was lying on the cot, almost
naked, and it was quite clear that she was awake. In the bright
moonlight that left hardly anything to the imagination, she looked
like a huge serpent, grotesque and coiled. Alapi’s intent was also as
dear as the moonlight. Paxtha winced and rushed back into his room,
dosing the door.
Next morning Alapi, though smarting inside from Partha’s
rejection, showed no trace of her designs, casually entering his room
with the broom in her hand.
But as she entered, Partha put down his book and looked straight
into her eyes.
These are your wages. You don’t have to come anymore,’ he said.
‘But tell me something, Alapi, why did you agree to work here?’
It was possibly the directness with which Partha asked the question
that did it. Apparently remorseful, Alapi blurted out the truth. ‘You
must believe me. It was Darogababu who sent me.’
Alapi left with the money, but the feeling of disgust did not leave
Partha. Couldn’t the authorities think of a better way to deal with
state prisoners?
A chowkidar brought two books on agriculture and animal
farming that Partha had ordered. He spent the whole afternoon
pouring over them. Feeling better, he started for Sararthi’s house,
taking the book with him. ‘Just look, there are so many ways to protect
your crop from pests,’ Partha said enthusiastically. The books were a
good starting point. It soon became a habit with Partha to visit the
farmers to tell them about more ways to guard the crop. When he
came, the entire village would gather round him. The list of pests
that could harm crops was endless, but the most dangerous o f all
were die locusts. Partha spoke like an authority.
“We have to be very careful to do things the right way. For example,
we all know kerosene is a good antidote, but we always use it wrongly.
The correct method is this. First boil a two hundred-and-fifty gram
bar of soap in one and a half seers of water. When the soap is mixed
well, pour in two and a half seers of kerosene slowly, stirring
constantly. When it’s ready, mix (me part of the solution with 10
parts of water and spray it on the crops.’
Passing by one day, Kartik stopped to listen, much to the
72 Sabitri Roy

annoyance of everyone. ‘He just dropped in to find out what was

going on. He is a fox!’ Sankhaman said.
‘As if we were making bombs or something,’ Sarathi added.
Tomorrow I’ll talk about preparing sulphur powder,’ Partha said
and got up.

There were only a few days left for the Chormaga festival and the
Hajongs had already started feasting. Every night, Partha could hear
the drums beating. He would imagine the rest: the villagers singing
and dancing, drunk on pots and pots of rice beer between bites of
turtle meat.
The singing and dancing went on through the night, but daytime
was worktime. One day after such a night of hectic merry-making,
Sarathi went into the reserved forest o f mahogany, sal and
sandalwood trees to chop wood. He found Saraswati there. She had
come to collect firewood because her mother-in-law was not well.
They were cutting the wood from the same gajar tree. Resin from the
tree had collected on the ground in small rings. Sarathi picked one
up and gave it to Saraswati. ‘You can bum it as incense,’ he said.
Saraswad did not answer. She was looking at the bundle of dead
branches she had gathered. ‘Don’t worry. I’ll carry it,’ Sarathi told
her. The whole forest seemed empty except for them.
Sarathi could not take his eyes off Saraswad. She maddened him
like wine. It was strange. He had known Saraswati from childhood,
yet could not have enough of her. And now, the vast forest seemed
entirely theirs, and Saraswati was so close, her brown patun wound
tight around her taut body, her full lips irresistible. Sarathi could not
let go of a moment like this. He pulled her, crushed her to his breast,
and kissed her long, lingeringly. Saraswati trembled in his arms.
‘Sarathi, where are you?’ they heard Sankhaman shout. ‘Let go. Your
brother is here,’ Saraswati said, moving away from Sarathi.
‘I will marry you during Chormaga itself, or I am not my father’s
son,’ Sarathi declared. Saraswati smiled, picked up her bundle of
firewood and started to walk towards her house. But once she stopped
 Harvest Song 73

to pick two bright red hibiscuses to wear in her hair.

Partha saw her going back, the flaming hibiscuses dancing in her
hair. He felt there was something larger than life about this girl, as if
she were the life force itself. Saraswad and Sarathi were no ordinary
lovers—they were above petty pangs of guilt, and they had nothing
to hide. Their love would shine bright, like the red hibiscuses. They
were the heroes of Paharpur.
Partha knew time was running out for him—a chowkidar had
told him that he would soon be removed to another place. He did
not know where he would be sent, but this village would stay with
him always. Most of all, wherever he went, Partha would never forget
Sarathi and Saraswad.

The Vaishnavi sat singing as the autumn sun touched up the corners
of the courtyard. ‘Please Giriraj, go and bring back your daughter
Uina. Her no-good husband has sold all her ornaments and spent
the money on cannabis,’ sang the Vaishnavi, as Mangala, Sudam,
Lakshmi and Lakshman sat listening. Mangala felt her heart break.
If only like Uma’s mother she could ask Sudam to bring their
Partha home.
Sudam looked up to find the peon—with a telegram.
‘A wire? From whom?’ asked Mangala anxiously, her hear beating
fast. It was addressed to Lakshman. But who would read it?
The peon was touched by Mangala’s concern. ‘It’s not bad news
at all. Partha has been freed,’ he said.
‘Really?’ all the family exclaimed together, not being able to bring
themselves to believe such luck.
‘What you are saying is true, isn’t it? But can you read English?’
Sudam asked.
‘It’s not me. When the telegram came, the postmaster told the
clerk: “Partha of Mansadanga is free at last!”’
‘Is there anything about him returning home?’ Mangala asked.
The peon said he did not about that. ‘I suggest you go to
Dinumaster.’
74 Sabitri Roy

‘Give it to me. I will run to Dinumaster and come back/

said Arjun.
Mangala came inside and bowed her head before the Lakshmi
idol. ‘If he is really free, I w ill make an offering to Shani-
Satyanarayan,’ she promised.
Arjun came back panting. ‘Dada is coming home tomorrow!’
They were overjoyed. Lakshman and Arjun sat down to discuss
if Partha would be able to recognize them. ‘How old was Aijun,
Ma, when Partha left?’ asked Lakshmi.
‘Only eight.’
Lakshman got up and started to weed out the courtyard. ‘Don’t
just sit and chat. Get up and wipe the floors. Now that your graduate
brother is coming, you’ll be on the top of the world, won’t you?’ he
asked Lakshmi jokingly.
‘Of course. Show me another B.A. anywhere around,’ Lakshmi
answered smartly. She joined her mother in preparing the cowdung
mix to polish the floors. The rains a few days before had left the low
wooden stools crawling with worms. But she was not to be outdone—
a natural homemaker, her slightest touch made the seats shine like
new. The whole house brightened up. The oil-and-vermillion Lakshmi
symbol on the barn pot had become smudged. She drew it again.
Mangala spent the whole afternoon washing the quilts, pillowcases
and the mosquito net. Partha was not to be uncomfortable in his
own home. Her mother’s heart beat tremulously. She hoped Partha
had not changed after all that knowledge had been stuffed into his
head. Partha had not written which train he would take, but Arjun
and Lakshman got up at dawn to be at the station as early as possible.
But before they left, Mafi’s mother came running: ‘Your Partha is
coming! Over there—suitcase in hand!’
The entire neighborhood rushed out to greet Partha. He seemed
shy at this stupendous welcome as he stepped into his own house
after eight years.
‘Tell me who am I?’ Mafi’s mother teased.
‘And how’s the guava tree? Even in prison I used to talk about
those guavas, Mafi’s Ma,’ Partha shot bade.
Sudam and Mangala found it difficult to speak. They just looked
at their son. It was Partha, their Partha, standing right in the middle
 Harvest Song 75

of the courtyard! Back in his own home! They still could not believe
it. Partha did not speak to them, either, but only glanced at them.
Did he see some pain in his mother’s eyes? And was there a touch of
guilt in his own, for he knew that in these eight years, his mother had
waited for him every day to return, while he had not thought of her
half as often. The Lakshmi Partha had last seen was a twelve-year-
old with a nose-ring one size too big. But here she was now, teasing
her husband. Everything seemed new and beautiful to him.
Even before the day was over, in the depth of his heart, Partha
already knew that somehow he did not belong here anymore. This
was his home, but it was also another stop on his long journey—he
could not stay here; he could not help but move on. His mother did
not know, but Partha knew, that her long wait for him would
never end.
As evening fell, with the soft sunlight falling on a tuft of grass in
a comer of the courtyard, Lakshmi came with a cup of tea. She
smiled mischievously, ‘See, even I have learnt to make tea now,’
she said.
‘Why, doesn’t your dear husband drink tea?’ Partha asked.
Laksmi shook her head and said: ‘Do you know who bought
this cup?’
‘Yes, I do indeed,’ Partha said.
Lakshman and Partha had been students of the same primary
school. Lakshman, Partha and Ali—they were a triumvirate. But
now they were so far apart. Partha needed Lakshman and Ali not as
friends, but as colleagues. He wanted to instil in them the same
impulse that drove him to fight. He now discovered that it was the
same even where his brother and sister were concerned. He loved
Lakshmi and Arjun, but it was the same love that he felt towards
Sarathi and Saraswati. His feelings were that strong, but impersonal.
He also knew that such detachment could hurt those who loved him.
Going into the kitchen to put the cup back, Partha found Sudam
inside sipping tea from a metal glass, while Mangala was bent over,
grating a coconut. Partha washed his cup and poured his father’s tea
into it. ‘Just taste the tea in the cup Lakshman has brought for me.
I am the guest after all. And now, Ma, let me work on that coconut,'
he said.
76 Sabitri Roy

This was the first time they had actually talked. Sudam was
reassured, but a question still lurked in his mind. ‘You are going to
stay now I hope?’ he asked, a little tremulously.
Partha smiled at his father’s tone. ‘Yes, for die time being at least.
Then let’s see.’
‘No let’s see business, please. Please look to us from now on,’
Mangala said. ‘You have not bothered to think of the people back
home. What kind of swadeshi is this that makes you forget your own
home? Or maybe we are too stupid for all this?’
‘How cam I ignore my family, Ma? I need you all also for my
work,’ Partha said.
He started to talk about Paharpur. There was so much to tell.
Mangala sat transfixed, absorbing every word that Partha said. Her
face shone with pride as she listened.
Evening was descending, cooling the earth. Lakshmi got up to
light the lamps.
‘So many mosquitoes! Is malaria still as prevalent?’ Partha
asked.
‘Why shouldn’t it be? After all malaria is our childhood
companion,’ Sudam said. ‘Every fortnight I get the shivers. It will
strike more now at this time of the year.’
‘We will wipe out malaria in one year’s time,’ Partha announced.
Neither Sudam nor Mangala understood who this ‘we’ was. But
even then, Mangala said: ‘That’s why I am telling you, spare your
own people a glance now.’
Ali arrived and Partha got up to talk to him. ‘I am going to
Talpukur now to meet Mastermashai,’ Partha said.
‘Be careful now. Now that you are a city man, beware of “them”,’
Mangala warned.
Partha smiled again. ‘Them’ meant snakes, whose name could
not be pronounced after dark.
They went to Ali’s house. But there was so much to talk about
with Ali that Partha ended up not visiting Talpukur. Lakshman had
also dropped in. Ali told Partha the entire story of the road tax.
Pointing at a burnt beam, he said: ‘Look there—some evidence
remains. Jagai Baneijee set fire to our homes. We wouldn’t have rested
dll the tax was lifted. But our Congress leader Priyatoshbabu came
and settled the matter, saying even the landlords were our people.
 Harvest Song 77

They will understand our plight one day,’ Ali said.

Partha noticed the rancour in Ali’s voice. ‘Our landlords may
belong to this part of the earth, but they are not our friends. Landlords
and farmers are two distinct peoples, never to be mixed up. And not
only here, it is everywhere. Look at Russia—peasants there have made
such advances because the landlords have been removed. The poor
farmers there used to live in as much misery, hunger and ignorance
as you all do. But if you look at them now, you’ll be surprised. Instead
of illiteracy, poverty and diseases, they live amid much greater
happiness. They have started collective farming. Their children go to
school. Everyone reads newspapers, goes to the library, reads novels,
listens to the gramophone, the radio, watches films, takes part in
sports, makes speeches, goes to health homes in case they are ill, and
what have you!’ The words tumbled out of Partha. ’You can’t even
dream of the opportunities available to them there.’
Ali and Lakshman were transported to a distant land where
farmers and labourers were not answerable to anyone but themselves.
Partha continued: ‘But to achieve this, hundreds of labourers have
laid down their lives, shot by the factory owners. They fought to the
last drop of their blood and got freedom. Now our country is ruled
by the National Congress. Who are the powers that be? Big landlords.
But in Russia, the people who govern are selected from the farmers
and the labourers. It’s the rule of the impoverished.’
‘That’s right. That’s the right name for us. The impoverished!’
Lakshman said.
Back home, with Lakshmi still busy with the chores, Partha sat
down for another chat with Lakshman in his room. Lakshman said,
‘Ali is in a spot. He has decided to marry Kala Tharan’s widowed
daughter, Meghi. But no one knows about this.’
Partha was stunned. ‘Ali wants to marry Meghi? How?’
‘How else? He will run off to the town with her.’
Still reeling under the impact of the news, Partha got up. He felt
tired too—so much in one day had taken its toll. He saw his bed had
been made on Sudam’s wooden cot in the courtyard. Sudam was
sleeping inside.
Arjun was still studying. ‘Which class are you in?’ Partha asked.
‘Class eight.’
‘I have some good Bengali books with me. I’ll take them out for
78 Sabitri Roy

you tomorrow/ Partha said. He told Mangala: ‘I am going to sleep.

But it would be better without the mosquito net. I feel claustrophobic
inside the n et’
‘No, you can’t sleep without the net. The mosquitoes will just not
spare you,’ Sudam replied.
Arjun looked up from his books to add: ‘And then there is the
malaria/
Partha was amused by his young brother’s advice and went to
bed without further protest. But even as he felt his eyes droop, he
was aware of a deep, undefinable sense of sorrow descending on his
heart. Something was crying out inside him.

It was a Thursday. Meghi had just begun to make preparations for

Laksmi puja when her life fell apart. It began with her mother.
‘You shameless hussy, don’t even try to touch the gods with your
contaminated hands! You whore! Leave my house immediately/ Kala
Tharan was screaming.
Meghi trembled. Her secret was out! Coming out, she saw Jagai
Banerjee on the verandah, smoking a cigarette. He held the letter Ali
had written to her. Meghi had put the letter on the ground before
taking her dip in the pond.
‘Why, lover girl, couldn’t you find a better man? Was there nobody
good enough within your community?’ he asked, his face distorted
even more with a crooked grin.
The courtyard filled up with people—the village elders and the
youngsters came pouring in. They looked forward to having some fun.
Jagadish, the landlord’s maternal uncle, arrived to look into the
matter. It was generally decided that this was an unimaginable
crime—deserving of appropriate punishment. ‘Shave her head and
parade her in the village. Let the other women see what happens to a
woman who dares to do such a thing,’ Jagadish said.
Kanai, the priest, had another suggestion. Offering his burning
hookah to Jagai, he said: ‘If you shave her head, it will not take long
for her hair to grow back. Put a mark on her that will not go away.
 Harvest Song 79

Brand her with this hookah.’

The barber shaved Meghi’s head. Soon all her long black hair
was lying in a heap on the ground. 'If I had a camera, I would have
taken a picture,* Jagadish’s son said.
‘But through all this the wretched woman didn’t shed a tear! That
proves what a hard-hearted bitch she is! Just wait dll we parade you
in Ali’s locality,’ Jagai said.

Partha was in the middle of his talk on the Russian Revolution at

Ali’s home when Mafi’s Ma came running. ‘Please come and see
what they have done to Bamunbari’s Meghi,’ she cried.
Partha, Lakshman and Ali rushed out. Meghi was at the head of
a procession, her eyes fixed on the ground, her head shaven. Her
cheek had been branded with the hookah. Following her was Jagai
Banerjee, Jagadish and some boys, obviously excited at such a
happening.
Standing in Jagadish’s way, Partha asked: ‘You think there is no
one in the whole village to stand up for her?’ To Meghi, he said:
‘Sister, please come with me to my house.’
‘What? You a farmer’s son, and you dare to take us on?’ Jagadish
yelled.
‘Yes, I dare to do so because I am a farmer’s son. I will move the
courts against you. You have no right to do this to an adult woman,’
Partha said.
‘You can do anything to the whore who goes and makes love to a
Muslim,’ Jagai answered.
‘That doesn’t make her a whore. We’ll see to it that Meghi gets
married to Ali. If necessary, we’ll take the help of the police. You
can’t stand in the way of a woman who has attained her maturity,’
Partha said, shaking with anger.
Jagadish looked shaken. Here was a nationalist bandit, possibly
carrying a gun. Moreover, what if he really dragged him to court?
Changing his tone, Jagadish asked, though a little condescendingly:
‘But is it right? A Brahmin girl marrying a Muslim?’
80 Sabitri Roy

‘Let them decide that,’ Partha said.

It shut him up. Jagadish and company left, cursing Partha. ‘He
won’t even find a place in hell. A Brahmin’s curse will fall on him!'

Partha came and sat down under a tree. He was still furious. Even
now the petty patriarchs had the power of tyranny over ordinary
people. Ali was sitting in his courtyard, hanging his head in shame.
Partha came before him. ‘How can you collapse like this? Right now
we’ll go to see the marriage registrar. Lakshman and I will come
with you.’
‘But I will never return to this village,’ Ali replied.
Partha took the bus at noon to meet the SDO, leaving instructions
for Lakshman. ‘Take some of the boys who are up for some action
and follow us. Jagadish has the zamindar on his side. They will not
let us go so easily.’
In the evening, Meghi left in a bullock cart. She was to catch the
night train with Ali. Aminuddi cried bitterly, bidding Ali goodbye.
Ali was leaving the village for good.
Sudam sat still in his house. He could not decide whether what
Partha was doing was right. So a Brahmin girl would marry a Muslim.
What would their life be like? Would Meghi follow the Koran? But
then, did Ali ever care for the Koran? Partha, Ali, Lakshman—they
all seemed like an alien race. It was Kaliyuga, the bad times, the
modern times. But what would Meghi face in the village if she did
not throw in her lot with Ali?
Mangala returned from having seen off Meghi. ‘Are they human
beings? They have branded the girl with burning embers!’ she said.

Partha put Ali and Meghi on the train. He saw them off, as they took
one long, last look in the direction of their village, the place where
 Harvest Song 81

they were bom, the woods, the familiar landscape. Partha left the
station and took his bicycle from the gatekeeper.
He was going past the Tal pond, when he saw Debaki. She was
going to the river to collect water.
‘How are you, Debaki?’ Partha asked.
Debaki stopped and looked at Partha with her large eyes—as if
she was looking at him from afar. She could not speak. She just put
down the earthen pot and looked at him again.
Partha said apologetically. 'I heard that you were at your in-laws’
place. And since I’ve arrived, there have been so many things that I
couldn’t get in touch with you. Why don’t you tell me how you are?
How are your in-laws?’
Debaki did not utter a word. She could only think of what she
wanted to say. ‘How can I tell you how I am? I am branded with the
terrible marks of my husband’s love on my skin, under my clothes.
Can I show them to you? What is the point of telling you anything,
when you are the only person who could have made me happy,
but didn’t?’
He had hurt her, a wound that would never heal. And now he
dared to ask how she was.
‘Come and visit me one day. I am staying with my parents,’ she
told Partha, and left.
Partha felt a deep melancholy spreading inside him again. He
walked slowly with his bicycle, keeping to the side of the river. Was
Debaki still angry with him?
The next afternoon, he visited Debaki. The yard was full of rice
grain left to dry in the sun. Debaki was gathering the grain and putting
it away in the bam. There was dust on her face, in her eyes and hair.
She wore a dirty, red-bordered sari, her anchal wrapped round her
waist to help her work. Her forehead bore a vermillion dot like an
accusation.
Subala, chopping supari, asked Kunti to bring a wooden stool for
Partha.
Partha sat down on the small stairs of the courtyard. ‘Please don’t
bother. I am happy here.’ Debaki smiled, and Partha was relieved to
see that it did mitigated the melancholy of her face.
Peeling the nuts, Subala said: ‘So Meghi from your village is
marrying Ali. I hear you are the one who was behind it?’
82 Sabitri Roy

‘They would have got married anyway. I just helped them.’

Subala became busy peeling the nuts. Coming back from school,
Dinabandhu was overjoyed to see Partha.
‘The peon told me you had been let off,’ Dinabandhu said as
Partha touched his feet.
‘I got busy with something as soon as I came back and couldn’t
come,’ Partha said in an embarrassed tone.
‘That too I’ve heard. What is this Communist Party business?
We knew that only the Congress was involved with nationalism. Who
are these Communists? Apparently they claim all men are equal?’
Debaki had put away the bulk of the grain; she was sweeping the
floor to gather die stray remnants.
Mali’s Ma arrived with lentil leaves. ‘Put the leaves under some
rice,’ Subala called out to Kunti.
The old woman directed a penetrating gaze at Debaki. ‘Ask her
not to pass the gab tree on her way to the river. You know the evil
spirits that live there. They keep a watch for pregnant women.’
Partha stopped abruptly. Debaki lowered her eyes. Yes, she was
carrying a child, but Parthada would never know the real story.
‘Can you get some tobacco, Debi?’ Dinabandhu asked. Debaki
went into the kitchen. Picking up the embers in a ladle to put inside
the hookah, she felt tears coursing down her face. Partha might have
felt that she had already forgotten him.
‘Where is Ketaki?’ Partha asked Dinabandhu.
'She is at the boarding school. She will take the primary test for
scholarship this year. I hope she passes the test. She is the first girl
from the village to go to a school.’
This was the same test that Debaki had wanted to take so badly—
and today she was getting ready to become a mother, Partha thought.
He remembered her stricken face, the child who was terrified of
ghosts, the night he had first met her.
The daylight was vanishing and Subala finished chopping the nuts.
‘Make some tea for Partha. I am meeting him after such a long time.
Debi, grate some coconut,’ Dinabandhu said.
'So will you be home for some time?’ Dinabandhu asked Partha.
‘No, I am going back to Calcutta this week. I want to do my
MA.’
Dinabandhu looked pleased. ‘You are the pride of the village.
 Harvest Song 83

But even if he was not educated, Ali was another jewel,’ sighed
Dinabandhu. ‘Thieves and scoundrels thrive in this village. But a
good man is driven out just because he loved another human being!’

The next day, Mangala talked to Partha. ‘Why do you have to go

today? Lakshmi’s pain started last night. It’s her first pregnancy. Stay
for one day more,’ she said.
Partha could hear his sister groaning in the room to the west.
‘Have you sent for the midwife?’ he asked.
‘Old Dharani came in the morning. It will take some time,’
Mangala replied, looking very worried.
Lakshman and Aijun were putting up a small shed at the back of
the house for the delivery.
‘Why can’t she have the baby in the house itself?’ Partha asked
Mangala.
His mother was amused at his ignorance. ‘Can such a thing happen
indoors? The gods are worshipped inside the house. They will mind.’
Lakshman finished the shed and Partha took up the subject again.
•Won’t this be very cold? At least place some wooden boards on the
floor,’ he said.
‘We’ll have to throw the boards away then,’ Mangala said. All
furniture or bedclothes connected with the birth would be unholy.
‘I’ll take you to Calcutta. I hope that rids you of your superstitions,’
he said, exasperated.
‘Calcutta is by the side of the sacred Ganga. The Ganga purifies
everything.’
‘Fine. I’ll send some Ganga water then. Purify the boards with
that,’ Partha said.
Afraid to annoy Partha too much, Mangala finally agreed to use
the boards for Lakshmi’s bed.
84 Sabitri Roy

Mangala was taking time off from her busy schedule to look after
Lakshmi, who was looking very pale. The blood seemed blotted out
from her face. ‘Don’t make any noise The house is full of men. They
must not be disturbed,’ Mangala whispered and asked Axjun to call
Dharani Buri, the midwife
Partha came out. ‘You stay here. I am going,’ he said and left on
his bicycle.
Dharani Buri arrived soon after Mangala took Lakshmi to the
birth room. Taking one look at Lakshmi, she hurriedly changed into
a tom sari and entered the room. Mangala put some water to boil
and rushed into the room too, asking Arjun to keep an eye on
the water.
Partha felt terrible for Lakshmi. What a lot of pain women had
to bear! Lakshmi’s screams came piercing through the cane fencing
of the birth room. ‘O Ma, Ma,’ she groaned. It seemed someone was
tearing her heart out. ‘Don’t scream! Don’t make such a noise. If
you keep quiet you will be free sooner!’ Mangala and Dharani were
telling her.
Suddenly Lakshmi screamed even more loudly. Petrified, Partha
looked towards the birth room, but there was silence now, except for
the sound of Dharani talking softly. ‘Cut here Tie up fast now.’ Sudam
was listening intently.
‘You have a granddaughter now! Where are the sweets, old man?’
Dharani shouted. Mangala came out and raised three ullulations.
Hearing the noise, people came from Ali’s neighbourhood. ‘Our
Lakshmi must have been blessed with a girl,’ gushed Mafi’s Ma.
Dharani Buri held up the newborn, swaddled in cloth, at the door
of the birth room. ‘Look at her eyes! How large they are Where is
the girl’s father? Let him come with a guinea to see her,’ she said.
‘We’ll call her Mukti—freedom. She has arrived with Dada’s
freedom,’ said Aijun.

Partha returned to Calcutta soon after that and rented a room in a

flat in the north. He had work—he was to bring out an underground
 Harvest Song 85

weekly, Chashi, ‘The Farmer’, on the peasants’ movement. His room

was part of a three-room flat on the third floor of the building. There
was a small Muslim restaurant—known as Chachar hotel after its
owner who was called Chachaji or uncle by everyone—on the ground
floor. As Partha came and went, he would be hit every time by the
strong smell of onions and garlic frying. The floor of the small
restaurant was strewn with big saucepans, the humble utensils of a
humble restaurant. Chachaji was from north India—his body was
bent with age, but he still retained his culinary skills. As he stirred
the deep-fried mutton pieces in his pans, the aroma would drive the
office-returning babus into the hotel.
The staircase opened out to small flats on both sides—the homes
of several middle class families. The stairs were always busy—there
was the constant noise of moving feet, part-time maids banging on
the doors, children crying. Partha’s landlord was an old man,
Anandababu. He used to teach at an engineering college in western
India. His daughter-in-law, a young widow, was also living with him.
She was a teacher at a Hindi school.
Partha had not told them his real identity, only that he was studying
for his M.A. That pleased Anandababu. ‘Our Bhadra was also
supposed to take the M.A. exam in Bengali. But she doesn’t get the
time now with all the work at school. And also the housework,’ he
told Partha.
The daughter-in-law was studying Bengali; so Partha got hold of
some economics texts and put them up in his room. He also arranged
for some typed notes from college teachers for more effect.
Anandababu was satisfied with all this. 'A nice boy,’ he told Bhadra
while having dinner. ‘Always bent over his books. He is trying for a
first class.’
Anandababu’s elder son, Satyadarshan, worked in western India.
He had not married. He sent some money to his father every month,
but even then it was difficult to run the household. Hence the room
had been sub-let to Partha. It had been Bhadra’s idea.
Anandababu slowly grew very fond of Partha. The sight of Partha
reminded him of his younger son, Bhadra’s lost husband. He had
loved books, too. It became a habit with the old man to walk up
every so often to Partha’s room, just to watch him. If the door was
dosed, Anandababu would quietly return to his own room and take
86 Sabitri Roy

out a wooden box from under the bed. The box was full of carpenter’s
tools—hammer, saw and chisel. He would then join pieces of wood
together to make small useful objects.
Partha, too, watched the close, small unit of Bhadra and her father-
in-law with interest. The flat was practically bare, with very few pieces
of furniture In the kitchen, there were a few aluminium utensils,
some containers, a kettle, cups and saucers and two or three plates
and glasses. But everything was spick and span.
He often found Bhadra sitting and reading in the kitchen while
something simmered on the stove Partha liked to see her like that
He had also been a bookworm once. They shared the same milkman,
too; Partha had seen to that. One day the milkman was very late
When he finally heard him come in at eight in the morning, Partha
was already worrying. The man brought the milk in two jugs. Bhadra
took hers, poured the milk into a bowl and returned the jug. Partha
carried his into his room. He opened the lid carefully. Inside the lid
were a few typewritten sheets. He took them out and put a bundle of
sheets—his pamphlet—in their place. The milkman left on his bicycle.
It was time for Bhadra to leave for her school. ‘Please latch the
door. Baba falls asleep in the afternoon,’ she told Partha. After she
left, Partha came and sat in Anandababu’s room, where the old man
was making a case of shelves. He was over sixty but could not sit idle
for a moment. ‘See, it only needs polishing. Do you think Bhadra
will like it?’
Partha was touched by the old man’s enthusiasm. ‘It’s very nice,’
he said.
‘See what these old hands are capable of. Even youngsters like
you won’t be up to this. How could you be? Your generation doesn’t
respect manual labour. Along with bookish knowledge, everyone
should have practical skills. But they’re not taught nowadays. The
water pump has stopped working now, but in this whole building
there’s not a single person who can repair it. Now people come out
with weighty degrees like B.A. and M.A. from universities. But the
hint of a runny nose, and they run to a doctor. Isn’t that so?’ he
looked at Partha for approval.
Partha did not want to disagree. He was glad to help the old man
let off some steam. But Anandababu soon moved to another subject.
Glancing at his newspaper, his sustenance for the morning, he took
 Harvest Song 87

off again. ‘Looks like Germany is ready to gobble up Poland too.

Czechoslovakia is already finished. I don’t think Poland will be any
different.’
It was Partha’s turn to take off. He plunged straight into Hitler,
his plan of action, his final aim—the green fields of Ukraine. He was
still talking, when he noticed that Anandababu was dozing off. ‘You
take a nap. We’ll talk later,’ he said and left.
He closed the door of his room—now he could work undisturbed
for the whole afternoon. He pulled out the cyclostyle machine from
a comer and brought out the sheets left by Sohan Singh the milkman.
He had to work harder—send more copies of his paper. The farmers
from the suburbs wanted more
He made careful notes of the different protests staged. In the 24-
Parganas, peasants were up against a landlord who would not let out
water from the lakes he owned. As a result, a huge area of land was
lying uncultivated. There was also a report from Manasadanga.
Ganesh Das, who had also been freed, was working in that area. But
Partha was thrilled by the next piece of information: Lakshman and
his friends were mentioned—they had started a peasants’ society
there!
With renewed enthusiasm, Partha began to write: ‘This year,
peasants are agitating throughout India. They are raising their voice
against the increase of taxes, bonded labour, unlawful takeovers and
evictions. They have been successful in many cases. Some have even
set up peasants’ societies in their villages. They have to fight against
this feudal, imperialist society. For this, they need to organize
themselves. They have to bring about such a change that the peasants
themselves become the owners of land, and there is no agency
between them and the government.’
Partha went on writing—page after page. It was winter, the month
o f Kartik; the days were shorter and it would be evening soon. It was
time for Bhadra to come back. He put the cyclostyle machine back
and hurried with his notes. His pen raced.
88 Sabim Roy

A month passed. One day, Partfaa was about to go for a bath when
Bhadra said: ‘The stove is very hot. There will be a lot o f hot coals
left even after I finish cooking. Give me your rice pan. I will put it on
to boil.’ Partha did not mind at all—one job less—and brought the
pan, with rice, dal and potatoes all in together, and put it in the kitchen.
‘I will bring the rice to your room,’ Bhadra said.
Partha was writing the editorial for next week’s Chashi when she
came in carrying the rice. He looked at her once and went back to
writing again. She left for school.
It was two in the afternoon, when Partha remembered his lunch.
He got up and opened the lid of the saucepan to see that there was
not only rice, but lentils, a vegetable curry and fried potatoes as well.
Bhadra had also put in a slice of lime and a pinch of salt. It reminded
him of his mother.
When Bhadra returned, Partha said: ‘I had given you rice, dal
and potatoes, all mixed together. How did they change into so many
items? Was it magic?’
‘Do you mix your rice and dal every day?’ Bhadra asked, avoiding
the question.
‘No, I buy them mixed from the market. It’s a bother to mix
everything every day. Another advantage: I don’t need too many
utensils.’
Bhadra looked amused. ‘From now on, you can spare yourself
that trouble, too. You give your cooking things to me. I think this pan
and a kettle are about it? And kindly let me have the sack with your
rice-dal mix,’ she ordered and left the room.
Partha felt a little apprehensive. Was it right to get involved with
these people so deeply? But it would not be right either to avoid them
altogether. He was very happy with his room. It was cut off from the
other rooms and was also quite secluded from the prying eyes of
neighbours. There was a window to the west from which all that he
could see were shacks and a dairy. The southern window brought in
gusts of fresh air and a lot of light. Through the window moonlight
also slipped in, which Partha thought quite unnecessary.
Partha raced on with his writing.

‘We demand total independence and a sovereign democratic

nation.
 Harvest Song 89

‘Withdrawal of die British army and establishment of a

people’s army.
‘Elimination of the zamindari system without any
compensation and remission of all farmers’ debts.
‘Eight-hour workdays for labourers in factories, farms, tea,
rubber and coffee plantations and proper wages.
‘A pledge to provide all citizens with food, shelter and
education.
‘Taxes waived on barren plots.
‘Appropriation of foreign investment in factories, mines, banks,
railways, ships, tea, rubber and coffee plantations.
‘Foreign debts written off.’

Night was settling in. The myriad daytime sounds of pots and
pans, cleaning of floors and banging of doors were slowly becoming
feint. But Partha was still writing in the light of his shaded lamp. On
getting up to drink, he realized that he had run out of water, and
carrying his clay water pot, he went to the hand pump.
‘You think there’s still water there? Take this.’ Bhadra had come
out of her room, carrying her water pot.
Partha looked up with surprise to see that the light was still on in
her room. Glancing through the open door he saw that her floor was
strewn with books, paper and pens.
Next morning, Partha decided to clear his doubts. ‘Are you really
taking the MA?’ he asked her.
‘Not as long as I am teaching at the school. I can’t take university
casually,’ she said. ‘You must be wondering then what I read the
whole night long. I read poetry. It’s my lifeline. I read it, I translate it.
I even write some, then use the paper to light the stove.’
‘You stay up the whole night writing poetry, then you light the
fire with it?’ Partha looked at Bhadra anew. She looked so docile, but
there seemed to be a fire lurking inside her. As she carried on buttering
the bread slices, he looked at her again. She didn’t look typically
Bengali. The sharpness of her features, her sharp glance, bright
complexion and her tall frame—all set her apart.
Leaving for school, she told Partha: ‘Don’t forget to eat your
lunch.’
‘No, I won’t forget,’ Partha answered, without looking up.
90 Sabitri Roy

Sohan Singh came in the afternoon, too. There was some news—
there was a growing demand for a Hindi version of Chashi. When
there was someone at the door again, Partha opened it to find it
was Bhadra.
‘What’s die matter? Back so early?’ Partha asked.
Today is Ras Pumima. The students were let off early.’
Ras Pumima—Lord Krishna’s festival in the winter months to
celebrate his friendship with the gopmis, his milkmaid friends. But it
was still raining. That was a bad sign for the crops. He remembered
Khana’s precept: ‘If it still rains in the month of Agrahayan, even
the king will be out with the begging bowl on the path.’
Bhadra was lighting the stove. Partha came up to the kitchen and
said, ‘Can you make me a cup of tea? A strong one?’ Bhadra brought
the tea. Partha was suddenly struck by her face—he had never seen
her looking so downcast. His eyes travelled to the barren parting of
her hair. She had been left alone in this world at such a young age
Was the cold, windy day stirring up memories? Was she remembering
her husband and feeling the loss more than ever? Taking the cup
from her hand, Partha suggested: ‘Let’s go to your room to have the
tea. I don’t feel like studying today.’
He ran his eyes through her books. Most of them were books
of poetry.
‘You seem to have a fondness for Michael Madhusudan Dutt?’
he asked.
‘Who doesn’t like Michael?’ she answered. ‘And anyway, his life
was also so poetic.’
He picked out Michael’s Meghnadbadhkabya from a shelf, and
stopped at the passage where Ravana the demon king was lamenting
the death o f his heroic son, Meghnad.

‘O demon destiny! What made thee

Cast such a fete for Ravana!’

Partha looked up to find that Anandababu had also joined them.

Did Ravana’s words echo in his heart?
Bhadra’s room, too, was done up without much fuss, but tastefully.
There were two Jamini Roy paintings on the wall. On a t r i a n g u l a r
bracket, there were some seashells, large and small. But there was no
 Harvest Song 91

picture of her husband; there were only some dried flowers on a

silver plate. They had been preserved with much care, a reminder,
perhaps, of a beautiful night.

Early in the morning, Bhadra brought Partha his cup of tea in his
room.
‘Thank you,’ Partha said. Bhadra suddenly threw a swift glance
at him and left.
She started her work in the kitchen, but could not concentrate.
She was disturbed. It happen»! in flashes, but Partha reminded her
of her husband: the same hair, the same brightness of expression.
But it was no point thinking of such things—so Bhadra began to
make breakfast. She carried milk and bread to Anandababu’s room.
Seeing he was cold, she brought him a coat.
‘Put it on. It’s been so cold some days,’ she said.
‘But what about you? Don’t you have something warm yourself?’
he asked.
‘Am I as old as you are? I do not have to wear woollens all the
time,’ Bhadra joked.
That afternoon Bhadra felt more even despondent. Why did
evenings remind her of time passing? A young girl was practising
singing somewhere. She was singing well—her voice went up, note
by perfect note, caressing each one slowly. Didn’t he look like her
husband? Was it really his hair or his eyes? Or was it the kind of
person he was?
She had been married seven years ago. Her bridal night rose in
her mind like a tableau from the past. All the guests had left, only
friends and the younger relatives had stayed on for the get-together
that comes before the phul shajya, the bridal night. A young girl had
sung on that night too. Bhadra was dozing off, but the girl sang so
beautifully that Bhadra did not want her to stop.
But the girl did stop. She smiled at Bhadra knowingly and
whispered in her ear: ‘Good night.’ Then she left.
Everybody left. Only she and Priyadarshan were left. She was
92 Sabitri Roy

sitting on her phul shajya, the bed decorated with flowers for the first
night. The lamp shone from behind its blue shade, bunches of
rajanigandha in the vase filled the room with a mild but intoxicating
fragrance. On a silver plate, someone had heaped jasmines.
Bhadra was feeling a little tense; a little afraid, too. Priyadarshan
noticed and smiled. He came up and said, ‘You have nothing to be
afraid of.’ He turned off the light. ‘Go to sleep. I will finish the book
I am reading.’ He sounded like an elder brother.
He picked up a sturdy-looking book and went back to his easy
chair. Bhadra was a little amused, but also very touched. She had
heard so much about the phul shajya.
She woke up in the middle of the night. A sliver of moonlight
was falling on her face. Her hair had come undone, so had the small
string of bel and chameli flowers around it. She opened her drowsy
eyes to see that Priyadarshan was also asleep, his head resting on the
arm of the chair. It was that picture of Priyadarshan, his closed eyes,
his hair, his calm forehead, that would come to her mind every time
she saw Partha.
But Bhadra, a chit of a girl at sixteen, instead of craving her young,
handsome husband’s love, revelling in his attractiveness, had fallen
for his mind, a far-sighted, philosophical mind. Priyadarshan was to
leave for England on a government scholarship in a week. Bhadra,
who had won a school-level scholarship herself, was basking in
his glory.
A few months passed after Priyadarshan left. The news came on
a cold, windy, rainy day, a day like this one When Bhadra had brought
Anandababu his tea in the evening, she had found him engrossed in
reading the letter. Midway through, his hand had trembled and the
letter had fallen. His face was drained of blood. He had looked
stunned and vulnerable.
Terrified, Bhadra had picked up the letter. She knew the
handwriting only too well. She saw Priyadarshan had written to her,
too. Her letter was on the table, under a paperweight.
Anandababu had looked at her once. It had seemed he could not
bear to look at her.
She had come back to her own room and torn open the envelope.
Seven years later, she took it out again.
 Harvest Song 93

‘Dear Bhadra,
I am writing to you to give you some bad news. But I don’t
want to hide it from you. I am in love with a classmate here.
She is from France. We are doing research together. I have
written to Dada about her. 1 know everyone will be
shattered by this news. Baba will break down. But above
everyone else, it is you that I am worried about.
‘I hardly know you. We are almost strangers. But you are
the person I am most accountable to. Yet 1 have taken this
course. I can’t begin to tell you how ashamed I am. But I am
helpless.
'The wrong that I am going to do to you cannot be
forgiven. No apology will be enough. But I have one
request. This is possibly my first and last request to you.
Please free yourself from this marriage and get on with your
life. Choose your own life partner.
‘You will probably never forgive me, but I hope you will
remember me. I want you to be happy. I am praying for you.
Yours,
Priyadarshan.’

Bhadra had not known what to do next. Anandababu, whose tall

frame seemed to have shrunk in a day, had already embarked on a
course of action. He had been writing to his lawyer. Bhadra had
come up to him and said softly: ‘Baba, please write back to him
saying yes. They must be waiting for your blessings.’
Anandababu had not expected this from a seventeen year old. He
had not been able to hold back his tears anymore. ‘How can I accept
something which goes against my principles?’ he had asked.
He had not been able to write to Priyadarshan. It had fallen on
Bhadra to do so.
She had written back. 'Bengal, my home, is the land where the
greatest love poetry was written. A Bengali girl understands what it
is to be in love. So this humble woman wishes your French beloved
the best from the bottom of her heart.’
But Bhadra’s story didn’t end there. If it had, there would be her
whole life lying before her, for her taking. There was a telegram six
94 Sabitri Roy

months later from Priyadarshan’s college principal. Priyadarshan had

commited suicide. Nobody knew why.
The world still did not know why Priyadarshan had to d ie But
Bhadra knew in the heart of her hearts that it was for her that he had
to go. Hindu law prevented divorce, while British law prevented
bigamy. So Priyadarshan, with his restless soul, had left for a country
where there was no society and no law to stop him.
Bhadra thought she knew what Priyadarshan had felt, a love strong
enough to drive a man to death, but she only had her poetry and
songs for her guide. Today she felt it in her more strongly than ever.
The vast expanse of the night sky seemed to throb with the cries of a
defeated, crushed man.

Ali, in Calcutta now, worked in a press as a mechanic. Partha went

to meet him, but on his way back got caught in the rain. Cornwallis
Street looked like a small canal with trams and buses standing still.
Partha got down from the bus and started to walk. It was almost ten
o’ clock. Suddenly he saw a familiar figure Wasn’t it Bhadra?
‘What are you doing here at this time o f the night?’ Partha asked,
running up to her.
Bhadra seemed tense. ‘I am looking for Baba. He went for his
evening walk in the park as usual. He hasn’t come back. The park is
completely deserted.’ She stopped abruptly. Her small umbrella was
tearing away in the wind.
‘Let me take the umbrella. Let’s go to the park and check again.
He may have taken shelter in a house nearby,’ suggested Partha.
Bhadra stopped suddenly. ‘He is so old. He can’t even see properly.
What if there has been an accident? Should we check at the hospitals?’
she asked.
Partha was also feeling worried now. ‘Let’s go home first and get
some money,’ he said.
As they began to wade through the water towards home, it started
to rain harder. Partha held the umbrella carefully over Bhadra’s head.
He did not feel like speaking. What if there really had been an
 Harvest Song 95

accident? he thought.
They kept on walking like that till Bhadra broke the silence. ‘He
has not been his usual self since his younger son’s death. It is not
easy to accept such a thing at his age. He had sent his son with a lot
of expectations to England, but there he committed suicide.’
‘Suicide?’ Partha repeated.
‘Yes, my husband killed himself,’ Bhadra answered calmly.
They had come to the house and Partha did not say anything
more. Bhadra, too, did not elaborate. The lights were off in most of
the houses. As they climbed the stairs, they saw that the light was on
in their verandah. Bhadra rushed up to see that it was Anandababu,
who was sitting on a stool and waiting for them!
‘So you got wet in the rain?’ Anandababu asked her. ‘And you
are drenched. Please go and change quickly,’ he told Partha.
Bhadra did not know what to say. ‘We have been looking for you
for two hours, and you ...’ she started to laugh.
Anandababu became very upset. ‘Am I a child that I will lose my
way? I met an old friend today after twenty years. I just went to his
place,’ he protested.
Bhadra did not waste any more time and arranged dinner. ‘Why
don’t we all have dinner together tonight?’ she asked Partha. She
served him and Anandababu, and then sat down herself. ‘Now you
can help yourself,’ she told Partha.
‘After the amount there’s already on my plate, I won’t need
anything else,’ Partha smiled and answered.
‘But you stayed back for so long at your friend’s place, and you
never thought that we would worry,’ Bhadra mildly rebuked
Anandababu, with a smile.
Anandababu did not reply, only smiled back and looked at her
affectionately. ‘But you think you can cheat me? Why aren’t you
having the milk?’ he asked Bhadra.
‘I didn’t want to have milk tonight. I will make some yoghurt
from it,’ she said.
‘No, that won’t do. You don’t have fish or meat, now if you even
stop having milk, how will you survive?’ he asked. ‘I tell her to have
fish and meat. What’s the harm?’ he looked at Partha. ‘In Europe
women don’t stop eating their usual meals when their husbands die.
I am also for widow remarriage,’he continued.‘I support Vidyasagar
 Sabitri Roy

wholeheartedly. But what is the point of keeping it as a law? It should

be accepted socially. And with that there should be people who would
take on this nonsense about widows having only vegetarian food.
Fish has protein. Haven’t you read history? Since the time man began
to eat fish and meat, his brain started to evolve. I am old—I can do
with a light diet. But people like you, who have to work the whole
day, you have to eat properly,’ Anandababu concluded.
‘If I start eating fish, we won’t be allowed to live in this flat,’
Bhadra said.
‘But you shouldn’t stop yourself, my child, because of what your
neighbours may say,’ Anandababu said.
‘Not only the neighbours. My mother will also not have food
cooked by me then,’ Bhadra replied.
Partha, who had been listening to the argument, now joined in.
‘Do you know how a path can be traced out even in a fore«?’ he
asked Bhadra.
‘I do. But this is not a forest. To break away from social rules is
more difficult than breaking down an iron wall,’ she replied.
‘But if you don’t, then the chick inside the egg will never be able
to break out of the shell,’ he said.
Bhadra shot a glance at Partha. How did he know what was inside
her mind?

It was one in the morning. Partha switched off the light. What was
happening to him? Why was he being reminded again and again of
the faint perfume of her hair, her hand when she touched him without
knowing, her anxious eyes? Had he met someone he had been waiting
for all his life in a rain-drenched night on a deserted street? He could
feel her presence even now. He could still feel on his skin her soft
warm breath, even now, in this darkness.
Next morning when he woke up at dawn, as was usual with him,
a clear blue sky, with fleecy white clouds slowly gathering, greeted
him. He went to the verandah, but Bhadra was there before him. She
was in the verandah, looking at the sky, too. Partha looked at her,
 Harvest Song 97

smiling. She looked back, but did not say anything.

A bird chirped from the neem tree nearby. Partha came back to
his room and arranged pen and paper. Anandababu settled down
with his newspaper. Bhadra began to make toast.
Partha came to the kitchen. *1 need some strong tea, as usual.’
But today Bhadra felt that it was not just tea that Partha needed. She
pushed a cane stool towards him. ‘Why don’t you sit down here and
drink your tea?’
The sky was still a clear, transparent blue. Bhadra poured the
tea slowly.
‘This looks like an autumn sky,’ Partha said.
‘The sky always looks like that when the sun shines after the rain,’
Bhadra answered.
‘Today is a holiday for you. You will have to help me with some
work,’ Partha said.
‘What? Your clothes need mending?’ she asked, teasingly.
‘No. I will not ask you to mend my clothes. I will ask you to do
something that someone else may not be able to. You will have to
translate some Bengali texts into Hindi. And you have to keep it
a secret.’
‘Is it something political?’ Bhadra asked.
‘You are right. And it’s politics of the sort that will land me straight
in jail if anyone gets to know. You are incapable of doing anything
bad, I have realized. That’s why I am asking you.’
How had he ‘realized’ all this? It made Bhadra blush momentarily
and then she looked away.
She finished her chores fast in the afternoon and went to Partha’s
room. ‘Tell me what I have to do.’
‘You have to translate some texts into very simple Hindi. But
now other people may come. So it’s better to do it at night,’ he said.
Bhadra took up one pamphlet and read it carefully. ‘Are you a
Communist?’ she asked.
Partha was taken aback at such a direct question. ‘Yes, I am. And
we want you by our side.’
That night, till the late hours, Bhadra sat translating. Partha had
said: ‘We want you by our side.’ Her life had a purpose! Someone,
somewhere needed her.
Next morning, as she walked into Partha’s room with his tea, he
98 Sabitri Roy

knew that she could barely conceal her pleasure at having been up all
night and done her bit.
‘So have you finished?’ he asked.
‘Come and have a look.'
Partha was surprised by the quality of Bhadra’s work. It was
excellent, which surprised him. The Hindi did not read like a
translation at all.
Bhadra peeped in now and then to see what Partha felt. ‘Will it
do?’ she asked finally.
‘Your favourite pastime of lighting up the kitchen fire with your
poetry will have to be set aside from now. There will be no holiday
for you any more.’
After Bhadra left, Partha took up the latest issue of Chashi. One
item struck him like lightning: Sulakshan had been given a jail
sentence for one year for having beaten up a British commandant.

Work on the Hindi edition of Chashi sped up. Both he and Bhadra
were working full steam. But Bhadra, too, never felt tired. One day,
on her way back home, she was standing at the Sealdah bus stop.
The heat from the road seemed to sear her feet, burning through her
slippers. She was sweating; there were too many people too—it was
the evening rush hour. Around the place where she stood were rows
of fruit stalls—of apples, grapes, limes. Flies were buzzing around
packets of dates. ‘Let me take some fruit home for Baba,’ she thought.
It was the beginning of the month and her salary was intact. As she
was looking into her purse, somebody slipped a paper into her hand
and vanished.
She was stunned to see that what she held in her hand was a
paper written in Hindi. It was her work! ‘Let the prisoners go!’ it
said. She hid the paper quickly in her purse. Above all the din of this
chaos, traffic, trams, buses, ox carts, pressing crowds, one voice
seemed to rise: ‘Workers of the world unite!’ And she was part of
this voice.
 Harvest Song 99

Back home, she went to Partha’s room. ‘May I come in?’ she
asked.
‘Of course. You may come in any time you want,’ Partha
answered.
She took out the piece of paper and placed it silently on his table.
Her face glowed with pride.
Partha looked at Bhadra. She looked beautiful. She had felt for
the first time what reaching out to the world felt like.
‘So you really manage to print all this in secret?’ she asked.
Partha smiled, but did not say anything.
All day Bhadra remained in a dream world, because she had been
freed of her old, familiar life and taken to another one. Silently, in
the evening, she came and placed the cup of tea before Partha and
left—when there was so much to say.
Partha went down to buy a packet of cigarettes. When he came
back, Sohan Singh was returning for him. ‘There’s a letter for you
from home,’ he said.
It was from Ganesh Das.
‘Paharpur needs you again,’ it said. ‘The land is fertile. We only
need a farmer. Many prisoners are also being freed. There will be
many to take care of the newspaper. But there’s no one in Paharpur.’
Partha became restless. Paharpur—the river Bhogai, Sarathi,
Saraswati, Shankhaman. How could Partha, a farmer’s son, not pay
heed to such a call?
He left immediately to make his arrangements to leave. It was
three when he came back. But climbing up the stairs, he felt a stab of
sadness. He had become fond of the place. The smell of fried onions
from Chachaji’s hotel still filled the staircase. The water pump was
again in need of repair.
He saw that the woman who lived in the flat next door was
standing on the second floor landing, bucket in hand, panting. She
was pregnant. ‘Let me carry it for you,’ he said and took the bucket
to her flat.
He went to speak to Anandababu about his going away.
Anandababu was shocked. ‘You are going back to your village? You
won’t come back?’ he asked anxiously.
‘My father is ill. I have to look after our land. I am the eldest son,’
Partha lied.
 100 Sabitri Roy

‘You have some land? Then it’s all right. What’s the good of only
bookish knowledge? But you know, I had started to think of you as
' family,’ Anandababu said.
‘I also thought of you like my father. I never thought I didn’t
belong here, not for a day,’ Partha said.
Partha was still sitting there when Bhadra returned. Anandababu
gave her the news. ‘Partha is leaving.’
‘Leaving? Where’s he going?’ Bhadra asked.
‘To his village. His father is ill. They have written to him to
go back.’
Bhadra looked at Partha’s face and knew that this was not the
truth. She turned pale. ‘I was waiting for you to come back. I came
to know only today,’ he told her. Bhadra left the room without saying
anything.
Partha began to pack. He came to the kitchen to bum some paper
which he thought was best got rid off. Bhadra was rolling out rotis for
dinner. She did not say anything. She felt betrayed. He knew he had
made such a difference to her life. How could he just go like this? It
was not as if they had just met for a few hours in a train compartment.
But Partha must not know how she felt. He did not deserve to.
Partha understood her feelings. She did not know what he was
going through, he thought. The paper went up in flames in the oven
as Partha watched intently. Bhadra looked up once. Partha stood
silently for some time and then left.
After dinner, Bhadra came to his room with a notebook.
‘Your father’s illness, your land problems, these are all lies, o f
course. So is it possible for you to let me know where you are going?’
she asked, without any preamble.
‘You want to know my real address? Why just my address? You
don’t know anything about me,’ Partha said. ‘But my father is really
ill and it’s also true that he is a farmer. And I am going to help him,
too. But it’s also my duty to help all the others like him.’
Bhadra still asked the same question. ‘Is it possible for you to
leave your new address?’
Partha took out a piece of paper to write it for her. But she gave
him a notebook. ‘Write your address here,’ she said.
The notebook was full of quotations from poems. Partha’s eyes
fell on two lines from Mayakovsky: ‘I defy death in its many shapes/
 Harvest Song 101

I embrace life in its fullness.’

Partha wrote the address. ‘I will stay here for some time. After
that, I don’t know.’
Bhadra looked at it. 4It was on a day like this, one year ago, that
you came here,’ she said. Then she did not trust herself to speak and
rushed out. She could not even cry; her eyes were dry, but she
bled inside.
Partha did not sleep that night. As the sky began to clear, the
stars began to fade, one by one, and dawn broke like a young woman
patiently delivering the world from darkness into light. Bhadra came
into the room with the morning tea. She was smiling. He felt that
they should talk about something else. ‘Tell me something,’ Partha
said. ‘You are from Bengal, but have you seen the rivers of Bengal?
the Padma, or the Meghna, or the Yamuna?’
‘Well, what about the Ganga? I will also see the rivers of your
part of the country one day, I hope,’ she answered.
Partha finished packing, leaving aside some books. ‘These are for
you. My friend Sulakshan gave these to me.’
He said good-bye to Anandababu and touched his feet. Then he
took out all his belongings—which were a suitcase and a bed-roll—
and took one last look at his room, his home for one year.
‘I am off, then,’ he said to Bhadra, who had been standing near
all this while, and left. Going out of the building towards the bus
stop, he looked back. Bhadra was standing on the balcony. The bus
to Howrah station, arrived. He raised a namaskar to Bhadra and got
on. From inside the bus, he looked back once more. Bhadra was still
standing on the balcony, looking at him.

Stitching together sari borders, Debaki had made a vest for her son.
He was named Joydeb. He was almost ten months old now, but had
not ever worn any new clothes. Subala had dug up some old clothes
that Iti and Sathi had worn as newborns. Not that Debaki’s son
cared—he seemed to be a happy-go-lucky person, except when Debaki
raised her voice, like now.
102 Sabitri Roy

‘Are you being naughty again?’ she asked him, threading the
needle, in a stem voice, and he broke automatically into tears. Sathi
rushed to his nephew’s rescue. Tears were coursing down the little
one’s cheeks. ‘Let me hold him, you may drop him,’ said Kunti to
her brother.
Dinabandhu was still reading the letter sent by Debaki’s Mami
shasuri, her aunt-in-law. Debaki was to be sent back within this week,
or else they would get her husband married again. Looking for
support, Dinabandhu emptied his hookah pot in a comer o f the room
and scraped out the little tobacco from inside. Putting it back in the
pot with the charcoal, he asked Debaki yet again: ‘Are you sure you
don’t want to go? Two letters have come. And you know about the
state of things here. I haven’t been able to buy a scrap of cloth in all
these months for our new guest.’
Subala joined in: ‘As a woman, you have to learn to take a lot
from your mother-in-law or, in your case, aunt-in-law.’
‘If it were only Mami I wouldn’t have complained,’ Debaki
replied mildly.
‘Then it’s your fault. You haven’t learnt to please your husband. I
always knew the wild streak in you would land us in a lot of trouble,’
Subala answered in her rough tone.
‘You shall not be troubled. I shall go to Calcutta and get hold of
something or the other. I have written to Mama and he should reply
in a day or two,’ Debaki answered.
That was the only ray of hope for her. Dinabandhu was also
waiting eagerly for the reply. His in-laws were influential people—
they should be able to do something for Debaki.
But Subala did not agree with father and daughter. ‘Your husband
has set up his business recently and it’s doing well. He’ll soon be
financially stable. He won’t remain dependent on his Mama and
Mami then. And then you can help your own brothers and sisters,
too,’ Subala told Debaki. ‘You are being selfish, looking at your own
interests. Some other daughter would have gone through much more
so that her parents would have a better life.’
Feeling restless, she went to the ghat. Kunti came soon with
Joydeb, who leapt into her arms. ‘He is hungry, Didi. Just won’t keep
still,’ Kunti said.
Debaki sat down to breastfeed him. ‘Since you have sent him to
 Harvest Song 103

me, dear God, please send me some means to look after him as well, ’
she prayed. Giving Joydeb to Kunti again, Debalri went to collect
water.
The fields on the other side of the river were catching the last rays
of the sun. Did Parthada remember her at all? He might only be
bothered about doing good for the country, but she was a part o f his
country as well, she thought, as she filled the pot slowly with water.
She passed Sukhada’s hut on her way back. The back of die hut
was covered with kidney-bean creepers with their lovely tiny purple
blossoms. If only she could have a hut like Sukhada’s!
Sathi brought some good news. He had caught a turtle—a good
dinner after many days. Debaki sat down in a corner of the yard and
cut the turtle meat up into pieces, while the children made a ring
around her. Dinabandhu also came to watch. ‘There’s a lot of it,’ he
said, pleased with the meat. Debaki washed the pieces, ground onions
and chillies and began to cook. Her brother and sisters sat around
her, their mouths watering in anticipation. In the absence of goat
meat, which they could not afford, a turtle was the second choice,
but they did not complain.
Iti, tying in Kunti’s lap, was listening to Sathi’s tale of how he
had caught the turtle. ‘What if it had bitten you?’ Iti asked. Sathi
smiled with a superior air. ‘It’s almost done See that Iti doesn’t go to
sleep,’ Debaki told Kunti.When the meat was done, Debaki fed Iti,
washed her mouth and took her to her room. But she wouldn’t let go
o f Debaki.
‘Didi, you also come and sleep now,’ Iti cried.
‘How can I go to sleep now? I have so much work,’ Debaki
answered, running her hand through Id’s hair.
But Iti wouldn’t listen. ‘Then I will come with you,’ she went on.
Subala heard her and came and landed a resounding slap on Id’s
face. * “I will come with Didi!” As if Didi doesn’t have other things
to do. Now go to sleep,’ she screamed.
Iti lay down in the bed, but would not stop crying. With her face
in the pillow, she started to sob hard. This was too much for Subala.
‘Crying again? You will not rest till Debaki’s son wakes up. If you
keep crying I will send you out of the house in the dark.’
But still Iti would not stop crying. Subala did as she had said—
dragging Iti out of bed, she threw her out of the house and shut the
104 Sabitri Roy

door. Debaki, who was still eating, tried not to intervene.

But the little girl was in trouble. ‘Didi, help me. Didi, please take
me inside?’ Iti kept crying. Debaki got up and came outside. ‘Come,
you will sleep with me today. Only let me finish eating.’
As Iti sat in front of her, her eyelashes still wet with tears, Debaki
thought about their mother. She had raised all of them like that, die
hard way. And Debaki could not bear the thought of her son, even at
ten months, crying even once.

Sathi came back very excited. ‘The Shivbari boys are coming over
for a dariya bandha match to Talpukur today!’
Debaki was apprehensive—what if Rajen also came? But then
she told herself that he would not come to this village of all places,
though she kept feeling a little tense. She took Kunti to Sukhada’s
place to make chire, rice flakes. Sathi was put in charge of Joydeb.
Helping them with the rice, Sukhada asked: ‘I hear that the men
from Rajen’s village are coming here for the match? So isn’t our son-
in-law coming as well?’
‘Why don’t you ask him if you’re interested?’ Debaki answered.
‘Now what’s the matter, Debaki?’ Sukhada asked, taken aback.
When the chire was ready, Debaki left for home. Stepping into
the courtyard she was shocked to see Sathi sitting there, weeping.
‘What’s the matter? Why are you crying?’ Debaki asked.
‘I took Joy to watch the match. Jamaibabu snatched him from
me and took him away,’ Sathi sobbed.
Debaki slumped on the floor. Dinabandhu ran to the ghat, but on
reaching he was told that the ferry to Shivbari had left half an hour
ago. He had no choice but to come back.
Subala exploded on seeing him. ‘So now you see what happens if
you don’t send your married daughter back to her husband!’ she
screamed. But Dinabandhu could not take this, now. ‘Keep quiet,
for once,’ he thundered.
Subala, surprised to see her husband raise his voice, got the
message. ‘Do you really think they will keep Joy?’ she asked.
 Harvest Song 105

Dinabandhu could not answer. He was at his wit’s end. How could
anyone do this?
Debald did not sleep the whole night. So many thoughts crowded
her head as tears kept welling up. Had they fed her baby at all? Was
he crying for her right now, trying to find one familiar face and not
finding any? She tried to get back to her chores in the morning, but
was hardly in a state to work. Dinabandhu came up to her.
‘You can’t go on like this, neither can your son. So if you want to,
go back now. For your son’s sake be strong. If he grows up to be
someone one day, you will be rewarded for your decision,’ he said.
Debaki also felt that way. She could not live without Joy. She
knew she was ready to go through anything for him. She decided to
return to Shibbari.
Dinabandhu went to Aminuddi in Manasadanga and requested
him to lend his boat for a day. But there was no one to row it. ‘See if
you can get Lakshman,’ Aminuddi suggested.
The next stop was Partha’s house. Lakshman agreed to help them
and Dinabandhu told him that they would start before daybreak and
return the same day.
Sudam came with the hookah. ‘Debaki’s in-laws are rich people.
I went to Shivbari during Nil Puja. The Sarkars have a big house,’
he said.
‘Yes, my son-in-law is a direct relation of the Sarkars,’ said
Dinabandhu, ‘but he has no real stake in it. There are too many
claimants to the property. But, yes, the Sarkars own a lot of land and
earn quite a lot. There are many labourers working for them.
‘But money has no connection with how a wife is treated,’ he
continued. ‘I got Debaki married into this family because of their
prosperity. But look at my daughter. He beats her up every day!’
Sudam and Lakshman were aghast. ‘So gentlefolk, too, beat up
their wives!’ Lakshman commented.
‘Gentle! You don’t have gentleman or farmer written on you,
Sudam. It’s below the skin. It’s what you are like inside that counts.
Wearing clean clothes and squeaky shoes does not make anyone a
gentleman. Neither does learning two English words,’ Dinabandhu
said bitterly. ‘We did not know the truth. Otherwise how could I let
my daughter marry such a beast? He looked all right—smart, good
looks, stable background.’
106 Sabitri Roy

Dinabandhu could not stop his tears. ‘After all this, why are you
sending your daughter there?’ Sudam asked.
‘Because Debaki’s husband took away their son yesterday.’
‘Took away the child, leaving the mother behind?’ Sudam asked.
‘That’s why I have come to Lakshman,’ Dinabandhu answered.
He saw Lakshmi standing there, listening to him, holding her little
daughter dose to her breast.
‘So this is your granddaughter? How old is she?’
‘Almost a year old. She was bom after Partha was set free. So we
call her Mukti,’ Sudam said.
Dinabandhu looked at the little girl again. He looked at Lakshmi
too. A humble farmer’s daughter, and a farmer’s wife, yet how happy
she looked. ‘Lakshman, I hope I don’t have to remind you again,’ he
said and left.
‘Don’t worry. I’ll be there at the crack of dawn,’ Lakshman
promised.

Debaki gave up trying to stop her tears. She could not bear to look at
her brother and sisters, because she feared that probably this was the
last time she would see them. But she would have to go. Joydeb
seemed to be calling her constandy with his tiny hands. His cry seemed
to be ringing in her ears.
W hile it was still dark, Lakshman arrived at the house.
‘Masterbabu, I am here.’
Dinabandhu woke up with a start. He woke Debaki up, too, who
had just fallen asleep after being awake all night. ‘Get up, Ma. We
have to leave while it’s still dark,’ her father said.
‘No point in waking Iti up,’ Subala suggested, ‘she’ll cry.’ Debaki
touched the sleeping girl’s forehead and left. Today, even Subala was
not her usual self. She accompanied father and daughter to the ghat.
As the boat started to move, she waited there, wiping her tears with
the corner of her anchal.
Lakshman’s strong arms came to good use. They reached the canal
from the river before it was light. There were jute fidds on both sides.
 Harvest Song 107

Lakshman shipped the punt pole and took out the oars. Debaki was
sitting under the awning, her head covered in her sari, her eyes
downcast. How could someone torture such a poor little titling? What
kind o f a man was he? wondered Lakshman, still warm from
Lakshmi’s body lying against him.
‘Is there enough water in the Sarkar’s canal for the boat to enter?’
Dinabandhu shouted to someone
Debaki thought they were approaching their destination much
too quickly. The school ground, jute factory, the Shiv temple, the
banyan tree, all were fleeting past her. ‘Anchor the boat here,
Lakshmanda. We don’t have to go into the canal,’ she said.
‘But then we have to take the main road to the house. Will that
suit you?’ Dinabandhu asked.
‘We won’t take the road. We will go from behind the cattleshed,’
Debaki replied.
Pulling her anchal even more to cover her face, she got down
from the boat. The day labourers working in the cattle byre stopped
chopping hay to stare at her.
‘But didn’t we hear that Rajenbabu’s wife had run away with
someone else, leaving the child behind?’ one of them asked loudly.
Lakshman felt more apprehensive than ever of what lay ahead
for Debaki.
As soon as they stepped into the house, Rajen’s Mami came out.
She was wearing a spotless white sari and her hair was cropped very
short. This is the first time they were meeting her after Rajen’s
Mama’s death.
‘Why have you brought your daughter back? Debaki has no place
in this house anymore,’ she shrieked at Dinabandhu.
Hearing their mother’s voice, all her children rushed out. Tushi,
the young daughter, was carrying Joydeb. He suddenly saw his mother
and tried to leap into her arms. Debaki ran towards him, but before
she could grab Joydeb, Rajen appeared between mother and child.
‘Take him inside, Tushi. We can’t let a loose woman touch him,'
he said.
‘Loose woman?’ Dinabandhu asked, stunned. Joydeb, taken
inside, was crying his heart out. But Debaki stood motionless, as if
turned into stone.
Rajen took off. ‘What is she if not a loose woman? I can show
108 Sabitri Roy

you the letters she wrote to her lover, her hero from your village,
Partha,’ he shouted.
Debaki was ready to collapse. Dinabandhu was dumbstruck. It
was impossible to believe that Partha would be up to such a thing.
But how could he even get into an argument with such a man
as Rajen?
But Lakshman could not keep quiet. ‘If you have a problem taking
her back, why are you keeping her child? Give him back. How can
such a small boy live without his mother?’
‘I will show you how a small child can live without his mother.
He is my son, and only I have the right to decide what to do with
him,’ Rajen screamed back.
Dinabandhu realized that it was futile talking to him. ‘Let’s go
back with Debaki,’ he told Lakshman.
They left. They took the same path as they came—from behind
the cowshed. Debaki dragged herself with an immense effort. Once
in the boat, she broke into heart-rending sobs. Lakshman, too, felt
his eyes stinging with unshed tears.
He tried to comfort Debaki and Dinabandhu. ‘They can’t keep
the child. Why don’t you go to the court? You will certainly get your
grandson back. Even the female inmates in a jail are allowed to keep
their children with them,’ he said.
Debaki looked up. Looking at her tear-stained face, Lakshman
said again: ‘Just because she has written a letter to a man from her
own village, a wife turns into a harlot!’ Debaki, who was cringing
before her father because of such talk, looked at Lakshman with
gratitude.

The train was slowly coming to a halt—it passed the railway shed.
Partha stretched his neck to look at the platform from the window.
There was no one that he seemed to know. There was only the green
signal of the pointsman and a few people strewn about.
The train would stop for only one minute. Partha slung his cloth
bag from his shoulder and came to the door. The winter wind blew
 Harvest Song 109

in against his face from the open door, messing up his hair. Still, the
chill was very comforting. Two days ago at this time he had been in
central India. There were seven hundred miles between that country
and where he was now.
He was back home.
The wheat fields of only two days ago, the mud cottages with
their hand-painted designs, the women’s colourful skirts, their farm
songs, all were becoming hazy now. Before him lay the narrow field
tracks of his childhood, bamboo groves, mango trees, jackfruit trees,
bamboo huts, tin roofs.
He got down from the train. The drivers of the bullock carts
outside were waiting eagerly for passengers. A Muslim couple climbed
into one Partha decided not to take a cart, walking along a ridge
between fields overflowing with winter crops. He was tired of moving
from bus to train and train to bus. Five miles in a bouncing bullock
cart were avoidable now.
Field after field stretched on along his path. There were fields
with dal, bordered with the golden yellow of mustard flowers. Next
to one such there was another covered with the brilliant white
blossoms of the radish plant. Women were singing the songs of the
Toshla brata.

‘Freshly culled rice I’ll have,

‘White, bright cows I’ll have,
‘A son brighter than the sun I’ll have,
‘The fairest son-in-law I’ll have,
‘Daughter fairer than the moon I’ll have,
‘Sindur on my forehead I’ll have,
‘A home in the town I’ll have,
‘My death in the sea I’ll have:
“Grant me these wishes, dear Lord,
With my husband and children may I live on.’

They were taking oil lamps to float in the river. Lakshmi also
took part in this ritual, Partha remembered. The women passed him
by and slowly the traces of their song, too, faded, leaving behind in
his heart a tender feeling. It reminded him of Bhadra.
How deeply Bhadra had entered his life. Like the strain of a
110 Sabitri Roy

morning raga. Like the scent o f a little known flower, surrounding

him, engulfing him, but ever so gently.
His reverie was broken when he saw he was in front of the
Manasadanga bridge Someone was approaching him, a big smile
lighting up her face. It was Mafi’s Ma. She was not alone. ‘How are
you?’ she asked. Partha saw a group of children had collected around
her, gazing at him. Bhadra, these are my people, welcoming me back.
How can I ignore them?
Partha heard Aijun’s shout: ‘Ma, Dada has come back?’
‘Who, Partha? Is he back?’ Mangala rushed out, her voice shaking.
Sudam and Lakshmi followed suit.
‘So your daughter is grown up now,’ Partha asked Lakshmi.
‘It’s time, too,’ she answered. “It’s a year since you left. It took
you so long to think of us.’
‘Of course I thought of you. Otherwise why would I be here?’
Partha said.
‘Have you come from Calcutta?’ Sudam asked, with the touch of
reverence in his voice reserved for Partha. ‘But there’s no train from
Calcutta at this time?’
‘I went to the Tripuri Congress. From there I went to Patna to
meet an old prison-mate. From Patna I went to Katihar, and then to
Bahadurabad and then here.’
Sudam looked at him again. Again he felt that this was his son,
his eldest, but yet he was so far away.
‘Where is Lakshman?’ Partha asked.
‘He is ferrying Dinumaster and his daughter back to her husband’s
place,’ Sudam said, but stopped there.
Partha went to bathe in the pond. After the bath, he settled down
with his wrapper around him. ‘How nice it feels to take a dip in the
pond. It’s been ages.’
Mangala arrived with chirer moa and coconut sweets in a bell-
metal bowl. ‘You’ll be staying here for some time, won’t you?’ she
asked. It sounded like a prayer.
Partha tried to be reassuring. ‘I will be in this area for some time.
But I will stay with you all for a week. Then to Paharpur.’
Sudam made a short inspection of the kitchen. ‘His cup is there,
I hope?’ he asked.
 Harvest Song 111

“Do you think Lakshmi has allowed anyone else to touch it?”
Mangala answered.
Lakshmi brought the cup out from the box where she had put it
away. Arjun arrived with a pile o f small, slender banshpata fish,
glistening against his small net.
‘That’s a lot,’ Partha exclaimed.
‘Run and get some tea leaves,’ Lakshmi hurried Aijun.
‘Apparently they sell fish by weight in Calcutta?’ Sudam asked.
‘Not just fish, I’ve heard they sell mother earth, too, by weight,’
said Lakshmi and started to giggle.
‘I will take you there one day so that you can see with your own
eyes,’ said Partha.
Mangala settled down to cleaning the fish in the shed behind the
kitchen. ‘Keep an eye on the rice,’ she told Lakshmi. She was so
happy. Partha thought that it was the same happiness that was shining
in Lakshmi’s face. It made Lakshmi, still wearing her little nose-ring,
look like her mother.
In the afternoon, Partha sat down in the courtyard with a book.
The winter afternoon sun was comforting. Big brown leaves seemed
to be flying away in the chilly wind from the nut tree. His mind
wandered to the Tripuri Congress, the Trikut hills. Bamboo shelters,
pandals, platforms raised to the memory of martyrs. Excited crowds,
the leaders, Sitaramaiah, Nehru, Subhas Bose. The heated arguments.
Mangala was coating the rice barrels with cow-dung. Paddy lay
heaped in one corner of the yard, ready for threshing. The whole
house was waiting for a new season. After Tripuri and its bustle, this
touch of domesticity brought a sense of peace and calm.
Aminuddi came and asked about Ali in the minutest detail.
‘Ali is learning to work as a compositor in a press. Meghi is training
as a nurse in a hospital,’ Partha informed him.
‘Then they must be all right. But maybe I will not get to see them
again. I don’t know how long I will live,’ Aminuddi said.
The whole day was spent in conversations, with his family,
neighbours, other villagers, who kept coming, with a deep feeling of
contentment lighting up every moment from within. Or was it the
thought of someone waiting for him?
Lakshman came back, dog tired. He was stunned to see Partha.
112 Sabitri Roy

‘So for how many hours arc you here?’ he asked.

‘Not hours. I’ve come to stay here, I won’t go away again,’ Partha
answered.
‘Really?’ asked Lakshman, not ready to believe him.
‘Did you get any food there?’ Mangala asked I^akshman.
‘Food? In the uproar that we landed in? I didn’t know that
gentlemen could be so disgusting. They didn’t take Dinumaster’s
daughter back.’
‘Whom are you talking about? Debaki?’ Partha asked, shocked.
Lakshman noticed the expression on Partha’s face. He kept quiet
for a while, but couldn’t stop himself. ‘You don’t know how she cried
her heart out. They didn’t even allow her to touch her 10-month-old
son,’ he continued.
A terrible story was unfolding before Partha’s eyes. ‘Why? Don’t
Debaki and her husband get along with each other?’
‘Her husband used to beat her every day. Dinumaster told us about
this himself,’ Lakshman said.
But Debaki hadn’t said a word about this the last time they
had met!
After everyone left, Lakshman dropped his voice and said: ‘The
saddest thing is that they not only did not give her back her child, but
also said she was not a good woman. They said she had written a
letter to you. That letter is still with her husband, Rajen Sarkar.’
Debaki had written a letter to him! But what was in the letter for
which she had been given such a punishment?
Partha waited till Lakshman finished eating and then started
towards Talpukur. He met Debaki on the way to the river. She was
returning from the headmaster’s house where she had sold her goat.
She would have to make do with the few notes tied in a knot in her
anchal for her trip to Calcutta.
She stopped in her tracks when she saw Partha. Then she stood
aside, making way for him to pass.
‘I have come to meet you, Debaki,’ said Partha.
She broke down. ‘Please don’t go to our house,’ she cried. ‘Tell
me whatever you have to tell me here’
‘I have heard everything from Lakshman,’ Partha said. ‘That is
why I have come to talk to you. I know that you are not someone to
be crushed by a lie.’
 Harvest Song 113

‘I don’t care if it’s a lie or the truth, I wouldn’t have cared at all if
they had only given me back...’ Debaki broke off. She was tottering—
she held onto a tree tighdy. Partha couldn’t think of anything to say.
‘You don’t know how Debaki has spent these five years, Parthada,’
she said.
He knew he was responsible. His indifference to this girl had
brought her where she was today. ‘I will bring your son back to you,
in whatever way I can,’ he said.
‘I am leaving for Calcutta tomorrow to stay with my mother's
brother. I can’t stay in this village after this,’ Debaki said.
‘I will request Mastermashai to wait for only two more days, if
that is possible. Go home now. I will come to meet him in the evening,’
Partha said.
When he arrived, Kunti was lighting the evening lamp, but it did
litde to lift the gloom from the atmosphere.
Dinabandhu’s face brightened up fleetingly on seeing Partha.
Partha felt a litde awkward, too, but tried to explain his plan to
Dinabandhu.
‘Please postpone your trip for a few days more I will go to the
town tomorrow where I know a lawyer. I will talk to him and file a
case against Debaki’s husband for custody of her child. You won’t
have to do anything about it. They just can’t keep the child like that,’
Partha said.
Dinabandhu relented and Partha went to meet the lawyer—but
came back the same day. What the lawyer had said robbed him of
his last hope.
The lawyer had told Partha that according to the law, a father
had greater right to the child, though the court may take the side of
the mother, depending on the case. But if it could be proven that the
mother had an immoral character, then there was no way she could
get the child back. Therefore, it was essential now to know what was
written in the letter.
Partha sent Lakshman over to ask Dinabandhu to visit him in the
evening. He asked Debaki to come too. Dinabandhu took Debaki
and Iti with him and left for Manasadanga. ‘Please pay a visit to the
Manasa temple, too. May the goddess watch over your son,’ Subala
said from her bed while they were leaving. She had been down with
fever for a few days.
114 Sabitri Roy

This was the first time that Debald had come to Partha’s house.
Sun-dried paddy was lying in the yard. Partha’s mother was sifting
the grain in a kulo. It seemed to Debaki that there was such a sense
of peace permeating everything about the place, the very ground.
Seeing Debaki, Mangala got up hastily and laid a cane mat over
the wooden charpoy. ‘We are so poor that we don’t even have a seat
to offer you, Ma,’ she said.
‘Who is poor and who is rich? Only God knows that,’ Debaki
said, her voice barely audible.
Mangala tried hard to console her, but couldn’t find the words.
So she fell to asking Debaki about her trip. ‘You are leaving tomorrow,
then? Who is there in Calcutta?’ she asked.
‘There is Boromama and Mami. My younger sister Ketald is also
staying there. She is older than Iti.’
Mangala took Iti to the kitchen and gave her some moas to eat.
‘They should have come on a happier day,’ she thought.
When Mangala left, Partha looked at Debaki. ‘I asked you to
come because of something important that you will have to tell me.
You getting back Joy depends on that. I want to know Partha
paused for a while, embarrassed. ‘I want to know ... it is the letter
that you wrote to me. Do you remember what was in it?’
Debaki looked at Partha once and bowed her head. How could
she tell him what was in the letter? Partha waited for her to say
something. But she was silent. Partha could only begin to realize
what this silence meant. Her silence was another sharp rebuke,
pointing yet another finger at what he had done to her. Five years
ago, that night in Debaki’s house, he had promised her that he would
not forget her. All he had done was to forget her. All he had allowed
himself to think of her was: she is all right, she’s happy, basking in
the fulfilment of being a wife and a mother.
Five years ago, she had been fourteen and he twenty-two. So much
had changed, now with Debaki sitting before him, crushed even before
her life could take off. Her soiled plain red-bordered sari, her hair
not even combed, her wrists bare except for a pair of white shell
bangles, the dark circles under her eyes, a life devastated by poverty
and misery. But they were yet to wreck the beauty of her nineteen-
year-old body, the graceful curve of her delicate neck.
Partha went with Dinabandhu and his daughters till the bridge.
 Harvest Song 115

He was carrying a book in his hand.

‘You don’t have to come any further. We are leaving day after
tomorrow. Please come and meet us once before that/ Dinabandhu
told Partha.
Partha gave the book to Debaki. It was Gorky’s Mother. ‘To dear
Debaki, Parthada,’ he had written on the first page. Debaki looked
at him once. Their eyes met, but no one spoke.
As they disappeared from view, Partha started to walk back, but
not towards home. He was wandering aimlessly. That pair of eyes,
Debaki’s eyes. She was the one to whom he wanted to reach out,
because she was the world. Her sorrows, her poverty, her privations,
were what the great world suffered too. He saw her everywhere. He
saw the reflection of her eyes in Bhadra’s. And he saw Bhadra
in Debaki.
The ground seemed to turn to stone with cold. A Muslim
household was frying dal nearby—the strong smell wafted through
the air. It was dark now. Kerosene lamps inside the huts could be
seen through the bamboo hedges. It must be a lovely feeling, thought
Partha, this domestic bliss. Perhaps Debaki had dreamt of such a
thing, with him at the centre, giving life to the dream?

Lakshman had gathered the farmers together at Aminuddi’s house,

where Partha would speak about their problems. Before that,
Lakshman would take Debaki and her father to the station in his
bullock cart. The brief winter afternoon was sliding away. It was
time to start for the station and Lakshman was putting up the awning
in the cart. Partha was waiting in the shade of the nut tree when
Debaki and her father arrived. Debaki was wearing the same shawl
that Partha had left for her the night he had taken refuge in his old
schoolmaster’s house. They got into the cart. Partha gave her a scrap
of paper. ‘If you have any problems, get in touch with this person.’
Debaki looked at the name—Shrimati Bhadra Chaudhuri. ‘She
is a teacher at a Hindi school there,’ Partha said. Debaki looked at
him once. The cart started to roll. Debaki tried to say something to
116 Sabitri Roy

Partha at the last moment, but she choked and gave up.
Partha saw that at the bridge stood a boy in a half-sleeved shirt
and a small girl in a frock—Sathi and Iti. Tears would not come to
his eyes, but they were burning. The brother and the sister were still
waiting for the last glimpse of the cart. It was time for the meeting.
Partha turned and started to walk towards Aminuddi’s house
PART TW O

r
 he Dhaka Mail was running two hours late Sulakshan could

T not find a single bullock cart at the station, and decided to

leave his luggage there before going to his grandmother’s
house The stationmaster stared at the label on his trunk: ‘Sulakshan
Sarkar, State Prisoner, Buxar Fort.’ He said, wide-eyed, ‘Released
recently, I suppose Where are you going, sir?’
‘Kanchanpur,’ Sulakshan replied. Six years ago, he had surprised
his grandmother with a similar visit, but at that time he had been on
the run from the police. Things were different now. His jail term was
over.
Six long years had passed, and yet the village seemed exactly the
same The wild flowers by the roadside brought back memories of
another morning. Sulakshan closed his eyes for a second and
imagined Lata, incredibly glowing and young, as she had stood before
him that morning six years ago. He felt his senses quicken, but
controlled himself immediately. He was daydreaming. How could
the fifteen-year-old Lata have stayed the same after all these years?
The image of Didima, his maternal grandmother, floated before
his eyes. How was she now? The years must have taken their toll on
her. Sulakshan still remembered vividly how she had clung to him
and sobbed brokenly. His eyes filled with tears as he thought of the
last time he had seen her, on the day of his arrest.
Turning a corner, Sulakshan came upon the pond near Ishani
Devi’s ashram. He climbed down the steps of the ghat and washed
his hands and feet. The courtyard of the ashram could be seen from
there: it was empty except for a stray dog lazing in the sun. Sulakshan
skirted the ashram and entered his grandmother’s house only to stop
dead. The house was deserted, the courtyard was overrun with weeds,
and the thatched roof had gaping holes in it. It was eerily quiet.
Exhausted and confused, Sulakshan sat down. Where was his
grandmother? Had she gone away? He looked around, hoping to
spot someone, and that very moment Ishani Devi appeared from
behind the house. Sulakshan went up to her and touched her feet.
120 Sabitri Roy

‘I heard at the Kalibari in the town that you were back,’ said
Ishani Devi, smiling. ‘Come along with me to the ashram.’
Sulakshan looked inquiringly at her. She hesitated a little and
said, ‘You haven’t heard about your grandmother, I think. She is no
more. It’s been about a year.’
The words, remorseless, true, hit Sulakshan with a terrible force
and left him completely numb. Ishani Devi noticed and said quietly,
‘It was time for her to go.’
Sulakshan’s straight back seemed to droop. Not once in these six
years had he written to his grandmother, or tried to find out how she
was. Reproaching himself bitterly, he looked around, desperately
searching for something that would remind him of her. Instead, his
eyes fell on the loosened slats of the roof, the termite-ridden fence,
the holes dug by weasels in the courtyard. The old woman had
disappeared as finally and surely as if she had never existed.
Wearily, Sulakshan followed Ishani Devi to the ashram. Now that
he knew about his grandmother, there was one other person after
whom he had to ask. But he was afraid to learn anything. If he found
that Lata was already married . . . Sulakshan did not want even to
think of that possibility. Much as he had wanted to write to Lata
from the jail, he had decided not to: a letter from a political prisoner
might have got her into trouble. Six years was a long time. Maybe
she was married. And yet Sulakshan secretly cherished a hope that
Lata might have waited for his return.
Ishani Devi called out from the kitchen, ‘I’m heating up some
water for your bath. You are used to tap water, it’s better not to take
a chance with a dip in the pond. ’ Sulakshan could see her from where
he was sitting. It was a welcome sight after long years in jail, where
the only faces to greet him were those of policemen and unending
files of prisoners. Soon, she came out, her face flushed with heat.
‘You can wash now,’ she said. ‘I’ll make you some tea.
Sulakshan brought in a bucket of water on his way back. ‘Not as
young as I was, am I?’ she smiled, noticing the bucket. ‘It’s nice to
see that you understand. ’ He hung his dhoti out to dry in the courtyard
and sat down on the veranda. Ishani Devi brought him his tea and
some mohanbhog, a sweet dish.
‘Doesn’t anyone live here anymore?’ Sulakshan asked. He had
noticed the locked rooms in the northwest wing, and had been
 Harvest Song 121

wondering about the near total silence in the ashram. ‘How can they?’
Ishani Devi sighed. ‘The British have rounded up all our bright young
men. I’m the only one left in the ashram now, waiting and hoping for
better times.’ She was silent for a while. ‘After their arrest, I went on
a pilgrimage,’ she resumed, ‘but then I realized that I could not stay
away from my work. This little ashram is, after all, the most sacred
place to me. Now my only hope is that people like you will come
back and take up my unfinished work.’
It was dusk. The sound of a conch-shell from a nearby house
roused the old woman. ‘Get some rest,’ she stood up. ‘I have to go
for my puja now. I’ll talk to you later. There’s a lot I want to say
to you.’
Still no news of Lata. Absently, Sulakshan walked into the front
room. His eyes fell on the books arranged neatly on the shelves: the
Bhagavad Gita, Ramkrishna Kathamrita, books by Sri Ma. Next to
that was a copy of Letters from Russia. Sulakshan took the volume
down and opened it. From the title page, his own writing stared back
at him: ‘For Lata, from Sulakshan.’
He had bought the book for Lata but on second thoughts, had
not mailed it to her. It had gone instead to Partha with the other
books that Sulakshan had given him. Partha must have sent it to
Lata later, before he himself was deported. That would have been
about three years ago. He stood there, leafing through the book
abstractedly.
The tinkling of bells from the puja room brought him back to the
present. What a remarkable woman Ishani Devi was! ‘Come and
take up our unfinished work’, she had said. Sulakshan felt that young
men like him were at last ready. They had trained themselves for
years to preach the message of equality, fraternity and peace to every
humble worker. Of course, their views and method of operation
differed from what she had believed in all her life, and yet their goal
was the same: they would begin where she left off.
Ishani Devi came in. She noticed the book Sulakshan was holding.
‘That was your gift to Lata, wasn’t it?’ she said. ‘I have borrowed it
from her.’ After a pause she went on, ‘I desperately needed to meet
you. Thank God you have come.’
Sulakshan looked expectantly at her, his heart beating wildly. She
continued, ‘Lata has been living with her uncle in Calcutta for the
122 Sabitri Roy

past three years. You probably know that I brought her up after her
parents’ deaths, but when her unde wrote to me, saying that they
wanted Lata to go and live with them, I couldn’t object. They also
said that they would get her admitted to a college, and she herself
was keen on it. But now that she has completed her intermediate
exam, they have discontinued her studies and are trying to get her
married off.’
Sulakshan listened breathlessly, his mind in turmoil. When Ishani
Devi said that Lata had written to him at Buxar Fort, his chaotic
thoughts came to an abrupt halt.
‘I was at Buxar for only six months. Maybe that’s why I missed
her letter,’ he said, almost to himself.
‘I don’t know from whom she got your address,’ Ishani Devi said,
‘maybe from your grandmother. She didn’t tell me then that she was
writing to you. But I’ve received a letter from her recently, and she
tells me that her uncle has fixed her marriage. It’s a good family;
quite well-off, I believe.’ She handed the letter silently to Sulakshan.
He held it in front of the kerosene lamp. The letter said:

‘Respected Pishima,
‘I am writing to you in a state of unimaginable turbulence.
Right from my infancy, I have looked on you as my own
mother: I can’t keep my feelings hidden from you. I’m sure
you have received my unde’s letter by this time But I simply
cannot accept what he plans for my future. In these difficult
times, the only person I can think of is the one for whom I
have waited for all o f these six years. I have to have his
address now. If I can’t get in touch with him, I shall wait for
him till my death, but I won’t change my mind.
My pranam to you,
Yours,
Lata.’

So Lata had also thought of him, waited for him as he had hoped!
How desperately she must have searched for his address, Sulakshan
thought. But how had she known that for every single night in the
past six years the darkness of his tiny cell had been illuminated by
this very hope that one day she would call him to come to her?
 Harvest Song 123

Ishani Devi was waiting for Sulakshan to say something, but he

could not utter a word. He dropped his eyes to Lata’s letter once
again to conceal the pain in them. A little later, with a visible effort,
Sulakshan controlled himself. He looked up at Lata’s grandmother
and said, ‘I shall leave for Calcutta tomorrow to meet Lata.’
‘But are you sure about your own feelings?’ She asked.
Sulakshan smiled. It was a little awkward to talk about something
so intensely personal, but if there was anyone with whom he could
be frank, it was Ishani Devi.
‘I give you my word that I will honour your daughter with my
love,’ he said simply. Ishani Debi brought out some puja flowers and
touched Sulakshan’s forehead with them. ‘I know you will be able to
show her the way to share your ideals with you. My blessings will
always be with you both,’ she said.
Sulakshan bowed his head at her feet. Perhaps these blessings
were just what he needed now.

Reaching Sealdah station, Sulakshan decided to put up with Partha.

Locating Partha’s house was not much of a problem once he found
the ‘Chacha’s hotel’ Partha had written about. Going up to the second
floor, he knocked on the door.
As a young woman opened the door, it occurred to Sulakshan
suddenly that he did not know by what name Partha was known
here. He said, a little awkwardly, *1 believe an M.A. student lives
here. Would you please tell him that Sulakshan has come to meet
him?’
The woman smiled. ‘He doesn’t live here,’ she said. Noticing
Sulakshan’s disappointment, however, she added, ‘Why don’t you
come in? Coming straight from jail, I suppose?’
Startled, Sulakshan looked at her. The girl smiled reassuringly.
‘There’s no need to be alarmed,’ she said. ‘I’ve never seen you before,
but there’s not a single book of yours which I haven’t read.’ Pointing
to the shelves, she asked, ‘Don’t they look familiar?’ All the books
Sulakshan had given Partha were arranged neatly there It was obvious
124 Sabitri Roy

that someone had taken special care of them. Sulakshan looked

speculatively at the girl. Who was she? Some close relative of Partha’s?
‘Are you Partha’s ...? ’ he asked tentatively.’
‘He was our tenant, ‘the girl explained, ‘he was supposed to be
studying for his M.A., wasn’t he?’ She smiled. ‘My name is Bhadra,
by the way.’
Sulakshan smiled too. He understood that Bhadra knew about
the false identity Partha had given. But where was he now? Sulakshan
asked a little anxiously, ‘Do you know Partha’s address? I have to
meet him today, it’s very urgent.’
‘I don’t think you can meet him today. He is in Paharpur. Isn’t
that near your village?’
Sulakshan had not thought of this possibility. He sat down
hopelessly. Bhadra, however, sensed his disappointment, for she
offered, ‘Perhaps I can do something. Do you mind telling me about
it? Is it something to do with politics?’
‘No, it’s an entirely personal matter. Perhaps you are right, it’s
your help that I need. Actually, it’s something like rescuing Sita from
Ravana.’
‘I understand,’ Bhadra said with a smile. ‘I have to act as the
conduit, or in other words, play the role of Hanuman. But I can’t see
any ring or any such thing. What shall I take with me as the token of
recognition?’
Sulakshan laughed. ‘You are right, you have to play Hanuman.
But in this case it’s my rival who wears the diamond ring. My only
asset is Rabindranath.’
Bhadra stood up. ‘Why don’t you have a bath and lunch first, and
get some rest. Then we’ll talk about it.’ A little later, Bhadra entered
the room with a cup of tea and found that Sulakshan had finished
his bath and was writing something on a scrap of paper. Picking up
the paper, she read:

‘Sita is imprisoned by the force of greed in Ravana’s house,

but in Ram’s house the strength of love sets her free.’

Bhadra looked up at Sulakshan and smiled. ‘Excellent,’ she said.

Sulakshan replied, ‘I bow my head before Rabindranath first, and
 H arvest Song 125

then before you. I trust that you will not bum up Lanka as Hanuman
did. But let me give you fair warning: the house where you are to go
is extremely orthodox; secondly, they are all government servants;
thirdly. . .*
'That’s enough. Let’s not count these problems anymore. You
are frightening me already.’
'Then what do you say—the sooner the better?’
‘If you have waited for six years I’m sure you can wait for six
hours,’ Bhadra teased. ‘Your lunch is almost ready, eat it and rest for
some time.’
A little later, Bhadra went out on her mission. She traced the
address to a big two-storey house in Ballygunge, with a neat, well-
stacked garden. It was very quiet. On the balcony sat a young girl,
reading a book.
The girl was beautiful, as beautiful as Sulakshan had described
her. This must be Lata, Bhadra thought. As she entered the gate, the
girl stood up.
‘Whom do you want—?’ she began uncertainly. Bhadra
interrupted her. ‘You’, she said.
The girl looked surprised. ‘But I don’t think I know you.’
‘How can you?’ Bhadra smiled. ‘You’ve never seen me before.
You are Lata, aren’t you?’ She took out the paper with Sulakshan’s
writing in it. ‘See if you can recognize this writing.’
One look at the paper was enough. Blood rushed to Lata’s cheeks.
She knew that Bhadra was waiting for her answer, but a sudden rush
of pent-up emotions left her completely speechless. She lowered her
eyes, but ¿he girl standing before her had already noticed her reaction.
Bhadra reached for Lata’s hand.
‘Can you come with me?’ she asked a little later. ‘Sulakshanbabu
is staying at my place.’
‘There’s no question of my not coming,’ Lata said steadily. ‘I
have to leave this house without informing my relatives. If my uncle
comes to know he might even lock me up. God knows what possessed
me to come away from the ashram. And then I wrote to him twice
when he was in jail and didn’t get any reply!’ Her voice choked with
unshed tears.
‘You really are a child. Didn’t it occur to you that he might not
126 Sabitri Roy

have received those letters? And haven’t you any trust in him even
though you are committed to him? But I’d better go now. Can you
find my house on your own?’
Lata assured her that she could.
Back home, Bhadra noticed the eagerness in Sulakshan, and
smiled inwardly.
‘I found the house,’ she said gravely, ‘but there was no one in.
The durwan said they’re all on holiday. They’re supposed to be back
in a week’s time.’
‘One whole week! That’s one hundred and sixty-eight hours! How
on earth am I going to wait that long?’
‘You kept a girl waiting for six years, and you yourself can’t wait
for just seven days?’
‘It was terrible of me, I know. But how should I know that she
would prefer a convict to all those suitable grooms her uncle has
found for her?’
‘Stop worrying and get a good night’s sleep.’
Sulakshan decided finally to take Bhadra’s advice. The sun shone
brightly when he woke up next morning. He felt refreshed and a lot
more relaxed, and sat down with a book. Since he had nothing to do,
he might as well read for the next seven days, he thought.
Someone put a cup of tea on the table. Turning, Sulakshan was
dumbstruck. It was Lata. ‘The same cup of tea for which you’ve
been waiting the past six years,’ Lata said with a shy smile. Before
Sulakshan could recover sufficiently from the shock, Bhadra entered,
smiling mischievously.
‘And where is the reward for the messenger?’ she asked.
‘Just name it,’ Sulakshan said. ‘Do you want to be the king of
Kishkindha, or the queen of Paharpur?’
Bhadra blushed. Her deepest secret seemed to have been revealed
before Sulakshan’s sharp eyes. She replied hastily, ‘It’s all right, maybe
I should claim my reward later. For the moment I shall be happy
with a reward for this sister of mine. Contact the marriage registrar
immediately. Do you know that she has left a note for her unde:
‘Never shall I wed the man with the diamond ring?’
‘You shall get five minutes to decide,’ Sulakshan said to Lata.
‘Do you mind getting married at the registrar’s? That means no fancy
 Harvest Song 127

sari, no music, no fanfare. Will that do?’

Instead of Lata, Bhadra replied, ‘Lata knows that with you as die
groom, there is hardly any chance of having any of that. Why waste
time thinking about impossible things? The registrar is going to play
the role of the priest at your wedding, so rush to his office at once.
And since the sky overhead is not visible, instead of the polestar you
will have to be content with mere mortals as witnesses. I have asked
one of my cousins to come over, and my father-in-law and I will also
be there, of course.’
They decided to go to Kanchanpur the next day and from there,
to Paharpur to meet Partha.

In the evening, Sulakshan and Lata were married in the presence of

the registrar. No one had selected an auspicious hour, there was no
priest, nor any fanfare, and yet Lata felt she had never been happier
in her life. Bhadra’s father-in-law represented both the groom’s f a m ily
and the bride’s. Because of him, Lata and Sulakshan did not feel the
absence of their own parents.
Bhadra did her bit to make the night memorable for the
newlyweds. She cleaned up the room where Partha used to stay and
dressed Lata up in the new melon-coloured sari that she herself had
bought for Lata. Bhadra’s father-in-law said a little hesitantly, ‘Perhaps
you should have bought a crimson one for her? It’s her wedding sari,
after all.’
‘Isn’t this one nice too?’ Bhadra asked. ‘It’s such a soft, pleasant
shade.’ There is also a hint o f red in it, she thought to herself, but not
the glare of passion.
At the end of the day, the world seemed ready for a quiet, intimate
night. Bhadra hummed softly as she arranged flowers.
Night fell. The fragrant air in the room seemed to be still filled
with the traces of Bhadra’s song. Sulakshan looked at his bride with
eyes full of wonder. The silence between them throbbed with a
thousand words. A litde later, Sulakshan looked into Lata’s eyes and
128 Sabitri Roy

asked mischievously, repeating almost the same words that he had

used six years ago, ‘I guess you haven’t read anything but the books
in your syllabus?’
‘Of course I have,’ Lata replied in the same light tone, ‘I’ve read
Rabindranath’s poems.’ Then she added gravely, ‘I have read other
things as well.’ She recited from Nazrul Islam’s poem:

I am the rebel, weary of strife,

But I cannot rest.
As long as the oppressed cry in agony,
Or the tyrant wields his bloody sword,
I am the rebel, weary of strife.
But I shall not rest.

Sulakshan and Lata had appeared in Bhadra’s life like a breath of

fresh air. After they left, she found herself being sucked again into
the familiar mire of depression. The thought of Partha seemed to
return even more insistently now that he was not there. All these
years, Bhadra had shut herself up in a solitary world, with only the
memory of her dead husband for company. But now she felt a new
desire coursing through her veins, a yearning for the one man in
whom she had found her ideal. The erect frame, the wide, strong
chest, the lines of the mouth, so composed: everything about him
beckoned to Bhadra with an irresistible force. She had never deluded
herself, and she was not afraid to acknowledge her own feelings now.
She was in love, and she was waiting for Partha to return to her, to
take her hand and lead her out of her self-created world of darkness.
Time passed. It was the end of winter. A pale tender green was
peeping out from the darkened branches of trees, spring was about
to arrive. The bou-katha-kao bird could be heard quite often now,
singing its heart out. Bhadra felt a new stirring within. Didn’t Partha
understand that she loved him? Finally, swallowing her pride, she
wrote to Partha: ‘I can see a barren field from my window. A narrow,
much-trodden path cuts across this field. Scores of people walk on
that path every day, but no one cares for the footprint he has left
there. The person who walks away does not even know how much
the path cherishes that litde touch: how that fleeting contact becomes
its source of sustenance.’
 Harvest Song 129

f
The fields were lying bare: the harvest was over. The farmers were
waiting for the settlement. But before that the grain had to be collected
in the granaries. Some farmers had already started the work of
threshing and Sarathi, too, led the oxen to their courtyard. Saraswati
and Rasumoni were busy winnowing the grain. Sarathi stole Sequent
glances at Saraswati as he led the oxen over the sheaves of grain: in
his eyes there was the memory of the month-long winter celebrations:
well-cooked turtle, toddy, and Saraswati, her eyes brimming
with love.
Saraswati had left Kartik’s house last year to come to Sarathi.
Now she was threshing grain in his courtyard, her lithe, young body
moving in perfect rhythm. Sarathi’s eyes fell on her bare neck. He
decided to get a couple of brass necklaces from the next haat for the
two young wives in their household.
Rasumoni winked at her sister-in-law and said, ‘Get up and
arrange for a smoke for your husband. Can’t you see how tired he
is?’ Then, looking mischievously at her brother-in-law, she said, ‘Your
wife is getting a hookah ready for you. Enjoy yourself. The oxen
deserve a break, too.’
Sarathi felt that a smoke was precisely what he wanted, but he
said sternly nevertheless, ‘No, I can’t take a break now. Don’t you
know we have a meeting this evening? All the comrades are expected:
you, too, will have to finish your work fast. The courtyard needs to
be cleaned.’
‘Comret,’ Rasumoni tried out the new word on her tongue, and
immediately broke into peals of laughter. Saraswati joined in, and in
sheer mirth, collapsed against Rasumoni. Sarathi looked on
indulgently. Give them half an excuse and they would burst into
laughter.
Sarathi’s father and elder brother returned from the granary. Gajen,
Sarathi’s father, sat down on a low stool in the courtyard. Walking
the four-mile distance with the heavy load of grains had proved quite
exhausting for him. He was also disturbed and angry. The nayeb had
threatened to withhold this year’s settlement until they paid off
130 Sabitri Roy

year’s debt, and to give the best plots on lease to the Muslim farmers.
The twenty maunds of grain which Gajen gave to the zamindar this
year, the nayeb had said, would be adjusted with the grain due for
the previous year. But if he couldn’t keep at least fifty maunds for
himself, how could he run his household? Even that would not be
enough for a family of six or seven to eat throughout the year.
Saraswati brought a hookah for her father-in-law, and almost
immediately Gajen’s wife stepped into the courtyard with a pile of
dried leaves. One look at her husband and she realized that all was
not well. ‘What’s wrong?’ she asked. ‘You seem upset.’
Sankhaman, her elder son, was grimly silent. His father replied
angrily, ‘Upset? Oh, no! How will those babus know what it means
to spend a lifetime in the fields trying to grow paddy? They summon
us from their palaces, and we are expected to rush to them with the
good things of life: today it’s a couple of chickens, tomorrow a duck
or a goat. Even if we gave them all we have, they’d probably ask for
more.’ He added bitterly, looking at his wife, ‘They ordered us to
send a goat tomorrow: some son-in-law of the zamindar is expected
from the town.’
The old woman asked incredulously, ‘And you agreed?’
Sankhaman said, ‘Is there any way out? The settlement is due
any day now. We owe them thirty maunds of grains as well.’
His mother was livid. ‘You call yourselves men! We should have
listened to Ganesh Das instead. Sarathi also had said that we’ll not
send even a single grain of paddy to their grain store if they don’t
give us the right to the land.’
‘If we listen to Sarathi we’ll be turned out of our house very soon,’
Gajen scolded her. ‘You have no idea what the babus are capable of.
There’s no difference between going against the zamindars and
stepping on a cobra.’
Sarathi had gone out, and as he entered the courtyard, he heard
the last few words exchanged by his parents.
‘Even a cobra can be beaten to death,’ he said. Gajen told him
about the threats of the nayeb. Sarathi understood how his father
must have felt. ‘You can’t possibly get back what you have already
given, but don’t give anything more,’ he said gravely, almost like a
king issuing an order.
Sankhaman frowned. ‘We have been under this system for
 Harvest Song 131

generations, how can it change in a day?’ he asked. ‘Do you think

they are going to give us the right to land simply because we
demand it?’
‘You will find out very soon,’ replied Sarathi.
Rasumoni brought their dinner: heaps of steaming rice and some
greens cooked with rice gruel. People started arriving almost as soon
as they finished dinner. Sankhaman got the hookah ready, and it was
passed round the group. Most of the people who came belonged to
the Hajong, Garo and Hadi tribes. They were excited: for many, this
was the first meeting of their lives.
Sarathi, too, felt excited and happy. Partha was expected today.
Sankhaman’s brother-in-law was among those present. He gave
Rasumoni a small packet wrapped in cloth and said, ‘Here’s some
steamed rice, bichibhat.’ Ganesh Das cried out, ‘How wonderful!”
He called Rasumoni, ‘Get a bowl quickly, will you?’ Gajen was happy
too. ‘Let’s all share what your parents have sent for us,’ he told his
daughter-in- law.
Sarathi told Rasumoni, ‘Keep some aside for Parthababu.’
‘Why this interest in Parthababu?’ Ganesh Das quipped. ‘You
don’t have a sister or a sister-in- law.’ Everyone burst out laughing.
N o one had noticed that Partha had arrived already and was standing
immediately behind Ganesh Das. He smiled and came forward.
‘Where is my share of bichibhat?’ he asked.
Everyone welcomed Partha excitedly. Gajen’s wife came out. ‘My
son has come back to Paharpur at last!’ she smiled widely. ‘It’s been
almost two years, hasn’t it?’

The meeting started. The men listened raptly to a tale of a strange

land where dreams of co-operative farms came true. It was their own
story that they heard from Partha. Words bearing hope came floating
through the darkness... movements against untouchability, workers’
organizations . . . It was time: time for them to raise their voices in
protest.
Most of the people assembled in the courtyard were Hadis from
132 Sabitri Roy

the north. Many were older than Partha, and yet they looked up to
him as their natural leader. They listened mesmerized: his maturity,
firm belief and indomitable spirit touched them in a strange way.
The Hadis were the descendents of King Haihaya, mentioned in the
Mahabharata, They were kshatriyas, and could demand the respect
that was due to the upper castes. More important, they were human
beings. They did not have to beg for their dignity, it was their birthright.
And yet they were labelled ‘untouchables’. Those very hands that
plucked flowers for the puja were not allowed to offer the flowers to
the goddess. Why?
Partha looked searchingly at the men facing him. They looked
lost in a maze. The silence of the night was broken once again as
Partha spoke: it is the farmer who toils from dawn to dusk in the
fields, but the harvest is stored in the zamindar’s granary. Why doesn’t
the farmer have a right over an inch of the land where he spends the
better part of his life? The meeting drew to a close. Partha ended his
speech with a pledge: ‘We may be poor, but we are human beings:
we demand to be treated as such. We pledge to restore the honour
and rights of the downtrodden, the farmers, of all those who have
been humiliated and tyrannized as untouchables. Let the sky and the
millions of stars above be witness to this.’
‘We make this pledge,’ the voices replied in unison.
As they went back home through the dark fields, their minds
resolute, Partha’s words seemed to reverberate in their ears.
Partha and Ganesh Das were following the farmers at a little
distance. This was Partha’s first meeting with Ganesh, who had also
been a political prisoner. They discussed the work that they hoped to
do as they walked together. ‘We have to unmask the zamindar first,’
Ganesh said, ‘otherwise these people will never come face to face
with reality.’

Sankhaman came back at dawn with a big load of fish and a wet net
hanging limp from his shoulder. Sarathi, his eyes reddened from lack
of sleep, looked indignantly at his elder brother. Sankhaman had
 Harvest Song 133

obviously crept out to steal fish while they were busy at the meeting.
‘So this is what you were doing the whole night?’ he asked. ‘Didn’t I
tell you stolen fish is not to enter our kitchen?’
‘This kitchen doesn’t belong to any one person,’ Sankhaman
replied stubbornly. Before he could finish speaking, Gajen came out.
‘What do you meanby stolen fish?’ he asked his younger son. ‘What
about our ducks which they took away the other day? Instead of
pronouncing judgement on your father and elder brother you could
do some work on the field, I suppose?’ Gajen taunted. ‘It has rained
a little; if you don’t sow the jute seeds while the soil is soft, when do
you think you’re going to do it? Following Ganesh Das about is not
going to bring the harvest home. He has got his own land, he can
have people like you and me working for him. We are poor farmers,
we can’t afford to do the kind of things they do.’
‘Oh, is Ganesh Das breaking his back for his own benefit then?
Sarathi asked bitterly. ‘Ungrateful wretch!’
Gajen was incensed. ‘How dare you call your own father an
ungrateful wretch!’ he shouted. Picking up a piece of wood, he
advanced on his son. Sarathi’s mother came running to stop him.
‘Have you gone mad?’ she said, ‘There’s a young daughter-in-law at
home, soon you’ll have a grandson, and you are trying to beat up
your grown-up son!’
Gajen threw away the wood in disgust. ‘It’s that daughter-in-law
who is the cause of all this trouble,’ he grumbled. ‘She’s ruined one
family, and now she has come to ruin mine.’

Rasumoni had lit a fire in a comer of the courtyard and was cooking
rice. Saraswati came back from the cowshed after feeding the cows.
She was looking distinctly displeased. Gajen asked Rasumoni, ‘Why
haven’t you cleaned the fish? Two young daughters-in-law in the
house, and not a single thing done!’
Neither of his daughters-in-law gave a reply, and Gajen was
very angry.
‘Oh, the princesses are angry, I suppose,’ he fumed, and sat down
134 Sabitri Roy

with the fish knife to clean the fish himself. His wife said bitingly,
‘The old man will cook the fish, and the young daughters-in- law
will eat. Wonderful!’
Saraswati spoke at last. ‘Who’s going to eat that fish,’ she asked,
‘except may be the old woman in the house?’
About to answer, the old woman suddenly shouted at Gajen,
‘Don’t use such a lot of soda, no one will be able to eat the fish.’
Rasumoni had finished cooking the rice. She took the pot of soda
silently from her father-in-law and started cooking the fish with salt,
chili powder and soda.
The old woman said to Saraswati, ‘Don’t I know w hy you’re
angry? The old man was going to hit your husband, that’s why. But
if he’s your husband, he’s also the old man’s son. Would your husband
have sprouted from the earth if his father hadn’t begotten him?’
The young women began to laugh. Sankhaman entered and the
old woman broke off. ‘How come you are back so early?” she asked.
*1 thought you had gone to chop wood?’
‘That’s all over,’ Sankhaman replied grimly. ‘The zamindar has
stationed his men near the Bilchar forest. Apparently the forest
belongs to him. We shall not be allowed to chop trees there anymore.’
‘Not allowed?’ the old woman was astounded. ‘That’s awful!’
Sarathi came up. ‘How can they say it’s not allowed?’ he said,
‘We shall use force if necessary. This forest isn’t the private garden of
any babu. The zamindar may have his men, but don’t we have our
bows and arrows?’
Gajen, however, could not be reassured. He remembered how as
a child he used to trot after his father and grandfather to the forest to
gather dry leaves and wood; how the sights and sounds o f the dark
mysterious forest had seeped slowly into his consciousness. As he
grew up, a strong bond was forged with the forest. And now the
zamindar was saying that people like Gajen had no right over the
forest! It seemed unreal. The old man said to himself over a mouthful
of rice and fish, ‘Now it’s only fish that we are stealing, what will it
be next? Possibly wood. The way things are developing, we might
even have to steal paddy in the future.’
His two-and-a-half year old grandson noticed that his grandfather
was chewing dry rice. ‘Eat the fish with the rice, Dadu,’ he said.
Gajen looked at his grandson affectionately. ‘You want to have
 Harvest Song 135

some?’ he asked, and gave the little boy some fish and rice.
‘Such fresh fish, isn’t it, Dadu?’ the boy said gleefully. Everyone
laughed. The old man said, ‘I hope to God that I’ll be able to provide
this fish and rice for my family as long as I live.’

Partha had been going around with Bhadra’s letter in his pocket for
the past few days. It had been more than two months since he had
come away from her house, and he had not even dropped a postcard
to her. He understood instinctively what must have prompted Bhadra
to write to him. ‘The person who walks away does not even know
. . . ’ she had written. That was not true, Partha thought. Even from
this distance of three hundred miles, he could see the longing in
Bhadra’s eyes. But there was no way that he could go back to her.
And it was time to write back, to tell her just that. He could not put
it off any longer. He got a grip on himself and brought his wandering
mind back to the task in hand. He wrote:

‘The wanderer leaves home responding to the irresistible call of the

outside world. His fulfilment lies in the path, not in the confines of
home. That is why he is a wanderer; home is not for him. His destiny
lies elsewhere’

Partha posted the letter immediately, but as he returned from the

post office, he felt as if he had killed a vital part of himself.
The small tin-roofed house where Partha lived was dark by the
time he came back. He lit an oil lamp and sat down at the table to
write He had taken the correct decision, he told himself sternly; it
was morally wrong to surrender to a desire by going against one’s
conscience.
Summer was approaching: the air was already quite warm. Partha
opened the window to the south. He could see Ganesh Das’s house
from here Women with lamps were going in and out of the rooms;
one was washing dishes at the pond. A quiet, serene picture set in
the frame of life. None knew better than Partha the struggle that life
136 Sabitri Roy

really was. And yet he looked on yearningly at the mundane work of

these ordinary people. A curious heaviness settled on him. What
was the cause of this hitherto unfelt pain? Partha searched within
himself, but found no answer.
He remembered Debaki as he had seen her for the last time. How
utterly helpless and forlorn she had looked as she left her native village
for good! She had come to him asking for help at the most inopportune
time. Who knew that she would upset every calculation that he had
ever made about his life? She had been turned out of her in-laws’
house because she loved Partha. There was no doubt in Partha’s mind:
he was morally responsible. But Debaki did not know that it was not
she whose memory quickened Partha’s heartbeats. It was not Debaki
whose comforting presence Partha wanted desperately in such
moments of intense self-recrimination. He could not call Bhadra to
come to him anymore, Partha thought miserably. He had himself
shut that door firmly. It was too late now.

Suddenly, Partha felt someone’s hand on his shoulder. Turning, he

found Sulakshan standing before him. Partha embraced him eagerly
like a long-lost friend, although they had actually met for only six
hours or so.
‘I haven’t come alone,’ Sulakshan said shyly, ‘there’s someone
with me.’
Partha hurried out. ‘Look at Sulakshan,’ he said apologetically,
‘keeping you waiting like this. Good heavens! It’s Lata!’
‘Be careful,’ Sulakshan warned Lata, ‘there’s a pothole right in
front of you.’ Then he asked Partha, ‘Did you think it really could be
anyone else with me?’
Partha noticed the crimson line of sindoor in the parting of Lata’s
hair. ‘How did you manage to achieve something so wonderful?’
‘With the help of Bhadra Devi,’ Sulakshan answered immediately,
giving him a piercing look. The very mention of the name of Bhadra
was like opening a fresh wound, but he controlled himself quickly
enough, and said with a smile, ‘With the help of Bhadra Devi? That’s
 Harvest Song 137

wonderful!’ Then he looked at Lata and asked, ‘I hope you still have
the copy of Lettersfrom RussiaV
Both Lata and Sulakshan blushed. Partha congratulated them
and said, ‘You must have walked from the station, you’d better get
some rest. I’ll arrange for some food.’ He hurried out.
Sulakshan stretched out on the bed. Observing the tired lines on
Lata’s face, he said teasingly, ‘You must be exhausted. If your feet
are aching 1 can massage them.’
‘Tell me if you want yours massaged instead,’ Lata said.
‘That won’t be bad either,’ Sulakshan said. ‘Will you, please?’
‘If you ask your wife to massage your feet the Party will
expel you.’
Sulakshan heaved a dramatic sigh. ‘Honestly, it was a blunder to
join the Party. May be this is why no one wants to become a
communist: you can’t make your wife massage your feet.’
Partha returned with a kettle, two glasses and a small bundle
wrapped in his handkerchief.
Sulakshan sat up and asked Lata to pour out the tea. ‘Why have
you brought only two glasses?’ he asked Partha, ‘Have you quit having
tea as well? Your room sure has a Spartan look.’
Partha shook his head smilingly and went to get a glass for himself.
Very soon, he was back with some rice, salt, potatoes and eggs.
‘Are you planning to cook for us?’ Sulakshan said enthusiastically,
‘That’s great!’
Lata stood up to help. ‘As long as I am here you don’t have to
cook,’ she said to Partha.
‘This isn’t your Pishima’s ashram, but the house of a “comrade”,’
Sulakshan reminded her. Lata, however, was not willing to listen.
She went over to where Partha was kneeling beside the stove.
‘You’d better get up, you know,’ she told Partha, ‘or I’ll simply
refuse to eat. What you can do is get me some water.’
‘Things are getting difficult for you,’ Sulakshan said to Partha.
‘Let’s see,’ Partha said as he went out to fetch the water.
‘Tomorrow I mean to get my own back.’ Sulakshan dropped on his
knees in front of Lata.
‘You are irresistible,’ he said softly. ‘Can I kiss you?’
‘Shameless!’ said Lata, horrified. ‘Suppose Parthada hears you?’
Sulakshan pulled a furiously blushing Lata towards him and
138 Sabitri Roy

whispered, ‘Shame wasn’t of much use to me. Let’s see if being

shameless helps!’
The rest was lost in a passionate kiss. ‘Let me go, please,’ Lata
pleaded. 'How did a greedy man like you manage to stay in jail for
such a long time?’
They could see the light from Partha’s torch in the distance.
Sulakshan lit a cigarette and sat down on the doorstep. Lata began to
pour out the starch from the rice. Every inch of her body was tingling
with pleasure.
Partha came back with the water, accompanied by a young man
from the Hajong tribe. Lata was more curious about the girl who
came with them, carrying a lantern: there was an intimate smile on
her lips, as if she had known them for a long time.
Partha introduced them. ‘Meet Sarathi and his wife, Saraswati.’
Lata realized who they were. ‘Yes, I have heard about them from
Bhadradi,’ she said. ‘They are the famous hero and heroine of
Paharpur, aren’t they?’
Partha said to Sarathi, ‘It’s getting late, you’d better go back home.
You’ll get to know each other tomorrow.’
Sarathi raised a fist and greeted Sulakshan, ‘Red salute to you,
comrade.’
Sulakshan was too moved to speak. He simply raised his fist in
salutation.
Sarathi and Saraswati left. Sulakshan threw away his cigarette
butt and said to Partha, ‘It was great to meet the hero and heroine of
Paharpur. You have found your vocation at last, I see.’ Time passed
swiftly. Sulakshan and Partha talked into the night, reliving the past
year for each other.
It was close to midnight. Partha noticed that Lata was trying
desperately to keep awake. He stood up, saying, ‘It’s quite late, you
should get some sleep.’ He selected a volume of poetry, The Season of
Flowers, from his own collection and wrote on the title-page: ‘In
remembrance of one night’.
‘An old book for an old friend,’ he said, as he gave the book to
Sulakshan. Lata took the book from him, and noticed the Buxar
Fort seal on the first page. She understood why Partha had chosen
this book: it was the perfect gift from one political prisoner to another.
Partha left Lata and Sulakshan together. The tender look of love
 Harvest Song 139

that passed so often between them had not escaped him. Inevitably,
the thought of Bhadra rushed back to him. Lata had said, *1 have
heard from Bhadradi. .. the hero and heroine of Paharpur. ’ So Bhadra
remembered each and every little bit that she had learnt from Partha!
He was plunged into the depths of despair once more. The cool breeze
of the late hours whirled around him, and in the distant darkness
Partha seemed to see a pair of tired eyes, waiting eternally, keeping
the love and longing alive.

The next afternoon, a small gathering met at Partha’s house. Apart

from Lata, Sulakshan, and Partha, two others were present: Ganesh
Das and a local leader. Sulakshan listened to a report of the previous
year’s work: starting from the movement against untouchability to
the movement against ‘tonk’ or sharecropping.
‘So last year the zamindars had trouble immersing the idols?’
he asked.
‘Yes, and that’s why we had a community Kali puja this year,’
Ganesh Das said enthusiastically.
They lit up bidis happily, as if to celebrate the victory. 'So you all
think I should go back to Shivbari?’ Sulakshan asked.
‘We should not segregate ourselves from our family and our people
to pursue our work,’ Ganesh Das said. ‘We have to live with them in
order to work with them.’
The meeting drew to a close. Suddenly, Ganesh Das asked
Sulakshan, ‘Do you happen to know Rajen Sarkar of Shivbari?’
‘He is my cousin,’ Sulakshan replied.
‘Cousin!’ Partha exclaimed.
Sulakshan noticed Partha’s amazement and explained, ‘My uncle
and my aunt died when Rajen was very small, and he has been brought
up in our house. But why do you ask?’
‘He’s the closest of enemies, then,' Ganesh Das said sarcastically,
*but of course, being natives of the land of the Mahabharata and
knowing stories like that of Karna and Arjun, we should be prepared
to meet one or two such people in every house.’
140 Sabitri Roy

Sulakshan looked quite at a loss. Ganesh Das explained, ‘Rajen

is a Hindu leader of that area, that is, a politically motivated one.
Besides, we’ve heard reports that he has driven his wife out.’
‘Driven his wife out?’ Sulakshan looked shocked.
Partha was feeling extremely uncomfortable. Rajen’s wife was
Debaki, and Partha’s name had been connected with hers. Sulakshan
did not know that, but this was a small place, and very soon the spicy
story would reach his ears. What would he think of Partha then?
Ganesh Das realized that Lata was also present, and thought it
better not to continue the discussion. Sulakshan also did not ask any
more questions. But no one failed to notice the look of horror in
Lata’s eyes.
Suddenly, everyone stopped talking. The sound of drums could
be heard plainly: the zamindar’s men were making a round of the
village. ‘If the paddy does not reach the granary within seven days, a
case will be filed immediately,’they announced. The words, repeated
over and over again, were carried by the winds over the empty fields
to distant comers. Villagers came out to listen to the final order of
the zamindar.
‘Things are going to heat up in a week’s time, it seems,’ Partha
said.
‘Open combat, isn’t it?’ Sulakshan said. He sounded excited about
the prospect.
‘Yes, absolutely. But the problem is with the old men. Sarathi’s
father, for instance, has already sent twenty maunds of paddy to the
granary. If we are divided among ourselves, how can we succeed?’
‘True enough,’ Sulakshan replied. ‘But we have to use the rod, if
all else fails, to spread the message of equality.’
The meeting broke up. Ganesh Das took Lata away to introduce
her to the women of his house. When they were alone, Partha said
to Sulakshan, ‘Let’s go out for a stroll. I still have a whole lot to
discuss with you.’
They sat down in a lonely spot beside the river. There was not a
sound anywhere except the shrill cry of wild ducks overhead. Partha
started speaking in a low voice. Sulakshan listened spellbound: his
friend and the one his sister-in-law loved, the one and the same? It
did not sound real. Partha seemed a completely different person now
and even his voice seemed burdened with grief. ‘I have always
 Harvest Song 141

regarded Debaki as my sister, and I never imagined that things would

take such a turn,’ Partha said sadly.
‘Perhaps it wasn’t possible for you to worry about this at a time
when there was so much political unrest,’ Sulakshan said. He was
thinking about Bhadra. Had he made a mistake? Was Partha
completely indifferent to her? Since Partha said nothing about Bhadra,
Sulakshan thought it better not to raise the subject.
‘Will you please try to make them return Debaki’s child?’ Partha
implored.
‘Of course,’ Sulakshan assured him, ‘but whatever I’ve heard of
my brother and the little that I know of our liberal Hindu law makes
me feel that it’ll be no use.’

The mistress of the Sarkar household had just finished her early
morning puja when Sulakshan and Lata stepped into the courtyard.
Before his stepmother could react, Sulakshan came forward and
bowed his head at her feet.
‘I’ve brought you your daughter-in-law, Ma,’ he said, smiling.
Lata’s mother-in-law controlled her utter amazement and
managed to murmur a few words of blessing.
‘Do they arrange for your marriage as well in jail?’ she asked
Sulakshan, genuinely astonished.
‘It wouldn’t be bad at all if they did,’ Sulakshan laughed, ‘but
unfortunately, the British government is not all that intelligent.’
His stepmother did not approve of this shamelessness, but for the
sake of appearances, expressed her delight and escorted Lata inside.
Hashi, her eldest daughter, was married and at present was staying
at her in-laws’. Tushi and Pushi, the two younger daughters, stared
at their ex-convict brother and his wife from a distance. Their mother
called them to come and greet their guests.
Sulakshan drew his sisters close to him.
‘I never expected to see you in saris,’ he said affectionately, ‘you
look so grown up!’
Pushi was sixteen, Tushi thirteen. Listening to their brother’s naive
142 Sabitri Roy

remark, both started to giggle. Soon, the women of the neighbourhood

came to see the new daughter-in-law. By the end of the day, the whole
village had come to know that Sulakshan had brought a beautiful
wife home.
In the evening, a group of women entered their courtyard and
called out, ‘Hashi’s Ma, where’s your daughter-in-law? We’ve heard
that she’s very beautiful.’
‘Yes, of course,’ Hashi’s mother answered, suppressing a pang of
jealousy, ‘but let me warn you, she’s not very young, and should
have been a mother of two or three by now.’
Lata blushed. But today Hashi’s mother’s taunt proved to be
ineffective. One of the neighbours shot back, “That’s nothing. These
days everyone has one or two such unmarried girls at home.’ Hashi’s
mother understood that the neighbour was hinting about Pushi. But
she was in no mood to get into an argument. She had just settled
down nicely with her daughters and her nephew, and had never
thought that her stepson would return unexpectedly with a wife. But
she could not very well express her feelings: if she did not welcome
Sulakshan and his wife, she would lose face before her neighbours.
At night, Hashi’s mother opened a room in the main wing of the
house for Sulakshan and Lata. She turned the key on the heavy rusted
lock and the door to the dark, big room opened with a screech.
Immediately, a musty smell hit them. Hashi’s mother handed
Sulakshan the bunch of keys and said, ‘I thought your Thakurda’s
room would be the best for both of you. After all, it’s not right that
his descendant should stay in some other room.’ She smiled to herself
at this masterstroke, and left them.
Brushing the dust from the small stool used by his grandfather to
climbing onto the high bed, Sulakshan sat down. He lit a cigarette
and looked at the blackened walls around him, thinking about the
years that his grandparents had spent within them. Sulakshan had
some knowledge of architecture, but he did not understand the logic
of building a room without any windows. There were only two huge
teak doors to the north and south, but the original colour was hardly
visible now under layers of vermillion and the white paint of alpanas.
Sulakshan’s grandfather had been a wealthy landowner and his
grandmother, too, had been the daughter of a zamindar. Their heavy,
ornate bed bore testimony to the aristocratic spirit of its owners. But
 Harvest Song 143

the darkness that shrouded the comers seemed to speak of generations

of plotting and conspiracy. Sulakshan remembered how scared he
used to be as a child to enter this room: bats crowded the ceiling and
a huge scimitar hung on the wall. It seemed to the child Sulakshan
that in the very walls of his grandfather’s room were trapped millions
of moans and sighs. Even today, traces of that fear remained.
Sulakshan looked at his obviously scared wife and asked teasingly,
‘Can’t you spend the next twenty-five years in this room? Look at
that bed. The spirits of my ancestors are probably lying there right
now. Go, ask my grandmother’s ghost to make room for you.’
‘That’s enough,’ Lata said with an attempt at a smile, ‘you are
making my flesh creep. Let’s keep the kerosene lamp burning through
the night.’
‘If we keep it burning in this confined space, we shall meet
grandma’s ghost in the other world before morning,’ Sulakshan said,
and turned off the lamp.
Lata felt suffocated in the musty, dark and cavernous room. It
was like a grave. Would she really have to spend the rest of her life in
this room? She lay awake for a long time, then, staring unseeingly in
front of her, she asked Sulakshan, ‘Tell me, what kind of cells were
you put in when you were in jail?’
Sulakshan was half-asleep. He answered drowsily, ‘Much worse
than this room. Half its size, actually.’ He turned on his side and was
asleep in a moment. But Lata reached out in the darkness and held
her husband’s strong hand tightly. Her troubled sleep was broken at
midnight: the room was pitch dark and her heart was pounding.
Sulakshan woke up and found Lata almost gasping for breath.
‘What’s the matter?’ he asked, ‘Have you had a nightmare?’
‘Would you mind if we kept the lamp burning?’ Lata pleaded.

The next morning, Sulakshan made a round of the house. To the

north of the courtyard lay the wing that used to be occupied by his
grandparents. A new wing had been added to the south, where his
stepmother lived now. He selected a spot facing the roacftowards the
144 Sabitri Roy

west and went to talk to his stepmother.

‘Thakurma left me a plot of land which she inherited from her
father. Do you have any idea about the present status of that land?’
Hashi’s mother was alarmed. ‘Why are you suddenly interested
in that plot?’ she asked.
‘It’s not sudden at all,’ Sulakshan replied. ‘I need the documents
related to that plot. I was thinking of giving it out on lease and
constructing a small house for us in the west, near the pineapple
plantation. I have spent enough time in jail, and don’t want to spend
the rest of my life in that room. I’ll suffocate if I have to spend another
night there.’
‘Or rather, your wife will suffocate,’ said Hashi’s mother bitingly.
‘That’s true,’ Sulakshan smiled. ‘Since she’s my wife, the doors
of the jail will always be open for her. Why put her in a cell before I
am forced to?’
Hashi’s mother became more careful. This man was clearly
different from someone like Rajen. He could answer strong words
with equally strong ones softly. Moreover, he was asking for
documents even before he had properly settled down. Of course, she
need not fear as her husband had taken care of all that. All the property
had been willed to her, and Sulakshan could not even touch it. As
Sulakshan sat down to lunch, she took care to inform him of that.
Sulakshan smiled to himself. His father seemed to have had a lot of
foresight.
The new whitewashed mud house with a tin roof was up in a few
days. Sunlight streamed in through large windows on all sides.
Sulakshan took some time off each day from the work on the house
to visit his neighbours. One morning he told his stepmother, ‘I’m
planning to go to Talpukur this afternoon, and I’ve decided to pick
up Rajen’s wife on my way back. Why don’t you write a letter?’
Hashi’s mother immediately became wary. So far she had
successfully avoided confrontation on this issue. She preserved a grave
exterior, however, and said, ‘Rajen has disowned his wife.’
‘Disowned her? Why? What has she done?’
‘Ask your brother that when he comes back. He has taken his son
to Calcutta. There’s no one to look after the infant here, so I suggested
that Rajen should leave him with his sister there. She can bring him
up like her own son.’
 Harvest Song 145

‘Wonderful!’ Sulakshan’s voice was like a whiplash. ‘You have

scripted quite a drama, I see.’ Hashi’s mother was not one to swallow
such an insult, especially from her stepson. She, too, replied sharply,
‘If the daughter-in-law of the house behaves like a heroine in a drama,
why should you blame the men?’
‘Oh, yes,’ Sulakshan said. ‘Men are paragons of virtue, I suppose.
But what about the child? What has he done for you to tear him
away from his mother’s breast?’
Hashi’s mother effected a sudden change in tone.
‘All this is none of my business,’ she said indifferently. ‘It was
your brother who said that he was not going to let his son be corrupted
by allowing a whore to suckle him.’
The more he came to know about his brother, the more difficult it
seemed to Sulakshan to try to return Debaki’s son to her. He said to
his stepmother, “You might as well know: I have decided that Rajen
will have to leave this house.”
Hashi’s mother was about to say that the house did not belong to
Sulakshan alone, but she kept her mouth shut. She herself was not
very pleased with Rajen. He had borrowed five hundred rupees from
her to use in a textile business, on condition that they would share
the profits. Let alone the profit, he had not returned even a single
paisa from the principal amount. Both Rajen and Sulakshan were
the same to Hashi’s mother now: she decided to let them fight it out.
Moreover, if there would be talk in the neighbourhood, her stepson
would have to take the blame.
While Sulakshan was talking to his stepmother, Tushi and Pushi
came to meet Lata. They had heard that their sister-in-law had studied
in a college: she was clearly different from the girls they had seen so
far. Tushi and Pushi were fascinated.
‘Let’s go to the terrace, Boudi,’ they said. ‘You cam see the river
from there.’
Both the hall and the staircase were pitch dark. Once she reached
the terrace, however, a beautiful vista opened up before her. The dark
line of forest was visible on the horizon, and the river could be seen
flowing serenely in the distance.
‘Would you like to go for a stroll near the river one of these days,
Boudi?’ asked Pushi. Both the sisters understood instinctively that
the strict rules of this house would naturally be relaxed for this
146 Sabitri Roy

educated sister-in-law of theirs, and so their voices softened

automatically when they spoke to her.
Suddenly, Tushi pointed to the husking shed and whispered, ‘Boro
Boudi hanged herself there.’
Lata had already heard this terrible news from Sulakshan. She
stared at the dark, heavy beams. It was hard to believe that a young
girl like herself had died there. It seemed to Lata that the young
woman’s last breath was still lingering in the close air of the husking-
shed. Lata’s eyes filled with tears as she paid her last respects to the
dead woman.
While Lata explored the house with Tushi and Pushi, Sulakshan
went out to have a look around. The jute factories were situated along
the railway tracks. The huge godowns o f jute on the riverside could
also be seen from there. One of the British managers was out with
his wife and pet dog on a trolley for an afternoon spin. The Bagdis,
sweaty and loaded down with bundles o f jute, were walking towards
the office. Sulakshan asked one of them, ‘Who’s that man on the
trolley?’
‘He’s the manager of the John Brothers factory,’ the worker
replied.
‘And whose factory is that one in the east?’
‘That’s the factory of the C. M. Company.’
Sulakshan looked at the bungalow. It was painted in a nice shade
of green, and a terrier was chained on the verandah, A gardener was
busy mowing the spacious tennis lawn. A young English couple was
enjoying their afternoon coffee in the front lawn. The fresh air of the
spring afternoon carried the strong smell of some foreign perfume to
Sulakshan.
‘Created quite a paradise for yourselves, haven’t you?’ thought
Sulakshan bitterly. ‘And not even a mile directly behind you is a hell
that you have gifted the people of our country.'
He walked towards the river, skirting the bungalow. He had to
meet Rajaram. He could see the huge steam engines in the factories
pressing jute. Right next to them, the C. M. Co. used an electric
machine for the same work. The air was heavy with the heat of the
boiler, the smell of jute and the grinding noise of the machine.
Sulakshan entered the machine room of John Brothers & Co.
Most of the workers here were non-Bengalis and Muslims. A fierce
 Harvest Song 147

fire burned in the furnace, bales of jute weighing ten or twelve maunds
were packed in trolleys. Tugboats waited impatiently on the
riverbank—there was no way that the machines could stop rolling.
The entire European continent and America were waiting for these
bales of jute, and in their interest, the clerks, supervisors and farmers
here worked non-stop. Every year the farmers crowded the houses
of moneylenders to buy jute seeds. Sulakshan knew all about the
invisible strength of the giant of capitalism which was pulling all
these trolleys away from his country to the other side of the Atlantic.
He had seen the face of the blood-sucking vampire that lay hidden
behind the mask of each of these red-faced Company Sahibs.
Presumably, people like Ganesh Das, Partha, Rajaram and Aziz also
were aware of this. But what about the simple farmers and factory
workers? They were the ones whose blood and sweat went into the
production, but they were blind to the truth.
It was difficult to find Rajaram in the factory, so Sulakshan went
to the basti where Aziz lived. In a comer of the courtyard there was
a heap of leftover rice being scattered by crows and hens. On the
other side, a man slept on a string bed, his paunch heaving
rhythmically. Two boys, stark naked, played riotously in the mud.
Only a portion of the dark room was visible from where Sulakshan
stood. He could see no one, but heard the jingling of women’s bangles
inside. He asked one of the children, ‘Is Aziz at home?’ The children
looked suspiciously at him. Who was this bespectacled stranger asking
for their father? The elder one turned his back on Sulakshan and
went inside. The smaller of the two, now clearly scared, immediately
followed his elder brother. Sulakshan smiled. It was natural, he
thought, for them to be scared of him: after all, whatever they had
seen of well-dressed gentlemen was nothing but frightening.
Aziz had just returned from work. He came out wiping the sweat
from his brow, and stared at Sulakshan.
‘Aziz Mian, I suppose?’ Sulakshan asked.
He nodded. Sulakshan gave him the letter from Ganesh Das. ‘My
name is Sulakshan,’ he said.
Aziz brightened up immediately. ‘It is good to see you back,’ he
said enthusiastically. He brought out a string bed from his room for
Sulakshan to sit on. His wife, her head covered with her sari, peered
out curiously to see the jail-returned babu.
148 Sabitri Roy

As they talked on, the day drew to a dose. The factory workers
started returning in ones and twos. Goods trains carrying jute moved
on the serpentine tracks towards the riverbank. Children playing along
the railway tracks shrieked and fought among themselves, ignoring
the rank and putrid smell that enveloped the whole place. With the
evening came thousands of mosquitoes, hovering overhead like dark
clouds.
Sulakshan knew that this was the month of roja, Ramadan, for
the Muslims and it was time for their only meal in the day. He left
Aziz’s house with a sense of quiet satisfaction. This was only the
beginning; there was a whole lot to be done.

Hashi’s mother was sitting on the steps of the main wing of their
house, combing her daughters' hair. Her sister-in-law, known in the
neighbourhood as Haru’s mother, looked in for a chat. Hashi’s mother
called out to Tushi: ‘Get your aunt a stool to sit on.’
‘There’s no need for a stool,’ protested her sister-in-law. ‘I can
easily sit down here on the steps. I thought I should get to know
Sulakshan’s wife better. After all, our Haru and Sulakshan were
classmates.’ As Lata bowed her head at the feet of the two older
women, Haru’s mother put sindoor in the parting of Lata’s hair and
on her loha, the iron bangle that symbolized marriage.
‘She’s so educated, and yet look how nice she is!’ thought Haru’s
mother.
‘Get a paan for your aunt,’ Hashi’s mother told Lata.
‘Well, you cheated us out of the wedding feast,’ joked Haru’s
mother, ‘but you won’t do the same with your grandson’s armaprasan,
I hope?’
Lata fetched a paan for her aunt-in-law. Haru’s mother asked her,
‘How many brothers and sisters do you have?’
It was Hashi’s mother who replied sourly, ‘She has lost both her
parents and her brothers and sisters. She must have been born under
an evil star.’
 Harvest Song 149

‘Why do you say that? Our lovely daughter-in-law can’t bring bad
luck to anyone. A woman’s fortune rests with her husband. I bless
her with all my heart: she will have a long, happy life with her husband
and children.’
Lata looked gratefully at Haru’s mother.
‘I have a lot o f work at home, it’s time I left,’ Ham’s mother said
as she stood up.
Hashi’s mother looked up at the sky and said anxiously, ‘It’s almost
dark, and I haven’t even chopped the vegetables.’
‘Tell me which vegetables to chop, I’ll do it,’ Lata said. ‘You can
go for your bath.’
Hashi’s mother took out the rice, dal, vegetables and oil from the
storeroom and said tauntingly, ‘Don’t forget that you are now part of
a poor family. We can’t afford servants, we do our own work.’
Lata smiled and said nothing. After her mother-in-law went for
her bath. Lata called to Tushi and Pushi, ‘Let’s all go to the kitchen.
I’ll tell you stories while I cook.’
A little later, Hashi’s mother was preparing cotton wicks for the
puja as she heard voices and laughter from the kitchen. ‘Our daughter-
in-law seems to be quite fun-loving,’ she thought.
Lata was telling them a ghost story. Sukhomoy, Tushi and Pushi’s
younger brother, was also there, listening raptly. He asked Lata,
‘Boudi, do you believe in ghosts?’
‘I didn’t earlier, but after spending three nights in that spooky
room of yours. I’m ready to believe even in the ghost’s grandfather
and grandmother.’
Suddenly, a ray of light fell on the courtyard and they heard
footsteps. Sukhomoy looked up to find Rajen’s servant standing there
with a lantern. ‘Babu sent me to fetch his suitcase,’ he said. Hashi’s
mother was surprised. ‘Has Rajen returned from Calcutta?’ she asked,
‘Why didn’t he come home?’
‘How can he come home if the owner of the house doesn’t let
him enter?’
‘And who is the owner of the house?’
‘Oh, so you don’t know who it is?’ the servant asked sharply.
Hashi’s mother felt the words hit her like a slap. She brought out
Rajen’s suitcase without uttering a single word.
150 Sabini Roy

f
It was quite late when Lata finished her work in the kitchen. By that
time, her mother-in-law, Tushi and Pushi had already gone to bed.
Lata went to the small house Sulakshan was building for them. It
was not quite finished, although they had already shifted there.
Sulakshan had deliberately built the veranda looking out on the
plantation in the west. An ancient easy chair, which he had salvaged
from the house, was kept there. Lata found him sitting there, enjoying
a cigarette. The world, covered by the sheer veil of the magical
moonlight, looked ethereal. Sulakshan looked out, thinking about
his work, making plans.
Lata walked up to her husband silently and sat down on the bench
next to his chair. Sulakshan quoted softly from The Season o f Flowers,
the book Partha had given them: ‘A wispy dream has touched the
eyes of Lata
Lata didn’t answer. A little later, Sulakshan said, ‘Lata, I’m
worried.’
‘What about?’
‘You know that I shall have to stay out for the better part of the
day. How will you stay at home alone, especially in this kind of a
house?’
‘Did you think that your Lata will remain a shy newly-wed girl
for the rest of her life?’ Lata asked, ‘Doesn’t the comrade remember
that the ideal wife is also a co-worker?’
Sulakshan could not contain his happiness. ‘Isn’t that just like my
darling wife?’ he said, ‘You know, the whole afternoon I was very
depressed thinking about the kind of treatment you are receiving
from the mistress of this house. I was afraid that my Lata will not be
able to bear it for long.’
‘With your support, I can bear everything.’
‘I shall always be there for you. Always.’
Sulakshan showered kisses on Lata’s eyelids, on her soft pink lips.
Then he said, almost in a trance, ‘After you came into my life, I
began to feel how woefully inadequate a single life is for satisfying
the endless love that we have in our hearts. It’s not even been one
 Harvest Song 151

month since we got married, but it seems I have known you for ages.
I have even started to imagine the kind of life we’re going to have
when we grow old. You will be as close to me then as you are today.
And as for me, I will cheat all your grandchildren to sneak up to
your heart’
'All your grandchildren . . . ’ Lata repeated, and both of them
started to laugh.
Even as they were laughing, Sulakshan noticed a shadow slip
behind the wall. It was a woman, and Sulakshan knew who was
spying on them. He sighed. Even on such a night they would not be
left alone.
He did not say anything to his wife. She was leaning against him,
loose hair framing her face Sulakshan ran his fingers lovingly through
the strands and said, ‘Shouldn’t you go to bed? You have to get up
early tomorrow morning.’
A little later, he entered the room. Lata was lying on the bed,
half-asleep. Sulakshan stood there mesmerized, looking at his wife:
it seemed that all the beauty of the world had been gathered in her
perfect body. He took her in his arms. Blood rushed in a mad dance
through his veins, and that night, Sulakshan tasted the incredible
ecstasy of life.

Everyone at home was waiting eagerly. Sukhomoy returned shouting,

“Boudi, start getting things ready for the cooking. We’ve got a huge
rui fish. Dada is bringing it himself.’
Tushi and Pushi jumped up.
‘Really?’ they cried. ‘Or is it only a mrigel?’
‘No, it’s a rui, a lovely crimson one. Dada asked me to tell you to
cook kofta with it.’
Lata sat down to make the spice paste and told Pushi, ‘Peel these
onions and ginger for me, there’s a darling. We have to get some
garam masala as well from Ma.’
Lata brought the water and even kept the wood ready for the
stove, but there was no sign of Sulakshan.
152 Sabitri Roy

Tushi said, ‘Dada has got hooked to fishing. I’ll go and call him.’
But almost immediately, Sulakshan entered the courtyard with a
long bamboo leaf hanging from his fishing hook. Sukhomoy followed
him, swinging the empty bag.
Tushi and Pushi jumped up to see what was there in the bag, and
said incredulously,
‘There’s nothing here!’
Sulakshan burst into laughter.
‘Why, what about this huge rui on my fishing hook?’ he asked.
‘Oh, I see,’ Tushi said, ‘fooling us, were you? Just you wait, we
are going to cook nothing but dal and rice tonight.’
But when they sat down to dinner, Sukhomoy and Sulakshan
had a surprise.
‘Why, fish kofta!’ Sulakshan exclaimed delightedly. ‘Where did
you get the fish from? Haru bought it from the haat, I suppose?’
Lata smiled as she served them. ‘Didn’t you catch a huge rui this
afternoon?’ she asked.
‘If you cook like this, I’m going to catch such a rui every
afternoon,’ said Sulakshan.
But when they finished eating, Tushi and Pushi jumped up in
glee. ‘You’ve been fooled!’ they screamed, ‘Boudi has won! Do you
know what that kofta was made of? Cabbage!’
‘Really?’ Sulakshan said smiling, ‘then I confer the tide o f “Cook
Supreme” on your Boudi.’ Hashi’s mother was having dinner in the
vegetarian kitchen while Lata served her. Sukhomoy ran in and said
delightedly, ‘Boudi, Dada has given you the tide of “Cook Supreme”!
You must cook the cabbage kofta for mashima one of these days.’
Hashi’s mother said as she sipped her milk, ‘No, she can’t cook in
my kitchen till she completes one year of her marriage. I don’t need
anything; as long as you all are enjoying your food, that’s enough.’
She felt a stab of jealousy at the praise for her daughter-in-law, but
smiled with an effort, and gave her verdict: ‘But the way your Boudi
is pouring oil and ghee in the cooking, she will run out of a year’s
supply in a month.’
It was almost two o’clock in the afternoon. Lata entered their
room after she had completed her work in the kitchen. Her long hair
was still wet from her bath. Warm sunlight was coming in from the
 Harvest Song 153

west window, and Lata lay down on the bed, slighdy drowsy, her
hair spread out in the sun. Sulakshan was writing a pamphlet. Looking
out, he saw the runner going towards the post office, and went out to
check their post.
He returned soon with two letters. Both were for Lata, one from
her aunt and the other from Bhadra. Sulakshan looked at her as she
lay there reading her letters, completely oblivious to the world, and
he felt his heart go out to her. It was poignantly obvious that a vital
part of Lata was getting lost in the pettiness and trivialities of everyday
life here. He glanced at Ishani Devi’s letter, which Lata had given
him to read. ‘You should respect your mother-in-law like your own
mother,’ Lata’s aunt had written. If only she knew, thought Sulakshan.
Lata finished going through Bhadra’s letter and read it out to
Sulakshan:

‘Lata,
‘I have read your letter hundreds of times in these few days.
Your tin-roofed house, the smell of the young bamboo
poles, the pineapple plantation and the lichi grove, the deep,
dark pond—every little thing in your life seems familiar
now. You may not know this, but your blue envelope has
brought me a handful of sunshine straight from your
verandah. My love and good wishes will always be there for
both of you.
Today is a holiday for me. My father-in-law is tinkering
with his tools in the next room, and here I am on the floor,
resting my elbows on a pillow, writing to a college-educated
village bride. Even from this distance I can see her dhakai
sari, and the red line of sindoor in her hair.
I am free today, completely and utterly free. I can feel the
profound silence that lies underneath: it speaks to me of a
quiet afternoon, peaceful and shaded under the tall mango
trees. How quiet and self-absorbed is the tall neem tree
beside my window! It is planted in my neighbour’s soil, and
yet I am the one to whom it secretly gives away all its
treasures. These are stolen treasures. Yet I feel like a queen.
‘Bhadra.’
154 Sabitri Roy

Both were silent for a while after Lata finished reading out
Bhadra’s letter. Then she went back to her aunt’s letter and Sulakshan
to his unfinished pamphlet, but the final words of Bhadra’s letter
kept ringing in Sulakshan’s ears. The rays of the setting sun fell on
his writing table. He stood up. It was time to go out. The Hindustani
jute workers lived in a basti by the river. Sulakshan stood before one
of the houses and called out,
‘Rajaramji?’
Rajaram came out.
‘Ram Ram, babuji,’ he said.
‘Ram Ram,’ Sulakshan replied, and followed Rajaram in. A dirty
old pile of bedding rested on the floor, and a torn mosquito net hung
from a nail in the corner. A picture of Hanuman hung on the wall.
Rajaram gathered a few neighbours and they all sat down on the
floor. Sulakshan took one look at their faces and understood that
they had not come willingly. A couple of workers were grinding hemp
leaves on the veranda. Rajaram went out and scolded them, ‘How
long will you take? Do you think Babu is going to wait till eternity?’
But they did not seem to have heard Rajaram and continued as before.
Sulakshan refused to be discouraged, however, and started chatting
with the workers in Hindi, trying to find out about their life. He
asked the eldest of them, ‘Where are you from? And how many
children do you have?’
‘I’m from Munger,’ he replied. ‘Don’t ask me about my son,
Babu—if he were alive he’d be working in the factory now.’
‘What happened?’ Sulakshan asked sympathetically.
‘Nothing really, Babu, he only had fever. But I couldn’t take him
to the doctor: I didn’t have money. How can I ever forget that?’ The
old man wiped away his tears.
‘Your son died for lack of treatment, but the factory owners are
living in style right in front of your eyes,’ said Sulakshan. ‘Do you
know that the money they spend on their pet dog can be enough for
your entire families?’ The workers’ eyes brightened up. Every day
they passed by the kitchen of the bungalow and saw the leftover
chewed bones, but they had never thought of the things Sulakshan
was telling them now.
‘Look at yourselves—you are stewing in this heat: but what about
the sahibs at the bungalow? A dozen fans are constandy moving over
 Harvest Song 155

their heads, and if they don’t have electric fans, they use you to pull
the pankhas.’
Aziz came in at this point and sat down in the corner.
‘You’ve broken your roja to come here, I suppose?’ Sulakshan
asked him. ‘Isn’t anyone else with you?’
‘There’s a Ramlila session going on,’ Aziz said, shamefacedly.
‘No one wanted to miss it.’
‘Do you all want to listen to the Ramlila?’ Sulakshan asked the
few people sitting in front of him. ‘I can come some other day.’
Although no one said anything, Sulakshan guessed that the
workers were keen on listening to the Ramlila. At the same time
they were beginning to be interested in what he was saying. Sensing
their dilemma, Sulakshan stood up to leave. ‘I shall come some other
day,’ he repeated, and went out with Aziz.
Aziz was feeling guilty that the meeting could not be held. As
they walked by the river, he said, ‘You are fighting for these people,
but they don’t seem to care at all.’
‘It doesn’t happen in a few days, Azizbhai,’ Sulakshan said. ‘If
you are kept in chains for thousands of years, won’t your soul turn
to stone?’
‘There’s not a single one among them who hasn’t been exploited
by the headmen,’ Aziz said bitterly. ‘Half the wage of each worker
goes into his pocket. And, would you believe it, when these headmen
splurge during the Hanuman puja on hemp and hashish, it’s the sahibs
who give them the money for it.’
‘Of course,’ Sulakshan explained. ‘It’s to the sahibs’ advantage if
they can keep the workers drugged.’

Gajen was felling a rotten tree in the forest. Tall trees towered darkly
overhead, and the ground under his feet felt damp. The heavy silence
was broken occasionally by a lonely bird’s cry. Suddenly, Gajen
started: whose were the stealthy footsteps he heard? A scary thought
flashed across his mind. Ages ago, his great grandfather had been
156 Sabitri Roy

killed in this very forest. Goose pimples rose on Gajen’s arms. He

strained his eyes: what was it that he saw walking towards him through
the trees—was it a human form or a scrawny dead branch come
to life? Moments later, the shadowy figure came out into the clearing:
no ghost, but Gajen’s wife. She was dragging a heavy branch behind
her with difficulty.
Gajen looked at her as she walked, her back weighed down with
the heavy bundle. Was this the same woman who used to accompany
him to the forest when they were both young? Gajen still remembered
her as a girl in a red sari, sparkling in the first flush of youth. Now
she was an old woman, the mother of two grown-up sons. His sons.
Gajen’s axe slowed down. He was growing old too: he could feel
the strength in his limbs ebbing away. Things were changing. They
could not chop wood in the Bilchar forest anymore—these days they
had to depend solely on this forest in the foothills.
As Gajen bent down again, he heard a shout, followed almost
immediately by several voices raised in alarm. Gajen ran out and
discovered his wife and grandson standing petrified on the border of
the forest. He followed their gaze and what he saw chilled him. Some
men were proceeding towards the village in ox carts and on elephants.
Obviously, they were the zamindar’s men, and had come to collect
the paddy that was due from the villagers. The sharp points of the
spears they held aloft glittered menacingly.
Gajen told his wife urgently, ‘Run back home and try to hide
some of the paddy before they come.’ Without wasting another
moment, Gajen himself ran towards the fields to call Sarathi and
Sankhaman. The old woman was trembling. Dropping the load she
was carrying, she started to run, holding the boy’s hand.
The field near the Kamakhya temple was already crowded with
the zamindar’s men. The air was thick with their shouts and threats.
Some of them were returning from the village in ox carts loaded
with paddy.
Rasumoni was boiling paddy in their courtyard when she heard
the din. She grew more anxious with every passing moment. Would
they come to their house too? Her father-in-law had already given
their share of paddy to the zamindar, but the babus were capable of
just about anything.
Her mother-in-law came in panting, carrying the child.
 Harvest Song 157

‘Call Saraswati, fast,’ she said urgently. ‘Hide as much paddy as

you can in the dump behind the house.’
Rasumoni and Saraswati filled up huge baskets of paddy and
carried them to the dump, while the old woman stood guarding the
doorway. Sarathi picked up a sharp dried trunk of the supari tree
and rushed out again like a whirlwind. Many others, carrying
improvised weapons like supari trunks, fishing hooks and spears had
gathered outside, and now they started running towards the forest. It
looked as if a fight was imminent.
The old woman released the cows so that they, at least, would be
spared. The cows, already quite frightened, headed straight for the
shelter of the forest. The zamindar’s men, riding on elephants, were
coming towards their house. The old woman stood looking helplessly
as the huge ripe pumpkins in her field were trampled mercilessly
under the elephants’ heavy feet. The next instant a bloody fight
broke out.
Within a very short while, the heaps of paddy snatched from the
villagers were splattered with blood. Sankhaman’s child, who was
crouching in a corner, suddenly screamed out, ‘They’ve killed my
father!’ Sankhaman, indeed, was lying on the ground, his head
bleeding profusely. The old woman felt totally lost. She called out to
Saraswati, ‘Get the knives from the kitchen. Be ready with a knife,
everyone.’
Five or six of the zamindar’s men were also wounded. The fight
was still on. Suddenly every action stopped at a shriek: one of the
flying spears had got lodged in an elephant’s trunk. The animal, blood
oozing from its wound, thrashed madly about in the fields. Even the
hardened fighters of the zamindar’s team stopped, scared at the savage
screams of the hurt animal.
The leader of the fighters was also hurt. The rest of the men picked
him up and left. On their way, however, they stole some ducks. The
screams of the birds rent the air as the men stuffed them into sacks.
Gajen followed the men up to the crossing of three roads at the
end of the village, climbed a tree and tried to see where they were
headed. Returning home he told his sons, ‘The bastards went to the
police station to lodge a complaint.’
Sarathi was tying a poultice of medicinal herbs around his
brother’s head. ‘Was anyone killed?’ He asked anxiously.
158 Sabitri Roy

‘Their leader is very badly hurt,’ Gajen replied. ‘He’s still alive,
but God knows what’s going to happen.’
They could still hear the hurt elephant thrashing about in the
distance. Mingled with that harsh sound was die monotonous wail
of an infant.
An eerie silence enveloped the totally empty fields. Not even a
leaf was stirring. Today, no one would cook a meal. Little girls were
bringing back handfuls of muddy rice gathered from the Kamakhya
field. The young men of the village were going around with bandaged
heads, but they looked triumphant. The old, however, looked sombre.
Their rice had been looted today; it was the same as losing the women
of the house.
Sarathi’s mother found the cows near the forest. As she turned
towards home, she glimpsed someone in the distance, riding a bicycle.
The old woman looked keenly. Could it be Partha?
It was Partha indeed. He had received news of the fight, and had
immediately gone to get some medicines for the injured villagers. He
was pushing hard at the pedals, his unkempt hair flying in the strong
wind. He had probably had nothing to eat the whole day. Sarathi’s
mother’s eyes moistened as she silently blessed the young man.
Returning home, she found that Partha was tying a bandage
around Sankhaman’s head.
‘Never use a dirty cloth for bandaging a wound,’ Partha said,
wiping the sweat off Sankhaman’s forehead with a gentle touch.
Sarathi’s mother touched the top of Partha’s head affectionately.
‘Have something to eat,’ she said. ‘I’m going to cook some rice
for you.’
Gajen said, ‘The zamindar’s men have lodged a complaint at the
police station. There was some talk about filing a case and we are all
very worried. The bright side is that no one has been killed.’
‘We shall file a case too, against them,’ Partha replied. ‘Ganesh
Das has already gone to the police station.’
 Harvest Song 159

That night, all the fanners gathered at Partha’s house for an emergency
meeting. The police had issued a warrant for Sarathi’s arrest and he
had fled. He came to Partha’s house quite late, under cover of
darkness. The first systematic programme for the rebellion against
the zamindars was to be drawn up at the meeting. Each voice echoed
the same pledge: ‘We shall lay down our lives, but will not give up
our right to our own produce.’
Partha said, ‘If Sarathi remains on the run, we will be
compromising our legal position. I think he should surrender.’
His voice deepened with suppressed emotion and his fists clenched
as he continued, ‘They have looted your rice, destroyed your houses,
stolen your poultry. They have molested your women. You must file
a case against the zamindar demanding compensation.’
‘But where shall we get the money to file a case?’ protested
a farmer.
‘How can you sit idle after what they have done to you?’ Partha
insisted. ‘They have reduced you to such a state that you have to beg
for your next meal. The work in the fields has also stopped. At least
seven or eight farmers from this locality alone have been injured.’
‘We will raise the money,’ one interjected. ‘We’ll go to the town
and collect contributions.’
Suddenly everyone stopped at the sound of stealthy footsteps
outside. Partha went out at once to investigate. There was no one
around, but Partha thought he saw a shadowy figure run away towards
the forest. Returning, he told the others, ‘Someone seems to be keeping
a watch on us. Sarathi, be careful.’
Ganesh Das said, ‘Let’s go, then.’
Everyone stood up to leave. Partha held Sarathi’s hand. ‘That’s
settled, then. You are going to surrender tomorrow.’ Outside, he told
Sarathi, ‘Saraswad came to find out where you were. I think you
should go home now.’
After everyone had left, Partha came back to his empty room.
Burnt bidi ends were scattered all over the floor. A kerosene lamp
was flickering on the table. Partha poured oil into the lamp and sat
down to compose an appeal for his Hajong friends: for Sarathi,
Saraswati, Sankhaman, for their mother—the old woman whom
Partha had begun to look on as his own mother. People whom he
called his own.
160 Sabitri Roy

‘The zamindar collects an annual revenue of eight to ten

maunds of paddy from that land which yields only fifteen to
twenty maunds in one-and-a-quarter acre per year. Even if
there is flood or drought the farmers are forced to pay revenue
at this rate. This self-imposed rule of the zamindar results in
acute misery for the farmer. He is not even left with enough
rice to feed his family. When reduced to such a state of penury,
the farmer is naturally unable to pay his dues; but the zamindar
does not hesitate to use force in such cases. He is even known
to have looted and destroyed the farmers’ grain stores for what
he considers to be his “due” share of the produce.’

It was past midnight. Partha ran his eyes over what he had written
so far and picked up his pen again. As he wrote, he thought of the
sense of wonder experienced by man as he grew his first crop. For
the same crop, his descendants were being killed now. Red-hot anger
coursed through his veins as he wrote:

‘We demand that the tonk system of farming be abolished.

The tonk farmers should get back the rights to their own land
on a fixed tenure. A new system of paying cash taxes on land
should be introduced instead of giving away a part of the
produce as revenue. The zamindar cannot demand extra
revenue on the land converted from tonk land to land on
tenure.’

Gajen went to Ghanashyam’s house early next morning to borrow

their bull. Gajen had only one bull, and so had Ghanashyam. For
the past few years, they had been taking turns with the bulls to till
the land.
It was the month of Chaitra. The land was getting drier with
every passing day. It was urgent to run the plough through the land
at least once now. As Gajen urged the bulls on, his mind wandered.
He looked down at the parched land and thought about the old days
when this entire region was marshy and covered by dense forest. His
forefathers’ blood and sweat had turned the barren land fertile. But
today one of Gajen’s sons was wounded and the other in jail—all for
the crop that they had grown on this land.
 Harvest Song 161

Tears rolled down Gajen’s sunken cheeks. He looked at the mound

dedicated to Kamakhya Devi and uttered a silent prayer. Was this
the kind of justice the goddess had in store for her people? In the
next plot, the fanners were discussing the recent developments. Gajen
went over to join them a little later.
‘Are you sure that the magistrate himself is coming down to find
out the truth?’ Gajen asked.
‘Yes, no doubt about that,’ replied a farmer. ‘But we heard that
the zamindar is going to lease the land to the Muslims this year.’
Returning home, Gajen found Sankhaman cutting hay in the
courtyard. Sankhaman’s son was also there with his toy sickle,
faithfully imitating his father’s every move. Gajen noticed the pale
and drawn face of his grandchild—obviously he had had nothing to
eat. His grandmother was not at home—she had gone to the forest
in the foothills with her daughters-in-law to collect firewood.
Gajen dug out a radish from the adjoining field and gave it to his
grandson.
Sankhaman was surprised.
‘Why on earth did you dig out the newly sown radish?’ he asked.
Gajen did not reply directly. He murmured, ‘Heaven knows if we
can retain our land, what difference does it make anyway?’
The old woman returned soon, empty-handed, and threw down
the sickle in frustrated anger.
‘The zamindar has installed his men on the border of the forest.
Apparently this forest, too, belongs to the zamindar. They won’t allow
us to chop wood there.’
‘They won’t even let us graze our cows,’ said Saraswati in a voice
sharp with irony. ‘The cows trample on the saplings, they say.’
Partha entered. With him was Sarathi, who had been released on
bail. For some time, no one spoke. Sarathi’s parents could barely
contain their happiness. Saraswati asked excitedly, ‘They released
you, didn’t they?’
‘Not for long,’ Sarathi said. ‘The case hasn’t been dismissed
as yet.’
Partha noticed the lines of anxiety on Gajen’s face. He thought it
better to lighten the atmosphere. ‘Won’t I get something to eat?’ he
asked the old woman. ‘Don’t I deserve a reward for bringing your
son back?’
162 Sabitri Roy

Then he looked at Saraswati and said, ‘Let’s celebrate. I shall

cook turtle meat today.’
A little later, Gajen came and sat down in front of the fire that
burned in one corner of the courtyard. Partha waited in front of the
fire, while the turtle meat boiled in an earthen pot.
'It smells great,’ Gajen said, smiling.
Partha stared into the fire, and the world around him faded and
dissolved, transporting him to the past. He heard a familiar voice
humming a tune. Bhadra, too, was probably kneeling before a fire
now, making rotis for her father-in-law. Partha had been a part of
their litde home . . . only for a few days, though. A sudden gust of
the early Chaitra wind burst into the courtyard and tore Partha away
from his reverie. He could not afford the luxury of daydreaming.

Lata put some wood in the fire. She needed to finish cooking as soon
as possible. It was almost time for Sukhomoy to leave for school. She
took the boiling dal off the fire and went to the storeroom to get
some dry chillies.
The door was latched from outside as usual, but as Lata stepped
inside, she was startled to find Tushi and Pushi inside the storeroom.
They were drinking two large bowls of milk, and looked up with a
guilty start. Lata understood the matter perfectly, but she thought it
best to pretend innocence
‘I suppose Ma locked you in by mistake?’ she asked.
Tushi and Pushi were at a loss for words. Lata took out the chillies
and left the room.
After this little incident, however, Lata felt very low. Why did her
mother-in-law have to give her daughters milk surreptitiously? How
could she think that Lata would be jealous of them? Lata had never
in her life encountered such meanness, and she felt quite lost in this
household where the only important thing seemed to be money or
the lack of it. She had noticed earlier that the women of the household
were inordinately curious about the financial status of her late parents.
She often faced questions like ‘Did you have a proper house or just a
 Harvest Song 163

shack?’ or ‘Hasn’t your father left any money for you?’ The fact that
her father was a writer, her pishima a social worker or her uncle a
research scholar did not inspire any admiration in anyone. The
women were rather more interested in her uncle who lived in Calcutta.
Her mother-in-law would frequently ask Lata: ‘How big a house does
your uncle have? Doesn’t he have a car? What kind of ornaments did
your uncle give his daughter when she got married?’ Such inane and
mean inquiries infuriated Lata, and she felt helpless and trapped.
But there was nothing she could do.
It was ekadasi today, and Lata’s mother-in-law was on her ritual
fast. She was in her kitchen, kneading some rice powder to make
pitha, when one of her neighbourhood sisters-in-law looked in for
achat.
‘What possessed you to make pitha on ekadasi?’ the woman asked
incredulously.
Hashi’s mother offered her sister-in-law a stool and said in a voice
virtually dripping with love, ‘My son loves pithas, you know.’
‘So what?’ the woman asked indignantly. ‘You could have made
it on some other day. Didn’t your daughter-in-law say anything? She
is no child not to have understood!’
‘No, she didn’t say anything,’ Hashi’s mother replied with studied
indifference. Sukhomoy had, by this time, finished his bath. He ran
into the kitchen, shouting, ‘Boudi, give me my food, I’m late!’
As Lata served him rice, she could clearly hear her mother-in-
law. She felt guilty that she had not been more thoughtful, but also
realized that her mother-in-law had deliberately started making pithas
on ekadasi in order to embarrass Lata.
The two older women were still talking.
‘Your daughter-in-law cooks for you, I hope?” asked the
sister-in-law.
‘She cooks the non-vegetarian stuff mostly,’ Hashi’s mother
replied. ‘I don’t let her cook in this kitchen. If she looks after her
husband that is more than enough. Besides,’ she added with a smirk,
‘she is “educated”, you know. She doesn’t even enter the kitchen
without a book.’
Lata was amazed at this shameless distortion of facts. What her
mother-in-law had actually told her was that Lata should not enter
the vegetarian kitchen till she had completed one year of her marriage.
164 Sabitri Roy

‘There’s more to do in the other kitchen, you look after that,’ were
her mother-in-law’s actual words.
The neighbour, meanwhile, was saying proudly, ‘My son is not
like others. He says that his wife’s most important duty is to look
after her mother-in-law.’
‘Isn’t your daughter-in-law expecting?’ Hashi’s mother asked.
‘Yes, she’s on her ninth month. Still, she insists on cooking my
food first thing every morning,’ the neighbour said smugly. ‘She has
a baby every year, and yet you will find her working alone in both
the kitchens, managing a couple of kids all the while. And mind
you, not a single sound of protest escapes from her mouth. She is
terribly scared of my son, actually,’ she added conspiratorially. ‘My
son says that if he had a so-called “modern” wife, he would strip and
thrash her within an inch of her life.’
Lata felt as if a red-hot poker had burnt her ears. She had, never
in her life, heard such obscene language. And these were supposed
to be decent middle class people!

It was quite late, but Sulakshan had not returned home yet. The
labourers came back for their lunch, and Lata served them their frugal
lunch on banana leaves: thick, red rice, dal and a curry of small fish.
She watched them affectionately from the kitchen verandah as they
bent over their food, scraping out even the smallest grain of rice.
Lata came down to give them a second helping. One of them said
happily, licking his hand, ‘No, we have had enough. The cooking is
excellent, really.’
Sulakshan returned much later. It was scorching hot, and there
was no one in the courtyard. A stray dog was sleeping under the
litchi tree. The door to Sulakshan’s new house was shut. A few
sparrows were picking at the grains of paddy that were spread out all
over the courtyard to dry.
Sulakshan peeped into the kitchen and saw Lata; her back turned
towards the door, looking out of the window. Sulakshan picked up a
small pebble and threw it at his wife. Startled, Lata turned and blushed
 Harvest Song 165

with pleasure. But immediately she heard her mother-in-law’s voice

and hastened to hide her feelings. Sulakshan, too, pretended to have
just returned, and walked away towards the pond to wash his feet.
He felt very tender towards Lata, and a little amused too, to think
how easily the smart, educated girl from Kanchanpur had fitted
herself into the mould of the docile daughter-in-law.
Returning from the pond, Sulakshan pulled up a stool in the
verandah where his stepmother was waiting.
‘It’s awfully hot today,’ he said. ‘I’d rather sit here in the open for
a while. You don’t have to take the trouble,’ he told his stepmother.
‘Lata can serve me lunch.’
Hashi’s mother thought, ‘Oh, yes, of course. Can’t stay without
each other—what a shameless couple!’
What she actually said was, ‘The sun is so strong these days, you
really shouldn’t go out so often: it’s telling upon your health. Have
you seen yourself in the mirror lately?’
Sulakshan looked searchingly at his mother. ‘Why do I need a
mirror when you are there to tell me?’ he asked with a smile. ‘But
don’t worry, I have a mother’s blessings on me, haven’t I?’
Hashi’s mother thought it best not to continue the conversation.
Her stepson’s apparendy gentle words veiled a sharpness that she
had come to find extremely disconcerting. It irked her more because
she could not say anything, as he said nothing ostensibly insulting
to her.
She came back to her room, distinctly displeased. It revolted her
to think that her stepson and daughter-in-law could be so shameless
as to spend hours together in the lonely kitchen in broad daylight,
but she dared not voice her displeasure. Her stepson would not take
it lying down; he was not Rajen. Moreover, her daughter-in-law was
educated and beautiful; she was expected to be more open in her
attitudes. Hashi’s mother lay on a mat on the floor and fanned herself
in baffled fury. Then, as there seemed to be nothing else to do, she
pushed her daughter awake and said, ‘Pushi, get up. Your boudi is
serving your dada lunch, go and see if she needs help.’
Pushi was not happy to be woken from her nap, but she understood
what her mother actually wanted, and went to the kitchen.
Sulakshan took a look at Pushi and asked, ‘Why did you have
to get up?’
166 Sabitri Roy

‘I came to help Boudi,’ Pushi said, her voice still slurred with
sleep.
'Help Boudi?’ Sulakshan asked. ‘All right then, go and wash my
plate, and your Boudi can finish her lunch meanwhile. She will have
to copy out some of my notes after that.’
Pushi was caught on the wrong foot. She had no option but to go
to the pond and wash the plates. But before she left, she tried to get
her own back.
‘Boudi, do you think you can serve yourself, or shall I serve you
before I go?’ she asked bitingly.
Before Lata could answer, however, Sulakshan said, ‘I shall take
care of whatever she needs. You needn’t worry.’
‘You are so lucky, Boudi, to have a husband like Dada,’ Pushi
said, smirking.
‘You won’t have to wait long yourself,’ Sulakshan said, smiling.
‘We shall soon arrange for your luck to turn.’
Pushi smiled shyly. ‘Don’t joke, Dada!’ she said.
‘I’m not joking,’ protested Sulakshan. ‘Tell me honestly, what
would you rather have—a wife-beater for a husband, or someone
like your Dada, who is even ready to serve his wife lunch?’
Pushi blushed and almost ran away to wash the plate. When she
came back a little later, Lata suggested, ‘Why don’t you have a little
rice and fish curry with me? You had your lunch a long time ago,
you must be hungry by now.’
Pushi agreed. As she sat down to eat, Lata emptied the bowl of
fish curry on her plate. As Pushi looked up, amazed at this generosity,
Lata said with a smile, ‘Finish it up, will you? I am older than you,
and I’m not going to have your leftovers.’
‘Why didn’t you keep some for yourself?’ Pushi asked.
Lata had realized in these few days that the one thing Pushi was
inordinately fond of was food. ‘Didn’t your Dada promise to get you
a wonderful husband?’ Lata said with a smile. ‘The least poor Boudi
can do is to keep you happy by feeding you her share of fish.’
Entering his room, Sulakshan was pleasantly surprised to find a
bunch of sweet-smelling gardenias in a vase beside the bed. He lit a
cigarette and lay down. When Lata entered a few minutes later,
Sulakshan noticed the wan smile on Lat&’s lips and the telltale lines
 Harvest Song 167

of tiredness on her face. He threw away his cigarette butt and called
her over.
‘Sit down with me for a while, I want to talk to you,’ he said. ‘Do
you know that your collections of poetry are gathering dust? Why
don’t you read out a poem for me today—I haven’t heard you read
poetry for a long time.’
‘I am living with a flesh and blood poem,’ Lata said with a smile,
but Sulakshan noticed a streak of pain flash across her eyes. He did
not press her with his request.
Lata picked up her copy of The Season o f Flowers and lay down on
the bed, spreading out her long, wet hair on the pillow. Sulakshan
noticed a little later that she had dozed off. He did not have the heart
to wake her up, but he had to: it was almost time for him to leave. He
touched her lightly on the cheek. Lata opened her eyes, but they
were clouded with sleep. She seemed still to be in the hinterland of
dreams. Gradually the last traces of sleep vanished from Lata’s eyes.
After tea, Sulakshan took out his cycle. But before he left, Lata called
him back.
‘Wait a minute,’ she said. ‘Didn’t you know that your shirt was
torn? Let me mend it for you. A leader of the proletariat like you
shouldn’t tear his clothes so often, you know,’ she added with
a smile.
Sulakshan smiled as he looked tenderly at his wife. Without
warning, he pulled her close and rained kisses on her upturned face.
Lata went crimson. ‘Let me go, please,’ she pleaded. ‘Someone might
see. Don’t you see I’m stitching? I shall prick my hand!’
Sulakshan let her go reluctandy and said, ‘I have to go out now. I
might be late, don’t wait up for me.’ But even before he could finish
speaking Lata ran out of their room. The sky had darkened, and in
the air was the heady smell of the impending rain. Lata hurried to
sweep the paddy spread over the courtyard into big baskets.
Sulakshan, too, came down to help her.
‘Hand me the baskets, let me carry them to the storeroom,’
he offered.
Hashi’s mother watched them working together, her Ups twisted
in a jealous smile.
Sulakshan and Lata hurried around, collecting the paddy. There
168 Sabitri Roy

was no rain, however: the strong wind soon blew the clouds away.
Lata looked at her husband; his hair tousled and full of dust, the
youthful lines of his face etched by a deep conviction. She had never
felt so close to him, and so deeply in love.

f
Sulakshan returned very late that night. The whole house had gone
to sleep. The stray dog, which slept in their courtyard, barked sleepily
as it heard him come in.
‘Shut up, Bagha,’ Sulakshan scolded him.
Lata heard his voice and came out. ‘I have brought someone with
me,’ Sulakshan beamed as he ushered Partha in. Lata had seldom
felt so delighted to welcome a guest.
‘You have finally thought of visiting us, have you, after such a
long time?’ she asked.
‘Why haven’t you had your dinner?’ Sulakshan asked Lata. ‘Didn’t
I tell you not to wait for me?’
Lata looked a little guilty. Sulakshan asked Partha, ‘Don’t you
think this is unfair?’
‘You will have to eat alone now,’ he told Lata, ‘I have had
my dinner.’
Partha agreed. ‘Really, Lata, it is unfair, you know. You have
married a revolutionary, why should you cling to such prejudices as
not eating before your husband?’
Lata was embarrassed. They would never understand, she knew,
that this was not just a prejudice.
‘No sleep for you tonight, I’m afraid,’ Sulakshan said to Partha.
Then, lying down on the floor, he said to his wife, ‘Bear with us,
Lata, just for this one night, will you? Of course, you can choose to
spend the night in the old room of my grandfather’s,’ he laughed.
Partha felt a little awkward. ‘Why don’t I spend the night in that
room instead?’ he suggested.
‘No way,’ Sulakshan shook his head.
Partha could sense Lata’s discomfiture. He said, ‘In that case I
shall talk to Lata first. Why don’t you start a girls’ school in the
 Harvest Song 169

house, Lata? You did the same kind of thing while you stayed with
your pishima, didn’t you? Starting a women’s organization is another
option you can consider.’
‘I’m sure I can,’ Lata replied softly. ‘Of course, I’d love to do such
work. But will my in-laws agree?’
‘But why do you have to wait for their permission, especially for
something that you know is right? You should bow down before
humanity, before life; not before petty jealousy and selfish interest.
Yes, I know that one should not be arrogant; but humility is not the
same as surrendering before blind orthodoxy, is it?’
‘But Parthada—’ Lata began, and then stopped. It would not be
proper to criticize Sulakshan’s own family before his friend. How
could she say in front of Sulakshan that she was already feeling
suffocated in this house? Moreover, she knew that these two men
would never be able to understand how terribly mean, jealous and
hypocritical the women of the household could be.
‘You won’t understand,’ she concluded unhappily, her voice
suddenly breaking. She was angry with herself for exposing her
weakness, but she could not utter a word. A voice from within kept
whispering that men would never understand what women
really needed.
Sulakshan touched the top of Lata’s head.
‘We do know, Lata, that you are surrounded by hostile people,’
he said, ‘but you can’t accept defeat so easily.’
Partha looked at Lata sympathetically. Debaki’s shadow seemed
to be lurking somewhere in Lata. It was natural, he thought, that the
house which had crushed a lively girl like Debaki would not offer
sanctuary to Lata. But he could not bear to see Lata cry. As he lay
awake on his makeshift bed that night, Partha thought about the
scores of women, including Debaki, who had shed tears like this
before. And yet Lata was not Debaki. She would be able to achieve
what Debaki could not, once she had steeled herself. Lata had learnt
to water the rose bed at her pishima’s; the only thing left for her to
learn was weeding it.
170 Sabitri Roy

Very early in the morning, Partha walked to the pond with Sulakshan
and said, ‘Lata is very sensitive. I think you should involve her in
some work she finds interesting, and as soon as possible. You could
start a girls’ school. Give it a thought, at least.’
A little later, as they were having tea on Sulakshan’s verandah,
Partha noticed Sulakshan’s stepmother. She was chopping vegetables
on the verandah outside the kitchen, and frequently shot keen glances
at Partha. Tea over, Sulakshan took Partha over to introduce him to
his stepmother.
‘Ma, this is Partha Das, a special friend of mine,’ he said. ‘He
lives in Mansadanga.’
Partha Das from Mansadanga! Then this must be the man with
whom Rajen’s wife’s name was linked! Sulakshan’s stepmother gaped
at him, taken aback at his unexpectedly decent looks. Then she
controlled herself and asked, ‘How are you? Where did you say
you live?’
Partha exchanged a few words with her and then left with
Sulakshan. Hashi’s mother looked at her daughter-in-law. The
tradition of the house had been of women remaining in constant
fear of their drunken husbands, and getting routinely beaten by them.
Today in the same house this woman was openly talking to an
unknown man, and in full knowledge of her husband! Moreover,
she, the mistress of the house, was unable to do anything. Hashi’s
mother chopped the rest o f the vegetables furiously.
‘Put these chopped vegetables in the kitchen,’ she told Pushi, and
stomped away towards her vegetarian kitchen. ‘I shall cook something
for myself.’

Sulakshan and Partha were holding a meeting at Aziz’s house about

the peasant movement of Paharpur. Sulakshan had been speaking
for the past hour.
‘And so,’ he concluded, ‘the interests of the farmer and the worker
are identical.’
 Harvest Song 171

All the workers assembled there agreed with him. They had once
been farmers themselves and had owned land and cattle. After the
traps set by the zamindar and the moneylender, all that had become
history. Their only hope lay in the Jute Press Workers’ Union. But
the farmers did not even have such an organization. The workers,
therefore, readily donated as much as they could for running the
farmers’ case against the zamindar. Carter Union, the other union
comprising five hundred workers, also donated about two hundred
rupees, and this was more than Sulakshan and Partha had hoped for.
After the meeting, Sulakshan invited Partha home. On the way,
they stopped at the post office. As Sulakshan was receiving his letters,
Partha glanced casually at the envelopes. Immediately, his attention
was arrested. One of them was a letter for Lata, and the writing on
the envelope was unmistakably Bhadra’s. Despite himself, Partha’s
heartbeats quickened. He was surprised at the intensity of his own
reaction: was Bhadra still so important to him?
At home, Lata read Bhadra’s letter and then quietly handed it to
her husband. Sulakshan ran his eyes over it.
'It’s more of a poem than a letter,’ he said half teasingly, giving it
to Partha. ‘See for yourself.’
It was, indeed, poetry—passionate and poignant; and no one but
Partha knew the impulse behind it. Partha’s face remained impassive
as he read the letter, but strange emotions raged in his heart. He had
seldom felt so disturbed, and was profoundly thankful when
Sulakshan and Lata left him alone for some time.
Bhadra had written:

‘Lata,
‘You wanted to know why I didn’t write anything about
myself in my previous letters. Perhaps it’s time I told you
my story.
‘A guest once came to my house. I didn’t know who he
was, or where he came from. He stayed with me for just a
couple of days. But he promised to come back the next day.
‘I was looking forward to his visit. In the morning« I
poured out an extra cup of tea. Time passed, and the
morning tea got cold. The frugal lunch I made for hir^ s
172 Sabitri Roy

left untouched. I was mystified, and then hurt. My offering

wasn’t rich, but it had come straight from the heart.
‘My guest did not come back. ‘Is this the way of the
world, I asked myself, struggling to find answers to the
numerous questions that raised themselves in my mind. I
went back and forth on the self-same track again and again
... and when I reached the end it was always the same—
nothing. Absolutely nothing.
‘The wayside inn is a place of rest: it offers warmth, if
not love, even though it is not permanent. The pearly
dewdrops sparkling on the green leaves in the first light of
the morning are transient, but aren’t they beautiful
nevertheless?’

Partha returned to Paharpur that very night. He entered his house

feeling utterly exhausted, and yet he could not put the last few lines
of Bhadra’s letter out of his mind. If only he could let her know
what her letters meant to him! Was her house only a wayside inn to
him? Partha knew that he, and no one else, was responsible for this
painful misunderstanding. And he could not explain things to Bhadra;
he was bound by his sense of duty.
On his way back he had met Debaki’s father. Dinabandhu master
had told Partha that he had not received any letters from his daughter
for quite some time. It was quite obvious that the young girl had
been refused shelter at her uncle’s house. ‘I have no idea where my
daughter is, or how she is,’ the old man had said with tears in
his eyes.
Partha’s thoughts reverted to Bhadra. Gradually, the turmoil in
his mind settled down. He made up his mind. Picking up his pen, he
started writing to Bhadra:

‘We know that the world is not a wayside inn. For ages,
man has been setting up house here. That is why when a
stranger comes asking for rest, even for a single night, the
warmth of a house welcomes him, not the impersonal
comfort of an inn.
‘The tree changes colour, but doesn’t the earth, too? Not
only is the palash flower red, so is blood. Can’t the
 Harvest Song 173

Epicurean philosopher see that this blood is spilling onto the

black and salty earth now?’

An owl hooted in the darkness outside. The lamp on Partha’s

table threw a pale yellow circle of light around it. Bhadra would
never know just how much Partha needed one of those passionate
letters of hers now
He woke up very early next morning, extremely depressed, and
went out to splash some water on his face. When he came back, he
found Ganesh Das waiting, looking cheerful. The Circle Officer was
expected to arrive that morning to investigate the incident at Paharpur.
Partha, however, could not share Ganesh Das’s optimism. 'So the
magistrate himself isn’t coming?’
‘No, but the Circle Officer seems quite decent,’ Ganesh Das
assured him. ‘He is young—straight out of college, or so I heard.’
Soon they saw all the subordinates of the Circle Officer gathered
in the field. The young officer was seated at a table set there. Partha
brought him the report stating the farmers’ version of the incident.
The officer glanced through it and then started his investigation. He
visited every house in the village. All around him were broken shreds
of pottery, collapsed cowsheds and sundry evidence of a fight.
‘These are obviously made by the heavy tread of elephants,’ he
said, closely examining the hollows in the ground made by the
animals.
The farmers were reassured—since the Circle Officer admitted
this openly, in all probability he would give an honest report. There
was still hope for them, then. Before the officer left, Partha reminded
him once again, ‘I hope you will take steps very soon,’ he said. ‘Most
of these people are starving. Even children can barely get to eat once
a day.’
Towards the evening, however, Ganesh Das returned with the
disturbing news that the Circle Officer had been observed having tea
with the president of the Union Board. There was also some talk of
a fat amount of money having changed hands.
‘It’s not the President himself who has bribed him,’ Partha said
angrily. ‘I’m sure it was the zamindar’s manager. In a couple of days
we shall know what lies in store for us.’
Week succeeded week. Gradually toadstools grew in the hollows
174 Sabitri Roy

made by the elephants’ feet, but the compensation eagerly awaited

by the farmers was not forthcoming. In fiitile rage, Gajen filled up
the hollows with a pickaxe one morning and erected a new cowshed
in the place of the collapsed one. The last shreds of hope vanished
from the minds of the farmers. Life limped back to normal. Farmers
leading the oxen over the land once again became a familiar sight.
But before it was time for them to sow the seeds, something
unexpected happened.
The officials of the zamindar appeared one morning with
measuring tape and rods: the zamindar was leasing out Agendra’s
land to Jaminuddin Mian. The next in line was Gajen.
Appalled, Gajen stood rooted to the spot. His limbs felt numb,
his throat dry. Without so much as a warning, the farmers’ land was
being leased out to the Muslims—just when they were picking
up the threads of their life after the disaster. Unable to act, the
farmers stared at their doom and, remorselessly, the zamindars’ men
advanced.

Sarathi’s verdict was due to be announced today. Rasumoni woke up

very early and started making an early lunch for him. Sarathi’s mother
had already left for the Kamakhya puja: she was going to sacrifice
two pigeons to the goddess and pray for Sarathi’s release. Very soon,
Partha arrived to accompany Sarathi. His mother was desperately
trying to control her tears. ‘The case is sure to be dismissed,’ Partha
tried to assure her. ‘Your son will be back in the evening.’
The old woman gave Sarathi a flower from the puja and a bundle
of bichibhat for them. Saraswati was waiting to give her husband a
piece of dried root—a charm to ward off evil.
‘Do you want to come along with us?’ Partha asked Saraswati
gently. She ran inside the house happily to get a wrapper. She had
badly wanted to accompany her husband, but had not been able to
say so. The three of them took the ferry and, from the other side of
the river, took a bus to the town. It was the first ever bus ride for
 Harvest Song 175

Saraswati. She sat on a window seat, and looked out at the dust-
coated trees by the road, and at the small shops and shacks fest
disappearing behind them. Sarathi sat quietly beside her. Their eyes
met from time to time. They did not talk much, but the bond between
them seemed to grow stronger.
They reached their destination with some time to spare Partha
shouldered his way through the crowd to the Criminal Court with
Saraswati, who looked completely lost in the alien atmosphere Why
were the men dad in black running around like this? There was also
an armed policeman patrolling the area. She looked at him, alarmed,
and followed Partha hesitantly, her heart beating rapidly in fear and
anticipation.
Very soon the case started. The magistrate sat looking stem and
uncompromising. Partha whispered, ‘Look—they are bringing in
Sarathi and the others.’
Sarathi stood in the dock with a quiet dignity. The verdict was
given. The judge read it out in an expressionless voice: rigorous
imprisonment for six months.
Partha was astounded. Six months! So the falsehoods had won
after all. This judgement, then, was nothing but a farce. Disgusted
with the whole system, Partha came out o f the courtroom with
Saraswati and stopped at the roadside.
‘Wait here,’ he told Saraswati. ‘They will take Sarathi away
from here’
‘But can I give him this good luck charm?’ Saraswati asked
anxiously, clutching the piece of dried root.
‘Why didn’t you give it to him earlier?” Partha asked.
“I ... I thought he would come back,’ said Saraswati, with a catch
in her voice. ‘We sacrificed two pigeons at the Kamakhya temple,
still...’
She could see the prisoners breaking stones through the fence of
thejail nearby. Some were digging in the garden at the jailor’s quarters.
Saraswati looked on at this unfamiliar world, wide-eyed and
apprehensive: would Sarathi too have to do this kind of work?
‘Saraswati!’ called Partha. ‘There is Sarathi.’
Sarathi, bound around the waist, was coming towards them with
the other prisoners. Partha smiled and raised his hand in a salute.
176 Sabitri Roy

Sarathi was perfectly calm, and was holding his head high. As he
passed them, he looked longingly at his wife for one last time, and
moved on.
The huge gate opened. The jail swallowed up the men. Partha
looked back at Saraswati. Her body was racked by silent sobs. Without
a word, he placed his hand on her shoulder.
‘Let’s go home,’ he said. ‘We shall never forgive this unjust trial.’

A strong gust of wind blew through the branches of the neem tree.
Bhadra could not concentrate on her work. These days she spent the
entire afternoon in restless speculation: why had Partha replied in
that heartless way to her passionate letter? ‘That is why he is a
wanderer; home is not for him, his destiny lies elsewhere,’ he had
written. But why, if he was such a drifter, did he give her the illusion
of warmth? Why did he leave her in this state of helpless suspension?
Bhadra knew that the wound in her heart would never heal; her
unrequited love would always be a source of pain for her.
The long bare afternoon suddenly became quite unbearable.
Bhadra went out, to scour the second-hand bookstalls. There were
all sorts of rare books, some of them in tatters, left carelessly lying
on the footpath. Bhadra picked up an old Sanskrit volume and opened
it at random. Beautiful and vaguely familiar words stared up at her
from the yellowed pages. She tried them tentatively on her tongue.
Sounds—blissful sounds, soft and rippling like a brook—gradually
filled up the emptiness within her. Mesmerised, she asked the
shopkeeper, ‘How much?’
A young man was standing right behind Bhadra. He was a regular
visitor to the bookstall and had noticed Bhadra’s interest in unusual
books. It was not very often that one saw a woman at these stalls.
When she bought the book on art, he could not resist speaking.
‘If you don’t take the second volume, you’ll be the loser,’ he said.
‘There it is, behind the Ragmanjari.’
Bhadra looked back, startled. The young man explained, ‘I, too,
 Harvest Song 177

collect old books. Yesterday I had selected these two volumes. My

name is Kunal Kurup, by the way. I am the press photographer at the
New Light'
Bhadra was embarrassed. ‘Then this book rightfully belongs to
you,’ she said.
‘Not at all,’ said the young man with a smile. ‘I had agreed to pay
eight annas for it, and you have paid two rupees. Of course, the book
is worth the money, it’s really rare.’
Bhadra picked up the second volume. It was on Indian Art, and
was just as tempting as the first. But if she took this one as well, the
young man would lose out again. She looked at him carefully. He
was about twenty-five, and looked pleasant and responsible. He
was obviously not from Bengal and spoke with a slight South
Indian accent.
‘If you like you can come over to my place and borrow the books,’
Bhadra offered. ‘I live down the road, in the building that has Chacha’s
hotel on the ground floor. My flat number is four; it’s on the second
floor. I’m usually at home in the evenings,’ she added. ‘Do come.’

The next Sunday, Kunal decided to drop in at Bhadra’s house. Bhadra

was going through her students’ papers in her drawing room. She
was pleasantly surprised to see Kunal.
As soon as Kunal entered, he noticed the neatly arranged books
on the shelves. ‘What a wonderful collection!’ he exclaimed, going
over to the bookshelves. Bhadra seemed to be an extremely eclectic
reader. There were books on several subjects like poetry, criticism,
biography and politics. Kunal also noticed the tasteful paintings
on the wall, and an exquisite marble statue of Saraswati kept on a
comer shelf.
Bhadra motioned Kunal to a chair and asked him, ‘Are you from
South India?’
Kunal smiled. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘The land from where the light breeze
of spring blows into your room.’
178 Sabitri Roy

As they talked, they discovered that they had a lot in common.

When it was time for Kunal to leave, Bhadra gave him the books she
had promised to lend him and said, ‘Do come again.’
‘I shall have to come once again, at least,’ Kunal said, ‘to return
these books. But I might be a little late, may be a couple of weeks.’
‘Keep them as long as you like,’ Bhadra said. ‘I’m in no hurry to
get them back.’
Before he left, Kunal asked, ‘Do you teach in a school?’
Bhadra noticed that he did not ask any personal question, not
even the obvious one about her relatives. She was pleased; it was not
very often that one met people who did not suffer from undue
curiosity.

Even before the two weeks were over, however, Kunal came over to
Bhadra’s house.
‘I’ve come to apologize,’ he said. ‘I discovered this piece of writing
inside your book and read it without realizing what it is. I thought at
first that it was a poem, but I realized later that it was, in fact, a
love letter.’
He said it with such ease that Bhadra, instead of being embar­
rassed, started to laugh.
Kunal darted a swift glance at Bhadra. His searching eyes detected
the telltale lines of pain under Bhadra’s expressive eyes. He decided
not to refer to the letter again.
From then on, it became a kind of habit with Kunal to drop in at
Bhadra’s house every Sunday. To Bhadra, it was like a breath of
fresh air. After Partha had left, this was the first time some warmth
had crept into the house. Bhadra’s father-in-law was now staying
with his elder son at Ranchi, and the evenings seemed intolerably
long in the empty house. When Kunal came, the gloom was lightened,
and Bhadra enjoyed the lively discussions they always had.
 Harvest Song 179

Almost every month, Kunal had to go out of Calcutta on official

assignments. For the last couple of weeks he had not come to Bhadra’s
house, although he had left a huge pile of books for her to read.
Bhadra was devouring them like one possessed. She did not even
spare time for cooking and survived on bread bought from the corner
shop. This was the only way she could keep her runaway emotions
in control. These days, it seemed, even poetic inspiration had deserted
her. Her only lifeline was reading, and more reading.
One such afternoon, Bhadra opened the door to find Kunal
standing on the threshold, looking sunburnt and exhausted. ‘Is there
anything to eat?’ he enquired. ‘I had planned to drop in for a cup of
coffee and then go to a friend’s house in order to borrow some money,
but now I find that I’m famished. I’m broke too—I bought just too
many books this month.’
‘So you think you can’t borrow money from your women friends?’
Bhadra asked severely.
Kunal smiled shamefacedly. ‘No, actually, the friends from whom
I borrow money know that they will never get it back,’ he said.
Bhadra smiled and took out a ten-rupee note from her purse.
‘Don’t give me so much money at one go, please,’ Kunal pleaded.
‘I shall just go and buy more books—I won’t be able to resist.’
Bhadra took out a coin from her purse and said, ‘Don’t expect
anything to be there in my kitchen at this unearthly hour. Go out and
buy beef curry from Chachaji’s hotel downstairs.’
Seeing the astonishment in Kunal’s face, she laughed and said,
‘Just joking. This is a conservative Hindu household. Actually I want
you to go out and buy some eggs. Meanwhile, I am kneading flour
for parathas.’
‘Why bother?’ Kunal asked. ‘Why don’t you make some tea
instead? Or, better still, get the stove Ut and let me do it. Bengalis
can’t make proper tea.’
‘Such provincial statements are banned in my house,’ Bhadra said
sternly, but brought out the stove and the tea things nevertheless.
While Kunal made the tea, she started kneading the flour.
Pouring out the tea a little later, Kunal asked, ‘I have been thinking
of asking you something; I hope you won’t mind. If I am not wrong,
180 Sabitri Roy

you are in love with someone who is actively involved in politics. I

am, of course guessing this from that scrap of paper I saw inside
your book. Well, am I right?’
Bhadra did not answer. She had gone deadly pale in an instant.
‘I think I know now,’ Kunal went on, ‘but why can’t you talk
about it? Does the problem have anything to do with some social
constraint? If that is so, then I must say all your education and liberal
ideas have come to nothing.’
Bhadra’s agonised cry cut him short. ‘Stop it, Kunal, please stop
it. In the past two months you have become my closest friend. If I
can ever talk about my life, I shall talk to you, and to you alone; but
not now.’
Kunal had never seen Bhadra so agitated. He decided to leave it
at that for the moment. As he was leaving, Bhadra called out, ‘Please
come back and have dinner with me, will you?’
Kunal agreed to come back. Over dinner, he talked about himself.
When he was only nineteen, he had left home after an argument
with his father. Since then he had travelled a lot. He was the only son
of his parents, but had a sister, whose husband was an engineer
working in a paper mill in Calcutta. Kunal’s brother-in-law had
married again; his sister was in a hospital, suffering from tuberculosis.
Bhadra was shaken. She asked softly, ‘Are the lungs affected?’
Kunal nodded. He went on, almost to himself, ‘There’s no hope.
Still, we could have tried. But the problem is that she is hell-bent on
making a sacrifice. Actually, she can’t forget this husband of hers. If
a woman loves someone, she loses herself completely.’
Long after Kunal left that night, his final words kept ringing in
Bhadra’s ears. Who knew it better than herself what it was to have
loved and lost!

Smoke was billowing out from a neighbour’s kitchen, and Debaki

hastily shut the single window in the room. Immediately the tiny
kitchen became dark.
Debaki had been in the kitchen since dawn, making lunch. She
 181

was kneading flour now, and ten kilograms of meat in a huge pan
was cooking on the fire. Debaki took the lid off the pan and stirred
the curry. Was the colour right? She had come to know by this time
that the townsfolk wanted their curry really rich and crimson, dripping
with oil and ghee—it was not like the cooking she had been used to
at her village. She switched on the light to see better, but the bulb was
coated with dust and barely lit up the kitchen.
There was a sound outside, and Debaki switched off the light
immediately. She would not hear the end of it if Hena Mami came
to know that she had wasted electricity. She decided to open the
window instead. Not even a sliver o f the sky was visible from there.
The ceiling was so low that a tall man would not be able to stand
straight. It was stiflingly hot and rivulets of perspiration ran down
Debaki’s body. She was wearing one of Hena Mami’s discarded
blouses, which was a very tight fit, and it was now sticking to her
back. She stirred the curry once again and stood in front of the
window, looking out.
On the wall of the house facing theirs, someone had scribbled a
fragment of poetry: ‘You are the evening star... ’ Directly beneath it,
the maid of the house squatted, washing dishes. She looked up to
Debaki and asked curiously, ‘Lots of cooking going on, I believe?
What is the occasion?’
‘It’s Hena Mami’s anniversary,’ Debaki replied. ‘She has invited
all her friends.’
Hena Mami came in a little later, to supervise Debaki’s work.
‘Have you taken out the new plates for the party?’ she asked.
Debaki nodded. ‘I’ve washed and put them on the dining table,’
she said.
Hena Mami had dressed up for the occasion. Debaki marvelled
at the art which made her thirty-seven-year-old aunt look twenty-
five. Hena Mami definitely did not have a fairer complexion than
Debaki, but today her face looked creamy white. She had applied
lipstick carefully, worn a lot of glittering jewellery, and a beautiful
gold-bordered red sari. The effect was quite stunning.
Their dining room was on the mezzanine. Against the wall were
a number of cupboards full of expensive crockery, all of which were
part o f Hena Mami’s dowry. Their bedroom, too, had a huge bed
and other expensive furniture. Debaki did not understand why, when
182 Sabitri Roy

they took pains to decorate the rest of their house, these people left
their kitchen in such a state In Debaki’s village, even the cowshed
was more airy and sunny than this kitchen.

It was evening. A high-powered bulb had been fitted on the landing

for the special occasion. The invitees started to arrive. Debaki was
busy running errands, but she stole out at intervals to stare at the
well-dressed women. A young girl in a pale violet silk sari was
skipping up the stairs. The woman next to her, in a bright green sari,
was beautifully turned out too. As they passed her, Debaki smelled
the heady perfume that they had applied liberally. She was almost in
a trance. This was a new world. Unable to keep her wonder to herself,
she called out to the maid next door and said, ‘Have you seen the
beautifully shaped eyebrows of that lady? It seems as if someone has
drawn them on her forehead.’
The maid sniggered. ‘They are actually drawn with a pencil,’ she
said. ‘Have you ever seen natural eyebrows like that?’
Hena Mami’s sisters were laying the table for dinner. One of them
stood on top of the stairs and called out, ‘Debaki, wash the plate for
the paan and bring it upstairs, will you?’
The very thought of going upstairs in front of all those well-dressed
beautiful women in a tom sari was extremely embarrassing to Debaki;
but she really had no choice. In these few months, Debaki had come
to fear her Hena Mami’s temper. As soon as she entered the room
with the plate, one of the women there said to Hena Mami, ‘Please
tell your maid to heat up this milk for my baby.’
Debaki understood that the woman had meant the order for her,
and she also noticed that Hena Mami did not take the trouble to
correct her. Tears sprang to her eyes but she returned to the kitchen
without a word. She was not so stupid as not to have understood the
implications of staying in this house. But it had been her uncle, who
had made this arrangement with her employers, no relations, whom
she called out of courtesy Mama and Mamima too. Dulal Mama,
her employer, had also promised to find her a job. Six months had
 Harvest Song 183

passed, however, but there was still no sign of it. Debaki’s routine
now was to enter the kitchen at dawn and emerge at midnight. Hena
Mami was expecting a child, and there was no chance of Debaki’s
release before Hena Mami’s delivery.
Someone was singing a classical song upstairs. Debaki was not a
total novice in the art of music. She had learnt a number of songs
from her father, but after coming to this house she had not had the
leisure to even think about such things. Debaki recognized the raga
now: it was Basanta Bahar. The small stuffy room was littered with
potato peels and onionskins. There were puddles of dirty water here
and there. Yet the strains of soul-stirring music reached Debaki,
transporting her to a private world o f beauty and bliss.

It was very late. All the invitees had left, except for a Marwari friend
of Dulal Mama’s. They were sitting on the terrace, having some kind
of private session. The bright light there had been switched off. The
Marwari gentleman was drinking something from a glass, and a bottle
of soda rested on the table. Debaki brought them a plate of fish fries.
As she left, she smelt alcohol and Debaki heard the Marwari
gentleman saying, ‘Rest assured, you will get the permit for paper.’
Possibly, this was the famous Sukhanlal, Debaki thought. She
had heard Dulal Mama talk about him to Hena Mami.
The next morning, Debaki was busy washing the stairs. Dulal
Mama was talking to someone in the drawing room. He called out
from there, ‘Bring us two cups of tea, will you, Debaki?’
Debaki brought the tea. As she put the tray down on the table,
she heard Dulal Mama saying to his friend, ‘We may not be having a
war here in India, but the tremors of war are sure to reach here sooner
or later.’
A war! Debaki listened intently as she poured out the tea. Dulal
Mama brushed the cigarette ash into the ashtray and continued, 'All
those ships that carried cargo to our country from abroad will very
soon be commissioned. Do you understand what this means? Imports
will stop, and the black market will thrive. This is a golden opportunity
184 Sabitri Roy

for us. If you want to be really rich, start making plans right now.’
Debaki left the room.
Dulal noticed his friend’s hesitation. He lowered his voice. ‘The
party I gave yesterday,’ he explained. ‘Don’t imagine I’ve suddenly
become romantic at this ripe old age of forty. You must have seen
Sukhanlal, the Marwari friend of mine? Well, he is the chief agent
here, and has promised to get me the permit for paper. The party was
a blind, actually the idea was to entertain him.’ He smiled. ‘But don’t
tell Hena all this,’ he added.
‘In that case,’ the friend said, ‘you are already halfway there.’
‘So—what do you say?’ Dulal asked eagerly. ‘Give me ten
thousand and I will make it twenty-five, I promise. But if you don’t
feel comfortable with the idea of a joint business I can give you a
hundi note.’
He stood up at this point to shut the window.
‘The boys are creating a ruckus down there,’ he said indignantly.

Habul and Kabul, Dulal’s sons, were playing hockey with their school
friends in the lane outside. Nipu, a neighbour’s son, made a shot and
said, ‘I plan to go to watch Prafiilla Ghosh’s swimming at Hedua
this afternoon.’
‘Where is Hedua, Nipuda?’ Kabul asked curiously.
‘You have been living in Calcutta for so long and you don’t know
where Hedua is?’ asked Nipu contemptuously. ‘Never seen the big
pond on Cornwallis Street?’
Debaki was standing at the kitchen window, listening to them.
The name of the street seemed familiar. A little later, when Habul
and Kabul had moved away, she called Nipu softly, ‘Nipu, will you
take me along when you go to Hedua this afternoon? One of my
cousins lives on Cornwallis Street,’ she explained.
Nipu agreed. Debaki lowered her voice. ‘But please don’t tell
anyone here.’
Nipu was twelve. He swelled with importance. Never before had
 Harvest Song 185

he been entrusted with such a confidence.

‘Don’t worry, Debidi,’ he said smugly. ‘I shall take care of
everything.’
After lunch, Debaki washed the kitchen. Her work was over for
the moment. She climbed up to the attic, which was her room, and
sat down, exhausted. There seemed to be no end to this drudgery.
She lay down on the tattered mat and thought about her own hopeless
life. Was there a way out from this blind alley?
It was a very hot day. Debaki could see through the open door
the swinging branches of the tall palm trees in the distance. The bare
cornices of the terrace stretched lazily out into the blazing sunlight.
Debaki suddenly felt terribly homesick. The sunny courtyard of their
house at Talpukur, Baba, Ma, Sathi, Kunti, Iti... how were they all?
Then she was overwhelmed by an intense longing for her little child.
She got up and opened her tin trunk. There was a tiny shirt inside—
Joydeb’s shirt. Every square inch of her body cried out for the touch
of those small hands. Debaki held the shirt close to her breast and
cried her heart out.
The afternoon sun cast long shadows on the terrace. Debaki took
out the scrap of paper with Bhadra’s address written on it—the paper
given to her by Partha. Then she brought out the small change that
was left from the money she had earned by selling her goats and got
ready to go out.
Habul and Kabul were playing in the lane. Hena Mami was having
her afternoon nap with her youngest son, Babul. Debaki went down
the stairs and out of the house.
‘Tell your mother when she gets up that I am going to my uncle’s
house,’ she told the two boys before leaving.
‘Who’s going to make dinner, then?’ asked Habul shrilly.
‘Why, your mother, of course,’ Debaki shot back as she left. But
where was Cornwallis Street? Was it to the north or south of
Ballygunge? Debaki felt totally lost in this unknown city. Fortunately,
Nipu arrived soon and they started.
186 Sabitri Roy

‘Is this the flat, Debidi?’Nipu asked, standing in front of a tall building
on Cornwallis Street.
Debaki checked the address. It seemed, indeed, to be the house
she was looking for. Nipu left for Hedua and Debaki found herself
standing in front of a closed door. Tentatively, she knocked. A young
man opened the door.
‘Does Shrimati Bhadra Chaudhuri live here?’
‘Yes,’the young man replied, ‘but she hasn’t returned from school
as yet. Why don’t you come in?’
Debaki felt terrible entering the neat and clean room with dusty
feet. ‘Can you show me the bathroom, please?’ she asked the young
man. ‘I would like to wash my feet.’
‘Certainly,’ he replied, showing her the way. ‘Actually I too have
been waiting for Bhadradi for the past hour or so,’ he explained.
A stranger, and yet talking so freely! Debaki looked at the man
wonderingly.
Almost as soon as she returned to the drawing room, there was a
knock on the door. The young man opened the door and said smiling,
‘Surprise! You have guests!’
Debaki started to feel awkward again. How could she introduce
herself to this educated working woman? She took out the slip of
paper and gave it to Bhadra.
‘Parthada is from the village next to ours . . . ’ she explained in a
small voice.
Bhadra ran her eyes over the paper, and shot a glance at Debaki.
She noticed the naïveté in her face, the lack of sophistication in the
way of draping the sari. The girl was, quite obviously, from a village,
and hadn’t got used to the ways of the city.
Bhadra looked back at the paper. Partha’s handwriting. All those
emotions suppressed carefully rose to the surface in an instant. Bhadra
felt her body becoming taut, her mind shrinking. She just managed
to keep a tight leash on herself and waited for Debaki to continue.
But it was really difficult for Debaki to put into words what she
had come to say. She was standing in a tastefully furnished room
with shelves full of books, and in front of her was standing a well-
read and independent woman, commanding respect in her own right.
How could Debaki beg for shelter from her?
 Harvest Song 187

Bhadra, however, noticed the pain and hesitation in Debaki and

in an instant her heart softened.
‘Have you come from Paharpur?’ she asked gently.
‘No, actually my village is called Talpukur,’ Debaki replied. ‘I am
staying with my uncle in Calcutta. I have come to you with the hope
of finding some kind of a job.’
She did not explain that Dulal Mama was not a blood relation;
trying to preserve whatever little self-respect she had left.
‘Do you want to teach in a school?’ Bhadra asked.
*1 don’t think they will take me,’ Debaki said sadly, ‘unless,’ she
cheered up a little, ‘you can get me a job of teaching lower classes. I
can manage that well enough, I have studied till class seven.’
‘Do you have a diploma in sewing?’
Debaki shook her head. ‘I . . . before I could take the final exam
. . . ’ her voice trailed off.
Bhadra understood that Debaki had been married off before she
could finish her diploma. She looked at the parting of Debalri’s hair
and noticed the thin line of sindoor. But she did not want to pry.
Debaki, too, understood that Bhadra was curious, but she could not
bring herself to talk about the man who was her husband. She was
resolved not to connect her name with his. Never again.
‘But you haven’t told me your name!’ Bhadra exclaimed. ‘Let’s
do something. You write down your address in this slip of paper,
and if I hear of something suitable, I shall let you know immediately. ’
Debaki wrote out her name. But instead of writing ‘Sarkar’, she
wrote ‘Das’. Her maiden name. As the letters took shape on the paper,
Debaki felt an exhilarating sense of freedom. If she wiped off her
sindoor, too, she thought recklessly, what was the harm?
Kunal entered with three cups, a teapot, milk and sugar neatly
arranged on a tray.
‘Why don’t you have a quick wash first, before the tea gets cold?’
Kunal suggested. ‘I am in no hurry, though,’ he added. ‘I am from
die land of coffee—I like my tea really strong. What about you?’ he
asked, turning to Debaki.
‘I don’t drink tea at all,’ Debaki said, ‘strong or weak.’
Kunal sensed that she was not speaking the truth. ‘That won’t
do,’ he said, smiling. ‘You must have at least a cup.’
188 Sabitri Roy

Bhadra came back a little later with some parathas and peppery
potato bhaji. ‘Here you are,’ she said, giving a plate to Kunal. ‘Lots
of pepper for someone from pepper country.’
It was getting late, and there was still no sign of Nipu. Debaki
was becoming anxious.
‘The boy who brought me here was supposed to have come back
by this time,’ she said. ‘How shall I go home? I don’t know this
area at all.’
‘Where do you stay?’ Kunal asked.
‘Mahanirban Road, near Deshapriya Park.’
‘Then there’s no problem. I shall take you home.’
‘That’s very kind of you,’ said Debaki gratefully. ‘If I can get to
the neighbourhood of the park I can make my way.’
Debaki dared not think about the reception waiting for her at
home, but she felt very relieved as she boarded the bus with Kunal.
The city was like a maze to her: all the streets looked the same, and
so did all the buildings. The conductor came to ask for the fare. Debaki
took out her money and started to count the coins, but Kunal called
out from the back, ‘I have bought the tickets already.’
Debaki was surprised. In her experience, no one was so generous
as to buy tickets for a practical stranger.
They got off the bus at Lansdowne Road and walked the rest of
the way. The road was lined with bakul trees. The grass under the
trees was littered with the small sweet-smelling star-shaped flowers.
Debaki couldn’t resist picking them up. Kunal watched her and said,
‘In my native state, women collect flowers at this time of the year for
floor decorations.’
He accompanied Debaki up to the park and said goodbye. As she
walked back unwillingly to Dulal Mama’s house, Debaki found that
she was thinking about Kunal. It was not that she particularly wanted
to meet him again, but what an unusual person he was! She had met
him for the first time today, and yet he had talked as if he had known
her for ages. And Bhadradi! What a remarkable woman she was!
Had she read all those books? There must be a whole new world
hidden in those books, waiting to be discovered. Debaki thought of
her school texts. Those were the only books she knew. If only she
could read more . . .
 Harvest Song 189

A raucous noise recalled her to reality and she found that she had
reached the house. Husband and wife were clearly having a
tremendous row upstairs. Debaki realized that she must be the cause
for this. She knocked on the door apprehensively. Was it really so
late that Dulal Mama was back from office? She knocked again, and
Dulal Mama opened the door, looking like thunder.
‘Why are you so late?’ he barked. ‘Why return at all—you could
have spent the rest of the night at your uncle’s!’
Without a word, Debaki entered the house and fled to the kitchen.
The fact that she had not gone to her uncle’s house would surely leak
out, she thought, but a night’s respite would be welcome.
Dulal Mama had followed her to the kitchen. He ordered from
the doorway, ‘I have asked Habul to cook the rice. Serve the children
dinner immediately. And take a glass of milk upstairs to your Hena
Mami; she is not feeling well.’
Debaki thought about her experiences o f richer townsfolk. At
Dulal Mama’s house, well-dressed men and women came over
frequently and chatted and laughed with them. But the same people
indulged in shameless backbiting about their so-called friends.
Everything about the life of the townsfolk seemed like a stage show
to Debaki—all this splendour was empty within. For the first time
since she had arrived in the city, Debaki had met people who were
different. If she had not met Bhadra and Kunal, she would not have
known such people also existed here.
After she finished her work for the night, Debaki climbed up to
the attic—the only place in the house she could call her own. It was
a tiny room, and most of the floor space was occupied by broken
trunks, suitcases and other odds and ends. There were a number of
rats in the room. Still, this was the space where she was free.
It was particularly hot tonight. Debaki lay on her mat, fanning
herself. She could not sleep. The moment she closed her eyes she
seemed to dream about Bhadra’s room, and the quiet street where
she had walked with Kunal. The few bakul flowers she had picked
up from the ground were still tied in her anchal. She took them out
and put them beside her pillow. There was a bakul tree in Talpukur.
Suddenly someone seemed to tear open the wound in her heart. What
was her little Joydeb doing now? Tears trickled down Debaki’s cheeks.
190 Sabitri Roy

She tried to console herself: her in-laws had treated her very badly,
but Joydeb was just a child. They would surely not be so heartless as
to keep him hungry? Possibly his aunts looked after his needs, feeding
him when he was hungry, putting him to bed—or maybe he had
gone to sleep crying and sucking his thumb.

One weary day succeeded another, and Debaki waited anxiously for
a message from Bhadra, but nothing happened. She started to lose
hope. Perhaps Bhadradi had forgotten her. Why would an educated
and independent woman like Bhadra remember a young awkward
girl like Debaki? It was stupid of Debaki to have trusted Bhadra in
the first place. She lay awake in the attic, thinking about her future.
She was certain of one thing—she had to get out of this house. She
could not waste the rest of her life in this claustrophobic and filthy
kitchen. Debaki started to think about other alternatives. She had
heard earlier that Meghi of the Brahmin family in her village was in
Calcutta, working as a nurse in a tuberculosis hospital. Couldn’t she
herself try for such a job? There was a problem, though: her parents
might not agree.
The door of the attic was open. Debaki used to be a little
apprehensive about it earlier, but then she realized that there was
nothing to tempt a thief in the room where she slept. From where
she was lying she could see a slice of the star-studded night sky.
Inevitably, the thought of Bhadra came back to Debaki. And Kunal.
Was it possible that he remembered her?
It was close to midnight. The air had cooled a little. Debaki drifted
off to sleep. But some kind of a vague nightmare seemed to be
haunting her. Suddenly, the nightmare became real. Debaki woke up
with a start to find a hairy hand groping inside her blouse ‘Help!
Thief!’ she cried out and jumped up, striking a match which she
always kept ready under her pillow. The flickering flame revealed a
familiar face: her Dulal Mama!
‘You!’ Debaki screamed, 'You have got a wife and a family, you
shameless brute—’
 Harvest Song 191

Dulal sneaked out of her room and fled down the stairs. Long
after the outline of his form disappeared, Debaki stood there shaking
with rage. Then, recovering from the shock, she switched on the light.
The room remained dark, however: Dulal must have taken care to
fuse the light bulb. His wife was staying at her parent’s house as her
delivery was imminent, and the scoundrel was taking advantage of
it. All those attempts to keep his wife happy—taking her to the
cinema, throwing parties—this was what it amounted to!
Debaki could not go back to sleep. How would the man behave
in the morning? Would he be so brazen as to pretend nothing had
happened? Or would he behave like the coward he was and
slink away?
The morning brought something of an anticlimax, though: Debaki
was told that Dulal had left the city on urgent work.

Dulal returned after a week. He went through the papers, scolded his
sons, asked Debaki to make tea—in fact, he behaved just as usual.
When Debaki came in with the tea, she noticed a blue envelope
addressed to Hena Mami lying on the table—it was, quite obviously,
a love letter. Debaki’s eyes were burning with hatred, her lips curved
in a bitter smile. Let Hena Mami come back from the hospital, she
decided: she would tell her everything and leave.
But that very day after lunch, Dulal barged into Debaki’s room,
furiously waving a sheet of paper. He threw it down on the mat and
started to scream. It was, apparently, an anonymous letter. Someone
had seen Debaki with ‘an unknown man called Kunal a number of
times.’ Debaki was stunned. She stood there dumbly while Dulal
rained abuses on her. Debaki was too shocked to reply. She was
brought back to her senses when she heard him saying, ‘Such females
should be stripped and thrashed to an inch of their lives.’ Something
seemed to snap inside Debaki’s mind. She was trembling now, and
her body was on fire. Her eyes blurred with tears, she stumbled down
the stairs and came out on the street. She could not bear to live in
this house for another moment.
192 Sabitri Roy

Duial, too, followed her out. His ravings had stopped magically,
and now a crooked smile played on his paan-stained thick lips. His
scheme had worked beautifully. He called a taxi and climbed into it,
asking it to proceed to Chittaranjan Hospital—his wife had given
birth to a son in the morning, and it was time he gave them a visit.
He leant back on the seat, satisfied. It was fortunate, indeed, that
the letter had fallen into his hands. It was not anonymous. It was for
Debaki, and was from a certain Bhadra Chowdhury. She had written
in reply to Debaki’s request for a job. Kunal's name was also
mentioned in the letter, which came in very handy, Dulal thought
gleefully.
‘Stop the car,’ he ordered suddenly: they were passing by a
jeweller’s shop. He was going to see his newborn son—Hena would
not be happy if he went without a gold chain, at the very least.

The first thought Debaki had when she came out on the road was
that of Bhadra and Kunal. But immediately, her mind revolted against
the idea of seeking help from them. She had made up her mind never
to associate with so-called educated people again. Dulal had a B.A.
degree too, and yet how easily the torrents of abuse had flowed from
his mouth!
Debaki was walking without any sense of direction. The strong
afternoon sun beat mercilessly down on her head. As she passed by
a park she saw some maidservants chatting under a shed. Debaki
went inside and sat down on a bench. She felt totally lost. Once she
thought of asking for help from one of those maids. But she
abandoned the idea almost immediately. Hena Mami had told her
that most of these women were touts, and often lured young helpless
girls into prostitution. Debaki felt goose pimples rise on her body at
the very thought.
Would it be better to go to Meghi? But how could she find her?
Besides, there was no guarantee that Meghi was still working at the
tuberculosis hospital. Debaki’s head was reeling. She did not have a
single paisa with her: she could not even take a bus. And where would
 Harvest Song 193

she go, anyway? In this dreadful city, there seemed to be no sanctuary

for girls like her.
It was almost evening now. Very soon it would be dark, and she
did not have a place to spend the night. She came out of the park and
asked an elderly man who was passing by, ‘Which way is the
tuberculosis hospital?’
‘You will get a bus from that stop down the road,’ the man replied
and walked away.
Debaki started walking. The road was almost empty, and a taxi
was waiting at the crossing. The driver, Debaki noticed, was leering
at her. ‘Why don’t you dimb in, I’ll give you a ride,’ he said, and
winked. Terrified, Debaki started running. Her legs could not bear
her weight, but she was too scared to stop. It was only when she
reached the main road when, still panting, she dared to slow down.
She looked wildly about her. There were so many houses on either
side, and yet there was no place for her in any of them. Desperately,
she looked up at the sky, as if the gods would offer succour. All that
she encountered was a grey nothingness that stared back at her
impassively. Hindustani factory workers were relaxing on rope beds
outside their tiled huts. But Debaki was not free even to sit down on
the footpath. She was not an animal, nor a human being: she was a
woman. Why was woman created?
There was no safe place for her in this world—not within the four
walls of the house, or outside them. Till this moment, Debaki had
not seen herself as an object of lust, or despised her body. Now it
was as if thousands of Dulals were chasing her.
Debaki had reached an area that was comparatively empty. She
could see the railway line in the distance, and a goods train was passing
sluggishly along the tracks. Debaki stopped. She was now incapable
of thinking coherently, but a crushing sense of loss seemed suddenly
to overpower her. She did not have anything to live for, neither could
she ask someone to help her. Like one in a trance, Debaki trudged
through the fields towards the railway line. With each step, the resolve
to end it all beneath the giant wheels of the train became stronger.
The goods train was gone, and Debaki could now see another
train coming. The black engine, like a monster, was coming towards
her at a great speed. This was her destiny, Debaki thought vaguely,
before everything went dark before her eyes. Just as she was collapsing
194 Sabitri Roy

on the lines, however, two hands pulled her back from behind.
A few minutes later, Debaki opened her eyes to see an elderly
woman holding her protectively. The engine had passed her by and
was disappearing in the distance.
‘Never ever do that again, my child,’ the woman said gently.
Debaki started to cry. ‘I don’t have anywhere to go,’ she said
brokenly.
‘Come with me, I live quite close,’ the woman said. ‘And don’t be
scared. I teach at the Corporation school. And I understand what
you must be feeling.’
Debaki followed the woman to a small tiled house situated beside
a pond at a little distance from the railway line. There was a well in
front of the house. The woman drew some water and told her, ‘Have
a wash and come in.’
Debaki was still crying. ‘But how can you give me shelter without
knowing who I am?’ she sobbed.
‘I can see the sindoor on your hair,’ the woman said. ‘Left your
in-laws’ house, haven’t you? I knew it at once when I saw you standing
in front of the railway line. Years ago I, too, had left home like this.
But I have no regrets. By the way, everyone calls me Anna Pishi here.
You can feel safe in your pishi’s house. Get some sleep now, and in
the morning you can decide if you want to go back home or not.’
Her own home! How terribly ironic it all was, Debaki thought.
But soon, all clear thoughts dissolved and within an hour, she became
unconscious with high fever.

Partha had come to Calcutta to collect some more money for the
farmers of Paharpur. He was at the Kisan office, telling the leaders
about their plight. So far the farmers had survived somehow on
contributions from sympathisers, but that source was uncertain; and
the zamindar showed no sign of relenting.
‘The zamindars will never relent,’ one of the elderly leaders
answered. ‘We should not even try to approach the problem from
that angle. We should try instead to get the farmers and workers
 Harvest Song 195

united. The Muslim farmers need to understand that their interest is

identical with the Hindus. It is natural that the stronger the peasant
movement becomes, the more determined the vested interests will be
to try and break it. They will use their standard weapons of
communalism, provincialism and racism in order to capitalise on
the divisions among the farmers.’
‘I can already see that,’ Partha said. ‘But my immediate concern
is keeping them alive. We simply must collect some money.’
It was finally decided that an attempt would be made to collect
subscription from factories. Even if they printed receipts for one anna
each, and urged each worker to buy one, the collection would be
considerable. Moreover, they would also be able to understand how
many workers were actually supporting the farmers’ movement.
Partha left the office feeling quite hopeful. He also felt excited for
a personal reason: he would meet Bhadra today. But before that he
had some visits to make. He would have to leave Calcutta the very
next day, and there was a whole lot of work to be done.
First, he went to meet Ali at the press where he worked. ‘You will
have dinner with us, won’t you?’ Ah asked. ‘Meghi will never forgive
me otherwise.’ Promising to see them at their Dhakuria home, he
took leave of Ali. His next destination was Debaki’s uncle’s house.
He had promised her father that he would bring news of Debaki.
A middle-aged man, obviously Debaki’s uncle, came out when
Partha knocked on the door. Partha gave him the letter from
Dinabandhumaster. Debaki’s uncle’s face clouded as he went through
the letter.
‘Please tell Debaki’s father,’ he said sourly, ‘never to mention his
daughter to us. The girl has fled from home. We don’t know her
whereabouts.’
Partha was astounded. He said, ‘You should have informed
her father.’
‘Well, I did not plead with him to let his daughter stay with us; it
was the other way round. So I don’t consider myself responsible for
her.’ He looked at his watch pointedly. ‘I’ve got to leave for office
soon,’ he said. Then, lowering his voice, he added, ‘I don’t enjoy
talking about such scandalous things, but I suppose I must. The truth
is that she has eloped. It’s better her father forgets about such a
daughter.’
196 Sabitri Roy

Partha was convinced that this was not the truth, but there was
no point continuing the conversation. He was extremely worried about
Debaki, and immediately inserted an advertisement in the papers in
the ‘information wanted’ column. Where could she be? It was not
possible for him to stay in Calcutta and search for her, as the District
Conference was due to begin the next day. Debaki might have gone
to ask help from Bhadra; it would be best to meet Bhadra and find
out. But Bhadra would not be back from school yet. He could manage
to finish another visit to a friend who had promised a donation before
he saw her. He walked up to Goldighi and stood there waiting for a
bus. As he looked across, like a miracle he saw Bhadra on the opposite
footpath. He immediately crossed the road, but before he could go
up to her she hurriedly boarded a bus, which sped away before
Partha’s eyes.
He was stunned. He was sure Bhadra had seen him, and yet she
had deliberately avoided talking to him. They were meeting after a
year and Bhadra had rejected him! He roamed the roads aimlessly
for the rest of the afternoon, his work forgotten. He was totally
disoriented. Wasn’t there any place for him in Bhadra’s life anymore?
After a lot of tormented deliberation, he decided not to meet
Bhadra. ‘My first and only commitment is to my work,’ he told
himself. ‘I can’t let myself go to pieces like this.’
It was late evening when Partha remembered his promise to Ali,
and forced his exhausted body to proceed to Dhakuria. Ali and Meghi
had a small tiled hut at the edge of a settlement of railway workers.
A young pumpkin plant climbed up the wall on to the roof. Tiny
pumpkins peeked out from the satiny green leaves.
Meghi came out with a smile.
‘You are so late,’ she said, ‘that I thought you had forgotten your
promise.’
‘I’m sorry, but how could you think that I would ignore the
invitation of a girl from my village?’
The house was sparsely furnished, but very neat and tidy. There
was a nice calendar on the wall, a few books were neatly arranged on
the shelves, and a couple of earthen dolls bought from a fair were
displayed on a corner shelf. Meghi herself looked quietly happy. She
was busy in the small verandah; cooking the meat Ali had bought to
 Harvest Song 197

entertain their guest. From time to time she came into the room to
talk to Partha.
‘I am very happy that you have taken up a job at the hospital,’
Partha said. “Which one is it?’
Ali’s face clouded, and it was he who replied. ‘The tuberculosis
hospital.’
Meghi noticed the disapproval in his voice. ‘You know, Parthada,
he doesn’t like my job,’ she said. ‘You explain to him that there’s
nothing to be scared of. Besides, someone or the other will have to
do it, won’t they?’
Partha was genuinely surprised. He had not expected an
uneducated woman from a village to talk so sensibly about an
important social problem.
‘You do wear gloves, don’t you?’ he asked Meghi.
‘Where will we get them?’ Meghi laughed. ‘Besides, even if I wear
them, what about the other women who work with me? They can’t
afford to buy gloves.’
‘But the hospital should provide them.’
‘Yes, I suppose they should. But, Parthada, if they don’t, what
can we possibly do? They will tell us either to work under these
conditions, or to quit.’
Meghi went out to arrange for their dinner. The Hindustani
workers were singing folk songs in the common courtyard outside.
‘What is the occasion?’ Partha asked curiously.
‘None,’ Ali replied, ‘save happiness. They are taking a breather
after a hard day’s work. I, too, join them often and sing jari songs.
This is the only way to relax around here.’
The music had a strange soothing effect—Partha felt the tensions
and frustrations of the day seeping out of his body. After dinner,
Partha was ready to leave. Ali and Meghi came with him up to the
bus terminus.
‘Come again, Parthada,’ Meghi said, ‘and this time you must
stay with us.’
The bus sped down Southern Avenue. Lights were going out one
by one in the houses on one side of the road. On the other side lay
the lake, reposing in the quiet darkness. After the suffocating heat of
the day a cool breeze was blowing from the direction of the Ganga.
198 Sabitri Roy

Partha looked out unseeingly at the minute fireflies that speckled the
darkness o f the lake grounds. Bhadra’s rejection had come
unexpectedly, leaving Partha devastated. He needed a little bit of
sympathy, he needed to be forgiven. But now there was no consola­
tion left.
The bus reached Bowbazar. As he got off the bus, Partha sighed
deeply. ‘You have made a mistake, Bhadra, an enormous one,’ he
whispered.

Bhadra reached home with a heavy heart. She had hurt Partha
deliberately, and she could not forget the stunned look on Partha’s
face. Towards the evening she could not bear it any more, and broke
down in a torrent of tears. Yet, a small voice kept saying from within
that she had done the right thing. Her self-respect was more important
than her emotions, and always would be.
While she was still crying, Kunal came in. He called out softly,
‘Bhadradi!’
Startled, Bhadra looked up, face and hair still wet with her tears.
‘So you prefer to cry alone, rather than share your burden with
someone?’ Kunal asked gently.
Bhadra did not answer. She wiped her tears and controlled herself.
‘Have you come from the hospital?’ she changed the subject. ‘How is
your sister?’
‘Not too well,’ replied Kunal. He did not elaborate, and Bhadra
did not press him either. A little later, Kunal asked again, ‘Can I help
in any way?’
‘You wouldn’t understand,’ she said. ‘But you would, if you were
in a similar position.'
‘How do you know that I wasn’t?’ Kunal asked softly.
Bhadra looked at him, startled. Kunal noticed the mute question
in Bhadra’s eyes, and smiled. But he did not explain what he had
meant.
‘I have to leave now,’ he said. ‘But let me tell you one thing before
 Harvest Song 199

I do. Instead of crying alone at home, why don’t you start some new
work? You were talking about learning stenography and typewriting
the other day. If you’re serious about it I can help you. Besides, I
want you to contribute regularly to our Sunday page.’
He walked up to the door and stopped there. ‘Another thing,’ he
said. ‘Actually, that’s why I came today. Do you remember that I had
fixed up a job for that girl called Debaki, and had asked you to inform
her? Well, the headmistress of that school is not willing to wait any
longer. Have you heard from her?’
‘I have sent her two letters,’ Bhadra replied, ‘but she hasn’t written
back. The other day I had also sent the bearer of our school to her
house with a chit, but her relatives sent back the message that she
doesn’t live there anymore.’
‘Don’t worry,’ Kunal said. ‘She has possibly got an offer from
somewhere else and moved out.’

Debaki had been staying at Anna Pishi’s house for the past month.
She had recovered fully from the fever, but was still very weak. One
afternoon she ventured out on the verandah. As she rested there, she
felt strangely at peace with the world. It was as if her old life was a
thing of the past, a nightmare that she had left behind. This was a
new beginning.
Anna Pishi was watering the vegetable plants in her kitchen
garden. Debaki busied herself with one of Anna Pishi’s saris, stitching
a border on it. Anna Pishi would not let her wear white saris.
‘You can think you have never been married, if you like,’ Anna
Pishi would say, smiling, ‘but why do you have to dress like a widow?’
Anna Pishi was not beautiful. She was dark and plump, and had
paan-stained teeth. But she was one of the kindest people Debaki
had ever met. When Anna Pishi smiled, her small eyes lit up with
compassion. Anna Pishi smiled a lot. What made her so happy,
Debaki wondered?
‘All you have to do is to open your eyes to the endless variety of
200 Sabitri Roy

this beautiful world,’ Anna Pishi said. ‘Don’t you think that’s enough
to make us happy?’
‘Quite a poet, aren’t you, Pishi?’ Debaki said, smiling.
‘And why shouldn’t I be?’ Anna Pishi retorted. ‘I have always
loved life, and that’s why I am alive today. And happy,’ she resumed,
more quietly. ‘If I didn’t, I would have killed myself when my mother-
in-law handed me the poison pills.’
Both fell silent.
‘Go inside,’ Anna Pishi advised Debaki a little later. ‘It’s getting
dark. Day after tomorrow I shall take you to meet our headmistress.
I have already talked to her, and she has more or less promised a job
for you.’
Debaki went inside. The small room was ill-lit and sparsely
furnished. The bedsheets were tom in places and badly in need of a
wash. Debaki made up her mind to wash them the next day after
Anna Pishi left for school. But before that the sheets needed to be
patched up. Debaki sat down near the kerosene lamp with her box
of needle and threads.
Anna Pishi looked up from the scripts she was marking and said
with a smile, ‘What’s the point in patching up that tattered thing? If
you are looking for something to do, sharpen this red pencil for
me instead.’

Early next morning, Debaki was about to start cooking when Anna
Pishi returned from the grocer’s.
‘This is not fair,’ Anna Pishi said sternly. ‘Cooking for me is not
your job. You have had a lot to put up with till now, and you should
get some rest while you can.’
‘It is not fair either that my elderly pishi should slog while I take
it easy,’ Debaki replied.
‘Who’s letting you take it easy?’ Anna Pishi asked, ‘Didn’t I tell
you that I would take you to my school tomorrow? Once you get a
job, you won’t be able to take it easy for the rest of your life.’
 Härtest Song 201

But unfortunately, despite the headmistress’s promise, Debaki did

not get the job—the administrative body of the school chose a trained
teacher instead.
‘It didn’t work out,’ Anna Pishi said after she returned with the
news the next evening, tired and disheartened, ‘but I’ve fixed up
something else for you. The Chowdhurys have agreed to let you teach
their three children. They will pay ten rupees a month. It isn’t much,
but it’s a beginning, anyway.’
Despite Anna Pishi’s protests, Debaki took it upon herself to do
all the housework. After a while, Anna Pishi also stopped scolding
her. At times she would smile and say, ‘Haven’t you had enough,
working all your life in the kitchen?’
This was a novel experience for Debaki. In her entire life, she had
never had anyone worrying about her.
‘This is different, Pishi,’ she tried to explain what she felt. ‘Even
if I worked for the rest of my life for you I won’t be able to repay the
kindness you have shown me. I had never known what it was to have
a mother until I met you . . . ’ Her voice broke and she stopped.
‘Look at the girl,’ Anna Pishi scolded her. ‘How are you going to
survive if you cry so much? You’ve got to learn to laugh, like me.’
She went out to the courtyard and picked a few tender flowers
from the pumpkin plant.
‘Let’s try something new today,’ she said, trying to distract Debaki.
‘Weren’t you telling me the other day that in your village you eat
these flowers batter-fried?’
Debaki brightened up immediately. ‘Yes, of course,’ she said
excitedly. ‘We also fry pumpkin leaves and young jute leaves in the
same way.’
Her tears foigotten, Debaki started making preparations for Anna
Pishi’s lunch.
The tiled hut next to Anna Pishi’s had been empty for quite some
time. On the other side lived Joyen Mian, from whom Debaki had
arranged to buy some milk every day for Anna Pishi. After Anna
Pishi left for school, Debaki went out to talk to Joyen Mian’s daughter
Moroni over the fence that separated the two houses. Moroni’s mother
was busy sticking cowdung cakes around the trunk of a mango tree.
The old woman reminded Debaki of Mail’s mother in her village—
202 Sabitri Roy

both had the same way of winding the sari around their reed-like
bodies. She looked curiously at Debalri and asked, ‘Are you related
to Annadidi?’
‘Yes,’ Debalri replied. ‘She is my aunt.’ Anna Pishi had decided
that it was better to introduce Debaki to the neighbours as a niece.
That would stop tongues from wagging.

Time passed fast and Debaki had tutored the Chowdhury children
for a month. The day she received her fees she returned home feeling
euphoric. So she, too, could earn money on her own! She would not
have to fear the likes of Rajen Sarkar, Dulal Mama or Hena Mami
anymore. Reaching home, the first thing Debaki did was to call on
Joyen Mian. ‘Please buy me a couple of saris for Anna Pishi,’ she
requested the old man, giving him some money.
Anna Pishi had not expected anything like this. ‘This is the first
time anyone has ever spared a thought for me,’ Anna Pishi said, her
eyes moist. And then she smiled through her tears.
Debaki had five rupees left now, and that was due to Moroni for
the milk. Debaki felt a lot better after she paid off the debt, but now
her purse was empty again. She realized that she had to look for a
proper job soon. Teaching privately was a stop-gap arrangement at
best. One afternoon, therefore, she made up her mind to look up
Meghi. She had thought earlier that she would never ask for help
from people she knew, but how long, after all, could one be dependent
on an old woman like Anna Pishi?
It was not too difficult for Debaki to find the tuberculosis hospital.
She went up to some women walking on the grounds and asked,
‘Does someone called Meghi work here? She’s a nurse,’ she explained.
‘Meghi Ahmed?’ asked one of the women. ‘Yes, she’s on duty
now. Why don’t you wait for a while? She’s due to be off very soon.’
Debaki sat down under a tree to wait. Her ears had reacted to the
unfamiliar surname. So Meghidi was Meghi Ahmed now!
Soon a bell rang somewhere close and Debaki saw a nurse walking
towards her. Debaki stood up nervously. It was then that she
 H arvest Song 203

recognized Meghi. The same quiet, perpetually scared Meghidi of

the Brahmin family was now standing in front of her in a nurse’s
uniform, confident and smiling! It was a transformation Debaki had
not been prepared for.
Meghi was the one to speak first.
‘Can you wait for a few minutes, Debi?’ she asked. ‘I would like
to change and have a wash.'
Debaki agreed, and Meghi returned very soon. They talked for a
long time, each telling the other about her life since they last met.
Debaki stood up finally, saying, ‘It’s getting late, Meghidi, I have to
leave now. But do remember to look for a job for me, won’t you? I
shall come again tomorrow.
‘I will try my best,’ Meghi promised.
They left the hospital and walked up to the railway tracks together.
Meghi was going to board the train from the station. Before leaving,
Meghi said, ‘By the way, Partha Das of Mansadanga had come to
our house the other day. He is Ali’s friend and co-worker in the
movement,’ she added in an undertone.
Debaki was startled at the sudden mention of Partha’s name.
Meghi obviously did not know anything about the scandal that had
been created back home about the two of them. Debaki felt a little
sad too: Partha had come so close and yet they had not met! As she
walked home, Debaki found her thoughts dwelling increasingly on
Partha: had Parthada inquired after her? She would have liked to
have believed so, but she knew that Partha belonged to a different,
wider world. His greater concerns must have driven all thoughts of
an ordinary girl like Debaki from his mind.

The next morning dawned bright and clear. It was an important day
for Debaki: Meghi was supposed to take her to meet the matron. At
the appointed hour, Debaki reached the hospital. She was a little
apprehensive, but it proved to be smooth sailing for her. The English
matron interviewed her in broken Bengali, and Debaki answered
readily. The matron liked her smartness and intelligence, and a couple
of days later, Debaki started on her first job.
204 Sabitri Roy

Initially, Debaki was a little scared. Everywhere around her were

tuberculosis patients. Yet what a novel sensation it was to work on a
proper job! Clad in a white sari neatly pinned to her shoulder and the
nurse’s starched cap perched on her head, Debaki went about her
work briskly. She moved from bed to bed, carrying lotion, water and
thermometer; and kept the charts. For the first time Debaki found
confidence and started to respect herself.

There was only one primary school in the village, and the military
was going to break it down. Initially, Dinabandhu had dismissed the
appalling news as idle rumour. He had not been to his school after
the puja holidays, but with every passing day the buzz became
stronger. Finally, Dinabandhu decided to go and see for himself if it
was true. Even as he approached the school, he heard the noise. It
was, unmistakably the tearing, wrenching sound of a tin roof crashing
down. The president o f the Union Board was there in person,
supervising the demolition of the school building. Jagai Baneijee
was there too. Dinabandhu had heard that it was Jagai who had got
the contract for the job. Jagai smiled woodenly when he saw
Dinabandhu.
‘There will be a railway line on this land,’ he said. ‘It’s all because
of the war, you know.’
Pocha, the truant schoolboy, was standing at a little distance. He
could still see the chalk marks on the doors that had been taken off
the hinges and dumped unceremoniously on the field. Pocha recalled
vaguely how he had been punished once for drawing pictures on the
doors. Those sketches—of an owl, of an ogre—stared up at him
from the ground. Pocha was bewildered and miserable. Why were
these people breaking down their school?
Dinabandhu could not bear it anymore. He walked away from
the place and decided to drop in at Brindaban’s shop on his way
home. He needed to buy some tobacco for himself.
There was a piece of paper pasted on the fence outside Brindaban’s
shop. The paper read: ‘Spend not a single paisa for this war, spare
 Harvest Song 205

not one o f our brothers.’ Dinabandhu still remembered the

nightmarish days of the last war. The price of a pair of dhotis had
climbed up to an incredible ten rupees. Were they heading for similar
times? He decided to drop in at Partha’s house to enquire about his
whereabouts. If Partha was back from Calcutta, he must have some
news of Debaki.
Lakshman and Sudam were working in the sugarcane plantation
next to their house. Sudam invited Dinabandhu in, brought out a
stool for him to sit on and offered him a smoke.
‘No, it’s all right,’ Dinabandhu declined. ‘I just dropped in to find
out if Partha has returned from Calcutta. Has he sent any news?’
‘Does he ever write?’ Sudam said, ‘He just blows in and blows
out—like a storm. Doesn’t even stop for a whole day.’
Disheartened, Dinabandhu changed the subject. Indicating the
sugarcane-press in the comer of the courtyard, he asked Sudam,
‘Didn’t you have a good yield last year? You must have made a
tidy profit.’
‘Not really,’ Sudam said. ‘We could have, if about one maund of
jaggery hadn’t got spoilt. Unfortunately we used too much
lime in it.’
Lakshman came out in the courtyard wiping the sweat off his
body with a gamchha. ‘Is it true that the railway company is going to
take over the land of the school?’
‘What do you mean “going to”?’ Dinabandhu replied sadly. ‘I
went to check. They have already finished breaking down the roof.’
‘Really?’ Sudam enquired, worried. ‘Did you see for yourself?’
Dinabandhu nodded. ‘What I heard was alarming. Apparently
the railway line is going to connect this place to Shibbari ghat. This
means they are going to take over all the land on that route. Lots of
farmers are going to be dispossessed of their land.’
Partha’s mother came out on the courtyard to spread out the
paddy. ‘How’s your eldest daughter?’ she asked Dinabandhu.
‘I’ve no idea,’ Dinabandhu replied hopelessly. ‘In fact, that is what
I wanted to find out from Partha.’
‘Your son-in-law had come to our village to collect our dues for
paddy,’ Mangala said to Dinabandhu.
Dinabandhu was surprised. ‘To this village? But I heard that he’s
left his uncle’s house for Calcutta.’
206 Sabitn Roy

‘Who told you that?’ Lakshman joined them. ‘It’s not even been
a week since I saw Rajen Sarkar at the house of one of the bigwigs in
the village Apparendy, he is working for a big rice mill, and is buying
paddy from every farmer. We heard that he’s bought all the paddy
from the entire district.’
Mangala was apprehensive. It did not seem quite right that the
huge quantity of paddy should pass on to a single person. Paddy
was, to her, the source of all wealth—it was an incarnation of the
goddess Lakshmi herself. And things had come to such a pass that
the farmers were selling off their goddess for the lure of money!
Dinabandhu got ready to leave. Whatever he had heard today
was frightening. With all the land acquired by the military, and the
school demolished, where were they heading? What did the future
hold for people like him?
Dinabandhu’s face was still clouded when he entered the house
of Amulya the weaver. The women of the household were busy
spinning in the courtyard. They covered their heads and stood up as
they saw Dinabandhu enter.
‘Is Amulya at home?’ Dinabandhu asked. ‘He was supposed to
send me a pair of saris. Can you tell him when he returns that I need
them very urgently? I shall pay him as soon as I can, in a couple of
months, at the most.’
Amulya’s aunt had entered the courtyard and had heard him
speak. She replied, ‘I don’t think Amulya can give you the saris before
the Durga puja. He is now working on a big order from Shivbari. It’s
an order from the military,’ she explained, lowering her voice ‘Amulya
is working like mad till midnight. He can’t start on anything else till
he delivers this order.’
Dinabandhu caught a glimpse of big bundles of checked cloth
heaped on the bed inside the room. There really was no way Amulya
could deliver the saris Dinabandhu had ordered. Dejected,
Dinabandhu walked back to his house.
 Harvest Song 207

Haru’s mother, very excited, came to visit Lata one afternoon.

‘Bouma, is it really true that you have bought a sewing machine?’
she asked.
‘Yes, Kakima, it’s true,’ Lata replied happily and showed the
machine to Ham’s mother.
‘I can’t quite believe it, you know,’ the older woman exclaimed.
‘We really have a Singer machine at last! Now the only worry is to
pay off the monthly instalments.’
‘Has your mother-in-law seen this?’ she asked in an undertone.
*What did she say?’
Lata smiled, and avoided a direct answer.
‘There shouldn’t be any doubt now in anyone’s mind about our
running a women’s samiti from home,’ she said, ‘but, Kakima, you
must be the secretary.’
‘Why me? I should have thought that the natural choice would be
the college-educated bride of our village,’ Ham’s mother said
teasingly.
‘A degree isn’t everything, what about the vast experience that
you have? Whatever we have achieved in these three months is entirely
due to your efforts. You know this place like the back of your hand:
I don’t.’
Ham’s mother changed the subject suddenly. ‘Where’s your
necklace?’ she asked Lata anxiously.
‘I’ve sold it off,’ Lata smiled, ‘but don’t breathe a word about it to
Ma. There was no other way to raise money for the machine. The
members of our association were becoming sceptical,’ she explained.
‘The other day Nani’s motherjoked, ‘If joining a samiti means making
paper bags and cane baskets, then there’s such an association in every
household in the village. ’ It was crucial for us to show them something
definite, in order to gain their confidence.’
Three small Bagdi girls carrying slates came in and stood
near Lata.
‘Oh, so you’re here?’ Lata said happily, ‘but where are the
other two?’
‘They’re playing,’ replied one of them. ‘They didn’t want to come.’
The girls, Buji, Tepi and Khenti, settled down with their slates on
a mat spread on the verandah. They had brought with them an ata, a
custard apple, as Lata had asked them to.
208 Sabitri Roy

‘We shall learn to write ‘ata’ today,’ Lata said, putting the fruit in
front of them and slowly writing out the word on the slate, letting
them follow the movement of her hand. Then she suggested, ‘Why
don’t you try copying the word?’
The children, a little shy and a little excited, carefully copied the
rounded lines on their slates. Lata looked at the small heads bent
over the slates, feeling completely peaceful and content.
The girls wrote the word again and again. Slowly, the black slates
filled up with their writing. They held up their slates proudly, and
Lata said, smiling, ‘What fun! We began with just one custard apple,
and now we have so many!’
The children laughed, delighted. Lata looked up at the shadows
lengthening on the courtyard and said, ‘That’s enough for today.
Come again tomorrow. Or maybe you want to play?’
‘No, no,’ the children protested in chorus, ‘we want to come. What
shall we bring tomorrow?’
‘Bring a leaf of the custard apple tree,’ Lata said, ‘We shall learn
to write again.’
The giris left. Lata was very happy with these Bagdi girls. Buji,
Tepi, Khenti were the first students of Lata’s school. But as she entered
the room she felt depressed again. Haru’s mother was reclining on a
pillow, going through a magazine, but there was no one else.
‘So Binadi and the others did not come after all?’ Lata asked in a
small voice.
‘I’m sure they’ve got stuck somewhere, with some work or the
other,’ Haru’s mother tried to console her. ‘Wait till tomorrow, I shall
bring them with me. This is the best opportunity for them to learn
sewing and cutting, free of cost. They will come, don’t worry.’
‘I think the men prevented the women from coming,’ Lata
persisted.
Haru’s mother laughed. ‘Durga puja is round the comer,’ she
said. ‘Once the men understand that they don’t have to spend money
on the tailoring of new clothes, they will immediately send their wives
and daughters over to leam sewing.’
She sat up. ‘It’s almost evening,’ she said, peering out of the
window. ‘Time for me to leave. I shall just look in on your mother-in-
law on my way out.’
Hashi’s mother was relaxing after her midday nap on the verandah,
 Harvest Song 209

leisurely chewing tobacco. As she saw Haru’s mother emerge from

Lata’s room, she asked, barely masking a sneer, ‘So—how is the
famous paper bag association doing?’
‘We’ve got a sewing machine now, and still the label sticks?’ Haru’s
mother smilingly replied, refusing to swallow the bait.
‘Sit down for a while,’ Hashi’s mother invited.
‘Sorry, Didi, there’s a lot of work left at home. Some other day,’
Haru’s mother replied, ‘by the way, isn’t your daughter-in-law
expecting? This is the fifth month, if I’m not mistaken. When are
you going to arrange for her panchamritaT
Hashi’s mother made a face.
‘Since she doesn’t have a proper family on her father’s side, all
those rituals will have to be done here, I guess. But the problem is,
neither she nor my son believes in these things. Why, they even got
married without a priest! Even if I arrange for pancham rita, do you
think a “modem” woman like Bouma will agree to eat cow dung
and drink cow piss?’

Partha arrived by the evening train. Sulakshan was shocked to look

at him. Partha looked devastated, like a tree uprooted in a storm.
Concerned, Sulakshan tried to find out about Partha’s days in
Calcutta, but he could not guess anything from the monosyllabic
answers Partha gave him. Finally, as the talk veered round to more
personal matters, Sulakshan asked Partha about Bhadra.
‘I haven’t been able to meet her,’ Partha said, smiling dryly.
Sulakshan realized immediately that this was a sensitive subject.
It was quite obvious that Partha did not want to talk about it.
The next day was spent in visiting all the farmer households in
the village. Partha tried his best to warn the farmers.
‘Do not sell off your produce,’ he urged. ‘Today they are tempting
- you with an advance of ten rupees, tomorrow you won’t get the same
quantity of rice for double the amount. Why don’t you try to
understand that the agents are scattering money like this only in their
own selfish interest? The Rajen Sarkar who is buying you out today
210 Sabitri Roy

will sell you your own produce tomorrow at double or triple

the cost.’
But the crowd of farmers steadily increased in front of Rajen
Sarkar’s house. At their insistence, some farmers came reluctantly to
attend their meetings, but very soon Sulakshan’s courtyard became
empty. Only a few old farmers stayed back, who did so more because
they were enjoying a hookah than because they believed in the cause.
On their way back from a fruitless visit to a farmer’s house,
Sulakshan said dejectedly, ‘Things are looking bad. I think it’s going
to be almost impossible to rescue the farmers from this trap of advance
payment. Almost 75 percent of the aush crop has already been stocked.
Our only hope now is to save the canon crop. On last market day, the
price of rice climbed to twelve rupees.’
‘Yes,’ Partha agreed, ‘if we can’t unmask the agents who are buying
the farmers out, we can’t hope to gain any ground.’
They had almost reached Sulakshan’s house. From the road itself,
they could see Lata who was on the terrace taking the clothes off the
clothesline. Immediately, the thought that had been pestering him
since morning came back with a rush. He decided to confide in Partha.
‘I badly need a job,’ he said, ‘there was an opening for a maths
teacher in our school. I thought of applying, but our district committee
comrades are not happy with my decision. They think that the
movement will suffer if committed workers start taking up jobs. What
do you think I should do?’
‘It makes sense to take up a regular job,’ Partha said, ‘especially
under the circumstances. Your family is not very supportive, and
Lata is expecting. You have to look after her health. And, besides, if
one doesn’t have firm ground to stand upon, how can one fight?’

Durga puja was over soon. A week passed, and it was time for
Lakshmi puja. ‘The girls were in rags during Durga puja,’ Súbala
told her husband, ‘but you’ve got to buy them new clothes for Lakshmi
puja. ’ She added in a smaller voice, ‘If you don’t have enough money,
buy a red gamchha at least.’
 Harvest Song 211

'Even a gamchha costs money,’ Dinabandhu answered hotly.

Perpetual hardship had made him irascible. These days he surprised
himself often by replying irritably to perfectly ordinary questions.
He controlled himself with an effort and prepared to go out. ‘Let me
see if I can borrow some money from Aminuddin. What did you say
you needed for the puja? A platter, a comb, a mirror, a gamchha,
sindoor and a length of thread—is that all?’
‘Yes, but make sure the thread is red,’ Subala replied brighdy,
happy that her husband’s mood had improved, ‘a black one won’t
do, and—’
But before she could finish, the postman entered their courtyard
with an envelope and a parcel. Someone had sent Dinabandhu
money! Sathi, Kunti and Iti crowded around the postman.
‘Who is it, Baba? Who has sent us money?’
‘Debaki,’ Dinabandhu said wonderingly as he signed the receipt.
The postman handed him ten rupees and left. Sathi immediately
snatched the parcel from his father’s hand and started to cut the strings.
Before the ecstatic eyes of the children the parcel revealed its
treasures—a pink voile frock for Iti, a printed cotton sari for Kunti
and a sky blue shirt for Sathi.
Iti was overjoyed to get her new frock. She slipped it on
immediately, and danced about the courtyard, holding the hem as if
she was about to fly off into the clouds. Everyone laughed to see
her antics.
‘The goddess herself has provided the money we needed for her
puja,’ Subala said happily.
Dinabandhu left for the market. This was the first time he had
heard from his eldest daughter in months. Debaki had sent a note
with the parcel, saying she had taken up a job at a hospital.
Dinabandhu felt tears well up into his eyes and, like a small boy, he
desperately wanted to stop somewhere to have a good cry. How had
Debaki known that he needed money so urgently? And how could
she feel the pain of a father unable to feed his children?
212 Sabitri Roy

Before leaving, Partha went to meet Dinabandhu. There he came to

know that Debaki had sent them money and clothes.
‘She’s so tender-hearted,’ Dinabandhu said, ‘she can’t be earning
much, and yet she’s so thoughtful!’
‘By the way,’ Dinabandhu added. ‘Jagai Banerjee was saying that
you advertised in the papers for Debaki’s news. Why on earth did
you do that?’
Partha was embarrassed. But then he decided to tell Dinabandhu
what he had heard from Debaki’s uncle. ‘But I think Debaki was
absolutely right in leaving that house and taking up a job,’ he
concluded.
‘We didn’t know a single thing about this,’ Dinabandhu said,
surprised. ‘Maybe this is why she did not write to uS.’
On his way back home, Partha picked up the newspaper from the
post office. The whole paper was full of news of war between Russia
and Germany: Hitler’s army was advancing steadily towards the
Caucasus.

Debaki was on night duty at ward no. 2. The condition of one of the
patients—a young woman—was serious. The visiting doctor had
sedated her and had asked Debaki to be very alert. The slightest
change in the patient’s condition was to be reported immediately.
The woman was sleeping peacefully now. In fact, she was so still
that she seemed to have stopped breathing. Debaki moved closer
and tried to observe the rise and fall of her chest. Satisfying herself
that the woman was breathing after all, Debaki went out to rest on
the verandah for a while. But the patient did not survive the night.
The news of her death was sent to her house early in the morning.
Soon, a young man arrived, and the nurses saw him standing mutely
in front of the shrouded stretcher.
Debaki’s duty was over. She was changing her uniform in the
nurses’ room, her eyes moist. Romola, another nurse, entered the
room. ‘It’s a merciful release,’ said Romola, ‘she used to cry buckets
for her husband. But the husband is such a rascal that he never looked
 Harvest Song 213

her up. We heard that he married again, even before his wife was
actually dead.’
Romola stopped abruptly as Meghi entered. ‘Her brother has come
to take the body away,’ Meghi said, ‘would you like to come, Debaki?’
Debaki came out on the verandah to find the body decked with
white flowers and laid on the ground. The woman looked strangely
peaceful in death. Debaki felt tears well up in her eyes.
Someone moved a lock of hair from the dead woman's forehead
with infinite care. Debaki looked up. Immediately, she felt as if she
had been stung. It was Kunal.
‘Is she—is she your sister?’ Debaki whispered, suddenly aware of
the painful truth.
Kunal nodded. He noticed the nurse’s white cap pinned on
Debaki’s hair, and asked, ‘Are you working here now?’
Debaki did not even hear the question. ‘The first night I was on
duty, she was all right, you know,’ she said in a strangled voice, ‘but
suddenly—’ she could not go on.’
‘I suppose the end comes suddenly for everyone,’ Kunal said in a
voice choked with tears, ‘especially when the body becomesa burden. ’
He moved away to arrange for the cremation. But Debaki stood
rooted to the spot, her eyes bloodshot with crying and sleeplessness.
The elderly matron came over and stood beside Debaki.
‘Your first acquaintance with death, isn’t it?’ She asked
sympathetically, ‘It’s very difficult in the beginning. But you’ll get
used to it, don’t worry.’
After a week or so, Kunal came to the hospital again to pay the
dues. He donated a lump sum to the hospital fund—after all, this
was the only place that was associated with the memory of his sister.
Before he left, he decided to meet Debaki and sent in a slip with his
name. Very soon, Debaki came out.
‘Your sister has left a cloth bag with me, it’s for you,’ she said.
‘Why don’t you come over to my house and collect it?’
‘Where do you live?’ Kunal asked.
‘On the other side of the railway tracks. You cross over, then follow
the road next to the mosque, and you’ll come to the Shiv temple.
There you should ask for Anna Pishi’s house. I live there. Right now
I’m on duty,’ Debaki added quickly, ‘but this week I’m off on
afternoons.’
214 Sabitri Roy

She went in. Kunal went down the stairs thinking about the
contrast between the Debaki whom he had seen at Bhadra’s place
and this smart and confident young woman.
Debaki had not really expected Kunal to come. Kunal, however,
proved her wrong and came to see her that evening. He said he could
not stay for long but would come when she had a day off.
‘Do you remember,’Kunal said, ‘one evening I walked you home?
Or, rather, till Deshapiiya Park,’ he amended with a smile, ‘and I
also fixed up a job for you in a school. But you never came back or
replied to the letter?’
‘Letter?’ she was astounded. ‘What are you talking about?’
‘Why, didn’t you receive Bhadradi’s letters? She wrote twice,
I believe.’
Debaki did not reply. Her mind was in a whirl. Kunal realized
her confusion and decided to drop the subject. He consulted his watch
and stood up. ‘I really have to leave now,’ he said, ‘I have an important
engagement in the evening.’
Debaki brought out the bag that Kunal’s sister had left for him. It
was a small crochet bag with a neat little bit of embroidery. Kunal
received it silently and left.
Even after he had left, Debaki could not stop thinking about Kunal.
He had made a point of thanking her for looking after his sister. No
other relative of a patient had thanked her for what she considered
to be her duty. To everyone she was just a nurse—paid to look after
the patients.
Debaki lit the stove. It was time for Ketaki to return from office.
For the past three months, Ketaki had been staying with Debaki and
working as a typist at the office of one of Dulal Mama’s friends.
Now Debaki had rented the hut next to Anna Pishi’s and set up
house with her sister.
Ketaki returned. She was quite good looking, and she had of late
become rather conscious of her looks. These days she almost rivalled
Hena Mami in the art of dressing up. Today she was carrying
a parcel.
‘What is that?’ Debaki asked curiously.
‘I bought a sari for myself,’ Ketaki replied carelessly. ‘Got my
salary today.’ She opened the parcel—it was an expensive pale
pink georgette.
 Harvest Song 215

‘Did you have to buy this?’ Debaki asked in a tone of mild protest,
‘It’s not even been a week since you bought a pair of cotton saris.’
‘I shall spend my money exactly the way I want to,’ Ketaki replied
arrogantly.
Debaki was both surprised and angry at this open defiance. It
was true that, unlike herself, Ketaki had never been exposed to
grinding poverty—she had gone to a boarding school and been
brought up by their wealthy uncle—but how could she be so
shamelessly blind to their present constraints? Debaki controlled
herself with an effort. She made tea, poured out a cup for her sister
and made her a couple of chapattis.
Ketaki finished her bath. She stood in front of the mirror, brushing
her long hair and looking appreciatively at herself. Humming a tune,
she started to apply cream on her face. The false pearls on her ears
were too shiny, perhaps, she thought critically. Slowly, the face in the
mirror hardened. Hena Mami sneered at false jewellery. She might
have the real stuff in truckloads, thought Ketaki viciously, but did
she have Ketaki’s youth and beauty? Wasn’t Dulal Mama’s friend
giving Ketaki a little more attention than he gave Hena Mami?

Kunal woke up very late one day, and settled down to work. He had
a darkroom at home and spent the better part of the day there,
developing and printing photographs. Towards the evening he heard
a knock and came out to open the door. There was a surprise waiting
for him. It was Debaki, raindrops like diamond dust on her hair and
face, smiling like an excited adolescent.
‘I just couldn’t stay at home on such a day,’ Debaki said, ‘so I
thought I’d look you up.’
Kunal cleared a portion of his bed o f piles of paper and
photographs, and asked Debaki to sit down. ‘Actually,’ he said, ‘it’s
such a day when the heart yearns for something unique, something
that would be totally different from ordinary everyday experiences.’
Debaki was looking at Kunal’s room. The writing table was piled
216 Sabitri Roy

carelessly with photographs. Debaki was amazed. ‘You have taken

all these snapshots?
Kunal smiled at this naïve curiosity. ‘I shall show you the good
ones one day. These are all discarded prints.’
‘Discarded?’ Debaki was astounded. ‘Honesdy? You mean you’re
going to throw them away?’
Kunal smiled.
‘In that case can I take them?’ Debaki asked eagerly. ‘For my
patients,’ she explained.
‘Not these,’ Kunal protested. ‘I would rather lend you the album
of my best photographs. These are not good, honestly. Do you want
to spoil my reputation?’
‘They’re good enough for me,’ Debaki said, sorting the discarded
photographs, ‘and they’ll be good enough for my patients.’
Suddenly, she picked up a snapshot and asked curiously, ‘Where
are these girls from?’
‘My native state.’
‘But no one would think by looking at you that you belong
somewhere else.’
‘That’s because in every person there’s a second self,’ Kunal
replied, smiling. ‘One self belongs to a particular place, and the other,
to all places, all times. If you can look at the innermost self, it doesn’t
matter if the outer self is a Bengali, a Punjabi, or an Englishman.’
‘But how can I get to know the inner self if I don’t understand the
language? No, it’s only because you speak Bengali that I can relate so
easily to you.’
‘But what about the fact that almost everyone else around you
speaks Bengali? Can you relate to everyone in the way that you
relate to me?’
Debaki looked up, startled, and her eyes locked with Kunal’s.
She blushed and looked away.
‘I must go now,’ she said. ‘My sister is going to return from office
soon, and if I’m not there to make her tea she’s going to create a
huge ruckus.’
Kunal looked at the parting of Debaki’s hair. As far as he
remembered, he had seen her wearing sindoor the last time. But today
there was no sign of it. He was curious, but he did not ask her
anything. Debaki also appreciated this lack of vulgar curiosity in her
 Harvest Song 217

personal life. He seemed to be interested in her only as an individual.

This was a novel experience for Debaki.
Debaki returned home feeling strangely peaceful, her whole body
tingling with a sensation of a hitherto unknown happiness. She was
rather relieved to find that Ketaki had not yet returned from office.
She made tea and started preparing dinner. But even when it almost
time for dinner, there was no sign of Ketaki.. Finally she got dressed,
locked her room and went to Anna Pishi’s house to leave the key
with her.
‘I think I should go to the hospital and call her office from there,’
she said.
‘Let me come with you,’ Anna Pishi urged.
‘No, I can manage. It’s much too cold for you to go out. As it is
you’re suffering from gout.’
Debaki started to walk towards the hospital. But as soon as she
crossed the railway track, she saw Ketaki alighting from a car. There
was someone inside, but even as Debaki approached, the car turned
and sped away.
‘I was awfully worried,’ Debaki told her sister. ‘Why are you
so late?’
*1 had to work overtime,’ Ketaki replied nonchalantly.
Debaki suddenly became aware that Ketaki was looking different.
She was flushed and excited, and was reeking of some cheap perfume.
Debaki was alarmed to catch a whiff of cigarette smoke in her breath.
Ketaki kept a careful distance. They returned home in total silence.
But once they were inside, Debaki could not keep her anxieties to
herself.
‘I don’t like your ways,’ she said. ‘Can you swear to me, Ketaki,
that you really had overtime duty today? And do you seriously ask
me to believe that your boss cares so much for his employees that he
drops them home in a car?’
‘Look who’s talking,’ Ketaki made a face. *You are asking me to
mend my ways? Do you think your own conduct is exemplary?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You know very well what I mean. My point is that I’m not
interfering with your freedom, and you shouldn’t meddle into my
life either. Who drops me in a car is my business, and if I want to tell
you, I shall do so in my own sweet time. Don’t forget that you’re
218 Sabitri Roy

married. You’re not my guardian, so I’m not bound to inform you

about my plans.’
‘All right, but you should at least keep our parents informed.’
‘Why? Even our parents are not my guardians,* Ketalri replied
sharply. ‘No one is. Parents who can bear children but can’t provide
for their upkeep are no parents of mine.’
Debaki was dumbfounded. ‘How could you say such a thing,
Ketalri? How could you overlook the agony of parents who can’t
provide for their children? You are thinking about your own self, but
have you bothered to think about them once? Have you ever seen
mother wear a shawl in the severest of winter? Has she ever worn
any ornament?’
‘It’s her own fault,’ pat came Ketaki’s reply. ‘It wouldn’t have
happened if they hadn’t given birth to a child every year.’
Debaki felt her skin crawl at the insinuation. ‘What about the
rich? If they have a child every year that’s not a crime, I suppose?’
‘No, because they can afford to have them.’
Ketaki changed and went to bed. Debaki called her once to
have dinner.
‘You’ve fed me a lot tonight, I don’t need dinner,’ was Ketaki’s
venomous reply.
Debaki did not feel like eating either. She poured some water in
the rice and went to bed.

Kunal had lent her a book last week, but Bhadra had not even started
on it. It was ten in the morning. She was lying on the easy chair,
book in hand, but every time she forced herself to concentrate, she
found her mind wandering. She did not know what had happened to
her, but these days she always felt listless and depressed.
She forced herself to get up. Untying her plait, she walked a few
paces to the dressing table. Two roses were standing in a tall glass
there. Bhadra saw her whole body reflected in the mirror. A beautiful
body, she thought almost unconsciously, looking at herself with the
dispassionate eyes of an artist. Bhadra stood in front of the mirror,
 Harvest Song 219

almost in a trance, if she was made aware of her physical beauty for
the first time in her life.
Time passed. Bhadra came back to the present with a start. She
went out on the verandah. It was almost the exact spot from where
she had seen Partha leave. Suddenly, uncannily, she felt Partha’s
presence beside her. Slowly, quietness began to steal over her. If the
presence of Partha was still so real to her, so intrinsic to her being,
why should she have any regret about losing him? Wasn’t he still
there with her, and wouldn’t he always be there?
When Bhadra returned home from school, she found Lata’s letter
in the letterbox. Bhadra felt the stirring of excitement as she took it
out. No one knew just how much these blue envelopes had come to
mean to her. Among the sundry news there were bits and pieces
about Partha. Partha had come to visit them once. He is busy with
his work. At the end Lata sprung a surprise. They had a baby! Bhadra
was thrilled. It was just like Lata, she thought, to keep the best news
till the end, and then to reveal it casually.
She went out immediately to buy some wool for the newborn,
but she was not sure what colour she should choose. Lata had not
written if it was a boy or a girl. After a lot of deliberations, she finally
decided to buy a lovely shade of pale green. She spent the whole of
the next week in knitting a set of baby clothes. But before she could
send it to Lata, she received another letter. It was a very short one.
Lata had written that Partha had been arrested for giving a seditious
lecture. Before he was taken away, he had left his pen for Bhadra.
Bhadra sat there shocked and speechless, staring at the letter that
she was holding. Suddenly, she felt a rush of all those unruly emotions
that she had carefully kept suppressed within herself. The letter
crumpled in her hand, Bhadra broke into a flood of uncontrollable
tears.
Outside, the afternoon sky changed its colours. A quiet evening,
like the benediction of God, descended on the earth. Conch-shells
and bells began to sound from every house. Bhadra’s tears dried
gradually. She could hear the radio in the next house: it was playing
Hindustani classical music. There was a great peace and quietness
that lay at the heart of this music, it opened up spaces hitherto
unexplored, carried one beyond time into eternity. Bhadra found the
220 Sabitri Roy

tumult within her heart subsiding. A new confidence was born within
herself, a new strength. She drew her notebook to herself and started
to write:

‘I don’t know the destination.

Yet the unknown place
Beckons to me—
I know I shall find the way
Some day.’

Someone was knocking at the door. Bhadra opened it to find her

milkman standing there. Sohan Singh had gone back to his native
state a few months ago, and now he was here again. ‘When did you
return?’ Bhadra asked him, ‘Is everything all right?’
‘I haven’t been home,’ Sohan Singh replied. ‘I’ve decided to take
up my job once again. Since you are an old customer, I thought I’d
come to your house first.’
Then he looked around and lowered his voice. ‘The comrade has
sent you a letter,’ he said, and took out a slip of paper from his
notebook. ‘You have to return it to me,’ he continued. ‘Take your
time, I shall come back in a little while to collect it.’
Bhadra, completely taken aback, took the letter from him and
opened it with shaking hands. The letter however, was not from
Partha, but from a leader of his party.
‘I have heard about you from Partha,’ the leader had written.
‘Lots of our comrades are now in jail. So we badly need your help in
bringing out the Hindi edition of Chashi. If it’s all right with you I
shall come over one of these days to discuss the details.’
Bhadra had had no idea that the milkman, Sohan Singh, was a
member of Partha’s party. She was suddenly aware of a startling
truth: in every small courtyard of this poor country, behind every
cowshed, a revolution was taking birth. . . she could almost hear the
La Marseillaise from every worker’s house in the neighbourhood.
 Harvest Song 221

One night as Kunal was looking through his photographs, Jyotirmoy

rushed in. ‘Have you heard the news?’ Jyotirmoy asked excitedly.
‘Singapore has been bombed. I’ve just seen it in the office.’
He pulled up a chair and sat down.
‘Where’s the cigarette tin? Give me one. I guess we shall all have
to stay up tonight.’
By the next day everyone in Calcutta came to know the news.
The immediate reaction was sheer panic. People started to clear out
of the city in droves. Horse-drawn carts loaded with furniture, bedding
and other household goods moved at a snail’s pace towards Howrah
station. Kunal roamed around the city the whole day, trying to capture
the sights in his camera. Everywhere around him were frightened
faces. Convoys of army trucks were going over Howrah Bridge. The
gas posts wore masks; baffle walls had been erected overnight at every
comer. Civic guards were on rounds. One could frequently hear the
drone of aeroplane engines overhead.
He returned home very late. Masked gas lamps shone dimly on
the deserted streets. Fear seemed to be lurking in every dark comer,
even in the small circles of ghostly light beneath the lamp posts. He
started to develop the photographs he had taken that day. Suddenly,
there was a cautious knock on his door. It was a very old friend that
Kunal had not met for a long time.
‘Where did you abscond to?’ he asked his friend with a smile.
‘I’m still absconding, as a matter of fact,’ the friend replied
seriously, ‘I’ve come to you tonight for some urgent help.’
Kunal tried to think how much money he had on him. His friend
continued, ‘You have to arrange for the printing of a proscribed paper.
We wish to resume the Hindi edition of Chashi. And you will have to
get some pamphlets printed every week.’
‘You’re not asking for much,’ Kunal replied, smiling. ‘Why can’t
you get them printed from your own press?’
‘The police are on to it.’ Kunal’s friend took out a large envelope
and said, ‘If you think printing the journal is too difficult, at least get
the pamphlets done. Surely you can do this much?’
Kunal accepted the envelope from him. ‘I hope you’re getting
enough to eat?’ The man smiled and turned to go. Kunal took a ten-
rupee note from his purse and put it in his friend’s pocket. The next
222 Sabitri Roy

moment the man was gone, and within a few minutes his tall figure
merged into the darkness.
Kunal took the manuscript of the pamphlets from the envelope.
The next moment he was staring at the papers. It was Bhadra’s
handwriting. So this was what she was up to! Well, Kunal thought,
Bhadra did not even know where her secret efforts had fetched up.
What a coincidence!
He went to sleep very late that night. He woke with a start at a
loud knock on his door. He opened the door to find his landlord
standing there.
‘I came to discuss something important with you,’ the old man
said. ‘One of my friends has just returned from Rangoon. Right now
he’s in Madras, staying in a hotel. He has asked me to take a house
on rent for his family in Calcutta. Well, they are coming tomorrow
and I haven’t yet been able to fix anything. So I was wondering—’
‘Let’s do something,’ Kunal suggested, ‘I am vacating my rooms.
Let them put up here for the moment. I can stay in the garage till
they shift somewhere else.’
The old man was amazed. ‘Are you sure you don’t mind staying
in the garage?’ he asked.
‘Not at all,’ Kunal replied. ‘Their need is obviously greater than
mine. And I don’t stay at home most of the time anyway. You can
send them a telegram asking them to come over.’
That very night Kunal shifted to the garage. When he woke up
the next morning, he found people peering at him curiously through
the collapsible gates. Kunal smiled and turned on his side.

Bhadra filled up every moment of her day with work. She was scared
of having time to brood. Gradually, the restlessness that had plagued
her earlier lessened. She spent the afternoons in her room, writing as
much as she could. Kunal entered quietly and placed a printed
pamphlet in front of her. Bhadra looked up, startled. ‘Where on earth
did you get this?’
‘Birds of a feather,’ Kunal murmured, smiling.
 Harvest Song 223

‘Don’t try to be mysterious. Do you mean that you too—’

“No, I’m not a proletarian; I still have a camera. A rather expensive
one, too.’
Bhadra looked lost. Kunal said, ‘Maybe this is my way of repaying
you for all those nimkis you keep treating me to. Whatever the world
says of me, it can’t call me an ingrate.’
She guessed the truth and waved Kunal to a chair. Kunal noticed
that the lines of her face had softened: it was as if her tormented soul
had found some solace in the work she was doing. Kunal realized
that Bhadra had found her vocation at last.
‘Let me make a cup of tea for you,’ Kunal said, making a move
towards the kitchen.
Bhadra smiled and nodded. Soon, Kunal came back with the tea
tray. ‘But I haven’t told you yet why I came to see you today,’ he said,
expertly making the tea. ‘I’m leaving for Manipur tomorrow. Just
received news at Ramu’s tea stall that there’s non-stop bombing on
Manipur Road. Ramu’s report, in fact, is spicier than those of the
Indian Press Trust. And when I decided to leave for Manipur, I
thought I’d look on you once. Suppose I don’t come back?’
Bhadra frowned.
‘Of course,’ Kunal went on hastily, ‘since I am a brave lad of
Mother India my spirit will be immortal; but if by chance the
immortal spirit decides to make an appearance before you and cause
a heart attack, your friends would never forgive me.’
‘Will you be serious for once?’ Bhadra scolded him. ‘Tell me the
truth: are you really leaving for Manipur tomorrow?’
‘Yes,’ Kunal said, sobering up, ‘and I really did want to look you
up before leaving.’
‘Is your office sending you to Manipur?’

'Then why are you going?’

‘This is our job, Bhadradi. The Ramus of this world can only
spread stories from their tea stalls, but it is up to us reporters to let
the world know the truth.’
224 Sabitri Roy

Debaki met Meghi at the ward. She looked distinctly worried.

‘Is anything wrong, Meghidi?’ Debaki asked apprehensively. ‘Has
the Matron said anything?’
‘Ali lost his job,’ Meghi said in a small voice. ‘The new manager
suspects that he has communist sympathies.’
Debaki knew very well what the implications of losing a job were
for people like Ali and Meghi, or for that matter, herself. Towards
the evening suddenly a thought flashed across her mind. Couldn’t
Kunal help find a job for Ali? He worked in a newspaper office: he
might have the right contacts.
Debaki went out very early next morning to meet Kunal. She
was determined to do something about Ali’s desperate situation.
Reaching Kunal’s house, however, she was surprised to find that he
was occupying the garage. He was packing a bag
‘This is wonderful,’ he said, seeing her. ‘I was thinking of dropping
in to see you once before leaving for Manipur.’
‘Manipur?’ The word emerged almost as a wail. ‘You’re going to
Manipur? You—you are going to return, aren’t you?’ she asked, her
voice suddenly choked with tears.
Kunal was taken aback. He looked at the woman sitting across
him, and in an instant the significance of the emotional words, of
those eyes with unshed tears was clear to him. Kunal was not prepared
for this. He lit a cigarette as if that innocuous action would offer him
a refuge, and sat down on a suitcase.
Debaki struggled to bring herself back in control. After the first
moment of sudden shock, she had realized that she had no right to
stop him from taking the journey, even if she knew it to be nothing
less than suicidal. What more was she after all, to him, than a mere
acquaintance?
‘Look at me,’ she said, adopting a casual tone. ‘Here you are, all
ready to leave, and I had come to you to ask for a favour. Someone
needs a job desperately.’
‘Who is it?’ Kunal asked. Debaki told him all about Ali and Meghi.
‘You’ve seen Meghidi, in fact,’ she concluded. ‘At the hospital.’
Kunal went to the table and wrote out a letter. ‘Ask him to meet
the person this letter is addressed to,’ he said, giving it to Debaki. ‘If
this doesn’t help, I shall try something after I return. If Ali bhai knows
 Harvest Song 225

the work of a printing press, it shouldn’t be too difficult to find him a

job at my office.*
Debaki was silent for a while. ‘You are going to return, aren’t
you?’ she repeated suddenly She couldn’t help herself.
‘It’s all right,’ Kunal replied gently. ‘There’s no reason to worry.’
‘No, of course there isn’t,’ Debaki said, almost smiling at the
unconscious irony of Kunal’s words.
‘Can you read English?’ Kunal asked suddenly.
‘A little,’ Debaki replied, puzzled at this sudden change in the
subject. ‘If it’s not too difficult, that is. I learnt English at school, but
I’ve forgotten most of it.’
‘Let me get a taxi,’ Kunal said, getting up. ‘I can drop you home
on my way to the station.’
‘You’re going to Sealdah and I’m going to Shivtolla,’ Debaki said,
laughing. ‘And you’re going to drop me on your way?’
Kunal smiled too. This ability of Debaki’s to laugh at trivial things
is what attracted him most.
He left and was soon back with a taxi. Loading the luggage into
the boot of the car, he locked the collapsible gate of the garage.
The taxi ride was uneventful. Debaki did most of the talking,
while Kunal listened. Apparently, Kunal’s train, the Surma Mail,
would pass by Debaki’s village. Debaki memorized the route Kunal
was supposed to take. ‘From Sylhet to Silchar,’ she said, ‘and you’re
taking a car from there to Manipur?’
‘Maybe,’ Kunal replied, ‘I might even take a bus. By the way,
what is the name of the village where your in-laws live?’
‘Shivbari,’ Debaki said. ‘You can see the Shiv temple from the
train itself. The house is very close to the temple.’
Kunal did not know much about Debaki’s past. He had not asked
her anything; he only knew what she had revealed of her own from
time to time.
Since she had heard of his decision to go to Manipur, Debaki
found a horrible anxiety tearing at her heart, but at the same time,
she felt strangely happy to be sitting next to this man. It was a kind
of happiness she had never known before.
When they reached the level crossing near Debaki’s home, they
got off and walked to the small station. The train arrived and Kunal
226 Sabitri Roy

climbed on to a compartment. He stood for a long time at the door,

waving to Debald. A girl from a different province, a different girl, a
girl without a home and ties . . . he stood there looking at her and
thinking of her, and the bright red of her sari border continued to
flash before his eyes for a long time.

That evening, as Debaki was returning home, a child of one of the

hospital ayahs called out to her from the hospital gate.
‘Mother’s calling you,’ he said. ‘She’s vomiting red water.’
Debaki was shocked. She followed the child immediately to their
house. Sushila, the child’s mother, was sitting outside. ‘Have you
called a doctor?’ Debaki asked.
Sushila nodded gloomily. ‘He advised me to go back to my
hometown,’ she said. ‘A change of climate will do me good, he said! ’
‘Can’t you talk to the Matron about giving a free bed to Sushila?’
Meghi asked Debaki. ‘She’s an employee of the hospital, after all.’
That very day Debaki went to speak to the Matron.
‘It’s not possible,’ the Matron said. ‘If we give a free bed to one
employee, every sick employee will demand the same.’
‘But doesn’t the hospital have any responsibility towards sick
people who have worked here?’
The Matron evaded the uncomfortable question. ‘We can’t have
a special rule for this hospital,’ she said defensively.
‘But tuberculosis patients are different from other patients,’ Debaki
persisted.
‘All right,’ said the Matron grudgingly. ‘I shall discuss this with
the Superintendent. But don’t hope for anything.’
Debaki realized that the Matron would not take any trouble for
Sushila. She decided to take matters into her own hands. After
discussing it with the other nurses, she opened a donation fund for
Sushila. All the nurses, and even some patients, donated money. The
management’s decision did not change, however, and Sushila was
sacked from her job after twenty years of faithful service. The only
 Harvest Song 227

money she had when she left the hospital was what Debalti had
collected for her.
This incident made a deep impression on Debaki. The ayahs were
the ones who did all the dirty work at the hospital. They cleaned the
blood and sputum, and were constantly in contact with the patients,
but there were almost no safety measures for them. They were paid a
measly sum which was barely enough for their survival. Wasn’t it
time that the other employees of the hospital did something for the
ayahs and their families? La order to find out how they lived, Debaki
visited the ayah quarters one day. What she saw was appalling. The
children did not have any warm clothes. After sundown they sat
huddled inside the huts, hugging each other for warmth. A few yards
away stood the bungalow of the English Matron. The green well-
mown lawn sparkled in the sunlight, as did the multicoloured seasonal
flowers in earthen pots arranged tastefully on the verandah. Just
outside the fence crowded the ayahs’ underfed, inadequately clothed
children.
Debaki and Meghi collected warm clothes from the locality for
the children. But this was obviously not enough. Meghi discussed
the problem at home with Ali.
‘We were thinking of creating a Poor Fund for the ayahs and
their families/ she said to Ali. ‘If each of us contributes something
every month we don’t have to beg when someone falls ill suddenly.’
‘Yes/ Ali agreed. ‘That’s a good idea. But you need to form a
Union as well. If the management wants to sack someone arbitrarily,
the Union can fight for her.’

Debaki received a letter a few days later. The writing on the envelope
was unfamiliar. She opened the letter and was surprised beyond words
to discover that it was a letter from Kunal, a short letter written in
simple English. He had written that he was in a very safe place. He
had seen Debaki’s village from the train and it had reminded him of
his own village: coconut palms, wide fields spreading to the horizon,
228 Sabitri Roy

small marshy lands in between. Debaki stood there reading the letter
like one in a trance. The impossible had happened. Kunal had really
written to her! It was headed ‘Namaste Deviji.’ Debaki was moved
almost to tears by the respectful distance implied in the address. It
was a letter written to a lady. A lady. Repeating the words silendy to
herself, Debaki realized suddenly that it was the first time in her life
that someone had treated her like a lady. It was a heady feeling.
Meghi was absent today. After her duty was over, Debaki decided
to drop in at Meghi’s place to find out if Ali had got the job after all.
But when she alighted from the bus near the Dhakuria depot, she
suddenly spotted Ketaki in a taxi. Sitting beside her, a little too close,
was Dulal Dutta!
Before Debaki’s astounded eyes, the taxi turned towards the lake.
In Debaki’s mind the pieces of the puzzle fell into place with a
resounding thud. So it was Dulal Dutta who was Ketaki’s secret
admirer! It was he who had showered her with all those expensive
gifts!
The discovery was such a shock to Debaki that she returned home
forthwith, abandoning the idea of going to Meghi’s place. It was
already evening but Ketaki had not returned. With each passing
minute, Debaki became more anxious about her sister. Ketaki
returned very late that night. She was reeking of the same perfume.
Her face was unnaturally flushed; she was looking almost feverish
with suppressed excitement.
Ketaki undid the silk tassel from her plait and took off her
expensive georgette sari. Debaki could not help noticing the short
blouse Ketaki was wearing. She was quite revolted. How could Ketaki
get such a blouse stitched? It made her look so cheap!
Ketaki washed, changed, and lay down on the bed with a cheap
thriller borrowed from the library. ‘I’m not having any dinner tonight,’
she said to Debaki. ‘You go ahead and have yours. One of my
colleagues treated me. I’m not hungry at all.’
‘I’m not hungry either,’ Debaki said. Ketaki turned on her side.
‘I was going to Meghidi’s house this afternoon,’ Debaki said a
little later. ‘I saw you in a taxi going towards the lake.’ Ketaki started.
Debaki continued remorselessly, ‘I also saw Dulal Dutta with you.’
Ketaki’s face lost colour in an instant. Any lingering doubt that
 Harvest Song 229

Debald might have had vanished immediately. ‘Ketaki/ she wailed.

‘Even in my worst nightmare I’d never thought Dulal Dutta would
rain you.’ Debaki was almost in tears.
Ketaki, however, had brought herself back in control. ‘What makes
you think he’s ruined me?’ she asked arrogantly.
‘He’s given you so many saris, ornaments, gifts,’ Debaki said,
fighting her tears. ‘Do you think all this is innocent?’
‘I know perfectly well why he’s given me all this, and I see nothing
wrong in it.’
‘But don’t you know what kind of moral character that man has?’
Debaki asked, trying desperately to reason with her sister.
‘Oh?’ Ketaki smirked. ‘And look who’s talking about moral
character! What kind of moral character do you possess?’
Debaki was stunned. It was almost as if her sister had slapped
her hard on the face.

This morning Dulal Dutta’s friend Sukhanlal was waiting in his office.
He talked to Dulal but his roving eyes took in every detail of Ketaki’s
appearance. Dulal was very quick to notice that.
‘Ketaki,’ he called out, ‘can you get me the blue file, please?’
When Ketaki brought the file Dulal introduced her. ‘Meet
Mr. Sukhanlal, he said, ‘the manager of the paper mill from which
we’re going to get our supply of paper. And this,’ he said with a
flourish, ‘is Miss Das.’
Ketaki rewarded Sukhanlal with a smile and left. Sukhanlal was
looking distinctly pleased.
‘Why don’t you come to the club for tea?’ Dulal invited him. ‘I
shall ask Miss Das too. She will sing for you. She sings really well.’
‘Really?’ Sukhanlal leered. ‘I love Bengali songs.’
‘So, when shall we say? The day after tomorrow?’
Dulal exclaimed, ‘To think what a woman can accomplish! What
I couldn’t do in six months was done in a few hours!’
230 Sabitri Roy

‘In that case,’ Ketaki said quickly, ‘don’t I deserve half of your
profit?’
‘Well, at least one pendant,’ promised Dulal. ‘If, that is, you can
swing the deal for me.’
Ketaki’s sari slipped from her shoulder. She took her time in
gathering it back. It was almost evening. Dulal Dutta sorted his papers.
‘Let’s go out and have some tea somewhere,’ he suggested.
They went to a small cozy restaurant near Hogg Market. Dulal
escorted Ketaki to a cabin. After a while Ketaki’s hand slipped into
his. Their faces drew close . . .
A waiter discreetly drew the curtain of the cabin.

Kunal had not written even once since reaching Manipur. Bhadra
was worried about his safety. Finally she decided to go to Kunal’s
office and meet Jyotirmoy, whom she knew slightly.
‘Just the person I was thinking of!’ Jyotirmoy exclaimed excitedly.
‘We have just received a letter from Kunal describing the conditions
in Manipur. No other paper has been able to send a reporter there as
yet; we’ve got a scoop!’
Bhadra took the letter from Jyotirmoy and started to read it. In
an instant her attention was riveted, and she was stunned. She did
not know, however, which shocked her more—the news in Kunal’s
letter, or Jyotirmoy’s flippant tone. She looked up from the letter at
Jyotirmoy reproachfully. Jyotirmoy understood her feelings.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said contritely. ‘Actually, we’ve become so
professional that we’ve forgotten to react humanely to anything. We
tend to look at everything to judge only if it is newsworthy or not.’
Bhadra had finished reading Kunal’s letter. It was a nightmare. It
transported her to a wasteland, which, Kunal wrote, was fast turning
into a necropolis. Farms, houses, cowsheds, fields lay scorched and
burning. Smoke rose in columns from half-burnt houses, heart­
rending screams rent the air. Thousands of Indians were trudging
from Burma through this land towards their homeland.
 Harvest Song 231

‘Even though I say “trudged”,’ Kunal had written, ‘it would

perhaps be more accurate to say “dragged themselves”. On either
side o f the road lay rotting and mutilated corpses—some without
heads, some without limbs. I see the naked face of Hell.’
‘Translate this into Bengali as soon as you possibly can,’ Jyotirmoy
said. 'We shall carry an article on this.’
She read the letter through once again. The only Manipur she
knew was a land of music and poetry—a beautiful land of beautiful
women.
Bhadra sat down that very night to compose a pamphlet in Hindi
on the basis of Kunal’s letter. She sat under a masked lamp and wrote
with the Parker pen that Partha had left for her. ‘Brothers,’ she wrote,
‘every woman whose honour is threatened today by the imperialist
rulers is a sister, a wife, a mother. Be prepared to defend the honour
of your womenfolk with your blood.’
The next day Bhadra went to see a leader with the draft of the
pamphlet. She had carefully tucked the letter and the draft into her
blouse. The leader, who had gone underground, lived in a small tiled
house in a seedy busti. He welcomed her with a smile.
‘We shall get this cyclostyled,’ the leader said, scanning the draft,
‘but there’s one thing that you need to know.’
She looked inquiringly at him.
‘Our principles have been revised,’ continued the leader. ‘We are
no longer regarding this war as a capitalistic war. From now on, for
us, it is “People’s War”. Our paper has been given the same tide, by
the way. We shall expect contributions from you for its Hindi edition.’
Bhadra was shocked. She looked at the leader wonderingly, unable
to take in what he was saying. This war was not a capitalistic war
anymore! And yet this very moment thousands of men and
women arrested under the Defence Act were languishing in prison
without trial!
She left the leader’s house in a bemused state. The leader had
called this ‘People’s War’. Of course, any fight in self-defence was in
a sense ‘people’s war’—it was a fight for one’s self-respect, a fight to
defend the honour of one’s womenfolk, to save one’s harvest. Yes,
she knew and accepted all that. How could anyone possibly justify
joining the British in this war? The walls of Jallianwalla Bagh still
232 Sabini Roy

bore the bullet marks of General Dyer. . . the women of Bengal still
shed tears for Kshudiram. . . and Bhadra herself bore in the innermost
recesses of her blouse the bloody document of British oppression in
Manipur.

One morning Debaki told Ketaki to cook the rice and went for her
bath to the pond nearby. As she picked the kalmi leaves, which they
would eat with the rice, it started to rain again. Suddenly a familiar
voice spoke from the ghat.
‘If you get drenched like that you’re sure to fall ill.’
Debaki looked up, startled, and froze. It was Kunal.
‘So you’re back?’ she asked finally. ‘You haven’t died after all?’
Kunal found this unusual welcome rather amusing. He said he
would have lunch with Devaki but had to complete a task first.
Kunal returned quite late. Debaki served his lunch immediately.
‘Why is there only one place set?’ Kunal asked. ‘Aren’t we all
going to eat together?’
Debaki did not mind at all, but Ketaki was horribly embarrassed
to sit with their guest and have only kalmi leaves and rice.
‘Ali bhai has got the job in your office,’ Debaki told Kunal, serving
rice. ‘Meghidi has asked me to convey her sincere thanks to you.
Honestly, it wouldn’t have been possible without you.’
‘No, no,’ Kunal protested. ‘He got the job because he was qualified
for it. I don’t deserve any credit for it.’
He started to talk about Manipur. He talked about the natural
beauty, the women, the poetry, the music. The one thing he did not
mention was his nightmarish experience on Manipur Road.
Although he had been served a good lunch, he had not failed to
notice that the two sisters were eating only kalmi leaves and rice. He
had never known that Debaki lived in such abject poverty. She had
never given him so much as a hint. He had got used to seeing her
smiling face. Suddenly Kunal’s heart went out to her.
 Harvest Song 233

At night it started to rain again. Debaki woke up with a start after

midnight to discover that she was thoroughly wet. ‘Wake up!’ she
said urgently to her sister. ‘There must be a hole in the roof.’
There were gaps in the tiled roof which the storm had made wider
and now the whole room was flooded. ‘Let’s sleep under the bed,’
Debaki suggested. The two sisters dragged the bed to a comparatively
dry spot in the room. Debaki crawled under the bed after Ketaki.
She bumped her head against the side and started to laugh. As they
lay down in that cramped space, Debaki found herself laughing again
in the utter absurdity of the situation. Ketaki, however, saw it
differendy.
‘I don’t know how you can laugh!’ she said angrily. ‘This room is
not even fit for cattle!’
‘At least we’re not on the street,’ Debaki replied. ‘And however
bad it may be, there’s a roof over our head.’
She went out very early next morning. She had thought of going
to Meghi’s house to ask Ali to come and repair their roof, and also to
borrow some money from Meghi; but on second thoughts she decided
to ask Kunal instead. It was the end of the month, and almost certainly
Meghi would not have any money to spare.
Southern Avenue was flooded. There was knee-deep water inside
Kunal’s garage too. Kunal had tried to save his things by piling them
up on the bed. He was curled up in a corner of the bed himself, fast
asleep. Debaki took one look at him and started to laugh. Then she
took hold of the padlock and gave it a mighty shake.
Kunal woke up with a start. He looked at Debaki as if he could
not believe his eyes. Then he leapt up from the bed and opened the
gate. Debaki sat down on the chair Kunal had drawn up for her and
said, ‘We spent the whole night under the bed, and your things slept
on the bed with you!’ She was still laughing.
Kunal looked uncomprehendingly at her. Debaki explained their
situation. ‘If it rains today like it did yesterday, you will have to crawl
under the bed again, I suppose?’ Kunal asked, worried.
‘I don’t mind,’ Debaki replied, ‘but there’s my sister. That’s why I
have come out so early. I need some money from you and Ali bhai’s
help to fix the roof.’
Kunal was very happy. This was the first time Debaki had asked
for money from him.
234 Sabitri Roy

‘Have some tea with me/ he offered, and before Debaki could
decline went out to Ramu’s shop to order tea. Very soon, Ramu
brought two steaming glasses of tea.
Kunal smiled. He noticed suddenly that Debaki looked very happy.
‘I’m feeling so happy because this kind of weather reminds me of
home/ Debaki said, almost echoing his thought. ‘If only you could
see our village now! It must be quite flooded. When I was small, I
would go out on such a night with a lamp to catch koi fish. The
ponds would overflow and the fish would all swim up to our
courtyard.’
‘Don’t you ever wish to go back?’ Kunal asked.
Debaki paused suddenly. ‘One can’t always do what one wants/
she replied in a small forlorn voice. ‘There’s no way that I can go
back.’ She tried to control her tears. ‘I have never talked about myself
because I didn’t think you’d be interested/ she continued after a pause.
‘I have a three-year old son at home. I have had to leave him behind,
and I can’t go back.’
‘With your husband?’ Kunal could not conceal his astonishment.
‘Yes, husband—’ Debaki’s voice suddenly became harsh.
‘Someone to worship!’
She said, getting up abruptly, ‘I shall tell you everything some
other time.’
Kunal went to see her off to the bus stop. Debaki had come like a
refreshing breeze, but he had never thought she had such astonishing
truths hidden in her life. What could be the reason why she had had
to leave her infant son behind?

The long Shravan afternoon was gliding towards evening. Bhadra

sat at her writing table, composing a pamphlet. Suddenly, she felt
awfully tired. She looked out of her window at the tall building
outside. Three pigeons flew over and alighted on the mossy cornice.
Bhadra’s eyes rested on them, but her mind wandered away.
She came back to herself with a start. It was time she finished the
draft. She had to file it at the Aruna office by this evening. She worked
quickly, banishing all wayward thoughts sternly from her mind. She
 Harvest Song 235

went out soon afterwards, and as she waited at the College Street
junction for a bus, she suddenly heard a familiar voice.
'They are lifting the ban on our party,’ Kunal said excitedly. He
had got off his bus in order to give the news to Bhadra. The bus was
hooting its horn. Kunal jumped on to it, waved at Bhadra and
was gone.
Bhadra was so surprised at this unexpected news that for some
time her mind was quite numb. Then her surprise gave way to a sense
of disappointment and betrayal. Was this a kind of reward given by
the government because the party had joined the British in the war?
Reaching the office, Kunal found that everyone was highly excited.
A special telegram was going to be printed with the news of the Civil
Disobedience movement. Ali brought a wet proof sheet for Kunal to
see. Gandhiji’s challenge stared back at Kunal from the printed page:
‘Do or die!’
The next morning the entire nation was shocked to find that
Gandhiji had been arrested. All the papers were screaming in protest
against this outrage. There was widespread unrest in the city.
Somewhere people had snapped the electricity wires. The military
had to be deployed.
Kunal went out immediately to investigate. A barricade had been
set up at Wellington Square—broken carts, dustbins, rubble were
gathered together to block the road. A crowd was burning up a tram
nearby. Very soon the whole place was filled with petrol fumes and
smoke. Kunal snapped the shutter of his camera frenziedly. Very
soon, he heard gunshots nearby. Quickly, he slipped into a lane.
Right in front of him, he saw some English soldiers chasing a
group of school students. As one of them raised his gun to hit a boy,
Kunal aimed his camera. Immediately, a couple of soldiers pinned
his arms to his side, snatched away his camera and threw it away. A
crowd gathered like magic. In the ensuing scuffle, some soldiers were
injured. Alarmed, they took shelter inside an Anglo-Indian shop.
Kunal picked up his broken camera and ran.
The condition worsened the next day. A rumour spread like
wildfire that a couple of boys had been shot by the military. Everyone
was livid. Students went out on a protest march—they demanded
the return of the dead bodies. The news of the protest reached the
authorities. Truckloads of military soldiers were called out to tackle
236 Sabitri Roy

the situation. One of the trucks stopped right in front of the protest
march. The captain of the soldiers aimed his gun straight at the
students. The students halted in their track. They looked up fearlessly
at the gun, their eyes dripping hatred. Very slowly, the gun turned.
Six figures in the front row of the protest march collapsed.

Kunal came into his office in a blood-soaked shirt.

‘Have you been shot?’ asked his colleague, shocked.
‘Not me,’ Kunal replied. ‘A young boy. I’ve just come from the
hospital. He has been admitted, but his condition is serious. Most
probably he won’t survive.’
That night, after returning home, Anna Pishi described the same
incident to Debaki. She had also witnessed the killing. As they talked,
they saw young boys of the neighbourhood passing by. They were
talking excitedly, and some of them were holding aloft the tri­
colour flag.
‘We’re going to organize a picketing on the railway tracks
tomorrow,’ a young boy said. ‘We have to stop them from sending
provisions for the military.’
Anna Pishi’s eyes brightened. ‘I’m coming with youl’ she declared.
‘You!’ The boys looked incredulous.
‘Of course,’ Anna Pishi said. ‘How can I watch silendy while
they kill our boys?’
The next morning, before getting ready, Anna Pishi called Debaki.
‘If I die today at the hands of the brutes, you come and live in my
hut,’ she said, smiling.

It was a cloudy day. As Debaki negotiated the slushy road carefully

on her way to the hospital, she heard faint Bande Mataram slogans
coming from the direction of the railway tracks. As she came up to
the level crossing, she found the gate locked, as a train was due to
 Harvest Song

pass soon. She waited and watched for a while. At a little distance, a
crowd had gathered. Tricolour flags were flying in the air; and there
were frequent slogans of ‘Quit India!’ Debaki had an uncontrollable
impulse to join the protesters. But she had to go to work. Unwillingly,
she crossed the tracks and went on her way. A little way ahead, she
saw a group of British soldiers proceeding towards the railway station.
Debaki reached the hospital feeling awfully anxious. She went to
look at the patient in Room Two, and was shocked to find that the
young woman was sitting up on the bed hunched up, her eyes
protruding, and she was vomiting blood. After the first moment of
frozen terror, Debaki rushed to help her. When the woman was
slightly better, Debaki helped her lie down and called the doctor. A
little later, when she was washing her hands in the bathroom, the
ayah of her ward came in.
‘The swadeshis have posted a picket on the railway line,’ the ayah
whispered. ‘They are not allowing any train to pass. An old woman
is squatting on the tracks with the Congress flag; she seems to be
leading them all. There are soldiers everywhere.’
The news spread quickly in the hospital. Everyone, even some of
the patients, crowded around the gap in the wall to watch the picket­
ing. The protesters had by this time succeeded in stopping a train.
Debaki was still in Room Two, assisting the doctor. The doctor
was getting ready to give an injection to the patient. Suddenly, there
was the sound of a gunshot.
‘They’ve opened fire,’ the doctor said softly. Debaki’s hands started
to tremble. She was supposed to have found the vein into which the
doctor was to have pushed the injection, but she was too shaken for
that. The doctor waited till she could somehow manage to find
the vein.
‘Report to me the condition of the patient a little later,’ he said
before leaving the ward.
The patient dropped off to sleep. Debaki went about her duties in
an agony of anticipation. How long the hours seemed! When would
she finish her duty and find out about the picketers?
Suddenly, Meghi rushed in. ‘Debaki!’ she cried. ‘They’re bringing
in an injured woman. She’s bleeding profusely. Come and look!’
Debaki looked down from the first floor window and froze. ‘Anna
Pishi!’ she screamed, and rushed down the stairs like one demented,
238 Sabitri Roy

hoping against hope that her eyes had deceived her.

It was indeed Anna Pishi. Debaki looked at the volunteer who
had brought Anna Pishi to the hospital and asked, ‘Is she . . . is
she alive?’
The young boy lowered his eyes. ‘She died just as we were entering
the gate,’ he replied.
Debaki dropped o her knees as if her legs could not carry her
weight. She seemed to have lost her voice. Her mind, emptied of all
conscious thought, went round and round in a vicious cycle repeating
the unbelievable words: Anna Pishi is dead . . . Anna Pishi is dead
. . . Anna Pishi is dead . . . she would not open her eyes again, she
would not breathe, she would not talk to Debaki. . .
Debaki broke down in a torrent of tears at the feet of her beloved
Anna Pishi.

Within an hour people began to gather in the compound of the

hospital. The dead body of the martyr was decorated with flowers.
The ugly old face looked calm and beautiful in death. Suddenly, a
military truck entered the compound. A sergeant climbed down and
sent a message to the superintendent. They exchanged a few words
and then the truck picked up the body of Anna Pishi and rushed
out again.
Debaki returned home like an automaton. She could not bear to
look at the empty hut of the old woman. She dropped down on the
verandah and suddenly felt as if a part of herself was irretrievably
lost. She realized that with Anna Pishi’s death, she had lost a mother.
The boys of the neighbourhood came and stood near her silently.
Their eyes were red with weeping.
‘They won’t let you cremate the body, I suppose?’ Debaki asked.
The boys looked thunderous. ‘We shall give a proper answer to
this tonight,’ they said.
Moroni’s parents were also there; they too knew how Anna Pishi
had braved the guns to lead the protesters.
‘The soldiers shot to kill,’ said one of the boys.
‘We wanted to have a photograph of Anna Pishi,’ said another to
 Harvest Song 239

Debaki. 'We shall have it published in the papers.'

Debaki entered Anna Pishi’s room to look for a photograph. She
searched in the old portmanteau in which Anna Pishi kept all her
stuff. Some old clothes . . . tom saris . . . an ancient copy of the
Ramayana. . . Under the bed were dryingjackfruit seeds, some chillies
in the vegetable basket, and a couple of chapattis kept covered. Anna
Pishi’s dinner. Debaki broke down again.
A little later, calmer, she came out. ‘I didn’t find a photograph,’
she told the boys, ‘but I can try to get it from someone.’
She had remembered that Kunal had a taken a group photograph
once with them. Immediately after the boys left, she went out to
meet Kunal.
Kunal was at home. He had partitioned off one portion of the
garage and made it his dark room. He was in there, working on a
print. He came out to meet Debaki still holding the print. Debaki
gasped. It was a photograph of Anna Pishi, holding the flag and
sitting on the railway tracks.
‘Don’t tell me you were there?’ she asked Kunal.
Kunal did not answer. He brought out another photograph and
showed it to her. This showed Anna Pishi lying on the tracks holding
the flag aloft: she was bleeding to death, looking up at the world with
death-defying courage. ‘The Lakshmibai of Bengal,’ Kunal said.
The next day, Debaki found every patient in the hospital avidly
reading the morning papers. On the front page there was the
photograph that she had seen yesterday. It seemed to her as if the
very photograph was dripping blood. The railway tracks were still
wet with Anna Pishi’s blood, and would forever remain mute witness
to her sacrifice.

Debaki heard a curious noise behind the house. It sounded as if

someone was throwing up. Soon, Ketaki came out from behind the
house wiping her face. She had obviously been violently sick.
‘Are you all right?’ Debaki asked. Ketaki went in without
answering.
240 Sabitri Roy

‘You’d better skip lunch,’ Debaki advised her sister as Ketaki got
ready for office. ‘And make sure you have some coconut water in the
afternoon.’
Ketaki nodded and went out
For the next three days however, Debaki noticed a repetition of
the same thing. Ketaki threw up immediately after eating. Suddenly
a monstrous suspicion began to gather in Debaki’s mind. Her eyes
searched the face of her sister. Yes, there were unmistakable signs.
‘Ketaki!’ Debaki wailed. ‘I—I’m feeling uneasy. Y ou. . . ’
Ketaki did not answer.
‘Then. . . ’ Debaki said hopelessly, ‘—then I’m right after all?’
‘We’re getting married very soon,’ Ketaki replied.
‘Getting married?’ Debaki was astounded. ‘You mean you are
marrying Dulal?’ Ketaki did not reply. Debaki was revolted. Still,
she tried desperately to reason with her sister. ‘Haven’t you thought
about Hena Mami? She has four children. What’s going to happen
to them?’
‘That’s not my lookout,’ Ketaki replied bitterly. ‘I’m not so much
of a fool to spoil my own life by thinking about others.’
Debaki was left speechless. Ketaki would get married to someone
like Dulal right in front of her eyes; and she could not do anything to
prevent it! She felt utterly helpless. Whom should she turn to in this
crisis? With whom could she possibly share her embarrassing secret?
She sought half-day leave from the Matron in order to return home
early. The first thing she noticed as she entered the room was a letter
lying on the bed. She recognized Ketaki’s writing and tore the letter
open. Ketaki had left home with Dulal. She had written that today
they were getting married secredy. Getting married! There was also
no information about their whereabouts.
Suddenly, Debaki shivered. The memory of a nightmarish night
had hit her like a physical blow. The attic in Dulal’s house . . . she
herself sleeping on the floor . . . a nasty cold hand pawing her body
. . . No, it had to be stopped. She could not let her sister surrender
herself to that animal.
There was only one person who could help her in this crisis. Kunal.
Debaki left home without further thought. She had to see Kunal right
now. She did not know how, but she was sure that he would help her.
 Harvest Song 241

f
Kunal’s garage was locked. She decided to go to his office. When she
reached the press she felt a little lost. There were people all around,
and a whole lot of noise. Kunal was shocked to find Debaki looking
so devastated. He realized that something had happened, and that
Debaki could not talk in front of all those people. He led her out.
‘What’s the matter?’ he asked her as soon as they were out of earshot.
Silently, Debaki handed him Ketaki’s letter. She told Kunal everything
about Dulal. ‘We have to put a stop to this marriage, at any cost,’ she
said desperately ‘That man is heartless and debauched, he’s no better
than an animal. I can’t let this happen to my sister.’
Debaki started to talk about herself—the things that she had never
uttered before. She told Kunal how she was driven out after a scandal
was created about her back home, how she had lived in Dulal’s house,
and finally, how she had discovered the real Dulal behind the façade
of a gentleman.
Kunal looked at her speechlessly. This was a different Debaki.
How could she have kept so much pain within herself without
revealing even a bit of it?
Debaki told the story of Ketaki’s job, how slowly but surely Ketaki
had been trapped by Dulal with the lure of material things.
‘And,’ Debaki’s voice choked, ‘my sister is expecting his child.’
Kunal halted, thoroughly shocked. In an instant he understood
why Debaki had rushed to his office to meet him, why she was looking
so devastated. His heart went out to her, but he could not think of
any immediate solution to this grave problem.
‘I just don’t know what to do,’ Debaki continued helplessly. ‘She
hasn’t even left an address. I only knew that if I came to see you. . . ’
her words trailed off uncertainly.
‘Ketaki can’t possibly be happy in this marriage,’ Kunal said finally,
‘but she doesn’t really have an alternative. And I think that once she
is married, she will let you know her address.’
It was almost evening. Debaki stood up. ‘I have to go to work,’
she said. ‘I am supposed to go on night duty in lieu of another nurse.
In a way it’s a blessing,’ she added, smiling wanly. ‘I couldn’t have
242 Sabitri Roy

stayed alone in the house tonight.’

Kunal realized how terrible the shock must have been for Debaki.
Tonight she could go to work, but what about the coundess nights
that were to follow? He looked on as the tired, stooping figure
vanished round the corner of the street. He had never known just
how much grief Debaki had had to bear. He had always seen her
laughter, and never the tears that lay behind it. All the memories of
Debaki crowded his mind. . . Debaki standing on the platform waving
him goodbye, Debaki plucking kalmi leaves from the pond, Debaki
cooking rice on the verandah. . .
With a sigh, Kunal stood up. He was about to leave with a team
of reporters for Midnapur where the floods had worsened, the next
morning. He decided to meet Debaki once he left. On his way to the
station the next morning, he dropped in at the hospital, but was told
that Debaki was assisting the doctors in the operating room. Kunal
could not afford to wait. He left a note for Debaki explaining his
absence and left, upset that he had not been able to meet her. He did
not know when he would be back from flood-affected Midnapur. It
was uncertain when they would see each other again.

‘Please come in,’ said Jyotirmoy. ‘I was waiting for you. Do you
mind checking the proof right now? We can’t get this number printed
otherwise.’
Bhadra settled down to work. This was the first time she was
writing for Aruna. The same management brought out two papers:
New Light in English and Aruna in Bengali. Bhadra concentrated.
She had to be careful about the details: there must be no mistake in
the final proof.
Someone entered the room and went over to speak to Jyotirmoy.
‘Ah bhai,’ Bhadra overheard Jyotirmoy speaking to the man, ‘can
you stay back for some overtime work today? We simply have to
bring out this edition by the day after tomorrow.’
‘All right,’ the man said, ‘but I have to take leave tomorrow. A
very close friend is being released from jail tomorrow. He’s not well,
and I have to reach Alipore by ten o’clock tomorrow morning.’
 Harvest Song 243

‘What’s your friend’s name?’

‘Partha Das.’
Bhadra’s pen stopped. She was electrified by the sound of the
words.
‘Partha Das of Mansadanga?’ Jyotirmoy asked.
‘Don’t tell me you know him?’ Ali asked, surprised.
‘Of course,’ Jyotirmoy replied. ‘We were serving our sentences
together at one point of time. Is he ill? What’s wrong with him?’
‘Apparently there’s a recurring pain in the abdomen. It started
after they went on the fast.’
Bhadra desperately wanted to find out more from Ali but could
not ask him. The next morning she alighted from a bus in front of
Alipore Jail. It was not yet ten o’clock. People in the street were
shooting curious glances at her. Bhadra ignored them and waited.
Very soon, she saw Ali crossing the road and coming towards the
gate. He had also seen her and had recognized her immediately.
‘You here?’ Ali asked, surprised.
‘For the same reason that you are here,’ Bhadra replied with
a smile.
‘Are you related to Partha?’ Ali asked.
‘Just as you are related to him,’ Bhadra said, avoiding a direct
answer. ‘It would perhaps be better if you called a taxi,’ she suggested.
‘If he’s not well he can’t possibly travel in a bus.’
Ali went away towards the taxi stand. Bhadra moved away a little,
under a tree nearby.
The clock struck ten. The gate opened. Partha came out. Bhadra
was rooted to the spot. With a tremendous effort she moved forward
and smiled at him.
He stopped. Then he too smiled and said, ‘What if I turn my
face away?’
‘Must we talk about that?’ Bhadra asked, ashamed. ‘But what’s
wrong with you? You look terrible!’
‘By the grace of our King the Almighty!’ Partha replied with a
twisted smile. ‘I was expecting a friend of mine, actually,’ he added,
looking around.
‘Yes, he’s come,’ Bhadra said, and as if on cue, Ali arrived with a
taxi. He looked incredibly happy to see his old friend, and clasped
Partha’s hand in his.
244 Sabitri Roy

‘You seem to have fever!’ Ali exclaimed, startled.

Partha smiled. ‘Possibly,’ he said. ‘Don’t worry, I shall be all right.
Is everything fine with you and the party?’
‘Well,’ Ali replied, ‘Yes and no. Let’s go to my house and we can
discuss everything at leisure.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Partha said regretfully, ‘I’m not supposed to stay
anywhere in the city. The government order says that I should go
straight to the station.’
Ali was sorely disappointed. ‘Dinabandhumaster’s daughter
Debaki is waiting in our house to meet you,’ he said.
Bhadra started. The name was familiar.
‘Let’s stop at your house for a few minutes,’ Partha suggested,
‘and we should start right now. The Surma Mail leaves at 11.45, we
don’t have much time left.’
Bhadra could not speak. Partha noticed that she was looking very
pale. His heart gave a sudden lurch. No one knew better than him
what this woman was going through, and he knew that he could
have given anything for the rest and support that Bhadra promised.
But that was not destined to be.
‘Wouldn’t it be better to see a doctor before you left?’ Bhadra
asked. ‘If you don’t have proper treatment it might be dangerous.’
Partha smiled and shook his head. ‘The news has reached me in
jail that my blue pen is being put to proper use,’ he said.
It was time. Ali opened the door of the taxi. ‘Why don’t you
come along as well?’ he invited Bhadra.
‘Not today,’ Bhadra declined politely. ‘I shall drop in some
other time.’
Partha climbed into the taxi. ‘Goodbye,’ he said to Bhadra. ‘Maybe
we shall meet again some day.’
Once again Bhadra could not speak. Tears stung her eyes, but she
knew she had to smile. The door of the taxi banged shut. Before her
eyes, it moved away and was soon lost in the stream of endless traffic,
bearing away the only man who had touched her heart. Bhadra stood
rooted to the spot, unable to move away, unable to stop the tears that
were rolling down her cheeks.
Some men hovered around, looking suspiciously at her. Bhadra
realized that they must be spies of the Intelligence Branch. She started
to walk away.
PART THREE
 he steamer was far away, but the smoke coiling from its

T chimney could be seen across the river, its bed dry in patches.
The mast could be glimpsed through the casurina trees. It
was making slow progress because it was sailing against the tide.
Bhadra was expected to be on the steamer. Partha sat down on a tree
stump by the madrasa. The madrasa boys were playing ha-du-du,
their voices rending the air; apart from that an immense emptiness
spread over the Jamuna waters across the horizon. The sun seemed
weary. River kites glided over the fields of white, plume-like kash.
The river was shrunken in places, but its bed was so wide that the
other side could not be seen.
Suddenly the steamer’s solemn siren pierced the silence. The boys
left their game to watch it. ‘It’s Pathan today,’ said one.
‘No, it’s Kalapahar,' said another.
The eldest one took a good look. ‘I think it’s Cookie,’he announced.
‘How’s that possible? Cookie was here just yesterday!’
Partha was amused and thought of the time he had spent here as
a child. It was not Pathan, nor Kalapahar, nor Cookie—but Irabati.
Partha knew her from childhood. She had ruled the river. Today,
too, she was cutting through the waters with the same queenly grace.
Passengers from the third class crowded the spot where the gangway
would be cast on. The steamer was dropping anchor. A group of
soldiers were waiting to board, their faces still marked with the
comfort of households they had left behind.
But Partha could spot no one. He was surprised by how
disappointed he was with Bhadra not turning up. Her letter came
back to his mind. ‘I have heard that the road from the steamer ghat
leads to your part of the world. If you can meet me on the seventh I
will be very glad. It will be a great help, too, because my father-in-
law will also be there.’ They were supposed to go on to Sribari to
attend a relative’s wedding.
The war had left its mark on the river, too—a steamer was moving
mid-stream carrying wounded soldiers. Steamers were being used in
248 Sabitri Roy

huge numbers to carry food and weapons to the fronts—Sodia,

Manipur, Arakan. The Jamuna, a tributary of the Brahmaputra, was
the lifeline of the war effort in the east. The war had left the villages
dry, drawing on all their resources. Irabati, getting ready to leave for
Sodia, was being stuffed with sacks of rice. Coolies were carrying
baskets full of live chickens, tins of ghee and eggs inside.
Partha turned and left the ghat. How could Bhadra not have come,
he thought again. Over the past few days she had been always on his
mind. He walked along the riverbank aimlessly.
It was the time for namaz. The rising notes of the azan from a
masjid seemed to echo the yearning of his own mind. He did not
know for how long he had walked, when the dull beat of a dynamo
jerked him back to reality. He was near the administration office in
Shivbari. The government had seized several plots to lay out the new
railway line, but was yet to dole out compensation to the dispossessed.
Partha hastened as he crossed the train tracks and passed
Bagdipara to enter Sulakshan’s house through the cowshed with its
single cow. Lata was in the inner courtyard now, storing rice in barrels.
Helping her out with all the might of his tiny hands was her
little son.
‘Parthada!’ Lata cried, running towards him, her hands smeared
with dust from the rice. ‘You have thought of us, then?’
‘I fell ill just after being let out of prison,’ Partha tried to excuse
himself.
‘That’s the reason I am so angry. You went past our house when
you were so ill, and you couldn’t let us know? Is that way a comrade
behaves?’
Partha had not come precisely because he had been ill—he had
not wanted to inconvenience anyone. But he said: ‘I’m sorry. Won’t
you forgive me just once?’
‘It’s not so easy to be forgiven,’ said Sulakshan, coming out of
the house. ‘You’ll have to do what we tell you for a whole month.
Only then shall we consider whether you can be forgiven.’
‘A whole month? There’s a small difficulty: I’m leaving on the
night train today,’ Partha answered.
Sulakshan lit up a bidi and said, ‘We won’t let you go so soon.
But where have you come from? Doesn’t the train reach much earlier?’
‘I went to the steamer ghat. A friend was supposed to arrive today.
 Harvest Song 249

I’ve left behind five or six malaria patients. If I don’t return tonight
they will fall into the dutches of the witch doctors.’
Sulakshan and Lata’s will prevailed, though—Partha was only
able to leave the next morning. Having seen him onto the train,
Sulakshan went to the post office. There was only one letter—from
Ishani Devi. From the handwriting it seemed one of her very young
students had written it for her.
Lata read it out to Sulakshan. ‘Dear Lata, I am very worried, not
having heard from you for long. How are you? How is your little
son? How is Sulakshan’s mother? I am suffering from severe arthritis.
On top of that, the nephew who used to send me ten rupees every
month has stopped doing so. I have written to him but there was no
reply. I am worried for them. It’s only God who can look after me
now. My blessings for you all, Pishima.’
Lata looked up. Those ten rupees were all that Ishani Devi had.
‘I don’t know how she is surviving now!’ Lata said. Sulakshan knew
that this was the most Ishani Devi could go to ask for help from a
married niece, though she regarded her as a daughter, but did not say
anything.
Lata hesitated a little and said: ‘Could we send her ten rupees for
ambabachil I haven’t even sent her a sari since our marriage. She
could buy some fruits then.’
Sulakshan remained silent.
Angered, Lata cried, ‘It’s only my duty to be concerned about
Pishima, it seems,’ she said.
‘It’s not only you who realizes what she is going through. But no
one knows better than you that I can in no way send ten rupees. Why
ten! I can’t even send two rupees. You know how it feels not to be
able to help someone who I know has brought you up,’ Sulakshan
said.
‘I know! I know everything!’ Lata shot back.
‘You also knew that you were marrying a man who was an
unemployed good-for-nothing.’
‘Yes, I knew it, and you’re taking full advantage of it. I don’t even
have clothes to cover my body. I can’t even venture out before a
stranger, not even Parthada. . . ’ her lips trembled; she tried hopelessly
to hold back her tears.
But Sulakshan’s reply stunned her. ‘All right, I know that you
250 Sabitri Roy

married me on the spur of the moment. But if you have made a

mistake, it need not be forever! You can leave m e/ he said calmly.
'You can say this to me?' Lata asked, barely able to speak.
Sulakshan left the room without saying anything more.
Teaching the zamindar’s two little daughters in the evening, he
went over the conversation again and again in his mind. The
syllabuses were lifeless, he did not enjoy teaching anything other than
mathematics. The younger one fought some tough battles with her
spelling; as soon as she was done, the older came with her sums.
Before he left, Kamala the younger sister, gave him a plant from
her garden. ‘Hasnahara, you said you’d like one. I asked the gardener
to get it for you/ she said softly.
Lata was mending a shirt in the light of the dim lantern. Sulakshan
stood before her and gave her the sapling. ‘Truce,’ he said.

From the early morning the courtyard began to teem with people.
Hashi’s Ma was selling paddy to her desperate customers. ‘You’re
getting it for only thirteen rupees here. Rajen Sarkar’s selling it for
fifteen/ she announced. She was counting the money when Haren’s
Ma arrived. ‘It’s too late now/ Hashi’s Ma said dismissively.
‘Please let me have some. My children haven’t had rice for days/
the woman pleaded, but Hashi’s Ma wouldn’t budge. She became
considerably annoyed when Sukhomoy said he would open the shed
again and give her the rice. She was even more annoyed when
Sulakshan came to visit her in the afternoon.
‘I want to talk to you/ he said. ‘You are warning them about not
selling rice at thirteen rupees. But what happens if they come and
loot you? Don’t forget the land doesn’t really belong to you!’
Hashi’s Ma sat up from her afternoon siesta. What did Sulakshan
mean? Was he threatening to go to court over the fact that her husband
had willed everything to her? Sulakshan noticed the look of alarm
and was amused. ‘Whoever sells the rice, the land and the crop belong
to the farmer/ he said. ‘They will not bear with this system for long!’
Later in the day he saw the others who were getting rich with the
 Harvest Song 251

war from other merchandise. After dark he went to the railway tracks
and waited for the goods train to arrive. It did, like a predator with
fiery eyes, and slowed down just after leaving Shivbari station. It was
loaded with materials for the fronts. Sulakshan noticed that a door
opened and a few heavy tins rolled out. Then the train left and Jagai
Baneijee stepped out of the darkness, accompanied by his team of
nephews. There were at least three maunds of ghee lying there. Even
if the driver got fifty rupees, and Rajen a bottle of whiskey, Jagai was
glad that he would make a profit of two hundred and fifty rupees.

Early in the morning, Hashi’s Ma began to prepare her meal. Since

her husband’s death, she had cooked in the habishyi kitchen where
no flesh, fish, onions, garlic or even masoor dal were allowed. But
today all she had were some vegetable stalks. She cut them into thin
strips and asked Lata to make a hot curry, soaking some chickpeas
in water to put in it. There was nothing else to eat, Hashi’s Ma
muttered under her breath. There was not a single earning member
in the house too, but, thanks to Sulakshan, there was no dearth of
mouths to feed.
Almost all the rice was gone—even the cow could not be given
rice starch. Hashi’s Ma finished cutting the vegetables and came to
the puja room, where Tushi was reading a book with Botu. Her
mother was annoyed again, everything around her seemed to be going
wrong Tushi was a young woman now, yet she behaved as if she
was a little girl, unaware, unthinking. Hashi’s Ma had got rid of her
six daughters, Tushi was the remaining one, and it looked like there
would be trouble in getting rid of Tushi.
As she smeared the Lakshmi image with oil and sindur, she heard
Tushi and Botu laughing over something together. She was livid now.
‘Tushi,’ she screamed.
Tushi knew the tone, but before she could step in, Lata did. ‘Can
I have the keys of the store? I need to take out some rice,’ Lata said.
‘Why?’
‘Two comrades are here from Sribari,’ Lata said.
252 Sabini Roy

‘And when are they not here?’ Hashi’s Ma grumbled.

Lunch for the comrades was the curry of vegetable stalks and
dal. Lata served the second helping of rice to the guests, but not to
Sulakshan, which made him take a break from discussing party affairs
and look up.
He saw Lata’s anxious, crumpled face for the first time. She smiled
at him embarrassedly and shook her head. Sulakshan saw the empty
bowl. Sucking on a slice of lime, he went back to the discussion.
‘Whether it’s the tonk movement or Tebhaga, everything depends
on the unity of Hindus and Muslims,’ he said. ‘And since everything
depends on it, the enemy will try to strike hardest there.’
After lunch, Sulakshan seated them inside the house and came
back to the kitchen. Tushi, nibbling at a guava, saw him and smiled.
‘We are on hunger strike today,’ she informed.
‘Why? The rice got burnt?’ Sulakshan asked, still avoiding
the subject.
‘The rice would only get burnt if there were any in the first place,’
Tushi replied. ‘We will steal the keys from Ma and smuggle out some
rice when Ma takes her nap in the afternoon,’ she told Lata.
‘So the storeroom has been locked up, has it?’ Sulakshan added,
glancing at Lata’s pale face again.
In the afternoon Lata, with Daku in her arms, and Tushi following
her, went out to collect subscriptions for the party. Walking about
the village in the rainy season was a difficult job. The dank smell of
rotten leaves filled the air. There were puddles at every step and the
two women hitched up their sarees to their ankles and stepped as
gingerly as possible. But it amused Daku no end.
The first stop was the Bose household where they were accosted
by Apuchi, the young daughter, and the two daughters-in-law. Apuchi
dragged her friend Tushi into her room as the two other women sat
down to chat with Lata. They were glad she had come—she hardly
visited them.
‘What can I do? My husband doesn’t leave me alone,’ Latajoked.
‘You mean he hasn’t got over you after all these years?’ the elder
daughter-in-law, Usha, asked teasingly. ‘So it won’t be a surprise if
there’s going to be another addition to your family?’
‘No, no, I don’t want any more additions,’ Lata said.
‘As if it depended on what we wanted. Look at her,’ said Usha,
 Harvest Song 253

pointing at her sister-in-law. ‘Her son is barely ten months old and
yet she is already..
‘Where is Tushi now? Won’t she come home?’ Lata asked.
‘Well, you are only bothered about your man. Don’t you know
what’s going on?’ asked the younger sister-in-law. ‘Doesn’t Botu teach
Tushi any more? Tushi, shall I tell your Boudi everything?’ she asked
as Tushi sauntered in. Tushi pounced on the young woman and tried
to stop her from saying anything
Walking back home, Lata looked at Tushi anew. At night she
spoke about this to Sulakshan, who was very amused. ‘Is that so?
Tushi has also learnt to fall in love then. This is a landmark event in
this household. But is Botu serious enough as a person?’
Botu arrived in person next afternoon, after lunch, when
Sulakshan was resting and Lata was taking a small break. Flicking
away a cigarette stub, Botu announced: ‘Just came to tell you that
tomorrow evening there will be a meeting with farmers at our office.’
‘I’ve told you many times I can’t attend evening meetings because
I am busy with my classes,’ Sulakshan answered.
‘Why can’t you miss it for a day? At the most you’ll be sacked.
What difference will it make? The farmers too have their obligations,
their families. How do they come to the meetings?’ Botu demanded.
‘It’s not a question of keeping my job,’ Sulakshan said. ‘It’s a
question of carrying out the responsibility of teaching two young
children. I can’t make myself free except Sunday evenings.’
Botu became more sarcastic. ‘No wonder comrades feel you are
becoming pro-establishment by the day,’ he said.
‘Which comrades are they? Isn’t it Sir Botu alone who feels that
way?’ Sulakshan said sharply.
‘No, not Sir Botu alone. The other day, all these dignitaries from
Sribari were saying that Sulakshan has become too un-party like by
marrying someone from outside the Party.’
Sulakshan wondered how Botu could say this in the presence of
Lata. She was sitting there, looking worn out, wearing a blouse cut
out o f one of his torn shirts, threadbare in places. He knew the
grinding poverty that had dried the milk in her breasts, he knew that
because of this poverty their first-born would be deprived of the
pleasure of having a sibling. But he did not bother to argue with
Botu, who left after having said what he wanted.
254 Sabitri Roy

f
Rajen flashed his five-battery torch on the sides of the canal. His
men were unloading sacks of rice from the boat. The goods train
was waiting, with the door o f one of its bogeys open.
The daroga appeared. Offering him the cigarette case, Rajen said:
‘Can’t rest till they are inside the train.’
‘Why are you tense?’ the daroga asked. ‘You are the dealer for
Shamsuddin, the man who holds the key to all the rice trade in
Bengal.’
‘No, I’m not tense. But these nationalist leaders and their speeches!
That’s why I have to take cover under darkness. I don’t have to tell
you about Partha Das, do I?’ Rajen grumbled. ‘He’s started to meet
the farmers once again after being let out. Some farmers have refused
to sell rice to us already. These swadeshiwallas have apparently told
the villagers not to give rice to the zamindar, too.’
‘Yes, I know all that. Find out where their dens are,’ the daroga
said. ‘And don’t forget the war tax.’
‘Of course, of course,’ said Rajen.
As soon as the daroga left, Jagai arrived, with two of his bullock
carts waiting on the road. ‘Take a hundred sacks to the cart,’
Rajen ordered his men. ‘Be careful and see that I don’t suffer,’ he
told Jagai.
‘Jagai Baneijee knows what he is doing. Not for nothing did I
take the responsibility for the daroga’s daughter’s wedding—I will
provide him with all the mutton for the occasion,’he answered. Rajen
kept count of the sacks despite the conversation. ‘Three hundred,’
he said, when the boats were completely empty. ‘Yes, Korta,’ answered
an old man.
Rajen paid the boatmen their ‘due’, met the Nepali watchman
for the railway company, in a black coat, lantern in hand, gave him
his ‘due’, too.
A lamp was burning in a tin shed off the tracks and the open
window showed a woman moving about. Rajen sealed the door of
the bogey and started to walk towards the light. It was the kitchen of
the manager of the C. M. Company, where the maid, Manakka, had
 Harvest Song 255

just set something on the stove. Rajen knew Manakka well.

‘What are you cooking at this time of the night?’ he asked, peering
into the kitchen.
‘Oh, you?’ Manakka looked up. 'I’m boiling some water. Babu’s
wife has started her labour. But what are you doing here now?'
she asked.
‘Where is your babu?’ Rajen demanded, without answering her
question.
'Gone to fetch the midwife.’
'Open the door. I need a glass of water.’
She opened the door and he came into the drawing room. He
could hear someone groaning in pain as she handed him the glass.
‘Here, wait a bit and I will bring the light.’
‘N o need of light. I will leave right away. When did your
babu leave?’
‘Just now,’ Manakka answered.
Then there was no problem, Rajen decided, and pounced on
Manakka as she pretended to struggle. ‘Let me go. Babu will be back
any moment,’ she whispered.
‘Babu won’t be back for half an hour,’ Rajen said, his voice thick,
his moist lips brushing against the back of the girl's neck.
‘You seem to have drunk quite a lot today,’ she said, hurrying up
her act for her gentleman lover who was crushing her body with all
his might.

Bhadra tried to lean from the railing and read the name of the station
at which the steamer had stopped. Several boats were approaching
die steamer, laden with homemade goodies—rasagollas, sandesh and
other sweets—while another carried the prized fish, hilsa. Almost
each o f the passengers bought an earthen pot of rasagollas, and the
crew bought hilsas. ‘Bahuji, please give me the tiffin carrier. Babu
wants me to buy some rasagollas,’ Ramsharan, Satyadarshan’s Bihari
servant, told Bhadra. She was travelling with her brother-in-law and
Anandababu.
256 Sabitri Roy

Giving him the tiffin carrier, she came back to her post. This
evening, spread out over the wide expanse of the Padma, would last
her lifetime—it was as if someone had poured vermillion into the
waters for her pleasure. She could not take her eyes off the confluence
of the Jamuna and the Padma, their waves embracing yet neither
losing identity. A temple rose from the river, its pillars below the
water, only the tip showing. This was the river that ran through
Partha’s country and she would be there at the end of her journey.
The butler, placing the tea tray on the table, shook her out of her
reverie. Anandababu sat up and Satyadarshan, who was busy with a
card game on one side, pulled up a cane chair and joined him. The
steamer was absolutely full—there was not even space to walk around
freely. Some passengers had spread out sheets on the deck and were
lying there with their luggage heaped near their heads. Some were
playing cards like her brother-in-law, while the women were feeding
their children. At one end stood wire cages of chickens and crates of
smelly dried fish, which made Bhadra cover her nose, but every little
thing pleased her. The crew was pulling up bucketfuls of water from
the river. On the upper level was a store selling cigarettes, tea and
paan, which also had big jars containing biscuits and cheap cakes.
The women’s cabins were separated by net partitions through which
two burqa-clad women were scrutinizing her.
She came back to the deck. Anandababu had dozed off again.
The stars were coming out and the river looked even wider under the
night sky. The waves played with the moonlight, lapping it up first
then throwing it back in bits. She felt at one with the beauty of the
dark waters around her, below her, everywhere Her heart was soaring
through the night towards the meeting she had yearned for for
so long.
They arrived early in the morning, and not in the afternoon as
Anandababu had thought. It was a big port, with a huge jetty, large
boats and godowns. ‘That’s where we will get off,’ Satyadarshan said.
Ramsharan went inside the cabins to tie up the bedding. Bhadra came
to the railing again—only a few more minutes. That was all she could
think of, every thought in her mind was straining towards Partha.
The station could be seen clearly now—but where was Partha? Hadn’t
he got her second letter?
Partha saw Bhadra looking distraught as her eager eyes scanned
 Harvest Song 257

the riverside. He saw her very cleariy, the temple design of the black
border of her saree, the glittering golden bangle, and the wrist that it
adorned.
The gangway was cast on and Partha silently walked up to
Bhadra’s side, without her seeing him at all.
‘Namaskar.’
Bhadra started, turned and blushed. ‘I was on the verge of tears
almost,’ she joked.
‘That I have realized,’ Partha said softly.
‘I am very happy that you could come,’ said Anandababu. ‘I’m
travelling this way after 40 long years and everything seems to have
changed. My elder son is with us, the army doctor.’
Satyadarshan appeared in person, arguing with the coolies. ‘This
is my son,’ said Anandababu. Partha raised his hands in a namaskar
at him and glanced at the coolies, who looked back awkwardly.
‘Your relatives?’ one coolie asked Partha, and motioned to the
others to behave. Satyadarshan was a little surprised by the sudden
change in their attitude, but did not have much time to spare. He
went down bustling with the luggage, as Partha helped Anandababu
down the stairs. Bhadra was just behind them—her sari, flying in the
breeze, grazing Partha’s shirtsleeves. Bhadra felt that such a gentle
touch—simply an anchal flying—could bind them together for life.
But Bhadra was also used to the sudden announcements from
Partha that harshly interrupted any such thoughts.
‘The steamer was very late today. We will have to hurry up for
the train,’ said Partha, as they arrived at the rail station, breaking the
spell almost wilfully.
Bhadra tried to concentrate on the luggage, helping the coolies
with the smaller pieces. Ramsharan spread the bedding for
Anandababu on a berth. Bhadra, however, did not get into the train.
‘Get up, Bhadra, the train will start any time now,’ Satyadarshan
said anxiously.
‘I am coming with you,’ added Partha.
258 Sabitri Roy

The magistrate was arriving at the 6-annas court and Sulakshan, Aziz
and Sukhomoy were busy with the announcement at the market.
‘Friends and brothers, please be there on behalf of the peasants’
society and clearly state your demands before the magistrate.’
It had been raining incessantly over the last few days. The rain
would stop for some time, then resume with renewed vigour. As it
began to pour again Sukhomoy climbed onto a cloth shop, held up
the metal funnel that was acting as a megaphone and readied to shout
into it, but Sulakshan asked him to desist as the rain was drowning
all other sound.
‘What if it pours like this the day after, too?’ Sukhomoy asked.
‘No rain can stop our rally,’ Aziz proclaimed confidently.
Sulakshan came to the riverside and saw that Rajaram was yet to
arrive. As he waited, he watched the jute being unloaded from the
boats into the trolleys. The men were counting the bundles—labhere
ek, labheredo, labhere teen. The indicator on the giant weighing machine
bobbed up and down. Their district sent up the biggest amount of
jute for export. After waiting for some time, Sulakshan decided to
leave. The three climbed into the small boat that was tied to the bank.
They reached a village where the farmers were mostly Muslims. All
the houses were flooded—the families were living on scaffolds built
on top of the houses to escape the waters. Boats tied along the scaffolds
were doubling as kitchens. They tied their boat to another boat and
climbed onto a scaffold. From a bamboo screen wall hung the
bedding—worn out pillows and kanthas, embroidered coverlets—
and two lamps. The farmer’s wife was cleaning some small bele fish
as the rice boiled in an earthen pot, smelling slightly rotten.
‘You’re drenched. Have a little smoke and you’ll feel drier,’
Mafijuddin, the master of the house, advised.
Sulakshan said, ‘Instead, on a happier day, we will have meat
cooked by your wife.’
‘When will that day come?’ Mafijuddin sighed. ‘We are now only
left with seed grain.’
‘Why won’t that day come?’ Aziz said. ‘We will all go to the
magistrate and ask for both our share of rice and seeds. That’s why
the babus are here today, to ask you all to come to the meeting,’ he
said emphatically.
Mafijuddin didn’t look very reassured. Pointing to a corner of
 Harvest Song 259

the ‘kitchen’ where some water-lily plants lay bunched together, he

said, ‘For one meal we cook the seedgrain, and for the other one we
boil shaluk.’
Suddenly an infant voice cried out from one corner of the shed.
No one had noticed, but there was a very small child lying bundled
under a kantha in that corner. Trying to pat the child back into sleep,
Mafijuddin said, ‘There may be fish in these waters now, but there is
nothing else, no rice, no oil. All we have is boiled fish and water
plants.’
The child went back to sleep. ‘He has fever again,’ Mafijuddin
said, as a gust of cold wind came rushing in though the gaps of the
bamboo screen.

As Lata brought in the evening tea, Sulakshan said, ‘Daku has

fever again.’
‘Again! He has barely recovered from the last time,’ Lata said,
almost dropping the cups.
‘It could be malaria,’ Sulakshan said, remembering the stricken
face of Mafijuddin’s little son. But he put on his shirt to go out—the
meeting with the magistrate was tomorrow and he needed to talk to
the villagers today. Partha noticed Lata’s anxious face. Daku’s feet
were still cold—the temperature would rise.
‘I won’t go with him,’ Partha said and stayed back. As soon as
Sulakshan left, Daku became very restless, tossing and turning almost
unconscious. Partha had been afraid of precisely this.
‘Bring a pot of water and a big bucket. His head has to be bathed,’
he told Lata, and gently pulling Daku towards him so that his neck
was resting on the edge of the bed, began to pour water on his head.
‘Cover his chest well so that he doesn’t catch a cold,’ he said to
Lata. It worked, as Daku fell asleep soon again, his small chest rising
and falling gently with his breath. Lata sat at his head, fanning him,
wondering how long could this go on for. Would her son be able to
survive such poverty and disease? She wiped away a tear before Partha
could see her. Partha took one sharp glance at her face and said,
260 Sabitri Roy

'Don’t worry, he will be all right. It’s malaria. Give him a quinine
injection as soon as the temperature goes down.’
‘But where will we get real quinine? The black marketeers have
swamped the whole market,’ Lata said.
Partha kept a watch on Daku as Lata hurried with her evening
chores. Hashi’s Ma made a sudden entry. ‘Why didn’t you let me
know about Daku?’ she demanded.
‘I couldn’t find you,’ Lata answered in a small voice.
'But I was just here, at the Bose household. I don’t go out in the
afternoon to waste time chatting with people,’ Hashi’s Ma retorted.
Partha watched the woman silently and thought that people like
her had the talent for making family life vicious by magnifying every
small thing to fill up their empty lives. They had no idea what real
happiness meant, nor did they know what sorrow was, the greater
sorrow that was the burden of others.
‘Ma—I want some water,’ Daku cried.
‘Here,’ Partha said, taking a spoonful of water to his Ups.
‘No, I want Ma,’ Daku cried again.
‘She will be here soon. Drink the water,’ Partha told him gently.
Lata came from the kitchen once and felt Daku’s forehead. ‘Looks
like the fever has gone down a bit,’ she said, placing the thermometer
under Daku’s arm.
‘Have you finished cooking?’ Partha asked.
‘No, the dal is on the stove,’ Lata replied, trying to read the
temperature—it was a hundred and one degrees.
There were raised voices coming from the street. ‘It must be
Sulakshan,’ Partha said, and Lata ran to the kitchen, remembering
the dal.
Sulakshan had Sukhomoy and Botu with him. Botu settled himself
into a cane chair in the verandah and lit a cigarette. As Lata came
out to meet them, he said, ‘Is that how Sulakshanda treats you? A
comrade’s wife, and spending all your time like an old-fashioned
wife in a kitchen?’
‘After an hour, when you are really hungry, we will see how “old-
fashioned” food is,’ Partha answered before Lata could say anything.
‘No, not even an hour. I smelt nice bodas frying while coming.
Why don’t you make us some tea to go with the bodas?’ Botu asked.
‘Tea? Now?’ Lata was quite taken aback.
 Harvest Song 261

‘There’s no fixed time for tea. Move with the times, please. If you
had only been there by Sulakshanda’s side at the rally, we could have
mustered a crowd of two thousand people.’
‘Two thousand to see me or to meet the magistrate?’
‘To see you maybe. But it would have helped us. If you can’t do
anything else, why don’t you make some posters for us? Really,
Sulakshanda, I feel sorry for you. Why on earth didn’t you marry
a comrade?’
After dinner, Sukhomoy started work on the posters and Partha
came to the kitchen where Lata was cleaning the stove with a cloth.
‘You gave Debaki a copy o f Chalar Pathe. That book was burnt to
ashes in this stove. She used to read here every evening while cooking.
One day Rajen found out,’ Lata told him. Then she asked suddenly,
‘Parthada, don’t you keep in touch with her?’
Partha knew what she was trying to say. He turned away his face
and said, ‘Debaki has found the right path.’
Sulakshan was still talking with the others in the verandah—
Rajaram and Aziz were also there. As Partha joined them, he found
Botu again holding forth. ‘Let me ask you something,’ he was saying.
‘Why is Sukhomoy allowed to speak at public meetings? He mumbles
and. . . ’
‘We are not performers on a stage. What difference does it make?’
Aziz snapped.
‘Of course it makes a difference. A lot depends on how good the
speaker is. In Russia . . . ’
‘This is not Russia.’ Aziz cut him short.
The room was hot and humid. Bringing out a bidi, Rajaram asked
for matches.
‘I’ll get them,’ Partha said.
‘Will you bring a glass of water? And a fan?’ ordered Botu.
Lata was husking rice, with another woman helping her by pouring
in the grain. As Partha pulled up a bucket of water from the well,
Lata yelled above the din, ‘Do you need a glass?’
‘Yes, and matches. But why are you working so late? When do
you sleep?’ Partha asked.
‘You are all up, too,’ Lata answered.
‘Who is with Daku?’
‘Sukhomoy is sitting there, doing his posters,’ Lata said.
262 Sabitri Roy

f
From the afternoon people from villages along the river started to
collect at the government offices. Passers-by stopped to find out what
was written on the colourful posters and festoons they were carrying.
The letters, written in red paint, could be read from across the lake:
‘We Want Regulation of Rice Trade. We Demand Free Seeds. Rice
at the Right Price. Thread to Weave Nets.’ A spell of rain soaked
them to their skin, but still they waited—the peasants, Mafijuddin,
Allabaksh, Khodabaksh, with Aziz, Rajaram, Botu, Sukhomoy,
Sulakshan and Partha. But there was no magistrate. They became
tired of looking at the ‘other side’ through the office window—the
president of the Union Board, the government doctor, the headmaster,
Jagai Banerjee.
‘Why is Rajen Sarkar missing from the set?’ Botu asked, who had
long been studying the tense faces inside. ‘He drinks deep, doesn’t
come to the surface often,’ someone answered Botu. ‘You can make
a trip to the nayeb’s kitchen and smell the badshahi kebabs cooking
there. Rajen collected ducks, chicken, eggs, ghee and all that was
necessary from the villagers yesterday for today’s feast.’ The cook
made his way inside through the crowd, carrying the tea things.
Sulakshan heard the harsh voice of the Union Board president.
‘What are you all doing here? The magistrate has many important
things to do. He won’t have time for you,’ he said.
Sulakshan turned and said, ‘They will only tell the magistrate
himself why they are here. Since this rain couldn’t make them budge,
you can believe that they will not move an inch without speaking
to him.’
Did Sulakshan’s voice reach the official himself? The magistrate
arrived—a handsome young man in khaki shorts and a sports shirt,
making all of those inside the office rise in attention. He was a Bengali
Muslim just returned from Oxford, so he didn’t speak Bengali. The
Muslim villagers gaped in awe—was he really one of them?
He was very soft-spoken. ‘I didn’t know you had been waiting for
me for so long. Two of you please come with me inside,’ he told
the crowd.
 Harvest Song 263

Sulakshan went into the office with Mafijuddin and Khodabaksh,

as the rest waited with bated breath. Allabaksh stood there for some
time, then left as he couldn’t follow the conversation—it was in
English. But he came out with his face shining—he was feeling very
proud. ‘Our Sulakshan is no less: he speaks as much English as the
sahib,’he informed the villagers. Inside, too, all the feces were glowing
with the same enthusiasm.
‘Can you show me the places where you say the grain is stored
illegally?’ the magistrate asked, getting up from his chair.
‘This very moment,’ Sulakshan said. He took five other workers
and the SDO followed with his entourage. The young officer, who
hadn’t really expected to see anything, was livid when he was brought
to the warehouses. ‘I shall order my officers to seal them immediately,’
he announced.
‘But what is more necessary is that the villagers are given back
this grain,’ Sulakshan suggested.
‘I will make sure of that,’ the magistrate said. ‘But let me warn
you, too, that the government won’t tolerate the way you have been
inciting the villagers.’
Measuring his words, Partha answered, ‘We are not inciting the
people. They are only here to let you know what they have to suffer
every day.’
The news of the warehouses being sealed spread like wildfire.
The villagers formed a joyous procession and started to march towards
the madrasa ground. ‘More power to the farmers’ society. More power
to the fishermen’s society,’ Botu croaked in a voice that had cracked
from shouting slogans all day. Suddenly there was hope. There was
an impromptu meeting at the ground where Partha spoke. ‘We are
getting back the grain, but this is not the end. You have seen how the
collective force of all of you led to a decision in our favour. We have
to strengthen our unity further,’ he told the villagers. The rice fields
were spread to the end of the horizon. Small ducks were flying over
them, and the green plants swayed in the breeze. His dream was to
give the farmers this very soil, every grain that the soil bore, because
it was theirs. Sulakshan stood aside, listening to the speakers. His
glasses became hazy as they got wet in the rain. He thought of Daku’s
small face, flushed with fever.
It was Botu’s turn to speak. ‘I will only repeat what the previous
264 Sabitri Roy

speaker said. We don’t want the grain from one warehouse back. We
want the rice from all such warehouses all over the country back into
our hands.’
The meeting ended, though the villagers wouldn’t stop their
slogans. Sulakshan folded the red flag. Only the five of them remained,
and two men planted by the police.
‘So how was my speech?’ Botu asked, lighting a cigarette and
exhaling luxuriantly. ‘Drought, famine, floods—these are our
weapons. The more people starve, the more powerful we grow.’
‘So you don’t think our struggle is to give life to the poor, and not
to let them die? You have no idea of what life is all about,’ Partha
said sharply.
Aziz, trying to lighten the situation, said, ‘Fall in love a bit and
you get to know what life is.’
‘I will try,’ said Botu and left.
Sulakshan returned home to find Hashi’s Ma attending to Daku.
‘You go and do your evening puja. We’ll be here now,’ he said.
‘Your son gave us such a scare today, but now seems to be better,’
Hashi’s Ma said.
Daku was sleeping peacefully inside the mosquito net. Lata felt
his forehead once and joined her husband and Partha. ‘I heard you
are going away tomorrow, Parthada? I got two tal fruits and thought
I would fry some bodas for you,’ Lata said accusingly.
When Partha didn’t answer her, Sulakshan tried to change the
topic. ‘Lata has a question. When in the ashram, she helped sell the
baskets and other such stuff made by the women from the villages
on behalf of the party. She is doing the same thing now. So where is
the difference?’
‘There is a difference,’ Partha said. ‘There selling a basket would
be an end in itself, a little bit of extra money. But here it can become
a livelihood for the women. A woman who earns gains confidence.
She can even stand up against oppression by her in-laws.’
‘So you do realize this? Bangle-adorned hands like yours may
finally bring down the empire,’ Sulakshan joked.
 Harvest Song 265

Next day, in the afternoon Partha went out on Sulakshan’s bicycle.

The jute crop along the railway tracks was being harvested and the
air was heavy with the smell of the half-decomposed plants. A goods
train was passing by laden with petrol. There was war on the eastern
front. He turned and started towards the district school to come upon
a column of people making their way ahead.
‘What’s the matter? Is there a football match or something?’ he
asked one.
‘There will be a boat race on the river today,’ a little Muslim boy,
dressed up in his lace cap and sherwani, answered him, hastening
on. ‘You are not from around here, are you? The Roys of the 6-annas
organized this, against four villages—Mansadanga, Talpukur,
Shyamganj and Bilaskhan,’ his adult companion explained.
Partha made for the river, too, but the race had started before he
got there. There were five boats, neck-and-neck, disappearing fast
down the wide river. Then there was a loud cheer—one was returning,
clearly ahead of its rivals. ‘Whose is the first boat?’ Partha asked a
man standing near him.
‘Mansadanga. The Roys have hired their men, but no one can
beat Lakshman and his team from Mansadanga,’ his neighbour said.
Partha did not wait to meet Lakshman. It had been a long time
since he had seen them all last. He turned his bicycle to go home.
Partha took a quick look about the house. There was a new shed
made of bamboo under the jaam tree and he spotted his father coming
out o f it. But before he could say anything to him, his mother
saw him.
‘Oh, I knew Partha would come today. I knew from the morning,’
Mangala cried.
‘So that’s why you went to Mansabari with all that milk and
bananas,’ Lakshmi emerged from behind her, smiling. ‘Last year Ali
wrote to Lakshman saying you would be released. Then we hear
that even before you could step out of the steamer they put you
inside again,’
Mangala said, her eyes filling with tears, ‘Will they keep you inside
jails all your life?’ She didn’t have the pleasure of cooking dinner for
him, though. The boys from the village had bought a goat to celebrate
Lakshman’s win. While the men slaughtered the animal and cut up
plantain leaves, their wives got together to cook the meat. There was
266 Sabitri Roy

feasting through the night—Partha’s presence being an added

pleasure. Partha said he would leave the next day, but Lalcshmi cajoled
him into staying Lakshman put on his starched shirt in the evening
in Partha’s honour. 'Let’s go and pay Dinumaster a visit,’ he told
Partha. 'He comes here quite often to ask after you. He got his second
daughter married to a rich businessman in Calcutta two years ago. I
also hear the eldest one is a nurse at die tuberculosis hospital there.
Have you met them?’
Partha felt awkward. ‘I met Debaki outside the jail on my way to
the station. She didn’t tell me anything about Ketaki.’
Walking by the side of the river, they saw the waters filling up
with boats carrying all sorts of goods. They reached the Mansadanga
bridge. 'I wanted to discuss something with you,’ said Lakshman,
leaning on the parapet of the bridge. 'It’s about my father-in-law.
He’s behaving strangely. A Vaishnavi has come to live in the new
shed that we have built,..
Partha did not quite grasp what he was trying to say. Did he mean
there was another woman in his father’s life? His mother’s face came
to his mind, the simple, trusting face of an illiterate, guileless woman.
'I will go there one day with the boys and give her a sound beating
if this continues,’ Lakshman said, after waiting for Partha to answer.
Partha, still aghast, asked him not to take such a measure. 'Don’t get
into that,’ he said.
'If you come more often, it will be a kind of check on him,’
Lakshman suggested. But when Partha still did not say anything, he
let the matter rest and left. Partha did not feel up to calling on Dinu>
master. He stood on the bridge and cast his eyes on the vista of
waterlogged fields. A few ragged children were playing in the fresh
currents of the canal. Dusk was falling; the shadows lengthened,
and with them an irritable melancholy fell over Partha’s mind and
body. He knew he had to absorb this unpalatable truth he had just
learnt, but somewhere in his heart there was a muted ache, an echo
of the sorrows of women in this unequal world. Debaki, Ketaki,
their mother, Lata, Bhadra, each was a separate subterranean stream
of pain. It seemed to him that from somewhere there floated
the sound—a great choral harmony of suffering, sung only in
women’s voices.
This story that Lakshman had told him was one he had been
 Harvest Song 267

hearing, with different dramatis personae, since childhood. He

thought, if my mother had had some money of her own, a means of
living, would my father have been able to cast her off so easily? Could
forty years of life together have been swept away in an instant? Maybe
not. Maybe the even tenor of the house’s ways would have fallen
apart in disharmony. Yet perhaps rather than accept this butteifly
flightiness of the male mind and carry on, it was better to sever the
connection and live with dignity. Maybe that was the best way.
It was dark now. Partha slowly emerged from his reverie.
Somewhere in the night he could hear the solemn strains of a gopi
jantra, the traditional instrument of the Vaishnavs. A voice was
singing with deep emotion, ‘For you I will become a wanderer, you
have set at naught my family’s honour.’

Preparations for Durga Puja were almost complete at the Chaudhuri

mansion. The huge house was now packed with the sons and
daughters of the family, all gathered from far corners of the country
to celebrate this occasion. The labourers in the huge garden were
busy clearing away the accumulated growth brought about by the
monsoon. Behind them, the many roofs of the great house rose,
covering a bewildering assortment of rooms, each with its own specific
purpose, while above them flew a great flock of the house’s pet
pigeons. Nitai Hadi paused in his digging. Someone—a young wife—
had come out on to one of the roofs and was hanging up clothes to
dry. She had the comeliness of a flame and wore a white sari with a
black border. The absence of vermillion in the parting of her hair
came as a shock to the eye. But he could not dismiss her from his
thoughts.
Nitai said softly, ‘I’ve never seen this lady before.’
The younger master’s daughter called from a lower window,
‘Bhadra Boudi.’ Bhadra signalled that she was coming. The girl who
had called was known to the labourers. She had large, beautiful eyes,
and they remembered that her wedding had been celebrated with
much fanfare, including fireworks. But this had availed her nothing,
268 Sabitri Roy

for her husband had taken another wife, citing as his reason her lack
of education. Stung by the insult, the younger master of the
Chaudhuri dynasty had sent his daughter all the way to England to
be educated.
Bhadra heard them as she descended the stairs. So they were
talking about Tiya. She remembered how Tiya had sung song after
song at her own wedding when she was just a girl, before Tiya’s own
marriage Time and sorrows had not taken anything from her beauty,
but perhaps they had given her mouth a slightly defiant set. She had
been teaching for a year now in some college in the Punjab, and
Bhadra knew she was in love with one of the professors there.
As Bhadra entered the fashionably book-lined library where Tiya
was sitting with a pile of books on her lap, the younger girl said, ‘It’s
no use trying to run away. The boys are putting up Chandmgupta on
Lakshmi Puja, and we are doing Chitrangada the following day. You’ll
be Axjun.’
Bhadra smiled, ‘Am I not a daughter-in-law?’
‘I don’t care. All that is for the village wives, not the wives of the
Chaudhuris. If you don’t take part the play will be a disaster. Didn’t
Boro Ma choose you as a daughter-in-law after she was impressed
by your acting in Kapalakundalal Whoever acts the best will win a
cup. Baba will be Chanakya, Dada will be Chandragupta, and
Swapanda Seleucus. I am going to be Chitrangada. We must win the
cup.’
But Bhadra would not agree. Tiya snorted. ‘Even Madhabi is
acting, and she’s a new bride, so why are you being so modest?’Bhadra
could not explain to this assertive westernized girl that it was not
simply a matter of propriety. At last, Tiya’s resentful silence got her
to suggest, ‘Why don’t we do Raja instead?’
‘Will you be the Raja?’
‘Yes, and you can be Sudarshana, Madhabi can be Surangana.’
Tiya had chosen her aunt’s sitting room as a good place to rehearse.
When Bhadra entered, Tiya said, ‘All this while Tipu has been
standing in for the Raja. Now the real Raja’s arrived: move over.’
‘No,’ said Bhadra, ‘I’d like to hear my proxy first.’
‘What modesty!’
A little absently, Bhadra began her part. Tipu was prompting, but
Bhadra asked him to stop. ‘I know my lines.’ Turning to Tiya, she
 Harvest Song 269

said, ‘Everyone must learn their lines.’

‘But the Raja never appears on stage. You can read your lines
from the wings.’
Bhadra smiled a little. 'Then it’ll just be reading, not acting and
the Raja won’t speak.’
Tiya understood at the end of the first rehearsal why an actor had
to make the words her own. Bhadra had shown her how to do it.
The children were very excited. The following dawn the buffalo
would be sacrificed. They would all get up early to watch. Bhadra
had seen the animal when she went to the roof to hang up the washing.
It was tied in a field by the house. Someone had told her that tears
had been running out of the buffalo’s eyes for two days now. As she
turned to go she had noticed Tipu in a comer of the roof with a
monthly magazine. ‘You’ve chosen a nice place to read,’ she said,
approaching. Then she saw the name of the magazine, and looked
with a little wonder at Tipu’s face.
The sacrifice was about to take place. The drums had been playing
for a while now. The butcher came with his cleaver, his eyes red as
sunset clouds. Bhadra had heard that the sacrificers drank consecrated
wine before they did the deed. There was an awful solemnity in their
faces. Tipu closed the magazine. ‘Let’s go and watch the buffalo
sacrifice,’ he suggested.
‘Why should we? Isn’t it cruel to watch an innocent beast being
murdered?’ Bhadra asked.
But Tipu insisted. ‘No, let’s go. Cruelty too is an experience, and
you should never say no to experience.’
The natmandir was already full—people from other villages had
come too. The buffalo was waiting there, bathed, with ropes tied
round its neck and legs. About ten muscular men started to pull the
ropes tied to its legs in four directions. The huge animal collapsed to
its knees, while another man pulled the rope round its neck, to stretch
it out. Yet another poured ghee on the beast’s neck. The drumbeats
grew faster and the crowd grew more excited with the fear and
exultation of the final moment. Some were a little worried—once
during a puja one year, the cleaver had got stuck in the buffalo’s
neck. That year six children from the family had died. It was very
inauspicious not to sever the beast’s neck with one blow. This time,
however, as the drums rose to a crescendo, the sharp weapon went
270 Sabitri Roy

through the buffalo’s neck like a knife through butter, slicing the head
off smoothly. Everyone heaved a collective sigh.
A small boy brought the freshly severed head and placed it before
the Durga idol. Others danced on the natmandir floor, staining their
feet with the warm blood.
Two days later, after the end of Durga Puja and immersion of
the idol in the river, the rehearsals began in earnest, for Lakshmi
Puja was only a week away. The boys were at it, too, passers-by often
stopping on their way as they heard the men going through what
was probably the most famous line on the Bengali stage, ‘True,
Seleucus, how marvellous is this country.’
But the nayeb didn’t have time to listen to history’s utterance—he
was immersed in his ledgers. He looked up as someone appeared at
the doorway. It was a peon from the Debt Complaints Board
with a summons.
‘Now which one is it this time?’ the nayeb asked, knitting his
brows, and read Mafijuddin’s name. Rogues like Mafijuddin thought
they could get away with their debts because of the new law, but he
would somehow have to show that the borrowed money required
more instalments than had been paid back. Hopefully he could
arrange it in such a way that it would eventually take them three
generations to pay back the whole amount—and then they would
know what it was to lock horns with their zamindar and his nayeb.

The tyres of the bus splashed filthy water on both sides. The road
was muddy, made worse by the traffic of heavy vehicles. It was early
morning—Partha was on his way to Paharpur, but he would stop at
Sribari to meet Bhadra and Anandababu.
He thought about the irony of Bhadra being related to the
Chaudhuri family. It was against that very landlord that all the people
here—Hadis, Bagdis, Garos, Hajongs, and as far as he knew, also
Bhadra—were up in arms.
Anandababu was very glad to see Partha. ‘You have taken so
much trouble,’ he said. Bhadra did not say anything. They were seated
 Harvest Song 271

on the verandah outside Anandababu’s room. The grass was wet

with morning dew and a faint sweet perfume rose from the flowers
of two white lily plants.
Bhadra was distracted. She did not know how to respond to Partha
when he was right in front of her. Somehow he made her think of
last night’s performance, the words of the invisible Raja echoing in
her mind. The Raja, who was beautiful within. No, not beautiful,
incomparable.
There was the sound of footsteps—Tipu and Tiya were marching
into the room, Tipu dangling a silver medal on a red ribbon. ‘We’ve
won!’ Tiya yelled. 'And this is your prize,’ she added triumphantly,
handing over the medal to Bhadra with a grand gesture. ‘This time,
we have defeated the boys. The trophy is also coming to us,’ she said.
‘And not to speak of our granddad from the Roy family. He was
so overwhelmed by your performance. . . ’ Tipu started, but Bhadra
interrupted him.
‘This is Mr Tipu,’ she said, introducing him to Partha. ‘I believe
he is one of you,’ she added, looking Partha in the eye. ‘And this is
my sister-in-law Sukanya Chaudhuri. She teaches literature at a
college.’ Bhadra’s eyes twinkled. ‘She is also the zamindar’s daughter.
And Parthababu is a peasant leader.’
‘So you are one of the people in whose hands our future rests,’
Tiya asked, her eyes twinkling, too, and sauntered off to arrange for
some tea. Anandababu got up to look for a cheroot. ‘So which play
was it?’ Partha asked.
‘Raja:
‘Do you know what a great actress she is? If you had been bom
abroad, you would have been a star by now,’ Tipu told Bhadra.
‘I wish I had been here yesterday,’ Partha said.
Tiya reappeared with laden trays carrying tea and a mountain
of sweets.
‘So this is how zamindars serve tea?’ Partha teased Tiya.
‘Yes, this is the bribe to secure our lives against the guillotine,’
Tipu said.
‘Let me tell you, such revolutions may have enjoyed popular
support, but I can’t understand something like a guillotine,’ Tiya told
Partha, as if he represented the French Revolution.
‘But what about the fact that zamindars kill just as much as
272 Sabitri Roy

revolutions?’ Tipu challenged.

Partha listened in silence to the heated argument. They thought
right, but they belonged to a different world, he thought. Bhadra,
too, resplendent in a powder blue sari with a gold border and a blue
sapphire sparkling on her finger, belonged here. He did not—and
being a part of it, even in a social encounter, was difficult.
‘I will leave now,’ he said abruptly. ‘I have told Sulakshan that
you will visit him on your way back. If I come to know of the date,
I will come and meet you at his house again.’ Bhadra realized that
the last words were meant for her.
As his boat moved upstream, Partha again remembered the many
halls, the huge courtyard, the easy, refined manner of Bhadra and
her people, and thought again she belonged to another world and
that the distance between them was immense.

Saraswati came running as soon as Partha got out of the boat. He

knew whom she had been waiting for, but she would have to wait a
while longer. Sarathi’s term had been extended after he had hit a jail
superintendent. Partha didn’t know how to break the news to her.
‘Do you want to cross the river?’ he asked her, ignoring the
obvious.

‘Then let me take you home.’

‘I’ve just come from there. Now I‘m on my way to the farm to
husk the rice,’ Saraswati said.
‘You’re working at the missionary farm?’ Partha asked, a little
surprised, because it was unusual for a woman from a family like
hers to work as a farm labourer. But then he also thought how
impoverished they had become of late.
As they started to walk together through the sal forests, Saraswati
could not hold herself back any more. ‘Will they never let Sarathi
go? He was jailed for only six months, but how many six months
have gone by. How long will I have to wait?’ she asked, her voice
trembling.
 Harvest Song 273

Partha did not know what to say—so he lied. ‘I have heard they
are letting him go soon. You must realize that he is not in jail for
breaking into someone’s house,’ he continued. ‘He is there because
he had the guts to protest against the zamindar’s men. They came
to force the fanners to give up the harvest and he stood up against
them.’
But Saraswati’s eyes were brimming with tears. ‘You have to be
strong, Saraswati,’ Partha said. ‘And stop wasting your time waiting
by the river,’ he added a little sternly.
Saraswati was in no mood for advice. ‘You will never understand
why I waste time by the river,’ she said sharply. Partha looked at her
once, but decided not to say anything. They were near the farm,
where he could see Sarathi’s mother, too, among the Garo women.
‘So this is another new trap the missionary fathers have laid,’
Partha thought, and asked Saraswati to meet him after work.
Saraswati was visiting the farm for the first time today. She felt
scared and shy, almost on the verge of tears. The farm was spread
over a huge area dotted with casurinas and secured by barbed fences,
with separate enclosures for cattle and poultry. Fat roosters and hens
wandered happily within their netted enclosures. There were perches
for the pigeons mounted on two wooden posts.
Sarathi’s mother had talked to the missionary father and fixed a
job for Saraswati—she was to get a basket of paddy for every maund
of rice she husked.
There were men, too, cutting up the straw. While the women
worked in silence, the men were singing to pass the time. Saraswati
felt a little uncomfortable. She did not feel at home here. She
remembered how Sarathi would help her while they husked the rice
together. Her eyes filled with tears again.
‘Is there something in your eye? Go and splash some water on it,’
her mother-in-law said.
Saraswati got up, when someone said from behind, ‘I know how
to help you.’ It was Kartik. She wondered what he was doing here;
he was supposed to be working as a watchman on the zamindar’s
farm. On her way to the pond, she saw him talking to a missionary.
Collecting their share of grain from the Father, Saraswati and her
mother-in-law started for their home, passing through the darkening
woods. The old woman could hardly keep pace with Saraswati. As
274 Sabitri Roy

soon as they reached home, Saraswati prepared to go out again.

Partha had wanted to meet her. The light was on in his room, but
a sheora tree on one side of the field, which was said to haibour
ghosts, seemed like it was staring at her. A gust of wind ruffled its
uppermost branches, sending a chill down her spine. She almost ran
to Partha’s door and thumped noisily on the door.
'Please open the door, fast,’ she shouted.
‘Who is that? Saraswati?’ Partha asked, opening the door. ‘Why
are you panting? Are the police after you?’
‘I was scared that the witch from the sheora tree was chasing me.’
‘Now you are being chased by a witch also,’ Partha laughed.
‘You may not believe it, but I do. She got into Oga’s son that day/
‘It was not her, but tetanus, Saraswati. It is never a witch, but
germs that catch hold of people. If the witch were really there, would
she spare me? I pass under the tree everyday,’ he suggested.
‘Just because she can’t be seen doesn’t mean she isn’t there,’ said
Saraswati, staunchly. ‘We can’t see the goddess Kali Kamakshya,
too. Does that mean she doesn’t exist?’
Partha knew it was no point reasoning any more. He brought out
a sheaf of paper from under his bed and gave it to her. ‘You have to
hide them for me. That’s why I asked you to come here If these get
into the hands of the police we will all have to go to jail.’
Partha thought her good enough to be entrusted with this huge
responsibility that could change lives! Saraswati glowed with pride.
On her way back, she did not even realize that she had crossed the
sheora tree. Back home, she hid the papers in the haystack.
They didn’t even have salt to put on the food. Next morning,
when Partha visited Saraswati, he found there was a huge effort on
to feed Sankhaman’s son. Rasumoni fed him a morsel of rice, but
the small boy just spat it out.
Sarathi’s Ma, who was smoking her hookah, said: ‘You can’t have
rice without salt, Rasumoni. How can you expect your child to have
it? Scrape the bottom of the pot to get some salt.’
‘I washed it yesterday and boiled fish in it,’ Rasumoni said angrily.
She was tense, because she knew that there was no salt in the
controlled shop either There was talk that the missionaries had
stashed away all the salt.
 Harvest Song 275

New trouble appeared: Kartik. ‘The nayeb is at the farm and wants
to know when you will start harvesting the paddy.’
Sankhaman, who was returning with a dead pheasant, saw Kartik
going in and followed him into the house. ‘We will start in two or
three days,’ he told Kartik. ‘But this time we will not take it to the
form. We will store it in our bams.’
Kartik knew about this; that was why he was there. ‘In that case,
please go and tell nayebmashai yourself.’
‘Yes, we can do that. We will meet him tomorrow,’ Shankhaman
said.
Kartik left, but on his way out his glance fell on the goat, a very
young one, that Sankhaman’s son was feeding. ‘I cannot return with
nothing from the house of a zamindar’s subject. Give me that goat,’
he said.
Sarathi’s Ma, who was slapping cowdung cakes on the wall, got
up with a jerk. ‘Please, Kartik, leave that alone, the boy won’t be able
to stand it. Take this instead,’ she pleaded. From a hole in the yard
she dug out a big turtle. ‘See how big it is. There won’t be less meat in
it than in that goat.’
Kartik thought that these were tough times and a turtle was better
than nothing. Dangling the turtle from the top of his staff, he set off
for the next house.

The nayeb’s visit brought back life to the zamindar’s offices and
granary in the village. Thick coils of smoke rose from the kitchen,
carrying with them the aroma of meat cooking which spread
languorously over the paddy fields. Haladhar, the cook, was working
on a couple of ducks, a gift from one of the villagers.
The granary was surrounded by paddy fields, and built at a much
higher level. The nayeb was at work, pouring over all the accounts of
the villagers—tax, cess, debt, account number, parghana, village,
villager’s name. Tamez Miya was at the door. ‘Are you there,
nayebmashai?’
276 Sabitri Roy

‘Who’s that?’ Pathak looked up.

‘Tamez. I have written out a debt statement and wanted to check
if it reads all right.’
‘Let’s see,’ the nayeb said. The statement said that he had
mortgaged five bighas of land to the zamindar for four years and had
taken a loan of 50 rupees at 2 percent interest per month. Till he paid
the money back with the interest the zamindar had the right to use
the land as his own.
‘Why did you opt for such a mortgage?’ the nayeb asked.
‘I haven’t even been able to pay back my earlier debts,’ Tamez
explained.
‘If you haven’t been able to do it this year, you could take some
more time. If the villager can’t come to the zamindar in his hour of
need, what are we here for?’
After Tamez left, the nayeb brought out the list of old debts.
Maizuddin of Dhopadanga would default soon.
‘When Kartik comes, ask him to find what’s happening with
Maizuddin. If he doesn’t come and meet me, we will have to file a
case within a month,’ the nayeb told Haladhar. These villagers were
the picture of humility when they needed the money, but with the
money in hand, they just evaporated, he grumbled to himself.
Kartik came back. ‘What did they say?’ Pathak asked.
‘They will not keep the paddy with us. They will keep it
themselves, in their own bams.’
‘They could say that to the zamindar? So what did you say?’
‘I said, come and tell the nayeb what you have to say. They were
reluctant, but finally agreed to come tomorrow afternoon.’
But even such disastrous news could not spoil the stupendous
lunch. The duck curry was excellent and the nayeb was full of praise
for Haladhar. ‘But be it duck, or goat, or pigeon, deer meat is the
best,’ he observed, topping up the meal with a little amra chutney,
the dessert that Haladhar took pride in. There was some yoghurt,
too, sent by a milkman. It was lovely, a solid mass that did not pour
out even when the pot was turned upside down. Kartik scooped out
some with a metal bowl and served it to the nayeb. There had been a
marked improvement in Kartik’s appearance also in this one week.
His skin glowed, and his moustache, which he was growing again,
brisded manfully.
 Harvest Song 277

After lunch, Haladhar took out two pots of soaked rice and gave
it to Kartik. ‘Your mother can make two meals out of this,’ he said.
The nayeb came to his room, smoking his post-lunch hookah. He
had been able to run the zamindari for forty long years by holding
the villagers in absolute control, though it had been a much grander
property before. The next day the villagers came to meet him. The
two carts meant to carry the rice were lying unrepaired. The nayeb
had already spoken to the missionaries about selling all the rice
to them.
He asked Kartik to get some more tobacco for his hookah and
looked at Gajen. ‘Apparently you don’t want to store the rice
with us.’
‘No. We all have decided that we will keep it in our granary. The
peasants’ society’s granary,’ said Gajen, his voice trembling a little.
‘Hramm. The peasants’ society. Who is the one instigating you
all?’ the nayeb asked. When he got no answer, he decided to show
his might. ‘If you go ahead with your plans, I will make sure that
you pay the price. You don’t know what the zamindar can do,’ he
bellowed in a voice that seemed to come back from twenty years
ago.
‘We do know,’ said a voice from the crowd.
The nayeb shot a glance at them—it was Gajen’s son. One was
rotting in the prison, yet that had not cured the other. He softened
his tone. ‘In that case, go to the zamindar’s office yourselves and tell
him. I am only an employee. If all of you can’t go, select a
representative to speak to him. He can go with me. I can postpone
my departure for two more days.’

Partha was on his bicycle, racing, as usual, through the sal forest.
The Garo houses were like specks on the hill, still far away. At the
crossing of the three roads someone had killed a cat and hung it
from a pole. Little white cloths with the deo drawn on them were
fluttering in the wind, possibly to exorcise demons that were said to
eye pregnant women.
278 Sabitri Roy

He reached the Garo village. The houses were painted with deep
brown and yellow designs. Roosters and hens cackled all around.
Small children were on their way to the missionary school. A group
of children followed his bicycle till they ran out of breath. One of
them pressed a piece of paper into his hand—it was a portrait of
Mother Mary.
The Garos were all Christians. Their daughters were being trained
in the missionary hospital as nurses. He arrived at the house of the
village head where a young woman was knitting a woollen sweater.
The head came out, greeted Partha with respect and asked him to
come inside. Partha told him of his plans with the peasant society.
He listened respectfully, but did not agree to join. Partha, a little
disappointed, got up to leave. He wanted a glass of water.
The girl who was knitting the sweater and listening intently to the
conversation, looked up. ‘Why only a glass of water? Please have
lunch with us,’ she said.
Partha was willing—if he stayed, it might help to establish a better
rapport with them. Lunch was salted rice in an enamel dish with a
curry made with powdered dried fish.
While they were eating, the village head brought up another
problem. His daughter wanted to marry a Hajongboy, but the Hajongs
had ostracized the young man. ‘Now we hear that he will perform
the purification rites and re-enter the community,’ the head said.
‘Who is the young man?’ Partha asked.
‘Ghanashyam’s brother.’
‘I will speak to Ghanashyam,’ Partha said reassuringly.
But he knew that certain things he could not change The marriage
of a Garo and a Hajang would not be easy, not only because of the
difference in religion, but also because of other divisions. It was also
not easy to warn them against the missionaries. ‘Whatever you plan
to do now, the farm, night school, peasants’ society, all these the
missionaries have set up before you could do anything. I have seen
from my early childhood how even in the midst of the coldest winter
the missionaries would go from house to house, trying to find out
who was ill, who had no medicine,’ Martha, the young girl said.
Partha left and took the way back through the sal forest. He started
to speed up again, but slowed down when he saw a branch lying
across the road. There was someone around, sobbing. It was
 Harvest Song 279

Saraswati, lying in a heap on the stump of a tree. Her bundle of

firewood was on the ground. She saw Partha, looked up and said,
‘They have shot Sarathi to death.’
‘What?’ Partha exclaimed.
‘Kartik told me just now. They have killed him,’ Saraswati cried.
'Oh, Kartik. He told you and you believed him. He’s lying Sarathi
is all right,’ Partha said. ‘Don’t take what Kartik says seriously. He is
into the racket of selling women now.’
'Selling women?’ Saraswati asked, uncomprehending.
‘When the war is on, the army doesn’t only need ammunition. It
needs women, too,’ Partha said. ‘Go home now. I will write to the
jail asking for permission for you to meet Sarathi. I will take you
there as soon as it arrives.’
Saraswati wiped her eyes, picked up the bundle and started for
home.

Boro Ma of the Chaudhuri household was feeding the cow its rice
and banana mix, topped with bel leaves, when a scream from the
storehouse shattered the peace of the morning. Kala Tharan, who
was employed in the household and on her way to the kitchen to
take out the day’s requirement of ghee and oil, stopped in her tracks.
Moni Ma was standing there, too.
Some disobedient, arrogant villager was being beaten up again.
‘Will they kill him?’ Boro Ma ran to the wall that separated the
inner house from the offices. The women could not go beyond that
point. ‘Is anyone around? Please go and tell the zamindar that I want
to meet him right away,’ she shouted.
Bhadra was shocked—she had never encountered anything so
outrageous in her life. By her side stood the cook Haladhar, explaining
the intricacies exultantly. ‘They are rubbing him good with bamboo
poles. He wanted to have some water. He got it, too. Kartik gave him
a pot of urine to drink from,’ said Haladhar, glowing with pleasure,
clutching the Brahmin’s sacred thread that he wore across his chest.
It reminded Bhadra of the buffalo that had been sacrificed. Where
280 Sabitri Roy

was the difference? But everything became quiet by afternoon.

Tipu came back and found out who the villager was. His name
was Sankhaman—he had reportedly insulted the zamindar’s name
when the nayeb had met him a few days ago.
Bhadra did not say anything, but within two hours everyone learnt
that Anandababu was leaving that evening. Boro Ma, Moni Ma,
Tiya—all guessed at what prompted the decision, but no one dared
to ask anything. Tipu knew for sure what it was, because even two
days before it had been dear that Bhadra wanted to stay on for another
month.
Even the zamindar requested them to stay back, but Bhadra would
not listen. Packing her bags, she told Tipu, ‘Why don’t you come
with us too?’ She was not surprised when Tipu agreed promptly. She
thought of writing a letter to Partha but dedded against it. Before
getting into the car, she touched the feet of Boro Ma and Moni Ma,
but not the zamindar’s. She did not look back.
Partha was livid when he saw the bruises on Sankhaman’s back.
Saraswati accompanied him home and he sent her back with
medicine. Then he left on his bicyde to meet the villagers—the nayeb’s
fangs needed to be pulled out.
One thought kept crossing his mind—Bhadra was a relation of
these Chaudhuris. She must have been there when the zamindar’s
men tried to reach Sankhaman a lesson. The Hajongs started to gather
at Sankhaman’s home from the evening. All were carrying sturdy
lathis in their hands. Partha did not wait for very long.
‘We will harvest the crop tomorrow, because the zamindar says
that tomorrow he will send his men. We will collect the paddy in our
barn before they arrive. Sankhaman’s humiliation is an insult to all
Hajongs. It’s an insult to all peasants. There can be only one answer—
the zamindar shall not lay his hand on a grain of rice.’
‘There is one problem. The Garos want to store the paddy inside
the church,’ Ghanashyam pointed out. Partha knew this, but did not
reply directly. ‘Remember, my brothers, our only strength is our unity,’
he said. ‘This will be the weapon to destroy our enemy.’
On coming home, he found a letter from Sulakshan. His
stepmother had left home after a showdown and was staying with
one of her married daughters; Tushi had run away and got married
to Botu, though there was really no need to run away. Sulakshan was
 Harvest Song 281

upset with them—it dad not reflect well on the party’s workers.
The last part of the letter shocked him—Sulakshan had chanced
to meet Bhadra at the steamer station. She was on her way to Calcutta.
How could Bhadra have left without telling him?
But before he could get over this, Saraswati entered, smiling
radiantly
‘Is Sarathi hack?' Partha asked.
‘How did you know?’
‘From your face,’ Partha answered and saw Sarathi entering
through the door. He embraced him warmly. Sarathi was a little
thinner, but his eyes shone with the light of new experience.
‘It’s very good that you are here today,’ Partha said.
‘Yes, I know everything, I came here twice before going to look
for you.’
They left, Saraswati and Sarathi, walking together towards their
home after what seemed a long time. There was no moon; the dark
forest only speckled with fireflies. He had waited for two years behind
bars for this moment; Sarathi could not wait any longer. He pulled
Saraswati towards him and kissed her passionately.

Bhadra had left herjob at the school after the school secretary ordered
all the teachers to sign a ‘loyalty bond.’ She had not been able to
humiliate herself to that extent.
She finished her chores and sat down with her writing—it was
her only source of sustenance now. Anandababu was in the next
room, repairing a packing case, because there were tentative plans to
leave Calcutta. Satyadarshan was likely to be transferred to Banagram,
about thirty kilometres from the city. If he went, Anandababu and
Bhadra could stay with him at their ancestral house. But Bhadra was
not sure—what if Partha returned one day? What if he came back,
even for a day? She was not in touch with Kunal, either.
She looked up—someone was at the door. It was Kunal. 'You
will live very long. I was thinking of you just now,’ she said chirpily.
Kunal took off his shoes and entered the room, holding a parcel. ‘At
282 Sabitri Roy

least there is someone to think of me, prolonging my years on earth/

he answered, laughing.
Bhadra looked at the parcel with surprise. It had a name written
on it in an immature feminine hand: Partha Das, Paharpur. ‘Do you
have sealing wax? Debaki asked me to post this more than a week
ago. I have to send it today/ Kunal said. Writing out the address in
full, he said, ‘Partha Das, Hero of Debaki episode.’
The words stunned Bhadra. She felt a rush of blood in her face,
but before Kunal looked up, she tried to regain her composure and
said, ‘What is there inside?’
‘Medicine. Debaki got it from a doctor she knew/
‘But won’t the bottles break? Why didn’t your pack them
inside a box?’
‘She has packed it very carefully. I’ve also written “medicine” on
the parcel.’
Kunal decided to tell Bhadra what he had learnt of the ‘Debaki-
Partha’ episode. Bhadra listened breathlessly, missing a heartbeat now
and then. ‘Such is the state of things even now in our country that
because she wrote a letter to Partha they took away her son from
her.’ Kunal left/but Bhadra sat still. She felt drained of all strength.
She could only see two faces—Partha and Debaki—and wonder what
bound them together.
Kunal came for two days in succession to remind her of the article
she was writing for him. ‘I will give it to you tomorrow/ she said,
when he visited her the second time. But the afternoon also padded
by; Bhadra just paced the floor aimlessly. She blamed herself. Why
did she expect that Partha was obliged to tell her everything about
himself? But she kept bleeding inside. The questions assailed her,
one after the other. Had Partha hidden all this for the sake of his
political life alone? Or was he like an ordinary man when it came to
a woman—did not think much about playing with her emotions? It
was her fault—it was all her fault! She had mistaken Partha—she
was wrong in assuming what caused the pain in Partha’s eyes.
She started to write—but Partha, standing by her window at the
railway station, came back to her mind again. He looked so weary,
so tired. But all those lines under his eyes were not caused by anyone
else—only because of where he stood with Debaki. Debaki’s husband
was alive. Ali’s words to Partha flashed across her mind, too, ‘Debaki
 283

is waiting for you at our house.’

Bhadra managed to get a grip on herself. She would go with
Anandababu to their village home. In the next few days, she paid the
dues of the landlord, the milkman, the washerman, maid, newspaper
vendor, and wrote a letter to Tipu to be present at the station to receive
them.
She started to pack, too. She cleared the kitchen, taking out all
the utensils, even as Kunal sat copying her article. Finally, Bhadra
pulled out all the books that Partha had given her and put them in a
trunk, and wrote a letter to Lata. She pasted Lata’s address on the
trunk. ‘Please send this trunk to this address. Ali will be sure to know
of someone who can take it. Please give this letter, too.’ Bhadra
told Kunal.
She took a look at the letter again. 'Lata, please send the books to
where they belong. I left my school and am going back to our village
with my father-in-law. I am very busy now—so I will write you a
long letter later. A red salute to our young comrade. Yours, Bhadra.’
Kunal slipped the envelope into his bag and said, ‘So, Bhadradi,
you are leaving after all.’ ‘Yes, like the warrior woman of yore, who
would rather leave than stay where she is not appreciated,’ Bhadra
answered.
‘You will leave us, and badmouth us also.’ Kunal answered. He
could not understand why she was going. Did she think she would
get a job in the village school? Something, somewhere was going
wrong, about which Bhadra wouldn’t speak. But he said again, ‘It
would be better if you stayed.’
Anandababu was hammering the nails into the box containing
the utensils. ‘Give it to me, let me do it,’ Kunal said. Bhadra had
packed everything up—only a few old magazines, empty bottles,
toothpaste tubes, hairpins and withered flowers lay strewn about the
floor. All the suitcases stood ready, waiting in one comer. Anandababu
was also ready in his travelling clothes.
The taxi arrived and the luggage was put in its boot. Bhadra took
one last look at the empty house. A storm was building up inside her,
but she would not breakdown. She ran to the stairs to hide her tears.
The women of the neighbouring houses had come out onto their
balconies to see them leave. They got into the taxi ‘Drive fast, Sardaiji,’
Kunal said. He was going with them to see them off.
284 Sabitri Roy

The train was full of soldiers. Kunal seated the two of them in
their compartment and left, raising his hands in pranam to
Anandababu. Bhadra saw Anandababu’s eyes glistening with tears
at Kunal’s diminishing figure as the train pulled off. Two soldiers,
foreigners, jumped into their compartment at the last moment.
The train was shooting past landscapes that Bhadra did not quite
notice. Suddenly she realized that she was in the midst of a war zone.
On both sides lay damaged houses, collapsed buildings and empty
grain fields where army barracks had been set up—rows of large
asbestos rooms, kitchens, toilets. Indian soldiers were resting on cots
on their verandas, leering at the women in the passing trains.
At a station, where the train slowed down but did not stop, Bhadra
saw a heap of sacks containing rice. Rice was lying scattered all
around, attracting a litter of sparrows and two small boys in scraps
of cloth that passed for loincloths. They were holding two enamelled
dishes in their hands, as battered by drought as their bodies.
The barracks were increasing in number—there were one-brick
foundation tin sheds, a tent or two, a few ambulances. ‘We will have
to get down at the next station,’ Anandababu said. ‘I hope Tipu is
there to receive us.’
Bhadra got the attaché case down, and tried to get the fruit basket
down too. The solider sitting opposite helped her.
‘Thank you,’ Bhadra said, in English, getting Anandababu’s
bedding in shape.
The foreigner was surprised at Bhadra’s choice of language. ‘I
have been in India for seven months, but this is the first time an Indian
lady has spoken to me,’ he said pleasantly.
‘Women here don’t talk to men. They don’t even speak to their
husbands in front of others. But modem women are breaking these
rules,’ Anandababu said.
‘Yes, they must break such rules. Indians should not be so
backward,’ the soldier said.
‘Progress is not only speaking to men,’ Bhadra said, her voice
sharp. ‘To get ahead, we first need some ground to stand on,’
she said.
The solider smiled in agreement, though he looked a little hurt.
Bhadra looked at him—even the khaki uniform could not dim the
intelligence that shone from his very blue eyes.
 H arvest Song 285

The rain stopped. Handing Anandababu his walking stick, Bhadra

said, ‘You get down first. I will call a coolie and get the luggage
down.’
The blue-eyed solider came to their aid again. ‘Please get down,’
he told Bhadra. ‘I will help you with the luggage.
Anandababu was looking frantically for Tipu and was beginning
to look quite helpless, when he came running. ‘I am a little late,’ he
announced breathlessly. Bhadra glanced about their compartment,
then scanned the platform quickly. Where was the soldier?
Tipu had come in a jeep, borrowed from a friend in the army. He
was driving it himself. The tarmac road led to the town, lined with
deodar trees. Bhadra knew these places by heart—she had been born
here, she had been married here—but everything had changed now.
Her town was a military fortress. The criminal court premises were
covered with small tents. The high school verandahs were lined with
khaki shirts, pants and loincloths. ‘The judge’s residence is an army
hospital now,’ Tipu said.
Bhadra was lost in thought. She remembered Kunal’s face as he
stood on the platform. ‘I have come away from all that for you,
Partha,’ she said silently.
They reached the house. The children from the neighbouring
houses were crowding the yard, curious to see the people from
Calcutta. Bhadra was happy to see that the lichi tree outside the house
was flourishing, as was the bakul tree in a comer of the garden. Their
house was at one end of the town. There were no other concrete
structures around. The road in front led past the district board, with
paddy fields stretching to the horizon on its other side. A goods train
could be seen chugging slowly on the margin of the fields.
Tipu’s mother, taking the karai off the stove, came running. Pulling
down her sari to cover her face even further, she touched Ananda­
babu’s feet. He was her older brother-in-law. Tipu’s mother was a
widow.
‘So how are you all?’ Anandababu asked, memories from many
years ago flooding into his mind. Bhadra, too, touched Tipu’s
mother’s feet, but without covering her head.
‘I will get some tea. And tonight you two are eating with us,’
Tipu’s mother said.
‘Why take all that trouble? Then you will have to prepare rotis for
286 Sabitri Roy

me, because living in the west all my life, I have picked up this habit,’
Anandababu warned.
‘Don’t worry about all that,’ Tipu’s mother smiled. ‘You go and
change. Don’t take a bath. I am sending the tea over.’
‘Why should you do that? I shall come and get it myself,’
Bhadra said.
Tipu and his mother lived on the other side of the courtyard, in
an ‘atchala’, with its roof made of bright tin. Bhadra’s kitchen faced
their house from the opposite side of the yard. By its side was the
pond where the women bathed and a jackfruit tree spread its shade
on the kitchen.
A stranger, clearly a widow, came and stood before Bhadra, and,
looking at her with disapproval, touched Anandababu’s feet and told
him, ‘Tipu’s mother has asked me to stay with you. I cleaned up the
house as soon as I got to know yesterday. Haven’t you taken a look
upstairs?’
‘Aren’t you Surendra’s wife?’ Anandababu asked. ‘Yes, I am Ram’s
mother,’ the woman said, smiling coyly.
Bhadra took out Anandababu’s clothes and towel. The rooms
felt damp and there was a musty odour. Ram’s mother scrutinized
the things lying on the floor and shot another glance of disapproval
at Bhadra. She did not like the modem woman ‘look’—the way
Bhadra wore her sari, a gold bangle on one hand, on the other a
watch.
‘So will I keep the water for your bath in the bathroom? Or will
you go to the pond?’ she asked Bhadra.
‘In the bathroom,’ Bhadra replied, without looking up.
There were two large rooms upstairs, the stairs leading directly to
the verandah. Behind the rooms was the open terrace, with the branch
of a guava tree bending over it. The pond meant for the women lay
below, with coconut trees on three sides, the water green from their
reflections.
Finishing her bath quickly, Bhadra tied her hair in a knot and
entered the kitchen. Tipu’s mother was shaping the dough into small
round balls to be rolled into luchis. Bhadra got the rolling pin and
the wooden board and said she would roll them out.
‘We don’t even have fine flour for luchis anymore. We have to
make do with wholewheat flour/ Tipu’s mother said,
 Harvest Song 287

Tipu came to the kitchen door. ‘Bhadradi, I want a lot of sugar in

my tea,’ he announced. ‘Bhadradi, indeed! Can’t you call her Boudi?’
his mother snapped.
‘Why should I? She doesn’t want to behave like a married woman,
how can I keep calling her my brother’s wife?’ Tipu replied. His
mother took the luchis and the tea for Anandababu, asking Bhadra
to have hers.
She took the tea to Anandababu and came back. ‘You have your
tea,’ she told Bhadra. ‘I have made payesh for you with cracked
wheat,’ she said.
‘Why did you take all that trouble? I do eat rice after dark,’
Bhadra said.
Tipu’s mother was taken aback—Bhadra, a widow, had rice for
dinner? A Brahmin woman, saying it so openly? Tipu felt even more
proud of his Bhadradi.
But Tipu’s mother served Bhadra the payesh made with rice.
Bhadra knew that the confession of her eating habits had caused
disturbance. She took one spoonful of payesh from the bowl and
said, ‘It’s wonderful. But I will have only tea now.’
She came upstairs. The rooms were haunted by an emptiness, the
same emptiness that was haunting her mind: what would she live
for? The walls, not painted for ten years, exuded a chill. She thought
she would set up the drawing room in the one alongside Anandababu’s
room. Satyadarshan was likely to arrive soon.
Bhadra started to go through the books in the designated drawing
room, which used to be Priyadarshan’s room. Most of the books
were literature—western classics. Some of Tagore’s works were there;
a Gitanjali translated into English. She dusted everything, tidying up
the books, rearranging the furniture a bit. Ram’s mother came after
lighting the lanterns. Bhadra examined the room in the dim light.
She tried to put some order into Anandababu’s room, too. Then she
stepped into her room, downstairs. This room meant nothing to
her; it was only shelter for the night—it could have been a room in a
strange inn.
The next morning Tipu came to see her. He looked appreciatively
at her room—there was a green bedspread, and a bunch of red
oleanders stood in a glass on the table, books and sheets of paper
lying on the tabletop.
288 Sabitri Roy

‘Sit down,’ Bhadra said, indicating her chair.

‘I haven’t come to sit. I have come to give you some work. Red
Cross gave some milk powder to distribute among villagers. We have
decided to use your room downstairs as the centre. The rest of the
work is yours,’ Tipu said. ‘A friend’s sister, Malati, will come to
help you.’
Late in the afternoon, Bhadra, with the help of Malati, mixed the
milk powder with water in buckets and waited for people to arrive.
They came—there were so many of them—most of them thin, sickly
children, carrying metal bowls and glasses. Their mothers followed
them, with the younger children in their arms.
After the crowd left, Tipu came over. As she fried parathas for the
evening snack, Bhadra noticed Tipu and Malati sitting together,
Malad’s face was, suffused with a soft glow. Bhadra realized that
Tipu and Malati were more than just friends. But when they, too,
left, the same emptiness seemed like a smiting weight on her mind.
She tried to teach herself more control over her feelings. What she
had dreamt of was a mistake. Partha was no more than someone she
would meet in a train, a fellow traveller for only a few hours.
She sat down to write—she had promised Kunal that she would
keep writing for him. Something inside her was trying to get out—a
rebellion against her situation, now, and all that had happened to her
in her childhood. Was it because she was a woman? A distant memory
struck her like lightning, a child’s voice, hers, crying, ‘Mother, don’t
beat me any more, please forgive me.’ She took up her pen again, the
words forming angrily in her mind—‘Dictatorship of parents. If it is
not love, it is the murder of the child’s personality. If the child is
controlled and oppressed, like a Chinese mother who would frame
her daughter’s feet in iron shoes, she would suffer all her life from a
malnourished soul, from infirmity at every step she takes in the future. ’

There was a meeting at Ashadi’s house in the evening and Debaki

needed to go back home to collect the gate pass. Without it she would
not be allowed entry into that part of the town. She came to the bus
 Harvest Song 289

stop after collecting the pass and got onto a bus.

But it was an unfortunate day—the bus broke down in the middle
and everyone had to get down. Then began a long wait for another
bus of the some route. There was a clothes shop near with a long
queue of women ouside it. It was clear they had been waiting for a
long time—the older women could barely stand any more. Only for
a piece of sari!
But wasn’t that a familiar voice calling out a name? ‘Debaki,
Bouma?’ an old woman was looking at her, standing in the queue. It
was her husband’s aunt, Rajen’s Mamima. Where was her twisted
serpent bracelet, her armlet? She was just like the other old women,
a poor widow in a white sari, clutching to her breast the card that
entitled her to one more garment. Before Debaki could react, there
was a commotion—the shop’s doors opened. Everyone wanted to
get there first and Debaki caught a glimpse of Mamima trying to tell
her something again—but she got lost amidst the jostling crowds. At
that moment the bus arrived. It was very important to attend the
meeting, and without thinking any more Debaki jumped onto
the bus.
At the hospital, she was on night duty as well. When the lights
were turned off, Debaki took a round of all the wards and sat down
at the verandah table. The winter night was spread before her
reminding her of her home, making her feel uncomfortable. She was
still afraid of darkness that seemed to become even more
overpowering with an owl hooting nearby. But when she looked at
the doctors’ quarters her mind cleared. The light was still on in Dr
Sinha’s room. He was the head of the hospital. The thought of a
solitary man working throughout the night to keep a few more people
alive kept darker thoughts at bay.
Was the light still turned on in Kunal’s room, too? Did he ever
think of her as he washed the bromides in the solution? Was there
anyone else in his life, a woman from his part of the country? The
clock struck two. Debaki wrenched herself away from her thoughts
and went on her rounds.
290 Sabitri Roy

Dinabandhu picked up his violin and went out. He and Id had been
living with Debaki for some months now, but all his efforts to find a
job had proved fruitless. He was left with only his music by which to
make a living. He watched for people who would invite him to come
and play, but met with no luck. A British soldier, out with his friends
in the evening—the area was crowded with them after sundown—
smiled at him and said, ‘Hullo violinist!’but did not stop. Dinabandhu
couldn’t drag his feet, barely covered in canvas shoes, anymore and
almost collapsed at the entrance of a house. Near it, under the shade
of a gulmohar tree, was a camp of Iranian Bedouins.
Dinabandhu finally got an audience. A man came in and sidled
up to him. ‘Will you play a Malkauns?’ he asked. Dinabandhu picked
up the violin again. As the last strains of the raga mingled with the
darkness, the man pressed a four anna coin into his hand and left,
and Dinabandhu, too, went home.

Everything was shrouded in silence—there was a light in Bhadra’s

sitting room. Tipu raised the lantern wick a little, there was a fountain
pen, some paper, a tin of cigarettes and an ash tray on the table. The
windows and doors were shut.
All of Tipu’s friends came in one by one, bringing in a breath of
cold air every time. But the closed room filled up with cigarette smoke,
stinging the eyes. Bhadra got up and opened a window.
They were waiting with bated breath—for a foreigner, a brigadier,
was supposed to come to their secret meeting today. ‘Where is he
from?’ asked one of Tipu’s friends.
‘His name suggests France,’ replied Bhadra.
‘Onel is his pseudonym. He has further changed it into O’Neill,’
Tipu enlightened them.
There was the sound of heavy steps on the verandah, announcing
the foreign solider. Bhadra looked up and saw the man with the blue
eyes, their friend in the train, who had disappeared, Bhadra had
thought, from her life amid the crowds in the railway station as swiftly
 Harvest Song 291

as he had arrived. He was also looking at Bhadra. They smiled at

each other, but did not say anything.
O’Neill began to speak—bringing before their eyes a piece of
Europe, his part of the world, destroyed, damaged. The potato crops
lay rotted in the Irish fields—he seemed to bring to life the strident
voices of Fox, Codwell, Branson. He took them to war-torn Spain,
to the youth marching from all over the world to free Madrid. Irish,
English, French, Polish, Indians, Africans—everyone had one cause
to fight for: freedom. Finally, one by one, everyone left. Early the
next morning Tipu came to Bhadra’s room. ‘Has this week’s New
Light arrived?’ he asked ‘I heard O’Neill has written a piece in it.’
‘How did you come to know O’Neill?’
‘At the Progressive Bookstore. We meet every week because I am
teaching him Bengali,’ Tipu said.
‘Why? In order to say things like “Bring the tea”?’ Bhadra joked.
‘No, madam, he is learning Bengali so that he can read Tagore,’
Bhadra was yet to get over her surprise when Ram’s mother’s piercing
voice assailed their ears. She was quarrelling with Golapi. ‘I have to
do everything in this house—from breaking the coals to washing
dishes,’ she was screaming. Bhadra knew that Ram’s mother’s real
target was her. Bhadra, despite being the daughter-in-law of the house,
did not even enter the kitchen half the time. She decided to ignore
her again and sat down to work. She was translating a Hindi book
on philosophy—the kind of work she had decided to do till she got a
job in a school. She would like to support herself. Satyadarshan sent
money regularly—but somewhere she felt uncomfortable accepting
it. Work kept her going in a more vital sense—it kept her thoughts
away from the futility of her personal life. It made her resolve that
there was more to life than her own unrequited love.
In the afternoon she had to distribute the milk. Would all these
children have to live on the scant milk they were getting as charity?
Weren’t their lives as important as her love? Wasn’t it love also that
she felt for them, as vital, as powerful, as important? ‘Where is
Phulmoni?’ Bhadra asked, missing a face that she had come to love.
‘Hasn’t she come today?’ A small figure stepped out of the crowd—
her eyes large, slightly bulging, a little wary. The girl was Tipu’s dead
sister’s daughter and lived with her uncle and her grandmother.
292 Sabitri Roy

f
Tipu hurried into Bhadra’s room in the afternoon to give her
the news. ‘There was a severe accident at the aerodrome this morning.
Some men have been seriously injured/ he said, and rushed out again,
before Bhadra could ask him for details.
Bhadra spent a very anxious afternoon after that. Till the evening
there was no news. Bhadra was about to proceed to the kitchen to
make tea for her father-in-law when suddenly Golapi, who had just
emerged on the verandah, rushed out on the courtyard.
‘Come here, Boudi/ shrieked Golapi, looking out over the fence.
Bhadra had turned instinctively towards Golapi and now she froze.
She could see five coffins. The silent procession was proceeding
towards the graveyard. Some officers and priests followed the cortege
solemnly. Bhadra shivered. The fear that she had tried to suppress
for the whole day rushed to the surface. Could O’Neill be lying inside
one of those coffins?
‘Poor things,’ sighed Tipu’s mother. ‘What a terrible thing to die
so young, and in an alien country!’
Tipu finally returned very late in the evening. He looked tired
and dishevelled.
‘Well, Tipu?’ Bhadra asked anxiously. She had come out of her
room as soon as she had spotted Tipu.
‘No good news, I’m afraid,’ Tipu replied. ‘O’Neill has been injured
very badly. They’ve taken him to the hospital. I heard that Satyada
has been called over. If Satyada returns home tonight, we shall know
how things are.’
Early next morning, Bhadra knocked on Tipu’s door. ‘Borda didn’t
return home last night/ she said, ‘I think O’Neill might be in a bad
way and I want to find out for myself. You are going to the hospital
this morning, aren’t you?’ she asked.
Tipu nodded.
‘Then may I come with you?’ Bhadra asked.
Tipu was astonished.
‘You want to go to the hospital?’ he asked. ‘But I’ll be leaving
 Harvest Song 293

right now. Why don’t you follow me later and wait for me at the
Outdoor?’
Bhadra left the house even before it struck nine. At the Outdoor,
there was still no sign of Tipu. Bhadra made a decision. She asked
the doctor if she could see O’Neill and he agreed to let her do so.
Bhadra followed the doctor to a small room. She could not help
thinking that it was as still and silent as a grave. The khaki curtains
were drawn across the window. O’Neill was lying still on the bed,
obviously sedated. Almost every inch of his body was covered with
bandages. He looked like a sleeping child.
Bhadra felt a lump rise in her throat. She thanked the doctor and
left the room, taking care not to make a sound.
A week later Bhadra and Tipu went to visit O’Neill again. Bhadra
had brought a bottle of home-made tomato jelly with her. They had
hoped to talk to O’Neill, but when they entered his room, O’Neill
was sleeping. They stood by his bed and looked at him for a while.
Then, Bhadra placed the bottle of jelly on the bedside table and left a
slip of paper under it: ‘Best wishes from your Bengali friends.’
When she returned home, she found that the kitchen was in
disarray, and Anandababu had not been served his tea. Ram’s mother
had left things in a mess. The dal had burnt. Bhadra threw it out and
set about preparing the lunch. Even as her hands were busy, the lines
of a poem kept flitting about in her mind. At last, her work done, she
was able to sit down and work on it. At that very moment, Ram’s
mother came in and asked if she could get leave to visit her daughter.
‘Have you asked Baba?’ Bhadra asked, looking up from her work.
‘I did, but he didn’t give me permission. He said that it will mean
too much work for Bouma. ’
‘No, it won’t,’ Bhadra said. ‘You may go.’
Phuli entered with a letter. It was from Kunal. Like a breath of
fresh air, the letter brought her a message from the outside world.

Satyadarshan was back home. He was leafing through a magazine

after a short nap in the afternoon when he heard sounds in the kitchen,
294 Sabitri Roy

and came out on the verandah. Bhadra was making a pudding

for him.
‘Are you cooking again?’ Satyadarshan asked.
Bhadra smiled and placed a pan on the stove. A long time ago,
she had heard that when Satyadarshan was small he used to love die
pudding cooked by his mother. Bhadra had not forgotten. A little
later, the pudding almost done, Bhadra changed her sari and made
tea for everyone.
'Didn’t you say that you wanted to visit O’Donnell?’ Satyadarshan
asked, sipping his tea. ‘I can drop you there, if you like.’
O’Donnell was O’Neill’s real name. Satyadarshan dropped Bhadra
in front of the hospital and drove away towards the runway. Bhadra
went straight to O’Neill’s room.
He was awake today, sitting up in bed and reading. He looked
much better than before. The unnatural pallor of his face had almost
vanished. He smiled happily when he saw his visitor.
‘Congratulations!’ Bhadra said with a smile. ‘I do hope you’re
back on your feet within a week.’
‘Perhaps,’ O’Neill replied. ‘But before that I need to feel firm
ground under my feet.’
Bhadra was thrilled to hear her own words from the foreign soldier.
She blushed. ‘What are you reading?’ she asked hastily, to cover her
confusion. ‘Let me see. “Masses and the Mainstream’’,’ she read from
the cover of the magazine.
‘Would you like to send a message home?’ she asked gently. ‘I
can help if you like.’
‘You will do me a greater favour if you would kindly copy this
writing,’ said O’Neil, and held out a sheaf of papers.
‘Who wrote this?’ Bhadra asked curiously, taking the manuscript
from him.
‘I did,’ O’Neill replied. ‘I wrote it this morning.’

That evening, Bhadra settled down with O’Neill’s manuscript. There

were scattered words in French, but they were not words coming
 Harvest Song 295

from a stranger. Bhadra sat beside the kerosene lamp and copied on,
mesmerized by an alien voice that seemed to be mysteriously
recounting her own experiences. She lost all sense of time. The night
advanced, the heady fragrance of bakul flowers waited in from the
window, and Bhadra went on writing:

‘Dear Mother,
1 want you to be the first one to know. 1 am in love. But I
have not told her of my love.
‘I spent the whole afternoon searching for the right
expression for this simple truth, but couldn’t find it. So I
thought I should talk to you, Mother. If only I knew how
father had confessed it to you! I wouldn’t have lost sleep
over this then.
‘Yes, I am in love. But why do I suddenly feel this
terrible pain in me? Do you know why, Mother? I have seen
a nightmare on the footpaths of Calcutta—a nightmare that
is as real, as true as sunlight and air. . .
‘I have responded to the beauty of this earth, Mother,
and I have loved. But just as the earth is beautiful, as my
love is pure, just as cruel, as devastating is the desire for
revenge that is coursing through my veins. How do I come
to terms with it?
‘I know it will still be some time before you can accept
the poet wielding a rifle.’

Her pen slowed down and finally stopped. A question was

beginning to form in her mind . . . was it possible? . . . She trembled
and automatically shut her mind to it.
A few days later, Bhadra sat on the south verandah reading The
Fall o f Paris. Tipu had borrowed the book from O’Neill. It was a very
windy afternoon. The branches of the young lichi tree in front of the
verandah shook like a hairy giant. Bhadra brushed away stray hairs
from her face and bent over the book. Suddenly, she heard a voice
very close to her.
‘Hello,’ said the voice.
Startled, Bhadra looked up to find O’Neill standing before her.
He was smiling quietly. The crimson rays of the setting sun lit up his
296 Sabitri Roy

face and a few locks of blond hair hung loose over his broad forehead.
As he stood there upright he looked like a Greek god or some knight
of the Middle Ages, Bhadra thought.
‘Please come in,’ Bhadra said in English.
‘No,’ O’Neill shook his head smilingly. ‘You must welcome me
in your own language,’ he said, and although he had a faint Irish
accent, he used the appropriate Bengali phrase.
‘Don’t tell me you’ve learnt so much Bengali already,’ Bhadra
exclaimed, and welcomed him in.
O’Neil made straight for the bookshelves. He glanced at the books
and picked up the English Gitanjali. He turned the pages at random
and started to recite. Bhadra listened to him spellbound. When he
stopped, the silence between them seemed to be filled with a thousand
words. It was as if a miracle had been wrought. O’Neill smiled.
‘They released me from the hospital today,’ he said, shutting the
book. ‘I shall have to leave for the front very soon. So I thought I
should meet my friend once before I go into exile.’
Ordinary words, usual greetings. And yet Bhadra suddenly saw
with a blinding clarity what the Irish poet-turned-soldier actually
wanted to say. It was written so clearly in his eyes that she would
have to be utterly insensitive not to see it. She lowered her eyes to
conceal the pain in them.
O’Neill saw her reaction and opened the book he held. For the
next few minutes, he continued to leaf through the book silently.
Bhadra stood in front of him, completely tongue-tied.
‘I suppose I must clear off now,’ O’Neill finally said a little later,
when there was no response from Bhadra.
Bhadra found her heart crying out, but she seemed to have lost
her voice. She followed him out silently and stood looking after him
as he crossed the courtyard. He turned back once. Bhadra thought
he was about to say something. Then he thought better of it, bowed
his head, and walked away. Soon, his tall figure disappeared around
the corner.
Bhadra came back slowly into the room, hating herself. What
had she done? She had not even offered a cup of tea to her guest. She
knew that O’Neill had returned from death’s door. Maybe he had
come to her house just for a touch of warmth. And she had turned
him away with her silence. That night before she went to sleep Bhadra
 Harvest Song 297

made a decision. The next morning she sent an invitation for tea to
O’Neill through Tipu and spent the whole afternoon in making
delicacies for her guest. It was a windy afternoon: the top branches
of the tall coconut trees were thrashing against each other in the
sudden gusts of wind. As Bhadra sat in front of the stove, she suddenly
heard a familiar voice in her room. The voice was reciting all-too-
familiar lines:

‘If thou speakest not I will fill my

Heart with thy silence and endure i t ..

Bhadra found a strange thrill in her heart. She had never known
this feeling before. Who was this poet who had come into her life in
the guise of an Irish soldier and was surrendering himself to her?
And how could she remain silent? In a kind of trance, Bhadra stopped
her work and went in to see O’Neill.
He was sitting quietly in a comer, holding the Gitcmjali. Without
a word, he offered the book to her. Bhadra took it from him silently,
leafed through the book and started reading. Her voice filled the room
with the immortal words of the poet. Tipu came in silently and sat
down in a comer. Bhadra was oblivious. She went on reading.
After she finished reading the poem Bhadra went in to get the
tea. She felt her body tingle with a sense of wonder and anticipation.
Her instinct told her that O’Neill had touched her inner self;
something deep within her that was asleep so far was stirring. Bhadra
was thrilled, yet apprehensive. Where would she go from here? She
knew O’Neill had not come into her life merely to read poetry to her.
Every part of her was aware of the silent adoration that the young
man offered her. How could she not respond to it? And yet, how
could she? Bhadra knew the only sanctuary she could hope for was
in Partha’s love, but when she searched her heart she found no solace.
O’Neill looked appreciatively at the coconut savouries on the plate
and said with a smile, ‘There’s art even in your food. What an amazing
country!’
Bhadra poured the tea. ‘All I can offer you is tea,’ she said lightly.
‘If you were expecting any other drink I must apologize.’
O’Neill was too intelligent not to take the hint. He picked up his
teacup with a smile.
298 Sabitri Roy

Anandababu entered. He had just finished his afternoon nap.

Bhadra introduced him to O’Neill.
‘This is Andrew O’Donnell,’ she said to her father-in-law. ‘The
gentleman I was telling you about.’
‘And this is my father-in-law,’ she turned to O’N eill. ‘Dr.
Chaudhuri is his eldest son.’
Anandababu smiled and shook hands with O’Neill. Bhadra
poured out a cup of tea for the old man. Conversation started, and
soon everyone was talking animatedly.
‘I was wondering about something the other day,’ Anandababu
said. ‘Why couldn’t France face Hitler’s forces? Isn’t it unusual, when
you think that it is such a great country, and has given birth to great
men like Napoleon?’
‘I think die reason behind that is the whole machinery of the
state was already in a state of decay,’ O’Neill replied musingly. ‘The
moral corruption in the rulers had reached such heights that die
country had almost been sold off to the military contractors.’
‘That’s true enough,’ Tipu put in. ‘We’ve seen ourselves what
corruption in the state machinery can lead to. Who else is responsible
for the horrible condition of our country today but the rulers?’
Bhadra poured tea into the empty cups. ‘But the communists in
France did not join the national protests in the beginning,’ she said.
O’Neill looked embarrassed. ‘I think that was a mistake they made
at that time. And it was not really unnatural, if you come to think of
it. At that time, the national government was not really national in
character. They were, in fact, in contact with Hitier on the sly. It was
perfectly natural therefore for the communists, who had been so
severely tortured by the national government, to be wary of joining
the protest. Things have changed, though. Now the communists are
leading the protests,’ he finished.
‘We’ve noticed similar reactions in our country, too,’ Tipu agreed.
‘We couldn’t even dream of joining our alien rulers in war at one
time. We took a long time to realize that this was not imperialist
warfare, as we had thought, but a popular movement.’
Bhadra was startled. It seemed to her that they were discussing
those very doubts and worries that had plagued her in the past. Even
a couple of years ago she had not seen the naked face of Fascism.
But through the passage of time she had come to recognize Fascism
 Harvest Song 299

for what it really was, and now there was no doubt left in her mind.
It was time for Anandababu’s evening walk. He took his leave.
Tipu stayed back, however, and their discussion continued.
O’Neill lit a cigarette. Bhadra could not help noticing how the
last rays of the afternoon sun fell on his golden hair and lit up the
depths of his blue eyes. A sudden shaft of pain shot through her
heart. O’Neill turned at this moment and his eyes were locked with
hers. Not a single word was uttered, and yet each understood what
was passing through the other’s mind. O’Neill turned his eyes away.
He stayed till the evening and then stood up reluctantly.
‘I must go now.’ he said. I have to leave tomorrow.’ His voice
suddenly sounded strained.
Tipu and Bhadra were stunned. ‘Where are you going?’they asked
together.
O’Neill smiled with an effort. ‘Probably to the Arakan border,’
he said.
Tipu went out to get a lamp. Bhadra sat still, unable to speak or
move, her mind in turmoil. That she could not commit herself was
dear to her, and yet she knew she had never experienced such pain.
She looked up at O’Neill and found him looking at her.
‘Are you in love?’ he asked suddenly.
Bhadra was shaken. He had caught her unawares. She knew she
owed him an explanation, and yet it was absurd. How could she tell
him the story of her life in less than a couple of minutes?
Tipu was approaching with the lamp. ‘I understand,’ O’Neil said
softly. Bhadra looked up at him with eyes that said a thousand words,
and felt tears springing up in them.
‘With best wishes from an Irish friend,’ wrote O’Neill on the flyleaf
of The Fall o f Paris and offered it to Tipu. Bhadra gave him a bundle
of incense sticks.
‘They will give you fragrance at night by burning themsdves,’
she said in a voice that was choked with emotion.
O’Neill felt in his pocket and took out a bullet. ‘One can’t simply
take and not give anything in return,’ he said, offering the bullet
to Bhadra.
Bhadra stayed awake the whole night, listening to the distant roar
of guns at the air base. At dawn, she went up to the terrace and stood
looking up at die sky. There were a couple of tiny spots of red and
300 Sabitri Roy

blue that she could barely discern on the skyline. They were moving
towards the east through the darkness. She stood there looking up at
them and felt O’Neill going out of her life, her heart strangely empty.

Kunal spotted Debaki on his way back home. She was walking ahead,
and he walked faster to catch up with her.
‘Where are you going?’ he asked.
‘I was going to see you,’ Debaki replied, happy to have met Kunal
on the way. ‘I was wondering if I’d find you at home at this odd
hour.’
‘Is it anything important?’
‘Yes, it is actually,’ Debaki replied with a smile. ‘I came to invite
you to lunch tomorrow.’
‘What’s the occasion? A puja?’ Kunal asked curiously.
‘Amazing! You don’t even remember your own birthday!’ Since
the day she heard him mention his birthday, Debaki had wanted to
invite Kunal over to her house on that special day.
‘Is it really my birthday tomorrow?’ Kunal asked. ‘Why, yes, I
believe you’re right,’ he said, and smiled. ‘When were you bom?’ he
asked Debaki in turn.
‘In the month of Phalgun,’ Debaki replied.
‘And the date?’
Debaki smiled. ‘No one remembers the birth date of a giri,’ she
said. ‘They try to forget it almost as soon as she is born.’
The next morning, Debaki woke up early and sent Sathi to the
market. ‘Get me a kilo of good meat,’ she told her brother. ‘And
some sweet plums for the chutney. And be careful with the money.’
Sathi had come to stay with her for a few days, before he went
home for the vacation to see their mother. As soon as he left for the
market Debaki remembered that she had forgotten to ask him to
bring onions.
‘Can you run along to Juran’s shop and get me some onions?’ she
asked In. ‘I’ll finish bathing in the meantime,’ she added.
 Harvest Song 301

Debald went to the pond to wash. As she passed by Anna Pishi’s

room, she heard Dinabandhu giving singing lessons to a boy from
the neighbourhood. His art was now bringing in some money. Music
was a means of escape for him; it was his only solace in a world full
of frustrations and anxieties.
Debaki’s hands became busy. She trimmed the fat from the meat,
washed and marinated it in the spices. Each little action acquired a
new significance as she went through the practised motions. She could
not explain why, but she was eager to make everything perfect.
‘Sathi dear, please get me some yoghurt from the shop,’ she called
out to her brother.
‘Tell me what else you need,’ Sathi said, ‘so that you won’t send
me again as soon as I get back.’
‘Wait,’ Debaki said, thinking. ‘Yes, I need some garam masala.’
’That’s all?’ Sathi said, his eyes twinkling. ‘What about some
cashew nuts and pistachios?’
Debaki laughed. ‘You know all the grand names, don’t you? Run
along now,’ she said.
Sathi sat down on the floor. ‘Let me help you,’ he offered. “Why
did you use jaggery for the chutney? Wasn’t there any sugar at home?’
he asked.
‘I gave whatever was left to Meghidi,’ Debaki said. ‘She isn’t well
and couldn’t go to the shop.’
‘I shall ask Kunalda to take a group photograph for us,’ Sathi
said when he returned.
Debaki opened the lid of the pot and stirred the meat curry. A
delicious smell wafted from the pot. Iti came out immediately to
have a look. She was highly excited. It was not every day that they
had such good food. She came out every now and then on the
verandah and watched her sister at work.
‘Why don’t you finish your bath?’ she asked her brother. ‘And ask
Iti to have hers too. I’ve finished cooking.’
‘I can see that you have,’ replied Sathi, ‘but where’s Kunalda?’
‘He’ll come in his own time,’ Debaki replied. She was beginning
to get worried, however. It was quite late. If Kunal did not come. . .
Time passed, but there was no sign of Kunal. Debaki caught
herself looking up hopefully towards the road even if there was the
302 Sabitri Roy

slightest sound. Once she saw a man turning the corner and almost
ran out to meet him, sure that it was her guest. But the man turned
left and vanished from sight.
Sathi was standing in front o f the mirror, combing his hair. ‘What’s
the time?’ Debaki asked him anxiously. ‘Is it noon yet?’
‘It’s nearly one o ’clock,’ Sathi replied.
Debaki’s heart sank. Could it be possible that he wouldn’t come?
‘You have your lunch, Baba,’ she called out to Dinabandhu.
‘Let’s wait a little more,’ Dinabandhu suggested.
‘There’s no point in waiting any longer,’ Debaki said hopelessly.
‘If he intended to come he would’ve arrived by now.’
A little later, Debaki watched her father as he sat in front of his
plate, obviously enjoying the food. Debaki’s heart filled with a deep
compassion for the old man who, she knew, loved good food but
could not afford it.
‘Shall I give you some more meat curry, Baba?’ she asked gently.
‘Have you kept some of it aside for Kunal?’ Dinabandhu asked.
‘He might come in the evening.’
Debaki didn’t answer. She brought some more curry for her father
instead, and served her own portion to her brother and sister.
After they finished lunch, Debaki cleaned up the place and called
out to Sathi. ‘I have to leave now,’ she said. ‘In case Kunal turns up,
serve him lunch. I’ve kept everything ready.’
She found she was close to tears. She turned away quickly and
went out to wash her face. As she splashed water on her face and
neck, she found that she could not stop the angry tears that had sprung
to her eyes. How could Kunal have done this to her?

That evening, her duty at the hospital over, Debaki dragged her tired
body home. When she had finished her work and lay in bed in the
dark room, Debaki could no longer control her tears. She realized
now that when she had returned home in the evening, she had actually
been hoping against hope to see Kunal. Now she had to confront
Kunal’s rejection. Why had she been deluding herself that a man
 HarOfst Song 303

like Kunal would waste his time with a woman like her? After all,
she did not have anything to offer him. It was natural, Debaki told
herself sternly, that their relationship would end like this. It could
not have been otherwise. She could not stop her tears. She did not
know if she was crying for herself, for her little sister, for her parents
. . . possibly the tears were for all those helpless poor people who
fought for survival and faced rejection from the world.
It was past midnight and all was absolutely still. Suddenly, Debaki
heard the sound of a car. It drew nearer and nearer and then seemed
to stop somewhere very close. Debaki held her breath. And then she
heard footsteps. Someone climbed the front steps to their house and
knocked on the door.
‘Sathi—’ called a voice. It was Kunal.
Sathi was fast asleep. Debaki sat up straight on her bed, and made
a frantic attempt to control her riotous emotions. She stood up, finally,
and lighting a lamp, went to the door.
The first thing Kunal noticed as Debaki opened the door to him
were her red and swollen eyes.
‘I can’t tell you how sorry I am,’ he said contritely. ‘I was starting
for your house when I received the news that I have to leave for Taki
immediately. They’ve brought down a Japanese plane there. Still, I
hoped to return by evening. But then our car broke down on our
way back.’
Kunal looked hot and exhausted. Sweat ran in rivulets down his
forehead and his shirt was soaked with perspiration. He asked for a
glass of water.
‘Just my luck that today of all days I cannot give you anything
more than a glass of water,’ Debaki said, as she handed him the
glass. ‘I’m sure you haven’t had a bite to eat the whole day.’
Kunal smiled and drained the glass. ‘I can’t stop today,’ he said. ‘I
don’t have a gate pass. Will you tell your brother and sister that I’d
come to see them after all? I shall have to leave town very early
tomorrow morning to cover a mining disaster, and it will be at least
a week before I return.’
He waved goodbye to Debaki and left, climbing into the taxi that
he had kept waiting. Debaki stood motionless at the door. She still
could not believe that Kunal had really come to see her. He seemed
to have appeared from nowhere when she had stopped expecting
304 Sabitri Roy

him and had wiped away all her grief. She could not remember when
she had felt this deep sense of peace and a quiet happiness. She shut
the door slowly and came back into the room. But even at this moment
of contentment, there was a sense of emptiness in Debaki’s heart.
Did she have the courage or the strength to respond to Kunal who
had reached out to her?

Very early the next morning, Kunal left the city with Jyotirmoy. Try
as he might, Kunal could not forget Debaki’s distressed face. There
was a hitherto unfelt pain in his own eyes as he looked at the speeding
countryside on either side of the road. But as the scene changed, and
they approached the colliery town, he pushed the thought of Debaki
to the back of his mind. He had work to do. His personal problems
had to wait.
The first houses of the town soon began to appear by the side of
the road. The landscape gradually became bleak and dull as the
undulating green fields receded to the background and black hillocks
rose menacingly on either side of the road. Small carts carrying coal
went up and down the slopes of the hillocks. Everything seemed to
be covered by a thick film of coal dust. Kunal’s car rushed forward
through this wasteland of black dust and finally stopped in front of
the government rest house at one end of the town. Kunal and
Jyotirmoy left their luggage at the rest house and went to the hospital
to meet the doctor.
The Emergency Ward at the hospital was a living nightmare. The
wounded were lying covered in bandages from head to toe, many of
their wounds still oozing blood. Those that were semi-conscious were
groaning in agony; and the rest lay in drug-induced sleep, looking
pale and lifeless. Kunal and Jyotirmoy took one look around and
left. They did not know what horrible sight awaited them at the
morgue, where they proceeded next.
The morgue was full of mutilated bodies—bodies that had not
merely lost limbs, but were little better than lumps of bloodied flesh.
Kunal felt nauseated. He held his breath and came out quickly. Right
 Harvest Song 305

in front of them was the Crane Room. The relatives of the injured
miners thronged the place; terrified that the next body that came out
would be their relative’s. There were women and children: the
women’s faces frozen with grief, the children clinging to their mothers
and crying. The place was like a graveyard. Kunal, seasoned journalist
as he was, found his hands trembling as he pressed the shutter of his
camera.
Kunal and Jyotirmoy spent the entire day visiting the miners’
quarters, accompanied by the secretary of the local workers’ union.
Wherever they went, a scene of desolation and despair met their
eyes. They stopped to have a talk with the chief of the miners. Soon
they heard the siren. Even though there had been such a devastating
accident, regular work at the mine had not been stalled. It was as if
the inhabitants of the miners’ colony lived in daily terror, waiting for
the next inevitable disaster to strike.
Jyotirmoy returned to Calcutta the next day with the negatives of
the photographs Kunal had taken. Kunal decided to stay back for a
couple of days more. He met the manager the next day and tried to
get permission to climb down to the pit. Although he spent an entire
afternoon running from pillar to post, he was not given permission.
‘I knew that they wouldn’t allow you to climb down into the pit,’
said the pit foreman, smiling wryly.
‘I’m going to meet the labour officer tomorrow,’ said Kunal, his
face rigid with anger. ‘They can’t stop me.’
The pit boss sighed. ‘Even if you manage to publish the true story,
it won’t bring back the dead to life, will it?’ he asked.
‘No, it won’t. But if I publish the true story, as you say, they won’t
dare to be so careless in future,’ Kunal said, his voice taut with anger.
‘So many miners dead, and all because of the criminal negligence of
the manager! And how dare they not arrange to pump out the water
even after the disaster? They are doing this only because they think
they can get away with it; because they know that people don’t know
what’s going on here.’ Kunal paused, his eyes burning. ‘That is exactly
what I want to do: to let the people of the country know what goes
on here.’
The pit boss looked silently at Kunal. He seemed to be coming to
a decision. ‘Very well,’ he said finally. ‘I shall take you down into the
pit. But we can’t go to the one where there has been the landslide.
306 Sabitri Roy

There’s still a cage trapped halfway down there.’

Kunal agreed to this proposal. He fixed up a time with the pit
boss and met him at the entrance of the pit at the appointed hour.
The pit boss appeared soon and escorted him to a cage. ‘Be careful,’
he warned. ‘Make sure your elbows don’t scrape against the walls.’
The cage was bursting with miners going down to work. Each
was carrying a lamp. Kunal was shocked. So this coalmine was still
making workers use lamps instead of the more modern and scientific
lanterns!
‘Don’t the lamps emit gas?’ he asked the pit boss.
‘Of course,’ replied the man. ‘But what does the manage­
ment care?’
The cage started to descend. Gradually darkness descended upon
them. The only light came from the lamps that burned feebly. Kunal
looked up. The sky was looking like a distant spot of light. He had
entered the netherworld.
The walls around them were soaking wet and had gathered thick
layers of moss. The claustrophobic mineshaft was damp and chilly.
Kunal held his breath and tried to focus ahead but his eyes got lost in
the clammy darkness that seemed to swallow the cage as it descended
deeper and deeper into the bowels of the earth.
After a while the cage stopped. They had reached the lowest level.
The miners quickly got off and were soon lost in the darkness. Kunal
was the last to step off the cage with the pit boss. They were standing
in a clearing that was like a cave. Tunnels spread out from the cave in
all directions like tentacles of a giant spider. The pit boss led Kunal
towards one of those tunnels. They started on their journey. The
tunnel narrowed gradually and sloped downwards, until after about
a quarter of a mile, they could barely stand upright. Kunal could
hear the sound of digging from the crevices around him. He was
almost blinded by the thick pall of darkness that covered the place.
‘Be very careful now,’ the pit boss warned him.
Kunal held on to the rope ladder to which the chief had directed
him and started to descend carefully into a pit that was at deeper
level. The pit opened on to more tunnels. Kunal looked around.
Miners were everywhere, working like automatons in tiny crevices
that had barely enough space for a couple of people. They were
digging into the earth, loading coal onto the carts, pushing the carts
 Harvest Song 307

away. In the ghostly light of the tiny lamps, they looked like shadows
moving around in an eerie silence. They looked hardly human.
It was scorching hot. Kunal wiped his face and tried to take a
deep breath. He had never seen such darkness. It seemed to be winding
itself around his body like a serpent and slowly but surely choking
his breath out. Would Kunal be buried alive too in this cave, turn
into a lump of coal that would melt in the heat and disappear in the
darkness? Suddenly, with an intensity that he had never felt before,
Kunal wanted to be out of the pit, to go out into the sunshine and
breathe in the clear air. He turned his back to the tunnels and ran
towards the rope ladder.
A few minutes later, Kunal stood outside in the sunshine, blinking
and taking deep breaths that came out in gasps. Too shaken to talk to
the pit boss now, he decided to return to the rest house. Back there,
he went straight to the bathroom and stood under the shower. His
skin was still burning from the heat and his eyes seemed to retain
traces of the blinding darkness. He splashed water in his eyes, as if
the water would wash the darkness out.
That evening, Kunal went to the miners’ quarters again. He needed
to know the miners better, even if that meant reliving his nightmare
experience. He felt unfamiliar tears pricking his eyes as he realized
suddenly how what was a nightmare for him was their life. As he
looked at the children climbing the hillocks with small baskets, sifting
the dust for small lumps of coal, he realized their daily life was a dire
struggle. But for these men and their families, the factories of the
country would not run. In return they had been forced into a life that
was little better than an animal’s. How many decades would it take
to free them from this bondage?
It was time now for him to leave for Calcutta. He resolved to
make sure, once he was back, that the real story of the miners’ lives
was printed in the papers. He was in a hurry to reach his office. As
Kunal reached the Grand Trunk Road, he stepped on the accelerator.
He felt a keen sense of pleasure as the car leapt forward. The road
was relatively clear and lined with trees on either side. As the car
sped through the tunnel of tall trees, the wind rushed past Kunal’s
ears. He was now passing a military zone. Small tents could be
glimpsed in the distance through the trees. Frequently, huge military
trucks lumbered past.
308 Sabitri Roy

Suddenly, there was a massive jolt.

‘You son of a bitch! ’ yelled a drunken voice. In an instant, Kunal’s
car spun out of control and rolled into the ditch by the side of the
road. The noise and the jolt of the impact shook the driver of the
truck out of his drunken stupor. He took one look at the car he had
just run into and sped away.
Kunal lay trapped in his car, stunned and bleeding. His rational
mind tried to grasp the terrible reality of the moment. His body had
been crushed, he felt an excruciating agony for a moment, then his
senses began to cloud over. Inexplicably, he experienced the terror of
falling into the darkness of the netherworld that he had visited. For a
terrifying instant, Kunal gasped for air and light, and then there was
oblivion.

Meghi’s son had just been born. Debaki went to visit her at the
hospital. She was lying in bed happily with the baby. Debaki looked
at the infant and inevitably the thought of Joydeb rushed back to her.
Joydeb must have grown. Did he think about his mother at all? As
she returned home that evening, Debaki found that she could not
stop thinking about her son. Without thinking, she turned towards
Kunal’s house. She could not explain why, but she knew instinctively
that whenever she was troubled, talking to Kunal helped.
She stopped in front of Kunal’s house. There was no light in the
windows. Kunal had obviously not returned. Across the road, Ramu’s
tea shop much frequented by Kunal, was open. Debaki hesitated for
a moment, and then walked towards the shop. Ramu might be able
to give her some news of Kunal.
Ramu was making tea for his customers.
‘Have you heard about Kunalji?’ Ramu asked as soon as he
saw Debaki.
‘Heard what about him?’ Debaki asked, suddenly tense.
‘He’s had a terrible accident.’
‘Accident?’ Debaki was shocked. ‘What happened? Where?’
‘He was returning to Calcutta, and a military truck hit his car,’
 Harvest Song 309

Ramu said. ‘There were reports in all the papers. That’s why I thought
you must have read about it ’ He paused for a while. ‘He’s quite badly
hurt,’ he added.
‘When did this happen?’
‘Let me see. . . yes, nearly a week ago. He’s been admitted to the
military hospital.’
Debaki suddenly realized how much Kunal meant to her. She felt
dizzy with shock, as if the world around her had melted into
nothingness. With a superhuman effort, she straightened herself and
returned home on leaden feet. She was on night duty that evening.
She did her rounds restlessly, checking her watch every other minute
and waiting impatiently for the morning. She had resolved to go to
Kunal’s office and find out more about Kunal. There was a problem,
though. His office had shifted to new premises but she did not know
the address. As she checked up on her patients she tried to think
what she should do. Suddenly she sat up straight. There was a way.
Anma published Kunal’s photographs, and they must have his office
address. She borrowed the latest issue from a patient, discovering the
horror of the mining disaster that Kunal’s camera had captured so
poignantly. She shut her eyes. The man who had taken those
photographs was in danger now . . . perhaps he was not even alive.
Quickly, she noted the address of Kunal’s office and set out once
duty was over. There was a neon sign over the door with the name of
the paper: New Light. Reassured that she had reached the right place,
Debaki started climbing the dark and silent stairs. At the first
floor landing there was a glass door. Debaki pushed it open and
stepped in.
She had stepped into a cavernous hall. There were men sitting at
their desks, busy with their work. There was a machine that looked
somewhat like a typewriter, but no one was operating it. It emitted a
staccato sound, and a wide ribbon of printed paper emerged from it
and coiled up at the foot of the table. A man came over to the machine
and detached the ribbon. ‘Mr. Wavell is coming tomorrow,’ he said,
reading from the paper. ‘And now that Kunal is out of circulation,
who’s going to cover it?’ he asked someone across the room.
‘Out of circulation.’ That meant he was alive. Debaki looked
eagerly at the man, hoping he would say something more about
Kunal. But he went back to his seat instead, still studying the paper.
310 Sabitri Roy

Debaki followed him hesitantly. ‘Excuse m e/ she said in a small voice.

'Can you please tell me the address of Kunal Kurup?’
The man looked up at her, surprised. ‘Kunal?’ he asked. ‘He was
injured in a motor accident and is in hospital now.’
‘Was he—very badly hurt?’ Debaki asked, unable to control the
trembling in her voice.
‘Yes, he was. It was quite serious, actually. But we had news
yesterday that he’s out of danger now. It will be some time, though,
before he’s well enough to return hom e’
‘Where is he now?’ Debaki asked.
‘At Panagarh Military Hospital,’ said the man and shot a curious
glance at Debaki. Debaki thanked him hastily and left the room.

The moment Kunal stepped into his office, the hall burst into
spontaneous welcome.
‘How does it feel to be back from the world of the dead?’ Jyotirmoy
called out from a comer table. Everyone crowded around Kunal,
congratulating him. ‘How could you possibly be so careless while
driving?’ asked one of his colleagues.
‘Are you sure you’re not in love?’ quipped another.
Kunal smiled. Jyotirmoy drew him towards his own table and
ordered tea. Kunal drew up a chair and said regretfully, ‘I’m so sorry
the car’s destroyed.’
‘The car was insured,’ a sub-editor said from a nearby table. ‘You
should thank your stars that you’re alive. In fact, what I think you
should do,’ he went on, with a twinkle in his eyes, ‘is offer a puja to
goddess Kali. And since no puja is complete without a sacrifice, you
should offer a goat and treat us all with the sacred meat. ’
A young boy brought in their tea. Jyotirmoy offered a cigarette to
Kunal and lit one himself.
‘My greatest regret is,’ Kunal mused, ‘all those hundred odd shots
I’d taken are gone.’
Jyotirmoy realized how much his photographs mattered to Kunal.
He nodded silently.
 Harvest Song 311

'A lady came here one day to look for you,’ Jyotirmoy said a
little later.
Kunal understood immediately who the lady must have been He
realized too that Jyotirmoy must be curious about her. ‘When did
she come?’ he asked as naturally as possible.
‘About a week ago.’
Kunal knew then that Debaki must be really anxious to have
turned up at his office to look for him. He was eager to get in touch
with her, but there was a lot of work he had to attend to first. Finishing
his tea, Kunal moved to his own table, and pulled his typewriter
towards him.
In the late afternoon, Kunal stopped typing. He pushed his chair
back and stretched. Then he stood up and started to make
preparations to leave. Jyotirmoy looked up enquiringly from his work.
‘I shall do the rest tomorrow,’ Kunal explained to his friend. ‘I
have to meet someone today.’
Jyotirmoy started to say something, then stopped. ‘All right,’ he
said with a smile.

Although Kunal had resolved to see Debaki, he changed his mind

when he was waiting for the bus. He realized suddenly how tired he
was. When he entered his small flat, he felt as if he had come home
after a long time. He looked around and was surprised to find that
the room looked as if someone had swept and cleaned it only the
day before. The utensils were washed and stacked neatly in the racks;
the water jug was full. Why was she entwining herself with his life
like this?
Kunal was woken from a light doze by the sound of persistent
knocking at his door. He realized even before he got off the bed who
it must be.
‘You’re back!’ Debaki gasped out the words as soon as Kunal
opened the door. She could not go on. Making her way into the room,
she sat down on the bed. Kunal stared at her as she bit her lips and
tried vainly to stop her tears. He felt as if he was watching a child.
312 Sabitri Roy

•Why are you crying, Debaki?’ he asked gently, after a while.

‘Why didn’t you let me know about your accident?’ Debaki
sobbed. ‘If I were your sister would you be able to remain so
indifferent?’
Kunal was silent for a moment. ‘Have you ever thought of yourself
as my sister?’ he asked finally, in a voice that held mild rebuke. ‘Why
are you trying to delude yourself?’
‘If you know that, why do you treat me like a stranger?’ Debaki
asked, her eyes locked with Kunal’s.
Kunal looked hurt. ‘That’s not true, Debaki,’ he protested. ‘On
the contrary. And it is because you are precious to me that I don’t
want to do anything that might compromise your honour.’
‘As if I’m living in great honour!’ Debaki’s voice seemed to
lash out against the hypocrisies and cruelties of the society she was
living in.
‘I know you haven’t received much respect from society,’ Kunal
said, ‘but you can do much better than shedding tears over it. Stand
up for yourself, Debaki, and for other women like you who have
been ill-treated. Don’t forgive those who have snatched your child
away from you. Don’t forgive them and don’t forget.’
Debaki wiped her eyes slowly. She knew that she agreed with
Kunal, but the pain was unbearable. How much longer would she
have to live with this agony?
‘D on’t cry, D ebaki,’ Kunal said again. ‘And don’t ever
misunderstand me. Never lose faith in the essential goodness of
human beings. That will help you to bear your pain.’

Bhadra had joined the Bengal Medical Reserve Corps. Twice a week
she and Tipu visited the neighbouring villages, distributing free
medicines—multi-vitamin pills and anti-malarial tablets—and
essential supplies like milk powder. Bhadra made it a point to visit
every household to enquire about the women’s state of health,
particularly that of the new mothers. Tipu sprayed disinfectants
around the houses and in the roadside ditches. They were usually
 Harvest Song 313

joined by one of Tipu’s friends, a young doctor. Wherever they went

the same sorry sight met their eyes—almost everyone seemed to be
suffering from acute malnutrition and chronic diseases. The children
crowded around them; the adults looked up at Bhadra and her
companions, the sunken eyes in their shrivelled up faces lighting up
for a moment with the hope of succour.
The next letter from O’Neill arrived after a week via a secret
messenger. On a very hot afternoon, when the whole house was quiet,
Bhadra went into her room and opened the envelope. The entire letter
was written in English, except the address, which was written in
Sanskrit, in careful Devnagan script. She smiled as she noticed that
he had addressed her as ‘Aryakanya’—‘daughter of nobility’.

‘You must have received my first letter by this time, I know I

cannot expect a reply so soon, but there’s no harm in
hoping, is there?
'Let me begin this letter by telling you that I happened to
get hold of a copy of the latest Aruna and there I discovered
a poem written by Bhadra Chaudhuri. This evening I
translated the poem—I want to read it out to my friends
tomorrow. I keep asking myself why someone like you, who
loves life so much, decided to take the vow of renunciation
so early in life. But that is one of those numerous questions
that will, I guess, remain unanswered.
'Can you imagine that this soldier who is sitting on the
wet grass and writing to you now had spent last night
guarding a small hillock, with only a bayonet for company?
Let me describe the scene to you. The hillock stood at the
edge of a forest; I could hear the trumpeting of wild
elephants that merged with the sudden sound of mortars
travelling through the darkness. It was the kind of night that
only a soldier can experience. This morning, a beautiful
butterfly with wings patterned in purple and yellow flutters
on the very grass where poisonous snakes had crawled last
night. Not a trace of the horror of the night is left. . .
‘We’re travelling along winding hilly roads, and have just
left the plains behind. There were paddy fields on either side
of the road, stretching to the horizon.. I am reminded of the
314 Sabitri Roy

story by Tolstoy called ‘The Hunger of the Earth’. And

when I look at these fields full of ripe paddy ready for
harvesting, I keep asking myself, how could famine visit a
country like this? How much corruption among the rulers
could lead to such an appalling state of things?
‘The work on building the Arakan Road is going on full
swing. It’s ironic that a road that will be used by soldiers is
being made mostly by women and children. After travelling
through the mountain roads, we stop for a while under a
huge teak tree. I never cease to marvel at the incredible
beauty of these trees, standing up tall and erect, raising their
heads majestically over all the other trees in the forest and
giving soothing shade. We spend our leisure sitting around
in a circle discussing history and poetry. The distant sound
of gunfire seems almost unreal.
‘We pack up and start on our journey again. At the next
bend in the road, we glimpse a few tents in the distance. My
ears catch the tune of the “Blue Danube” floating towards
me from a military tent. It is unreal in a way. It tells me
somehow, despite all the blood and gore around me, that
mankind, by instinct, does not want war.’

The third letter from O’Neill arrived the same secret way, via a
messenger. Bhadra ran her fingers lightly over the envelope before
opening it. It seemed to bring her a message from an unfamiliar land
. . . a land where the air was heavy with the scent of tobacco flowers,
where girls dressed in bright colours decked their long hair with
unknown forest blooms.

‘We are staying in a temporary camp. Any time now they

will call us to move to the front. Right now, as I sit here
writing to you, our boys are making lunch. Just read in a
newspaper that the government is using military power
against famine-afflicted people. I can’t explain how troubled
I am after reading this. There’s a rifle in my hand and yet I
feel so completely helpless! How can anyone tolerate this
abuse of power?
‘I’m running out of time. Our walkie-talkies have started
 Harvest Song 315

to hum. . . my instinct says that the enemy is very close. I

thought I’d just let you know that we’re proceeding further
north. But all of us are looking forward to the end of this
war.
‘My regards to you.’

Bhadra had not replied to either of O’Neill’s previous letters. This

time she had to write to him, knowing that any contact with O’Neill,
even if it were distant, would tear open the wound that she had
carefully hidden in her heart.

In the next room, Tipu and Malati were painting posters for the anti-
Fascist exhibition. Bhadra made tea for all three of them and entered
the room with the tea tray.
‘This is why I like Bhadradi,’ Tipu said happily. ‘A cup of tea was
just what I wanted.’
Bhadra put the tea tray down. ‘Give me a sheet of paper,’ she
said, picking up a brush. ‘Let me lend a hand.’
It was already dark. Bhadra went out to get a kerosene lamp.
When she came back with it, Malati was getting ready to leave.
‘I’ll come again tomorrow,’ she said.
Tipu bent low over his work, refusing to look up or to speak.
‘I’m leaving now,’ Malati said in a small voice, looking at Tipu
pleadingly, as if beseeching him to realize her constraints. Tipu did
not speak. Malati hesitated for a while near the door, then left. Bhadra
and Tipu went back to their work.
‘Why don’t you two get married?’ Bhadra asked a little later.
‘You—know about us?’ Tipu asked, startled.
‘Of course,’ Bhadra said. ‘It’s quite obvious, isn’t it? Anyway, what
I want to know is why are you tormenting the girl like this?’
‘I’m worried about my family,’ said Tipu. ‘My mother will have a
heart attack if she comes to know,’ he finished, smiling wryly.
‘You should have taken your mother to a doctor before starting
the affair, then,’ Bhadra said.
316 Sabitri Roy

‘I’m not sure we “started” it, really,’ Tipu said musingly. ‘I mean,
things sort of happened.’
‘Well, now that things have sort of happened, why don’t you go
ahead and sort of finish it by getting married?’ Bhadra asked, smiling.
‘Well, to tell you the truth,’ Tipu said, a litde embarrassed, ‘we
are already married. The only thing that’s left is to have a social
ceremony.’
Bhadra was astonished.
‘Really?’ she asked. ‘Congratulations. But why didn’t you tell
me earlier?’
Tipu did not answer but bent over and touched Bhadra’s feet.
‘Please give me your blessings,’ he said. ‘I know I shall need
them soon.’

Bhadra was about to go in when she saw the postman entering the
courtyard. He was looking for her.
‘One of your letters has returned,’ he said to Bhadra, handing her
the letter. ‘Sign here,’ he said.
Bhadra took one look at the envelope with the address of a military
camp and the colour slowly drained away from her face. The postman
noticed how the hand that signed on the paper was trembling.
It rained throughout the night. Bhadra lay sleepless on her bed,
listening to the rain lashing on to the earth. Her eyes looked out at
the darkness and searched for a glimpse of light but there was none.
It was as if it had been raining since the beginning of time, and Bhadra
lay on her bed shedding tears like the night sky.

The farmers had queued up in front of the church for salt. Since the
beginning of the war, the priest had opened a shop next to the church.
The doors of the shop had not opened yet, and the farmers were
 Harvest Song 317

getting restless. The government notice was hanging on the wall of

the shop in front of diem, but except for one or two, the farmers were
illiterate. Those who could read went through the notice for the
umpteenth time.

‘As per the Indian Security Act, a gathering of more than

five people is prohibited in this area. Any violation will be
punished with imprisonment from six months to seven
years.’

Sankhaman had gone out early in the morning to buy salt. Before
leaving, he had brought some fish home. Rasumoni had washed and
cleaned the fish, and now the rice was ready, but there was no sign of
Shankhaman. Suddenly, Rasumoni was startled at an unfamiliar
sound. A jeep with a loudspeaker fitted to the top was passing their
house. People were emerging on their courtyards to hear the
announcement properly. Sarathi’s mother, who had hurried out after
her daughters-in-law, could not make out the words.
‘What did they say?’ she asked. ‘What was it they said?’ she asked
again, craning her neck, fear peeping out from her deep-set eyes.
‘Can’t you hear?’ snapped Saraswati. ‘Be quiet and let me listen.’
The jeep passed the quiet village streets making the announcement:
‘By the Magistrate’s order it has been made illegal for more than five
people to gather in this area at any time. Any violation will be
punished with imprisonment. By the Indian Security Act—’
The jeep disappeared towards the north. Sankhaman was
returning with a few others from the shop with the salt. They saw the
jeep on the way and stepped aside to let it pass.
As soon as he stepped into the courtyard his mother came forward.
‘Did you hear what the red-faced men said?’ she asked anxiously.
Sankhaman was fuming. This morning, he had marked a beehive
on a mango tree nearby and had resolved to get it down as soon as
possible. But now a whole morning was lost standing at the queue.
‘I know you have lost your eyesight. Have you lost your hearing
as well?’ he snapped. The old woman, snubbed for the second time,
shut up.
‘Have you finished cooking?’ Sankhaman asked Rasumoni,
handing her the packet of salt.
318 Sabitri Roy

‘How could I?’ Rasumoni asked. ‘There was no salt at home.’

‘Well, you can sit at home cooking the fish for the rest of the day,’
Sankhaman said angrily, ‘I’m off.'
Rasumoni shoved some more dry leaves into the stove and started
to prepare the fish. The jeep returned, barking out the same warning.
Rasumoni sat in front of the stove, staring at the burning leaves, fear
creeping into her heart. Did this mean that they would imprison the
men of the village? Were the poor villagers never to have any peace?
Sankhaman put fire to the heap of dry leaves he had gathered
under the huge mango tree. The beehive hung on one of the top
branches. Soon, the bees, blinded by the smoke, emerged from the
hive. Sankhaman climbed the tree carefully, and, shielding himself
from the bees, brought the hive down. He was standing looking at
the hive when suddenly he heard his son screaming. Shankhaman
did not know that the little boy had followed him, and now a bee had
stung him.
The old woman came running. ‘Have you been stung?’ she asked
her grandson anxiously. ‘Run to your mother and ask her to apply
breast milk to the sting.’
Rasumoni did as her mother-in-law advised, but it did not help
much. The boy was still howling. Gajen broke a young stem of the
jungle yam and applied the liquid to the wound.
‘This might help,’ he said.
Meanwhile, everyone had gathered in the courtyard around the
honeycomb, happy to see such a big one. Gajen was the happiest of
them all.
‘It’s a huge one,’ he said. ‘It will give three seers of honey, at
least.'
Sankhaman had got over his earlier irritation. He asked Rasumoni
to give him lunch.
‘Set another place,’ Sarathi told Saraswati. ‘Parthababu will have
lunch with us.’
Later, when it was almost evening. Gajen was busy in the
courtyard, sprinkling ash around the roots of a blighted gourd plant.
Saraswati sat in a corner with Sankhaman’s son, making a mud
tortoise for him. The boy’s face was still swollen from the bee sting,
but he was not crying anymore. He watched fascinated as the tortoise
took shape in Saraswati’s hands. The old woman was huddled up in
 Harvest Song 319

a comer with a charcoal burner. It was going to be a cold night.

'I'm leaving, Ma,’ Partha said, walking up to her.
‘Don’t say “I’m leaving”, dear,’ the old woman replied. ‘It’s not
auspicious. Say “I’ll come again.’” Partha smiled and left without
a word.
No one except Sarathi knew that Partha was actually leaving them
for a long time. Word had reached him that within a couple of days
the government would be issuing a warrant in his name. The landlords
had accepted some of the demands of the farmers, but in order to
quell any further insurgency, they were all out to get the leaders.
Sarathi accompanied Partha to the main road. Partha clasped
the young man’s hand for one last time and walked away. The paddy
fields were hazy through the misty twilight. Partha could just glimpse
his hut in the distance through the descending fog. He was leaving
the village and did not know when, or indeed, if, he would be back.
He remembered that Bhadra had not replied to his letter. Probably
his letters did not mean anything to her anymore. Partha knew that
he could not afford to feel pain, or even to look back at the memories
of Bhadra. He had left all that behind. Partha turned the comer and
walked ahead, without looking back.

It was a very cold evening. The cows huddled together in their shed,
trying to get some warmth from each other’s body. Lakshman covered
the cowshed with some jute cloths. He knew it wouldn’t help much,
but it was the most he could do for the poor beasts. It seemed that
they never had enough money for such things. The fence, ruined by
termites last year, desperately needed mending, but Lakshman knew
that he did not have money for it.
After dinner, when everyone else had gone to sleep, Mangala sat
down to pluck coloured threads from the sari borders to sew kanthas
for her grandson. The lamp flickered: there was no oil in it. Mangala
frowned. Wasn’t it only yesterday that she had filled the lamp?
Lakshman must have used up the kerosene to treat the plants.
Kerosene was one of the most sought after things in these days of
320 Sabitri Roy

war. If Lakshman wasted whatever little they could manage to

buy. . .
Mangala’s thoughts came to an abrupt halt. She thought she heard
a voice outside which sounded very much like Partha’s. Her reason
told her it couldn’t be Partha, but she rushed to the door nevertheless
and yanked it open. She stood staring at the person who stood before
her. The impossible had happened. Partha was standing at the door.
Mangala burst into tears.
It was very late. Partha asked his mother not to wake anyone up.
‘I am hungry,’ he said to his mother. ‘Do you have any rice left?’
he asked. He had guessed correctly that it would make her happy.
‘Yes, and I’ve got something else as well, specially for you,’
Mangala said happily.
Radish chutney had been Partha’s favourite when he was a child.
Mangala had not forgotten. Partha looked up at his mother. ‘You
haven’t been able to forget me, have you?’ he asked gently.
‘How can you ask such a question?’Mangala asked. ‘Can a mother
ever forget her son?’
‘I shall take you with me this time,’ Partha said suddenly. ‘You
have looked after this happy household for a long time; now it’s time
you looked after mine.’
‘Your household!’ Mangala exclaimed, looking strangely at
her son.
Partha smiled and nodded. ‘Just tell me you will come.’
‘I wish I were so lucky!’ Mangala sighed.
He finished eating. Mangala cleaned up the dining space and said
sadly, ‘If you only knew the kind of happy household this is!’
Partha understood what his mother was referring to. He knew
that his father did not live with them any more. Partha looked keenly
at the worn-out face of his mother. ‘Ma, come with me,’ he said
urgently. ‘You’ve spent your entire life slaving for this household.
Come with me now and spend the rest of your life working for
the country.’
Later, lying in bed, Partha listened to his mother talking about
their problems. Apparendy, Aijun’s wife had left for her father’s house
in a huff, refusing to stay in the same house as Lakshmi. Aijun had
followed her there. His father-in-law was a wealthy man; it was
unlikely that Arjun would ever return home. Mangala suddenly
 Harvest Song 321

became aware that Partha had not responded for some time, and
looking closely, she realized that he had gone to sleep. She tucked
the covers around him carefully.
The next day, just before twilight, at the ashram of the Vaishnavi,
Sudam finished his evening ritual of pouring water on the tulsi plant.
He sat down on the verandah to rest, looking out in front of him. It
was going to be dark very soon, but he could just make out the figures
of a man and a woman on the distant Mansadanga bridge. The
woman was carrying a small bundle. They descended from the bridge
and proceeded towards the main road. For a second they looked
familiar to Sudam, but he could not be sure. Soon, it was too dark to
see anything.

The wind was blowing from the north. Debaki always felt depressed
when the trees started to shed their leaves in the beginning of winter.
She was returning from afternoon duty at the hospital. From the
distance, she saw Iti at Juran’s shop waiting to buy kerosene. Iti had
also seen her elder sister. She beckoned to Debaki urgently.
‘Mejdi has come,’ Iti said, lowering her voice, when Debaki had
come up to her.
‘Who?’ Debaki frowned. ‘Ketaki?’
Iti nodded.
Debaki almost ran back home. But as soon as she stepped into
the courtyard she stopped dead. Ketaki was sitting on the doorstep;
her head hung low, her shoulders hunched. She heard her sister’s
approach and looked up. Her eyes were empty, her face ashen, and
she looked completely devastated. Ironically, what struck Debaki most
was that Ketaki was not wearing any jewellery. She had never seen
her sister without her imitation pearl earrings. Debaki was stunned.
She stood petrified, unable to move. She had heard that Ketaki had
had a son and that the infant had not survived. But that was a long
time ago. What could it be now?
Ketaki seemed to be holding herself under tight control. She stared
at her sister, unsure of her welcome. Finally, after what seemed to be
ages, Debaki came forward.
322 Sabitri Roy

‘What’s the matter, Ketaki?’ she asked, coming over to her

sister and touching the top o f her head fondly. Instantly, Ketaki
broke down.
‘I couldn’t stay there anymore, Didi,’ she sobbed. ‘So I came
home.’
‘You did the right thing,’ Debaki said. ‘Let’s go inside. Why are
you sitting on the doorstep like this? Isn’t this your own house?’
‘Try to forget the two years you spent there,’ Debaki told her sister,
leading her inside. ‘You’ve come back to us; you’re the same Ketaki
as before.’
But Ketaki knew she was not the same Ketaki anymore. The
intervening two years had changed her beyond recognition. Dulal
had shown her how low a man could stoop for money. He had married
her with an ulterior motive: to use her as bait. Even if she tried,
Ketaki could not forget those experiences that were like nightmares.
She shrank back in terror every time she heard the horn of a car. Was
it Dulal who was coming to whisk her away from home to the dark
curtained chamber at Sukhanlal’s office?
One day, Iti was cleaning the chimney of the kerosene lamp when
Kunal came in.
‘Isn’t Debaki at home?’ Kunal asked.
Iti hesitated. She had obviously been told to keep a secret, but her
eagerness to share it with someone finally won.
‘There’s a function at the Shibtolla field this evening,’ she said.
‘The neighbours are having a charity evening for Nareshda’s
treatment. He has T.B., you know. Didi is going to sing there,’ added
Iti excitedly. ‘But it’s a secret. I’m not supposed to tell you.’
Kunal laughed. ‘Oh, I see,’ he said. ‘You’re not supposed to tell
me, are you? Well, aren’t you going to the function?’
‘Oh, yes, I am,’ Iti said. ‘I’ll have to clean this lamp, pour oil in it,
and sweep the room, and then I can go. Everyone else is gone.’
‘Let’s do something,’ Kunal said, suddenly struck with an idea.
‘If you can wait for a while, I can come along with you. But don’t tell
your sister.’
Iti jumped up with pleasure. ‘It would be lovely,’ she said. ‘Are
you really going to come?’
‘Really,’ promised Kunal. ‘I shall just run home and get my
camera. Wait for me,’ he said and left.
 Harvest Song 323

It was dark when Kunal returned with his camera. The function
must have started. Kunal could hear the singing even from Debaki’s
house. He called Iti from the courtyard and Iti came running out.
‘You’re late,’ she said impatiently. ‘The function has already
started. We missed the speech.’
‘That’s nothing,’ Kunal said. ‘I shall come over one of these days
and make a nice speech, specially for you.’
‘You can’t make a speech inside the house!’ exclaimed Iti
indignantly.
‘Yes, you’re absolutely right,’ Kunal agreed, laughing. ‘How can
you have a speech without a microphone?’
‘Didi did not want to sing at first,’ Iti said as they proceeded
towards the field. ‘But finally, when Asimda—you know, he is taking
music lessons from Baba—requested her again and again, she agreed.
You know something,’ she added conspiratorially, ‘Didi sings really
well. When she is at home in the evenings, she sings to herself. She
thinks I can’t hear because I’m studying, but I can hear her all the
same.’
Iti broke off suddenly. There was a stage at one end of the field.
The organizers had arranged for bright lights, which, however, were
kept shaded, following the military rule. But as if to laugh at the
military strictures, a half moon peered mischievously from behind
the palm trees, bathing the field in pale silvery light.
‘The military should have tried to fix a black shade on the moon
too,’ whispered Iti gleefully.
Kunal smiled. The field was full of people—mostly women
carrying infants, and children, who sat on the mat directly in front of
the stage. There were a couple of rows of chairs towards the back
which were reserved for special guests.
‘You go ahead and sit in front of the stage,’ Kunal told Iti. ‘I’ll sit
at the back.’
A young man was announcing the next programme on the
microphone. ‘That is Asimda,’ Iti told Kunal.
The next programme in the evening was Debaki’s song. Kunal
got his camera ready, relieved that he had arrived in the nick of time.
Debaki entered the stage slowly and sat down in front of the
microphone. Asim was to accompany her on the tabla. Kunal focused
his cameraon her, but at the first note of the song his eyes strayed
324 Sabitri Roy

from the camera lens. Debaki was singing a kirtan—a devotional

song of love and complete surrender. It seemed to Kunal as if by a
process of magical transmutation, Debaki had become Radha and
was offering her body and soul to Lord Krishna. Kunal knew very
little about music, but he instinctively responded to the music that
Debaki created: it was the eternal cry of a lovelorn soul looking for
its mate. Kunal stood at the back of the crowd, looking at Debaki
with new eyes. Finally, as she was nearing the end of her song, he left
the function silently, without telling anyone. In his heart he bore away
an inexpressible anguish.
Kunal spent the entire night sitting alone at home, smoking
countless cigarettes. Next morning, as soon as it was light, he made
his way towards Debaki’s house. Debaki was up already. She was
watering the plants in her small kitchen garden, and humming the
same tune that she had sung the night before at the function.
Kunal walked over to her. Debaki turned to him with a smile.
She put down the watering can and spread a mat on the verandah for
Kunal to sit on.
‘You’ve got to pay for your ticket, you know,’ she said mischie­
vously, suddenly producing a bunch of tickets. ‘You’ve listened to
songs last evening without one. Pay a fine now.’
‘I’ll give you whatever you want today,’ Kunal said.
‘Whatever?’ Debaki repeated after him, and darted a glance at
him. ‘Don’t promise to be so generous. You don’t know where it will
lead you.’
‘If I have the privilege of Radha’s company, I don’t mind being
led anywhere,’ Kunal replied with a twinkle in his eyes.
‘Big mouth!’ exclaimed Debaki in mock exasperation. Kunal took
out a hundred-rupee note and offered it to Debaki.
‘You’re not donating a hundred rupees?’ Debaki asked, unable to
believe her eyes.
Kunal nodded silently. Debaki accepted the note gratefully. It was
obvious that Kunal had given the money because she was associated
with the cause. Why was he so generous? She felt mortified that
whereas he always tried to make her happy, she could not give
anything in return. She turned away quickly, but she was unable to
hide the tears that sprung to her eyes.
 Harvest Song 325

f
Lata was writing a letter to Sulakshan. She had gone to Kalidighi to
have a wash before evening. When she had stood before the mirror
after her return, she had taken special care to mark the sindoor dot
on her forehead.

‘Daku and I picked some jasmines today,’ she wrote.

‘Throughout the day I had been hoping that you might
come—might appear suddenly and bring unexpected
happiness with you.
‘It’s time to light the evening lamp. The pall of darkness
is descending slowly on the wet grass in our courtyard. I
heard the Dhaka Mail passing, and then the Surma Mail. I
ought to be getting up and working. Instead, I’m sitting here
writing to you by the light of a kerosene lamp. How far does
its feeble light reach? Can you see us, I wonder?
‘Why didn’t you come today? Don’t you know that this
afternoon will never return? The cool shades of evening
falling quietly on the water, the last rays of the setting sun
lighting up the top of the tall supari trees, my eager hopes
mingling with the fragrance of jasmines . . . none of these
will ever return. Why didn’t you come suddenly and
surprise me?
‘Daku is sprawled on the bed, fast asleep. I can’t take my
eyes off him. The soft tiny fingers are curled up in a small
fist. I can’t see it, but I know his tiny chest hides a softer
heart. He wanders around the whole day, his eyes searching
restlessly for his father. What has he done to deserve this
punishment?’

Lata could not finish her letter. The hand holding the pen was
trembling. She knew she was going to cry. It seemed only yesterday
that Sulakshan had left home. If she closed her eyes she could see
him as clearly as if he was standing before her.
326 Sabitri Roy

‘Promise me, Lata, that you will never shed tears for me,’
Sulakshan had said urgently, holding her dose. ‘I’m leaving home
on a mission: we want every single person in this country to have a
happy home. We are going to bring happiness into this world, Lata.
Promise me that you won’t shed tears.’
Lata could still feel her husband’s arms around her as he uttered
those words.
‘Forgive me,’ she whispered. ‘Forgive the tears I shed this single
night.’
Slowly, she tore up the unfinished letter. Every night she wrote a
letter to Sulakshan, but they never reached him. The only witnesses
to her inmost thoughts and her agonies were the stars o f the quiet
night sky.
The sun rose early the next morning and very soon, too soon,
climbed up high into the sky. Lata felt the blazing heat scorching
her skin.
‘Ma, is Baba going to come today?’ Daku ran in. He had been
playing and his clothes were splattered with mud. ‘That’s why you’re
making pancakes?’
‘These are not pancakes, Daku. They’re sheuli leaves fried
in batter.’
‘Who’s going to have them?’
‘Your greedy mother.’
‘And her greedy son,’ said Daku and grinned, his eyes dancing in
merriment.
Lata hugged her son tight. He was the only solace she had left.
The next morning, when Lata went out to bring water from the
pond, she stopped dead near the banyan tree. There was a notice
nailed to the tree trunk. It was a warrant for Sulakshan’s arrest.
Time stood still for Lata as in the next few minutes, pictures of
her life with Sulakshan ran before her eyes like a kaleidoscope. She
had found the man she had dreamt about all her life; and she had
had the chance to spend four years of her life with him. But Lata
suddenly realized today, as she stood staring at the warrant for her
husband’s arrest, that slowly and imperceptibly, the man she had
loved had moved away from her. The years that could have been the
best four years of her life were lost now, lost forever. Suddenly, with
a vehemence she would not have believed herself capable of, Lata
 Harvest Song 327

hated the abject poverty that blinded people to their crucial emotional
needs. How could she ever forget the daily struggle for a decent life,
or the pangs of separation endured over the past four years?
Suddenly, Lata returned to the present. She had heard a noise
that sounded like Daku crying. Alarmed, she filled her pitcher and
quickly returned home to find her son waiting near the door, sobbing
helplessly. As soon as he saw her he ran forward and flung himself
on his mother.
‘I thought you had drowned in the pond/ he sobbed. ‘I waited for
such a long time, and you didn’t come!’
Lata hugged her son tightly. ‘No, darling/ she said, still holding
him. ‘Grown ups can never drown in a pond.’ Reassured, Daku
followed Lata to the house. She gave him some muri to eat.
‘Ma, may 1 have some batasa with the muri?’ asked Daku
diffidently, edging up to his mother.
‘There’s no batasa in the house, Daku,’ Lata said gently. ‘Why
don’t you be a good boy and have the muri by itself today?’
Daku did not utter another word. He nodded obediently and sat
down to eat. Lata blinked away her tears when she saw how
circumstances had made her son so understanding.
‘Ma, will Baba bring some batasa with him when he comes home?’
Daku asked a little later.
Lata smiled with an effort. It was as if the whole house was waiting
for one person. The house was practically empty now, with Tushi at
her in-laws’ house and Sukhomoy had moved to his college hostel.
At night, the old Bagdi woman came over to stay with Lata and
Daku. She came a number of times during the day too, as did Haru’s
mother, Lata’s aunt-in-law, to find out if Lata needed any help. Yet
the house seemed empty.
Lata lit the fire in the stove. She had to boil the paddy. As she was
shoving some logs into the fire she could hear footsteps on the dry
leaves behind the kitchen. It was Haren Bagdi.
‘Bouma, did you send a message for me to come and pick the
lichis?’ he asked.
Lata came out. She knew it was not considered proper for the
wife of the household to appear before or to talk directly to a man,
but she had no option now. ‘Yes. The litchis will have to be sold at
the market as well,’ she said.
328 Sabitri Roy

Haren looked at the lichi tree full of ripe red fruits. She had a
small child at home and yet Lata was forced to sell the fruit. Haren
felt sad. He stole a glance at Lata—she was wearing no jewellery
at all.
‘All right,’ said Haren, clearing his voice, which suddenly seemed
choked. ‘I shall come in the afternoon to pick them,’ he added
and left.
That afternoon, Lata gathered the coal dust she had collected for
die past couple of months and started to roll it into balls. She could
not afford to waste even a pinch of coal dust. This would serve her as
fuel for the next couple of months at least. Coal was not available
easily, and she did not have the money to buy it anyway. Haren arrived
while she was busy. He was carrying a couple of pumpkins.
‘I brought them for Daku,’ Haren said a little hesitantly, offering
them to Lata.
Lata accepted the pumpkins gratefully. Every little thing helped.
Haren went about his work, and soon he left with a basket full of
ripe lichis. The long afternoon wore on. Lata finished her work and
went to the pond to wash her hands. It was very quiet there. Only a
lone woodpecker was pecking at a tree trunk with a monotonous
sound. There were trees all around the pond, their branches
overhanging the water. At all times of the day the pond remained in
shadows. It was only for a few hours in the afternoon that some
sunlight stole in there. Lata knew that in the past, the women of their
family used to come there in the afternoon to dry their hair in the
sunlight, away from the sight of the men. Lata’s thoughts turned to
her unknown sister-in-law, who she knew had committed suicide.
Did the poor woman find solace in the other world, Lata wondered?
She could not help thinking of her mother-in-law either. Was she
happy, now that she had left her own house to live with her daughter?
The Bagdi girls whom she taught were at her house, talking to
Daku and nibbling at raw mangoes.
‘So you’re free at last to study, are you?’ Lata scolded them. ‘You
must have spent the entire afternoon in the mango groves, picking
mangoes! And now it’s almost evening.’
The girls looked at their teacher contritely. ‘We went to collect
firewood in the afternoon,’ one of them muttered.
 Harvest Song 329

Lata spread a mat on the verandah for them to sit. She knew that
they came from the poorest of the poor families in the village.
Collecting firewood was part of their daily duty. The fact that they
turned up at all to study was an achievement in itself. Lata struggled
to give them the basic knowledge of reading and writing even as she
saw them drop out, one by one, when chronic diseases and famines
hit the village. But she was determined to teach them to dream for a
better, more enlightened future.
The Bagdi woman came over as usual to spend the night with
diem. She settled down comfortably on the verandah, and told them
all the news of the locality, as was her habit.
‘What a scandal!’ she exclaimed. ‘Did you know that the jute
factory has a new manager now? Well, his maidservant was suddenly
sent to Nabadwip. Everyone was talking, naturally. And then we heard
that she was pregnant.’
The old woman lowered her voice. ‘It was the work of Rajen, or
so everyone says,’ she said.
Lata was patching up some old clothes by the light of the lamp.
She was not surprised to hear the news. She thought of Debaki. Lata
had never been able to fathom how Debaki’s parents could marry
her off to a monster like Rajen.
Very early next morning, Lata was awakened by people talking
outside her house. The stray dog which slept in their courtyard was
also barking hard. Lata peered out of the window. Some men were
sitting on the verandah. She glimpsed a red turban and became alert
immediately. Leaving the bed quickly, she went over to Sulakshan’s
table. Was there anything there which the police might find
objectionable? There were a couple of letters—one from Ishani Devi
and one from Bhadra—and two books: The Bengal Farmers’Problems
and a book of songs by Mukunda Das. But before she could decide
what to do with them, the policemen started to pound on her door.
‘We have a search warrant for your house,’ the officer said harshly
as he pushed past Lata into the room.
Lata quickly sent the old Bagdi woman to Haru’s house with the
news. Haru arrived soon with a few neighbours. He accompanied
the police as they searched the house inch by inch. They entered
Lata’s bedroom and the officer immediately made for Sulakshan’s
330 Sabitri Roy

table. Leafing through the books, the officer said, ‘Seems to be an

educated person. I don’t understand why such people have to waste
their lives for a craze.’
They went to the inner courtyard next. ‘Who sleeps here?’ the
officer asked suspiciously, pointing to the tattered mattress and bed
on the verandah.
‘An old Bagdi woman who spends the night here,’ replied Haru.
‘She helps with the housework.’
The search was over by noon. Lata signed the search list.
As she had expected, the officer confiscated the two books on
Sulakshan’s table.
‘What is Sulakshan babu’s address?’ he asked, taking out his
notebook.
‘He has gone to Calcutta to look for a job,’ Haru replied. ‘And he
hasn’t left an address.’
The officer darted a keen glance at Haru and smiled thoughtfully.
Then, he left with his people without another word.
Soon, the house was quiet again. Haru and the other neighbours
had left. Lata stood near the kitchen window looking out unseeingly
at the fields in the distance. She knew she ought to start the day’s
work but she could not summon up the strength or the will to do so.
Suddenly she heard a sound and looked back to find a stray dog
walking out of the kitchen. Lata came back to her senses with a
start. It was already very late, and she had not even lit the stove. And
now that the dog had entered the kitchen and presumably licked the
pots and pans she would have to wash everything. Lata picked up all
the pots and pans and went to the pond. Daku followed her silently.
Lata looked up at her son as she washed the pots. Poor thing, he had
not had anything to eat since morning and yet he hadn’t complained
even once.
‘Are you very hungry, Daku?’ Lata asked him gently.
Daku shook his head. ‘You cook the rice, and then we shall eat
together,’ he said.
Lata stared at her son, realizing how a single experience had
suddenly made the small boy more mature. Lata turned her head
away, lest her son saw her tears, but she had never been so proud of
her son.
 Harvest Song 331

f
The ferryboat sailed away soon. The snake charmer who had raised
a laugh amongst the passengers when he had asked the policeman
searching everyone whether he should empty his basket, was huddled
next to Partha on the boat. Partha moved away a little. ‘Be careful,’
he warned the man. ‘Are you sure your little ones will not decide to
crawl out?’ he asked.
The man laughed and shook his head.
The boat passed wide fields where farmers could be seen sowing
the new season’s paddy. On the other bank appeared the stray huts
of a village. In the courtyard of one of the huts a Vaishnavi sat singing
a devotional song. The hut, Partha knew, belonged to Basanta Rumor,
the potter. He sat on the verandah working on his wheel while the
women of his household crowded around the Vaishnavi, listening
raptly to the song.
Partha got off the boat at the ferry and took the road that led to
the village. A few paces away was the potter’s hut. The Vaishnavi
had just finished her song. The young son of Basanta Kumor, who
was helping his father, asked excitedly, ‘Can you sing a patriotic song
for us, now?’
The Vaishnavi smiled and started on another song. Partha’s feet
slowed down and he stopped just outside the fence.

‘This is not your land, my people,

This is not your land,
If these rivers and hills,
This earth and these vales,
Were yours, then why
Do the white men cry
Their orders here,
In this land of yours, my people?’

The Vaishnavi sang on, and Partha stood spellbound, listening.

When the song was over, a little girl from the potter’s house brought
332 Sabitri Roy

a bowl of rice for the Vaishnavi and poured it into her cloth bag.
The Vaishnavi said goodbye and took a different road. Partha,
head bent in thought, proceeded on his way. Partha and his comrades
would have to be doubly careful. He knew that there were constant
military patrols in the west, the north and the south. That left the
east, which held a deep forest where wild beasts roamed freely. The
only safe way out of this area would be through the savage forest.
Partha smiled wryly at the irony.
It was past midnight when Partha was again on the road.
Sulakshan was with him.
‘Are you sure they won't stop us at the ferry?’ asked Sulakshan
anxiously, looking towards the glimmering light in the distance.
‘Possibly it wouldn’t be wise to approach together.’
‘The constable guarding the ferry is one of our men,’ Partha
informed him.
They came to the ferry soon enough. The policeman stood aside
silently to let them pass. Sulakshan looked at die square stem face of
the policeman and raised his hand in a silent gesture of respect. Then
the two friends walked swiftly away. The darkness swallowed
them up.

A middle-aged farmer from the south had come to join the rebel
peasants in their forest hideout. Shankhaman went out to collect a
pitcher of strong country liquor, and in the evening, everyone gathered
in the courtyard to celebrate.
‘There’re choppy clouds in the sky,’ observed the newcomer,
looking up. ‘It’s going to rain soon.’
‘How do you know?’ asked Sankhaman.
‘Why, Khana said so,’ replied the man and quoted:

‘Choppy clouds in the sky

Up above and on the high
A little breeze now and then
Means there’s going to be rain.’
 Harvest Song 333

Sankhaman took a long swig from his earthen cup. Tell us another
one,’ he said.
The farmer thought for a while. ‘All right, listen to this,’ he said.
‘It predicts signs of a good rainfall.’ He began to recite another
aphorism by the legendary astronomer and mathematician Khana.
‘Storms in the summer and a cool end of year
Promise good rains, if the night sky is clear.’

Sulakshan had joined them a little while ago. Now Partha entered
with the day’s post: a few old magazines, some booklets, and a copy
of Aruna. He joined in the discussion.
‘Do you know what happened finally to such an intelligent and
educated woman?’ Partha asked. ‘Khana’s father-in-law ordered her
husband to cut off her tongue.’
‘Why?’ exclaimed those who did not know the story of Khana.
‘She was a threat to her husband’s and her father-in-law’s
scholarship, obviously,’ replied Partha.
‘And it is said that when her tongue was cut into pieces, a lizard
ate them,’ put in the farmer from the south. ‘That is why when lizards
make that tick, tick noise, you should know that it is nothing but the
wise voice of Khana.’
One side of the courtyard in their secret camp had been converted
to a makeshift blacksmith’s workshop. Sarathi had set up a furnace
there. He now left the gathering and headed for the workshop. He
had to make a few more spears.
The gathering broke up soon after that. It was getting late. Partha
went inside to work on some reports. Sankhaman followed him in
and sat down in a corner to finish weaving a net for trapping deer.
Sulakshan was stretched out on the floor, reading the copy of
Aruna that had arrived that evening. ‘There’s a poem by Bhadra
Chaudhuri in this issue,’ he said, sitting up.
Partha was startled at the mention of the familiar name. But he
studiously bent over his work, saying nothing. Sulakshan stole a glance
at Partha and cleared his throat.
‘I’ll read out the poem, shall I?’ he said, and started to read.
‘It’s been ten days since my man’s left home,
The hut is empty and I’m left all alone.
334 Sabitri Roy

Clouds hang heavy in the sky overhead

Sheets of rain fall on the hut, on the shed . . .
My eyes stare unseeingly at die falling rain
Can he hear my cry, can he feel my pain?’

Partha had not looked up, but his pen had stopped writing.
This is written in a very different style from her usual one,’
observed Sulakshan. ‘Seems to be written in the folk tradition.’
‘Read us the rest of it,’ said Sankhaman, charmed by the lilting
rhythm of the poem.
Sulakshan resumed reading.

‘I wince at a shadow, I start at a noise,

I rush to my door, wasn’t that a voice?
There’s no one there, only the wind and the rain,
Drenched and shivering, I wait for him in vain. . .
Where are you bound, stranger? Have you seen my man?
Past the village he went, where the waters of Meghna ran—
On the bank of the river loomed the shadow of the woods
Where tall and impenetrable, the palash trees stood.
Past the dark and deep woods did my man sail his boat
Towards distant Ujaanpur did his little vessel float.
If you happen to meet him, stranger, tell him this from me:
I am waiting at my door for him to return to me.’

It was past midnight. Sarathi and Sankhaman were fast asleep on

the floor. Sulakshan was stretched out next to them, also asleep. The
only person awake in the room was Partha. He was busy cyclostyling
some papers.The poignant lines of Bhadra’s poem kept haunted
him. . .

‘If you happen to meet him, stranger, tell him this from me:
I am waiting at my door for him to return to me . . . ’

Partha began to write quickly: ‘The Famine Commission has reported

that the real reason behind the famine was not the dearth of rice, but
its abnormal price hike,’ Partha wrote. ‘In other words, the people
 Harvest Song 335

really responsible for the famine are the hoarders. Nothing less than
five acres of land yields enough paddy for the entire year for a standard
household. In this country 57 percent of families have less than three
acres of land. They were the ones to be hit the worst by the famine.’
Partha worked on, head bent over paper, a feeble lamp burning
in front of him. The night wore on.

Ganesh Das entered the room with a few copies of New Light and
Aruna. He held up the newspaper and said proudly, ‘Look—they’re
printing our news as well.’
The news of the peasant revolt was printed on the last page. It
was tucked in a comer, almost lost among the other more important
news items. Still, Sarathi, Sankhaman and the others crowded around
Sulakshan excitedly, as he read it out to them.
Partha turned the pages of the back issues of Aruna eagerly, but
for a different reason. He was disappointed, though: there was nothing
written by Bhadra in any of the issues.
Mangala was cooking the evening meal for everyone. The rice
had been boiled and the lotus leaves were washed and ready. Mangala
called everyone over and started to serve rice on each of the leaves.
Partha, crouched before a small lamp, was writing to Bhadra.
‘Why have you stopped writing for ArunaT he finished. ‘For how
long is Bhadra’s voice going to be silent?’ He sealed the envelope and
looked at his mother. As she bent over the lotus leaves serving rice to
the men, the soft light of the lamp played on her face, dissolving the
numerous tired lines. Partha felt a rush of affection for her. It was a
hard life, but she never complained. In fact, she had never looked so
content before.
Bhadra replied very soon to Partha’s letter. But as he opened the
envelope eagerly, Partha froze. It was a one-line note:

‘I sincerely wish you and Debaki a very happy life.

Bhadra Chaudhuri.’
336 Sabitri Roy

‘You and Debaki!’ Partha read the words over and over again,
and the meaning of Bhadra’s prolonged silence became clear to him
in an instant.

Early next morning, Partha arranged a secret meeting with the elders
of the village. The farmers decided at the meeting that the harvesting
should be started immediately in order to foil the attempt of the
landlord’s men to loot the grain. Soon after the meeting, the silence
of the night was shattered by the sound of a horn. Partha was sending
a message to a village five miles away from the top of a small hillock
near their secret camp. A small fire burnt nearby. Sarathi, Sankhaman
and the others sat near the fire, keeping watch. Everyone carried a
bow and arrow, and was dressed like a warrior with feathers in their
hair. There was a breathless wait for half an hour and then all of
them heard the answering sound of the horn from the distant village.
In the background was the heavier beating of drums. The message
was travelling from village to village.
Sarathi leapt up.
‘They’ve got the message,’ he cried jubilantly, his eyes sparkling
with excitement. Everyone stood up, alert and ready. Within the next
hour, the farmers in all the neighbouring villages would start
harvesting. The Tebhaga movement had started.
At the stroke of midnight, all the farmers of Paharpur started
harvesting. Time passed swiftly as hands worked feverishly. The tired
moon of the late night shone on the bent heads. Field after field
became bare as father worked beside son, brother beside brother.
Hundreds of voices rose in a song of hope. A dream that they had
dared to dream was turning into reality. It was a beginning that they
all had been hoping for.
 Harvest Song 337

Partha had come to Calcutta three days ago. His main object was to
print some leaflets with Ali’s help and take them back with him. He
had also planned to meet Debaki, but had not found the time to do
so. He reached Ali’s press in the afternoon. The ill-lit rooms were
full of people busy with their own work. A monotonous mechanical
noise emerged from the next room. Partha caught a glimpse of some
proofreaders checking proofs at tables set in the narrow corridor
outside. A photographer, camera slung from his shoulder, was having
an argument with die manager. Although he was used to a life of
excitement and action, Partha thought the press throbbed with a
different kind of energy.
Ali was not there, however. Partha heard that he had gone out.
‘Will you please tell Ali when he returns that Partha had come to
see him? I shall return in an hour or so.’
As soon as he uttered his name, the photographer looked up as if
in surprise, and as Partha left the room, the young man followed
him out.
‘Excuse me,’ said the photographer just as Partha was about to
step out on the road. ‘My name is Kunal. I’ve heard about you from
Jyotirmoy.’
‘Kunal from New Light?' Partha asked, recognizing the name.
‘Yes,’ confirmed Kunal.
‘Well, we see lots of photographs in your paper photographs of
different exodc lands; but never one of eastern Bengal,’ Partha said
with a smile.
Kunal smiled too, but immediately made a mental note. He had
not missed the edge in Partha’s words.
The two men stepped out of the building together. ‘Why don’t
you drop in at our office?’ suggested Kunal. ‘You can meet Jyotirmoy.
He’s our news editor now.’
‘Really?’ Partha asked. ‘Then we ought to be getting a couple of
lines at least in the paper now and then. ’
‘I know we haven’t been able to write much about you people so
far,’ said Kunal apologetically. ‘But it’s not going to be long before
we write columns about your work.’
Jyotirmoy was very happy to see Partha. They spent some time
talking about old times.
338 Sabitri Roy

‘Is the old banyan tree in Alipur Jail still there?’ Partha asked.
‘And our old constable?’
‘Oh, yes,’ replied Jyotirmoy. ‘The tree is there, so is the constable,
and so is his habit of chewing tobacco.’
Kunal ordered tea and snacks for all three of them. The two men
talked about the time they had spent together at Buxar Jail. Partha
remembered how they had stayed awake night after night, discussing
their work, criticizing themselves and debating their future plans.
How could he ever forget those nights?
When it was time for Partha to leave, Kunal came out to say
goodbye.
‘I am very happy to have met you,’ Partha said. ‘If you ever have
some time, do come and see us. It’s an open invitation.’
Kunal smiled and accepted. He had heard a lot about Partha from
Jyotirmoy. Meeting him in the flesh today had proved to be a
rewarding experience for him.
Partha started to walk towards Ali’s press, but then he realized
that it was too late to go there. He would have to meet Ali at his
house now. He had spent a longer time at Jyotirmoy’s office than he
had intended. But it was, perhaps, pardonable excess. He had not
enjoyed himself so much for a long time. He reached Ali’s house in
the evening. He remembered the house very clearly from his previous
visit. It looked exactly the same, with the little clay dolls in the comer
shelf in the front room and the old books reposing in their old covers.
There was something very soothing in the quiet atmosphere. Partha
felt completely at home here.
He was running a quick eye over the newly printed pamphlets
when Meghi entered with his tea. The next minute, Partha got a very
pleasant surprise to find Kunal and Debaki entering the house.
‘Let me introduce you to Meghi,’ Partha said to Kunal. ‘She’s a
girl from my village.’
Debaki laughed. ‘That’s funny,’ she said. ‘Introducing Meghidi
to him, I mean. Do you know what Meghidi says? She says that
he’—she indicated Kunal—‘was her brother in her previous life.’
Debaki was thinking how wonderful it was to see Partha after
such a long time. He looked exactly the same, down to the scar above
his eyebrow. It seemed to Debaki as if she was seeing Partha for the
 Harvest Song 339

first time after her own adolescence. It was as if the intervening years
had melted away
‘Do you remember, Parthada,’ she asked suddenly, ‘how you
turned up at our house one winter night, after the small bridge
collapsed?’
Partha smiled. ‘Of course, I remember,’ he said.
Debaki picked up her glass of tea and raised it. ‘Come, let’s drink
to Parthada’s health,’ she said. Everyone burst our laughing. Debaki
had learnt the expression from a book she had recently borrowed
from Kunal, a translation of a foreign novel.
Partha had not felt so relaxed for a long time. He watched Debaki
as she helped Meghi to wash up and then got ready to leave.
‘Well, Parthada,’ she said. ‘I shall have to leave now. But if you
don’t meet me once before you leave Calcutta I shall never speak to
you again.’
Partha was touched by Debaki’s words. She still spoke with the
innocence and simplicity of the young girl he had known in the past.
He went out to the small courtyard to bid them goodbye and stopped
there for a while, drinking in the darkness and the peace.

Every morning, Bhadra turned away disgusted from reading the pages
of the newspaper that chronicled the war. There seemed to be no
news but death and devastation. For the rest of the day she would
feel a bitter taste in her mouth. At times, in sheer desperation, she
wished she had been like the thousands of other ordinary women
who were content to live out their lives in the kitchen. If, like them,
she could keep herself busy in mindless daily chores, Bhadra thought
bitterly, if she did not think so much, then perhaps she would not
suffer so much pain.
After lunch, Bhadra went up to the terrace. She spent the rest of
the afternoon there, watching the shadows of trees lengthen gradually.
She leant over the parapet and glimpsed Malati in Tipu’s kitchen,
making snacks and tea for their family. Once they had learnt of
340 Sabitri Roy

Malati’s marriage to Tipu, her parents had disowned her. Tipu’s

mother, however, had accepted her as die new bride, primarily because
Tipu would have left home otherwise. Bhadra sighed. She did not
know if Malari would be happy in the long run with this kind of a
compromise. Still, she had started a new phase of her life and seemed
reasonably happy.
A cycle rickshaw was coming towards their house. At this distance
Bhadra could barely discern the figure sitting in the rickshaw. But
there was something about him that looked startlingly familiar. Fota
breathless instant Bhadra’s heart lurched wildly. Then it steadied as
the rickshaw disappeared behind the church. It could not be the person
she thought it was. But then the rickshaw appeared again, closer this
time, and Bhadra’s heart began to beat wildly again.
The rickshaw slowed down and stopped in front of their house.
Partha alighted, his eyes fixed on Bhadra, as she still stood transfixed
at her first floor window. Bhadra’s mind was numb, but her eyes took
in the details o f Partha’s appearance automatically. He had an
ordinary striped shirt on over a dhoti; on his feet were a pair of dusty
sandals that had obviously seen a lot of wear. He stood tall and erect,
his whole bearing radiating strength and confidence. Bhadra suddenly
woke up to reality and rushed down the stairs.
As soon as she opened the door and stood face to face with Partha,
however, a constraint seemed to develop between them. While both
could feel the instinctive closeness they still shared, there was an
awkwardness that suddenly seemed to tear them far apart. As Bhadra
greeted him formally, she felt as if she was addressing a stranger. It
was absurd, but it was true.
'I’ve come to fight with you,’ Partha said with a smile, suddenly
and unexpectedly getting over his awkwardness. ‘You’d better get
ready.’ he added.
Bhadra was startled at the easy familiarity of his address, but she
collected herself well enough to make a formal enquiry after his
health. Partha did not answer. ‘But the fight can wait,’ he continued,
as if Bhadra had not spoken at all. ‘I need a cup of tea first’
‘Of course,’ Bhadra said, becoming conscious o f her duties
as a hostess.
‘I’d better meet Anandababu,’ Partha said.
Bhadra took Partha to her father-in-law’s room.
 Harvest Song 341

‘Baba, look who’s come to see you,’ she said.

Anandababu was elated to see Partha after such a long time.
‘Sit down here, close to me,’ he invited. ‘Where have you put up?’
he asked.
Bhadra looked enquiringly at Partha. She ought to have thought
of it earlier. Partha noticed the look and hesitated for a second. Then
he seemed to make up his mind. ‘Your house, if you will have me,’
he said lightly to Anandababu. ‘I went to Calcutta on some work. I
felt I ought to visit you since this place is only about three hours’
away.'
‘Of course,' Anandababu said happily. ‘It is good to see you. Get
him a cup of tea,’ he told Bhadra. ‘And send someone to the market.
Let’s have meat curry tonight. We must celebrate.’
When Bhadra had left the room, Anandababu resumed his
conversation with Partha.
‘Tell me about yourself,’ he said. ‘Are you still involved in active
politics?’
Partha nodded.
‘But I didn’t quite like the fact that you all joined hands with the
British,' Anandababu said disapprovingly.
‘We have joined hands with the people,’ Partha corrected him
respectfully. But he realized all the same that it would be better not to
continue the discussion. ‘May I go and have a wash?’ he asked
tactfully.
‘Of course,’Anandababu said immediately. ‘1should have thought
of it earlier. The train must have been quite dusty and crowded. You
should have a wash and change,’ he suggested.
Bhadra had gone into the kitchen after putting a bucket of water
and a cake of soap in the bathroom for Partha. She was busy there
when Malati appeared. Malati had watched the recent flurry of
activity from their part of the house and was curious.
‘It seems you have a guest from Calcutta?’ asked Malati.
‘One of our comrades,’ Bhadra said, without divulging details.
‘You can send Tipu over when he returns,’ she added.
When Partha finished his bath, Bhadra served him tea.
‘I would rather you didn’t make an elaborate dinner,’ Partha said.
‘In fact, the sooner you finished your work in the kitchen, the better.
I shall be leaving by the morning train tomorrow. But before that I
342 Sabitri Roy

have something important to tell you.’

Bhadra’s first reaction was one of surprise. She had never heard
Partha speak so unguardedly. So did he think it was time now to lay
bare his heart? In a quick flash the pain she suffered through all the
barren years returned to Bhadra. She could not help feeling bitter.
'I haven’t had time to bathe the whole day,’ Partha said normally,
pretending not to notice Bhadra’s reaction. ‘A bath was just what
I needed.’
Bhadra assumed a casual tone too. ‘How long have you been in
Calcutta?’ she asked.
‘I arrived three days ago,’ Partha replied. ‘In fact, I didn’t have
anything very important to do there. It was just an excuse to
come here.’
Bhadra received a jolt again. With every word and gesture Partha
seemed to be committing himself. But Bhadra realized that although
she had dreamt about this day numerous times in the past, now that
it had come she was unable to respond or to shake off the feeling of
bitterness. Perhaps Partha had arrived a little too late.
Without a word, she led Partha upstairs to her room. The first
thing Partha noticed as he entered was the blue pen that he had given
her. The clean white cover on the bed, the embroidered curtains, the
bunch of blue flowers in a vase on the table—everything in the room
gave evidence of good taste. And yet it seemed that the room lacked
life and vitality. A kind of expectancy hung in the air, it was as if the
room, like the person living in it, had gone to sleep and was waiting
for someone’s magic touch.
“Why don’t I see any more of your writing in ArunaV he
asked Bhadra.
Bhadra smiled with an effort. ‘I’ve stopped writing,’ she
said evasively.
‘That much is obvious. But why?’
Bhadra was silent. But every inch of her being seemed to cry out
the answer to Partha’s question. It was much too late.
She picked up a book from the table and offered it to Partha.
‘Why don’t you look at this book while I go and make dinner?’
she suggested, changing the subject abruptly.
Partha did not even look at the book. ‘I haven’t travelled three
hundred miles to look at books,’ he said, looking deep into Bhadra’s
 Harvest Song 343

eyes. ‘Didn’t I say right in the beginning that I have come to fight
with you?’
Bhadra’s eyes dropped. This was the first intimate conversation
they were having. It would probably be the last.
Partha looked at the woman in front of him. Her eyes were
downcast, her face like a pale mask. A thin blue vein throbbed on
her brow. Partha could almost feel the excruciating pain that coursed
through her veins.
‘I have work in the kitchen,’ Bhadra finally said in a voice that
was curiously devoid of all emotions. ‘I shall be back soon.’
Partha was left speechless. He stood rooted to the spot, feeling a
keen sense of loss as Bhadra walked quietly out of the room.
Bhadra went downstairs into the dark kitchen and sat down on
the floor. She was feeling completely numb. Then, without warning,
she dissolved into silent tears. She could not bear to let anyone have
even a glimpse into the turmoil in her heart. The fire in the stove
burned fiercely, casting long shadows on the walls. Time passed, but
Bhadra did not notice. She did not notice either that Partha had
followed her down. He stood quietly at the door, looking at her for a
while and then moved away silently.
Bhadra made Anandababu’s bed, strung up the mosquito net and
arranged all his medicines on the small table beside the bed. ‘Shall I
serve dinner, Baba?’ she asked when she had finished.
'Yes, do,’ Anandababu said.
Partha could not take his eyes off Bhadra. He remembered a night
five years ago: the stormy night when Bhadra had unreservedly put
herself in Partha’s care. Partha searched for the Bhadra he had seen
then, but he could not be sure that he had found her.
Bhadra had already laid two places on the floor for dinner when
Partha noticed it. ‘Why have you set only two places?’ he asked. ‘We
can’t have dinner without you.’
Bhadra, too, was thinking about the night five years ago. But she
knew what Partha did not—the Bhadra that Partha had known had
changed. Even as she acquiesced to Partha’s request and sat down to
dinner with them, she felt something holding her back from within.
After dinner, when Partha stepped out to wash his hands, he
stopped abruptly.
‘Where is that lovely fragrance coming from?’ he asked curiously.
344 Sabitri Roy

'I know it’s some flower, but I can’t recognize it,' he mused.
‘It’s familiar,’ Bhadra offered the clue with a smile.
‘Yes, I know,’ Partha said. 'Is it jasmine?’ he hazarded a guess.
It was Tipu who answered. He had come in unnoticed and had
heard the conversation.
‘It’s the hashnahara,’ he said. ‘No other flower gives off fragrance
like this, hidden in the dark.’
Partha flinched. Quite innocently, Tipu had touched a raw nerve.
‘And it’s not just the night queen that gives off such fragrance,’ Tipu
continued. ‘Certain people have fame that precedes them. I was at
the club when I heard that we have an honoured guest,’ he finished.
‘Let’s go upstairs,’ Tipu suggested. ‘I’d like to get to know you
better,’ he added.
When Bhadra went upstairs some time later, Tipu and Partha
were deep in a political discussion. Anandababu had gone to sleep
by this time. The church dock struck ten. A couple of Englishmen
passed the house, their voices raised in drunken song. Tipu stretched
and stood up.
‘I have to go now,’ he said to Bhadra. ‘She’s awfully scared
of drunks.’
Partha looked bewildered.
‘It’s his wife,’ Bhadra explained. ‘I shall introduce you to her
tomorrow. She’s another of our sympathisers.’
She realized, however, that Tipu had used the excuse to leave in
order to leave them alone. ‘Sit down,’ she said to Tipu. ‘Finish the
debate.’ Although the words were uttered lighdy, there was a force in
them that almost made it sound like an order.
Tipu, however, did not stay back for long after that. ‘I shall return
tomorrow,’ he said, making a move to leave. ‘You can finish the rest
of the debate with Bhadradi.’
‘Do you live very far?’ Partha asked.
Both Bhadra and Tipu started to laugh. ‘I live downstairs,’ Tipu
said, pointing out their portion of the house through the window.
‘Goodnight,’ he said, and left quickly before Bhadra could restrain
him again.
The awkwardness that Bhadra had felt when she was alone with
Partha returned immediately. She had spent so many sleepless nights
thinking about this man, and tonight he was standing in front of her.
 Harvest Song 345

She could touch him if she stretched out her hand. And yet Bhadra
felt very far away from him. It was as if, unknown to everyone, an
invisible wall had been erected between them.
It was Partha who broke the silence.
‘I see that you’ve become quite a journalist,’ he said lightly. ‘Adept
at collecting information. But you didn’t know a very important piece
of news nevertheless: Kunal and Debaki are about to start a new life
together.’
Bhadra was stung. ‘I see,’ she said sharply. ‘Maybe you’ve travelled
three hundred miles to give me this news?’
The words hit Partha like a sudden whiplash. He collected himself
with an effort and said quietly, ‘No, I didn’t come here for that.’
Bhadra looked up at him. She could clearly see the lines that
stretched tautly across Partha’s face. All of a sudden, his handsome
face seemed to have become pale and strained. One part of her could
not bear to see him suffer, another part did not react at all.
‘You are making a mistake, Bhadra,’ Partha said. His voice was
steady now. ‘Try finding solid ground under your feet instead of
clinging to an idea which you know to have been a misunderstanding.’
‘If I tried blindly to find solid ground under my feet, I might step
into quicksand,’ Bhadra shot back automatically. She could hear the
bitterness in her own voice.
‘If you could trust others, Bhadra, you could perhaps find real
happiness,’ Partha said. He sounded hurt.
Bhadra looked up and rested her eyes on Partha’s.
‘I began life by trusting others,’ she said in a surprisingly steady
voice. ‘If anyone is responsible for breaking that trust, it’s you.’
Partha looked aghast. He did not have any answer to Bhadra’s
accusation, because in his heart he knew it to be true. But didn’t
Bhadra know how in these five years he had suffered for it? Wasn’t
that enough atonement for his mistake?
When Partha fell silent, Bhadra spoke. She felt surprisingly calm
now, and dispassionate.
‘I know that the past is buried under a rock. But it lives still in the
memory, doesn’t it? Whatever happens later, at least this night is
going to be a memorable night for me.’
It was very quiet outside. Frost glinted on the blades of grass; and
soft white clouds hung low on the night sky awash with pale
346 Sabitri Roy

moonlight. The strong wind that was blowing through the trees
had quietened down. A magical hush had descended on the still,
silvery world.
Partha looked up. ‘You’re wrong,’ he said quietly. ‘The past cannot
be buried forever. I’ve come with die very purpose of moving that
rock. You have heard many things about Debaki, some o f
which must be true. But I’m sure you’ve heard nothing about me
from anyone.’
Bhadra looked mutely at him.
‘It’s quite late and I don’t want to keep you,’ Partha continued.
‘But I’d like you to know that the woman Partha loved was not
Debaki. It never was.’
Bhadra was shaken. But she was still speechless. Maybe it was
easy for Partha to express himself tonight without any inhibition,
but it was not as easy for her to lay bare her heart. There were far
too many complications, far too many considerations that were
holding her back.
‘But how do you know that the basis of your trust in me is strong?
How can you be so sure of that?’ she asked finally.
Partha did not answer. He only smiled.
Tipu had gone to bed after he returned from Bhadra’s house. He
woke up after some time and saw the light still burning upstairs. He
could also hear muted voices. He knew it was considered to be
unconventional behaviour, especially for a woman, to have a
conversation with a man alone late at night. Tipu admired Bhadra’s
courage. He had sensed the special relationship that Partha and
Bhadra shared. Maybe she did not fear a scandal because love gave
her the strength to ignore it.
The church clock struck the hour. It was two o’clock in the
morning. It had started to rain. Bhadra stood up. Her eyes met
Partha’s. Immediately both of them felt the attraction that they had
tried to suppress. It was futile to pretend that the attraction did
not exist.
Bhadra controlled her riotous emotions with a tremendous effort.
‘May I go downstairs now?’ she asked. It sounded almost like
pleading.
Partha inclined his head and smiled. ‘Good night,’ he said softly.
Bhadra almost fled from the room. She rushed down the stairs
 Harvest Song 347

and into the living room. She had given up her own bed for Partha to
sleep in and had decided to use the couch for herself. But even as she
dropped down on the couch, she knew that the rest of the night was
not meant for sleep.

The next morning, Tipu and Malati joined Bhadra, Anandababu

and Partha for breakfast.
T don’t think you can leave by the morning train,’ Tipu told Partha.
‘You can’t possibly leave without visiting our exhibition,’ Malati
added.
‘Of course,’ Tipu agreed. ‘You must know that we’re not sitting
idle. Let’s go out for a while.’
‘Can you buy a few things for me from the market?’ Bhadra
requested Tipu. ‘And send them over soon, please.’
Tipu agreed and left with Partha. Malati and Tipu would be having
lunch with them. Malati helped Bhadra to cook lunch and waited
for them to return. But it was one o’clock in the afternoon when they
finally came back.
‘At last!’ Bhadra sighed.
‘Why, didn’t I send the things from the market quickly enough?’
Tipu asked innocently.
Bhadra could not help laughing. ‘All right,’ she said. ‘But don’t
blame me if I serve you a cold lunch.’
When they sat down to lunch, Tipu looked wide-eyed at the array
of bowls around his plate.
'Hm,' he said to his wife. ‘So you are trying to create an impression,
are you?’
It was Bhadra who answered for Malati. ‘Oh, I see,’ she said. ‘I
suppose women spend so much time and effort to cook for you men
simply to create an impression?’
‘There’s nothing wrong with that,’ said Tipu. ‘That is the only
way the women of our country can express themselves. It’s a way of
showing their identity, in a similar way as an artist may paint or a
writer may write.’
348 Sabitri Roy

‘That’s not true,’ Bhadra protested. ‘Women cook not because

they wish to impress men nor because it’s a way of asserting
themselves. They do it because they are naturally affectionate. It’s a
part of our culture: it’s there in our veins. I have seen my grandmother,’
Bhadra mused, ‘sieving the rice even when she was very old. She
could not see properly at that age, but she would make sure somehow
that there would not be a single stone in the rice when she was through
with it. Why would she take so much trouble? Just because she wanted
to assert herself? Or was it because she wanted you people to have a
decent meal?’
Partha was listening to the discussion. ‘But have you ever thought,’
he asked Bhadra, ‘that this “natural” motherly affection might be
exploited very easily by patriarchal society? Putting women on a
pedestal and showering them with praises for their “divine
motherliness” is actually a very effective way of keeping women
confined to the kitchen, so that they learn to look at themselves only
as the mother figure, and nothing beyond. It keeps them happy, and
slowly but surely, women forget to see themselves as individuals. The
central issue here is,’ continued Partha, ‘that women are not merely
mothers. They are daughters, lovers, Mends, artists, rebels as well. If
a woman is a mother, a man is a father too. Why should a woman’s
only identity be that of a mother, if a man isn’t defined by his identity
of a father? Given the opportunity, a mother can very well be an
artist, a scientist, or a thousand other things. But she has never been
given the opportunity. Even today, in the twentieth century, a woman’s
life is cooking and serving food to others, as it has always been. Things
have not really changed.’
Partha stopped. Everyone was listening rapdy to him.
‘You cook really well,’ he said to Malati with a smile. ‘And I’m
sure you haven’t cooked all these things merely to assert yourself.
But don’t you think women should have the right to assert their
identities?’
‘Of course,’ Malati replied. ‘But when a woman is the mistress of
a household, doesn’t she get a lot of satisfaction by taking care of
others, by looking after their needs? I think that is the best way of
expressing herself.’
Partha shook his head slowly. ‘In how many households do you
think women get this kind of satisfaction today? You don’t have to
 Harvest Song 349

look far: just think of the women who work for you. Are they happy,
or even content to be "looking after others”? I think not. Theirs is a
struggle for existence; the motivation for work is merely to survive.’
‘Well, what seems to emerge from this discussion is that if we
open the doors and windows for you, that’s a way of making sure
that we don’t get the benefit of your delicious cooking any more,’
Tipu said with a mock sigh.
The discussion thus ended with a laugh. After lunch, Tipu got
ready to leave.
‘I shall be back soon,’ he told Bhadra. ‘I hope you remember that
today is the day for our visit to the villages?’
‘Of course I remember,’ Bhadra said. ‘I only hope you return in
time to go on our rounds.’
‘Why don’t you come along with us?’ Tipu suggested to Partha.
‘You can have first-hand knowledge of the condition of the villages
hereabouts.’
Partha agreed readily. When Tipu had left, he went up to Bhadra’s
room while Bhadra stayed downstairs to tidy up the kitchen. Partha
started to turn the pages of New Light idly and stopped at the poem
written by Bhadra. It was called ‘The Song of the Captive Soldier.’
Unmindfully, Partha picked up a notebook from the table. Turning
the pages without really concentrating, he suddenly stopped. On one
of the pages, Bhadra had scrawled a single line: ‘The fulfilment of
love is not only in receiving, but in giving’ Partha picked up the pen.
‘The fulfilment of love is in creation,’ he wrote underneath. Then,
he shut the notebook and put it back where it had been.
Tipu returned quickly, as he had promised. He had collected the
free medicines they would be distributing that day. The three of them
left the house and started to walk towards the villages. As they walked
past the silent cemetery, Bhadra slowed down despite herself. Tall
deodar trees lined the road on both sides. The quiet evening air was
filled with the chirping of birds returning to their nests. The recently
installed radar towers raised their gaunt heads over the distant
marshes. On the way back Tipu accompanied them till the District
Board Road. He would have to visit a couple more villages. ‘Can’t
you stay back for another night?’ he requested Partha. ‘We would
like to have a little more time with you.’
‘I’m afraid not,’ Partha said firmly. ‘I have to leave for Paharpur
350 Sabitri Roy

tomorrow, and I have a lot of things to do in Calcutta before that.’

After Tipu left them, Bhadra and Partha started to walk towards
the railway station. Almost without conscious thought, Bhadra left
the main road and led the way through the track that skirted around
the pond. Many a time had Bhadra taken a walk along this track,
drinking in the peace and quiet of the surroundings. Tonight the
familiar walk seemed magical. Numerous pink lotuses bloomed in
the pond, casting their shadows in the still, dark waters. Beyond the
pond, vast paddy fields stretched out to the distant horizon in moon-
drenched slumber. A cool, light breeze caressed Bhadra’s cheeks as
she walked beside the man she loved. There was no one else around.
They had left the pond behind. There was a small culvert ahead.
The silvery moonlight fell on the waters beneath, lighting up their
dark and mysterious depths. Partha stopped abruptly in his tracks.
Bhadra was standing very close, her face raised to him. Partha stared
at her, mesmerised. It was as if the first woman of creation had
emerged out of the moonlit mist to stand in front of him. He had
never seen such beauty so close. Like one in a trance, Partha pulled
her close and kissed her on the lips. All those words, left unsaid for
five long years, expressed themselves in one magical instant. Bhadra
shut her eyes and forgot everything The memory of this one moment
would sustain her for the rest of her life.
After a long time, Bhadra opened her eyes and pulled away.
Wordlessly, she took off her pearl ring and put it on Partha’s finger.
‘I would like to give something in return,’ Partha whispered. He
picked an ear of ripe paddy from the field and offered it to Bhadra.
Bhadra looked up at him, startled. For a moment the words
sounded as if they were coming not from Partha but from O’Neill.
They had reached the main road again. The lights of the town
twinkled in the distance. Partha looked at his watch.
‘There isn’t enough time to return home,’ he said. ‘I shall have to
go to the station straightaway.’
‘But you didn’t have anything to eat!’ Bhadra exclaimed anxiously.
Partha smiled. ‘We can’t eat anything tonight,’ he said softly.
Bhadra blushed. In a flash, she understood what Partha was
hinting at: on their wedding night, the bride and the groom had to
observe a ritual fast. Bhadra lowered her eyes, too moved to speak.
They stopped near the church. ‘I think you should go back home
 Harvest Song 351

now/ Partha told her. ‘If Tipu has returned, you can ask him to meet
me at the station. Please give my apologies to Anandababu and
Malati: I’m sorry I couldn’t say goodbye to them.’
Bhadra looked mutely at him. She was standing in the shadows;
and yet Partha felt he knew each line of her body. His eyes travelled
to her face. Their eyes met.
‘Never lose faith in love/ he whispered, taking her hand. ‘If you
hold on to that faith you can feel close to a person even if he’s miles
away.’
Cycle rickshaws lined the road. Partha called one over. ‘I have to
catch the train to Calcutta/ he said to the driver as he climbed up.
Bhadra stood at the roadside like a statue.
‘Goodbye/ Partha said. ‘We shall meet again soon.’
The rickshaw drove away slowly towards the railway station.

After a few days of impatient waiting, Bhadra received Kunal’s letter

confirming that he had arranged for a temporary job for Bhadra at
the Aruna office. He had shifted to a two-room flat, and Bhadra could
put up with him if she did not mind. Bhadra was relieved.
Satyadarshan had married; he had been requesting Anandababu and
Bhadra to come and stay with them for a while. Anandababu was
not averse to the idea, but Bhadra was reluctant. She wished them
well, but at this stage o f her life she was wary of forming new
relationships. She wrote back to Kunal immediately, agreeing with
his proposal and requesting him to hold the job for her. She said that
she would be there in a week’s time.
Winter was approaching. Bhadra sat on the verandah darning a
couple of old socks, her back to the warm sunshine. The tall lichi
tree had begun to shed its leaves. The leaves swirled and rose in a
brown cloud as a sudden gust of wind blew through them. The young
girls next door were sweeping up the dry leaves from their courtyard.
Suddenly Bhadra felt a keen sense of loss. No one here knew Bhadra
would soon leave this familiar world forever.
The postman appeared round the comer of the road and headed
352 Sabitri Roy

for their house. He carried a letter for Bhadra. It had come from
overseas and the handwriting on the envelope was O’Neill’s.
Instantly, Bhadra’s heart leapt up. She dropped the socks and tore
the envelope open. Within the next few minutes, she finished reading
the long three-page letter that O’Neill had written from the ship
carrying him home. She thought of some of the things he had said.

‘I am returning home at last, after three years of fighting

and a year of imprisonment. I am carrying with me an
experience that is unbelievable, an experience that a soldier
alone can have. The thought occupying me now should have
been that of my mother. But, instead, surprisingly, my only
thought now is of my co-prisoners of war. If living is merely
breathing, then they are alive. But you would shudder to
know the condition they live in. Can you imagine man and
beast fighting over the same food, the food being a torn,
half-decomposed limb of a dead soldier? It’s the kind of
thing you read of in horror stories written to scare children.
But I have seen it with my own eyes. I have seen men live a
life that is worse than death. Everything else rotted away,
until man was reduced to a giant stomach. I have never seen
anything so bizarre or so utterly gruesome.’

Bhadra was unable to move, her mind in complete shock. Towards

the end of his letter, O’Neill had changed the subject.

‘Even amidst this horror I loved a woman. I could not meet

her before I left; possibly I never will again. I might love
someone else; and I might get hurt. I know that the
branches of a tree cannot remain bare forever. Come spring
there will be tell-tale signs of new life on them. The
principle of this life-giving spring is in man’s blood. That is
why, even after living through the horrors, I say that man’s
instinct is for peace and not war. Now, as I return home,
there is just one thought that occurs to me: let there be no
more bloodshed and destruction in this world. Let there be
no more war between man and man.’
 Harvest Song 353

f
Kunal and Debaki were waiting for a bus. On the other side of the
road was a big house. They could see the gravel-lined driveway inside
the gate leading up to the front door, and the sprawling green lawns
on either side of it, bordered with bright seasonal flowers.
‘If you could capture the colour of those flowers in your
photograph, then I would consider you a good photographer,’
said Debaki.
‘If you could tell me the name of the raga in which the birds
are singing up that tree, I shall consider you a good singer,’
retorted Kunal.
‘That’s easy,’ Debaki said quickly. ‘They’re singing Basanta
Manjuri.’
The bus arrived. Kunal turned to Debaki. But he was shocked to
find that within a minute Debaki’s appearance had changed
drastically. She was looking dumbstruck, as if she was completely
unaware of her surroundings, and staring petrified at a particular
spot under a tree nearby. Kunal followed her gaze. A young boy,
about five years old, was standing under the tree with a woman. The
boy was dressed in dirty, tom clothes. His face reflected an arrogance
and primitive rage quite unusual in a child of his age. The woman
did not look too amiable either. To his bewilderment, Kunal noticed
suddenly that Debaki had started to walk towards them. She did not
have eyes for anything or anyone else, and was walking as if she was
in a trance.
As she reached them, Debaki stretched out her hands towards
the child. Instantly, the woman moved the child away, throwing a
poisonous glance at Debaki.
‘Tell her,’ she said to the child waspishly, ‘Tell her, “Don’t you
dare touch me, you filthy whore!’”
The boy repeated the words immediately, without much
hesitation. Debaki stopped in her tracks as if she had been slapped,
her outstretched hands falling limp at her side.
‘You mustn’t say such things, dear,’ she cried.
354 Sabitri Roy

The woman turned her back on Debald and pulled the boy roughly
along after her.
‘Let’s go home,’ she said. ‘This is no place for you. Walk faster,
can’t you, you stupid boy!’
The boy trotted along after the woman without so much as a
backward glance. He tried to match strides with her, but lagged behind.
The woman turned back and slapped him hard across the face. The
boy did not cry. Not a single whimper escaped from him. He only
looked up with dumb, animal eyes that were frighteningly
emotionless. Then they turned a corner and disappeared into a
narrow lane.
Kunal walked up to Debaki. ‘Was that your son?’ he asked
hesitantly.
‘No!’ Debaki screamed, suddenly coming to life. ‘I don’t have a
son! I never had one!’
People walking close by turned to look at them, startled and
curious. Kunal called a taxi and bundled Debaki in. For the first few
moments, Debaki sat woodenly beside Kunal. Then, suddenly she
broke down completely. Kunal hesitated for a minute and then put
his arm around her shoulders.
‘Please calm down, Debaki,’ he said softly.
Debaki made a strong effort to pull herself together. Her body
was still racked by silent sobs. The taxi turned into Southern Avenue.
Debaki’s tears had stopped by this time. ‘It would be better if he
were dead,’ Debaki said between clenched teeth. Kunal listened
silently to her, his arm still around her shoulders. But he could not
utter a single word of consolation.
Kunal stayed up late into the night, worrying over Debaki’s
problem and smoking coundess cigarettes. Try as he might, he could
not put his mind to rest. There seemed to be no solution to it. As a
journalist, Kunal had so far seen the most obvious problems that
plagued human society, like hunger and the quest for survival. Today
he had suddenly been made aware of the other, more complicated
problems that had nothing to do with one’s physical well-being but
with one’s emotions, dilemmas that threaten to overpower one
because they have no immediate solutions.
The dawn came with a pale glow lighting up the horizon. Kunal
 Harvest Song 355

opened his door to find a letter waiting for him on the mat It was
from Bhadra, saying that she was arriving that very day. Pushing the
haunting thoughts to the back of his mind, Kunal forced himself to
make arrangements for Bhadra’s arrival. She must be made to feel
at home.
Bhadra was relieved to find that Kunal had come to receive her at
the station. On reaching the flat, she was pleasantly surprised to find
that Kunal had kept her room ready, anticipating all her needs. It
was almost as if she was back in her old flat. Delighted, Bhadra
turned to thank Kunal. She halted abruptly, though, noticing the signs
of strain and tension in Kunal’s normally cheerful face. She also
noticed that he was unnaturally quiet. He was obviously fighting
something, and as yet he was not ready to talk.
The next day Bhadra accompanied Kunal to the New Light office.
Her job was finalized. The editor of the Sunday page handed her a
book ‘We want you to finish translating this within a week,’ he said.
‘Do you think you can do that?'
‘O f course,’ Bhadra agreed immediately. The editor was
immediately impressed by her air of quiet confidence.
That night, unable to sleep, Bhadra sat at the window of her room.
Kunal was awake too, printing negatives in the next room. It was
Bhadra’s first night in Calcutta after a long time. The tall houses
loomed like giants over the quiet empty road that lay between them
like an idle serpent. The lampposts threw pools of pale yellow light
on the road at intervals, their shadows stretching out long behind
them. Cars drove past now and then, the sound of their engines
shattering the quiet of the night.
Unaccountably, the thought of O’Neill returned to Bhadra. What
was he doing now? Now that the horrors of the war were behind
him, was he writing poetry once again?
The light went out in the next room. Bhadra wrenched her
thoughts back to the present. She went to the table and settled down
with her work.
356 Sabitri Roy

A few days later, as he reached home, Kunal noticed a letter for Bhadra
in the letterbox. The address seemed to have been written with some
care. Bhadra was in the bath. Faint notes of an oft-repeated tune
emerged from behind the closed door of the bathroom. Kunal looked
thoughtfully at the letter, and then at the closed door. Then, putting
the letter on the table, he went out again.
Bhadra saw it the moment she entered the room. She recognized
Partha’s writing on the envelope instandy. A quick look told her that
Partha had not written the letter at one go, but had finished it over a
period of time. It read like a diary.
‘Bhadra, the peasant movement in this region has never been so
intense before. We are creating history. Yet, every moment, yours is
the thought that is closest to my heart.’
A few days later he had written: ‘I am on a night watch. I
desperately wish you were closer to m e’
Another entry dated a few days later, said: ‘Maybe clouds are
gathering in your mind because of my continued and relentless silence.
Perhaps there is no excuse for it. But I am confident that the clouds
will not last: winds bearing the message of rain will disperse them
soon. . .
‘Our letters now will be written in blood, they will sing the triumph
of the spirit of youth. I have not forgotten die last moments we shared
together—those moments beside the golden paddy fields—and I know
you will cherish them too in your heart.’
The last entry simply read: ‘I have never felt you so close to my
heart, Bhadra.’
Two weeks went by without any letter from Partha. Bhadra
scanned the papers everyday for any scrap of news that might tell
her about his whereabouts. But the hopelessly censored reports said
nothing. She immersed herself in work, but could not help growing
increasingly worried. The editor of Arum, however, was pleasantly
surprised to find her work done in record time.
 Harvest Song 357

The days became shorter with the approach of winter. At night the
house, wrapped in the pall of darkness, seemed to crouch like an old
woman. Lata sat in the kitchen, cooking dinner. Their cat was curled
up near the stove, enjoying the warmth of the fire. Daku sat close to
his mother, listening raptly to a fairy tale.
‘And then, the prince set out on his flying horse on a quest for his
dream princess,’ Lata was saying. ‘The princess was waiting by the
sea of milk, with her long hair undone, and the froth washing her
feet, when . . . ’
She stopped abruptly, her eyes refusing to believe it, as Sulakshan
suddenly appeared at the doorway. He came in noiselessly and sat
down on the floor, pulling Daku dose to him.
‘They have issued a warrant against you,’ Lata said as soon as
she found her voice. ‘They even came to search the house.’
‘Yes, I know,’ Sulakshan said easily. ‘Well, what happened to the
princess?’ he asked. After a while Sulakshan whispered to Lata,
making sure that Daku was out of earshot, ‘I can stay just for an
hour or so.’
The smile on Lata’s face lost its brightness. For a second she
thought her husband might be joking. She could not say a word.
A little later Sulakshan and Daku sat side by side on the kitchen
floor, having their dinner of boiled potatoes and roasted eggplant
with rice. Daku’s happiness was palpable. He looked up at his father
happily again and again, and touched Sulakshan gingerly now and
then, as if to reassure himself that his father was real. Lata averted
her eyes quickly to hide the pain which she feared was palpably
obvious.
After dinner, Sulakshan lay relaxed in bed next to Daku, as if he
had returned home after a long time to live with his family, as if he
would never leave them again. Lata was near him, in the room. He
was acutely aware of her presence, he could smell the heady fragrance
of her hair. . . and he knew that soon he would have to leave her.
Lata found a biri and brought it over to her husband.
‘Wonderful!’ Sulakshan exclaimed happily, sitting up. ‘Give me
your hand,’ he said to Lata, reaching out. ‘Let me warm it up before
I leave.’
358 Sabitri Roy

‘Leave?’ Daku sat up, alarmed. ‘Are you leaving again, Baba?’ he
asked anxiously.
Sulakshan regretted his careless words almost as soon as they
were out. ‘Ah—I’m going to meet an uncle of yours,’ he lied. ‘I’ll
come back very soon.’
Daku lay back on the bed again, but his eyes were clouded.
Sulakshan could not bear to look at Lata. He left as soon as Daku
went to sleep.
The rendezvous was at the ruins of the old temple that stood
outside the village. The temple, or rather what remained of it, leant
precariously over the water. Some dilapidated steps led down to the
river from die temple. When Sulakshan arrived, he found Rajaram
already waiting. He pointed his stout stick towards the river and said
quietly, ‘He’s coming in that boat.’
Sulakshan strained his eyes in the darkness. Sine enough, the faint
outlines of a boat could be seen approaching the shore. The darkness
lightened a little with a crescent moon rising tentatively behind the
pipal tree. A couple of foxes ran out of the temple and vanished
towards the marshes. Sulakshan inched forward and took his position
behind a tree near the steps leading to the river.
The boat slid to the bank noiselessly. A man jumped onto the
shore. Even in the pale light of the moon, the face was clearly
recognizable. It was Rajen. There was another man in the boat beside
the boatman. Rajen stood on the bank, straining his eyes towards the
dirt track that led towards the village. He was obviously waiting for
someone. After a while he began to grow restless. The boatman, who
had also come ashore, spoke in a faint whisper.
‘Babu, it seems your stuff hasn’t arrived yet,’ he said.
Rajen turned sharply towards him, detecting an unusual note of
mockery in his voice. But even as he opened his mouth to reply, he
screamed and collapsed on the ground at a sudden blow from
Rajaram’s stick. Immediately, the man waiting in the boat jumped
down and began to run towards Rajaram. Sulakshan shot out from
behind the tree and grasped the man’s hand just before the knife struck
Within a minute the man realized that he was in the power of a
trained ju-jitsu master. He surrendered immediately.
‘Forgive me,’ he whined. ‘We’ll never do it again.’
 Harvest Song 359

Rajaiam advanced menacingly, brandishing his stick. ‘We shall

make sure that you will never be able to do it again for as long as you
live, you scoundrel!’ he said, and brought his stick down on the
man’s head.
Sulakshan signalled to the boatman to sail away.

Lata could not sleep. Every time she shut her eyes Sulakshan’s face
appeared before her. Living with the constant tension and coping
with his continued absence was becoming too much for her. Lying
awake, she felt restless and tense. Even the winter night seemed to be
getting warm. She got up and splashed some water on her face and
neck, wandered to the window and opened it to let in some air. As
soon as she did, she heard a voice.
‘Who is it?' she whispered, alarmed.
‘Open the door, Lata,’ Sulakshan said urgently
Lata opened the door and he rushed in. She smothered a scream:
there was a deep gash on Sulakshan’s cheek. Blood was still oozing
from it. ‘Shhhh, don’t ask me anything,’ he said, holding his
handkerchief tight over the gash to control the bleeding. ‘Just get the
iodine and some cotton.’
Lata cleaned the wound as best she could and applied antiseptic
on it. Her mind was numb. She had never seen Sulakshan so agitated.
As she wound the bandage with trembling hands, he said, ‘I came
back only to get the wound dressed. I hadn’t realized it was such a
deep cut.’
Lata finished winding the bandage. Sulakshan shot a glance at
her white face. His eyes moved to Daku, sleeping peacefully under
the mosquito net. He tore his eyes away.
‘I’m leaving, Lata,’ he said. ‘Be strong. Remember that you have
chosen me for a husband. If you’re weak you won’t be able to survive.’
The next moment, Sulakshan was gone. Lata stood motionless at
the door, staring over the dark fields looking sinister in the pale
moonlight. There was no sign of him. It was as if he had appeared
360 Sabitri Roy

from nowhere and vanished into the darkness like a phantom. Lata
repeated his last words like a chant to herself: ‘If you’re weak you
won’t be able to survive.’ Lata knew from her experience how true it
was. But she could not check her tears.

It was a foggy morning. The sun peeped in tentatively from behind a

thick curtain of fog. The farmers were busy preparing the fields for
die new season. At this time of the year wild moths built nests in the
fields. The farmers set fire to the stumps of the paddy plants and the
moths flew out in droves. Smoke billowed out from the burning
stumps and moths dropped dead even as they tried to escape the fire.
Gajen watered the tobacco plants in his field. He looked up
suddenly at the sound of an aeroplane flying rather low. Even as he
raised his head a bundle dropped from the plane and white leaflets
were scattered all over the fields. The farmers stopped their work in
wonder. They could not read the leaflets but they tied them up in
their dhotis nevertheless. Soon, Ghanashyam’s brother came along.
He was taking their cows to pasture. Gajen called him over.
‘Can you read this to us?’ he asked the boy.
The boy took the leaflet from Gajen and read out haltingly, ‘The
communists are your enemies. They are dangerous. Do not bring
danger to yourselves by giving them shelter.’
Mutely, the farmers went back to work, uncertainty and fear writ
large on their faces. Thousands of charred moths lay scattered all
around. The fields would be ready now for sowing, yet a new
uncertainty clouded the minds of the farmers. They looked towards
the bundles of ripe paddy stacked in their courtyards in the distance.
Would they be able to save the harvest?
Saraswati pulled at the beanstalk with a hook and brought down
a few more beans.
‘That should be enough for today,’ she said to Sankhaman’s son
who was holding a basket for her. ‘We shall pick the rest on the next
market day.’
She went inside the house and took out a small note from where
 Harvest Song 361

she had hidden it under her pillow. She did not know what was written
on the paper but she knew that it was a secret, and her heart pounded
wildly as she hid it in the bottom of the basket, arranging the beans,
peas and bundles of greens carefully on top. Saraswati, Rasumoni
and Agendra’s mother left for the market with their baskets of garden
produce. The market was bustling by the time they reached it.
Saraswati looked carefully around. Nearby, a young Hajong man
stood apparently buying rice from an old man. Saraswati made her
way through the crowd and sat down beside the old man.
‘I’ve got some beans,’ she said to the young man. ‘Freshly picked.’
The young man paused and look at her sharply. ‘Let me see,’ he
said. 'IH choose some myself.’
Unusually, the young man wore a full-sleeved shirt like the
townsfolk. He squatted in front of Saraswati’s basket and started to
dig into the heap of beans, apparendy choosing the fresh ones. The
next instant, the note hidden in the bottom of the basket disappeared
into his sleeve.
‘How much are the spring onions?’ asked a man, approaching
Saraswati. Immediately, the Hajong youth rose- quickly and
disappeared into the crowd.
Before evening Saraswati and Rasumoni sold off everything they
had brought to the market. As they returned home, they met young
women from neighbouring villages. The sun was setting behind the
mahua trees. The bright red of die sindoor on Saraswati’s forehead
seemed to reflect the last rays of the sun itself. She looked radiant.
The women smiled and nudged each other, pointing at her. Saraswati
blushed a deep red. She knew what they were hinting at. At the
crossroads they said goodbye to each other, and Saraswati and
Rasumoni turned towards home. x

The jeep stopped at the crossroads. The policemen, followed by an

English sergeant, jumped down from the jeep even before it had come
to a halt. They headed straight for Sarathi’s house. The sergeant
entered the courtyard with a constable, while the rest of the force
362 Sabitri Ray

surrounded the house on all sides.

‘Where is Sarathi?’ barked the sergeant without preamble.
The house was completely silent. A goat tethered to a pole in the
courtyard looked up lazily from its feed and then went back to
chomping grass.
‘Anyone at home?’ shouted the sergeant, kicking hard at the fence.
Sarathi’s mother appeared, looking frightened and bewildered.
‘Sarathi isn’t here,’ she faltered.
The sergeant turned to the constables. ‘Search the house,’ he
ordered.
They descended on the house like a pack of wolves. The old
woman watched helplessly as utensils, bedding, furniture, even the
children’s toys, were thrown mercilessly out into the courtyard. It
was soon obvious that Sarathi was not to be found in the house. Like
a baffled hunter, the sergeant raged about the courtyard. ‘Set fire to
the house,’ he ordered finally, between clenched teeth. The constables
did not lose any time setting fire to the thatched roof. Within a few
minutes it spread to the whole house. The policemen left after making
sure that the fire was beyond control. Sarathi’s mother stood in the
courtyard, speechless with horror, as in front of her eyes the young
beanstalk on the roof shrivelled up and burned.
Suddenly the old woman came to life and started to run towards
the burning house, screaming. The neighbours who had gathered
around and had been mute spectators so far were galvanized into
action. Some rushed to restrain the old woman and some ran to get
buckets of water to pour on the houses next to Sarathi’s, in order to
stop the fire from spreading. It was obvious to everyone that Sarathi’s
house could not be salvaged. Amid the people running helter-skelter
and the crackling of the fiercely burning fire, Saraswati and Rasumoni
stepped into the courtyard and stared disbelievingly at what used to
be their home.
A couple of hours later Saraswati sat in the courtyard staring at
the ruins of the house. The fire had died down. Black smoke rose in
thin spirals from the charred remains. Sarathi’s mother crouched in
a corner, wailing and cursing in a monotonous voice.
‘Who did this?’ Saraswati asked. ‘The zamindar’s men?’
‘Kartik would never dare touch Sarathi’s house,’ replied her
 363

mother-in-law. ‘It was the military. They came in a jeep, sprayed

something on the house and threw a match. It was over in a minute.
How could anyone do this to us?’ she wailed. ‘Why, at this age, did I
have to see this happen to us?’
Saraswati was beyond reacting to the old woman’s curses and
wails. Her shocked eyes took in the black smoke, the heaps of ashes,
the charred household things lying scattered in the courtyard. It was
only a few days ago that Sarathi had thatched the roof. The mud
walls, blackened and crumbling, still showed traces of paint on them:
here a deer, there a baby elephant, somewhere else a snake . . . The
earthen tortoise Saraswati had made for Sankhaman's child was lying
upturned on a heap of ashes.
Suddenly, like a snake striking, Saraswati shot to her feet. Under
cover of darkness, she left the house and made her way through the
paddy fields towards the hillock four miles away.

The strong smell of cooking dried fish permeated the courtyard.

Saraswati had just finished cooking. She heaped rice on a lotus leaf
and emptied the bowl of fish curry on top of the rice. Then she
wrapped it up carefully in a cloth and started out. It was quite late
and she had to go a long way.
Partha and his comrades were having a meeting at the house of
an old woman. He looked up with a smile as Saraswati arrived with
the food.
‘You’re late,’ he said mischievously. ‘I thought we’d have to return
from Paharpur without lunch.’
Saraswati smiled and served rice to everyone. ‘How’s Ma?’ Partha
asked about Saraswati’s mother-in-law
‘It’ll be a long time before she dies,’ replied Saraswati.
Partha laughed. He admired the native coinage that women like
Saraswati displayed. It was remarkable how she remained so positive
even after the police had burnt their house down. Partha looked at
her as she stood near them, her body beginning to show the signs of
364 Sabitri Roy

impending motherhood, her face serene and beautiful in its happiness.

‘We can talk later,* said Saraswati, serving him. ‘You should have
your lunch first.’
‘Sarathi is going to come one of these days, sometime very soon,’
Partha said softly. ‘He has promised to come during the night and
hdp you build the house again *
Saraswati glowed with pleasure.

The first thing Saraswati did on returning home was to uproot the
burnt beanstalk and throw it away. Then she took a couple of pumpkin
seeds and planted them next to the blackened fence. When Sarathi
came and built the new house, the pumpkin plant would climb on
the thatched roof. She squatted to mend the broken fence. Her eyes
roved over the crossroads, keeping watch. She could see Partha’s
small hut in the distance from where she sat. It looked dilapidated;
no one lived there now. Saraswati smiled to herself. There had been
some talk in the village recently that Parthababu would be getting
married soon. It was a strange but happy thought If Parthababu
returned to his hut to live with his wife, she would take care of it for
them, Saraswati decided.
Suddenly, Saraswati’s eyes narrowed. Kartik was walking towards
the Sribari office. He moved stealthily, and looked nervously around
now and then. At the same time, a military van drove quietly down
the road and came to a stop behind the office. Saraswati’s body tensed.
Something was definitely afoot. She tried to discern the movements
of men in the office courtyard, but it was too far for her to be sure.
Had they come to know somehow that Parthababu was in the village?
Would they arrest him? She had to take the news to Parthababu and
his comrades that they were in danger. Leaving her work, she ran
quickly towards the house where Partha was holding the meeting.
Sarathi’s mother returned home with a neem branch. She had
already collected some mango leaves. Neem and mango leaves were
supposed to prevent pests. They had had a good harvest this year.
The last thing they wanted now was the problem of pests.
 Harvest Song 365

‘I’ve got some mango and neem leaves,’ she told her elder
daughter-in-law. ‘Why don't you sprinkle them on the paddy?’
‘We haven’t even finished threshing the paddy,’ snapped
Rasumoni, ‘and here you are, talking about mango and neem leaves!
There’s no man in the house and the zamindar’s men might raid the
house any day for the paddy. I ask you, is this the time to talk about
trifles like this?’
The old woman suddenly felt an aching longing for her sons.
Sarathi and Sankhaman—she had not seen them for such a long
time! She looked compassionately at her daughter-in-law.
‘I’ve talked to Ghanashyam,’she said. ‘He will come over tonight
with his bullocks to help us thresh our paddy. Maybe this year—’
She could not finish. A sudden scream made her turn sharply
towards the fields and then she froze. Two men were dragging a
screaming Saraswati by the hair through the fields. They were beatmg
her mercilessly.
‘Oh, my God!’ the old woman gasped and, picking up a sickle,
ran screaming towards the fields. Rasumoni ran to tell Ghanashyam
and seek help. Within a few minutes die whole locality was alerted.
The house where Partha was holding his meeting was close to
Ghanashyam’s house.
‘Are they beating up someone?’ Partha asked anxiously, catching
fragments of the screams. He came out on the verandah to check
and saw it himself. The men still held Saraswati by the hair and were
dragging her along the fields full of stubble. The young men of the
village had got the news by this time and they now ran towards the
two men wielding sticks. Partha felt a sudden rush of insane anger in
his veins and, snatching a stick from a young man, jumped down
into the fields, raining blows on the two men. The men, suddenly
finding themselves outnumbered, dropped Saraswati and started to
run towards the zamindar’s office.
Saraswati was unconscious.
‘Take her home,’ Partha told one of the young men who had
followed him.
Without warning there were gunshots. Before anyone could
discern from where they came, someone screamed. Before Partha’s
disbelieving eyes, Sarathi’s mother collapsed on the ground. A
shooting pain in his own shoulder made him aware that he had also
366 Sabitri Roy

been shot. He looked at his shoulder: the shirt was soaked with blood.
‘On the ground! Everyone, on the ground!' Partha commanded
urgently. He realized in a flash that the military had been called out.
These must be the soldiers of the Eastern Frontier Rifles. Even as
Partha and his comrades lay prone on the ground, three rounds of
rapid firing followed, with bullets hissing over their heads.
At last the firing stopped. Partha and the young men of the village
brought Sarathi’s mother home. The old woman looked curiously
tiny and frail in death. Still in shock, the women gathered around
the body in Sarathi’s courtyard. The little neem branch that Sarathi’s
mother had brought back home this afternoon lay pathetically
in a corner.
In the next house, Partha’s wound was being treated. Women
tore off pieces from a dhoti to soak the blood, but the wound was
still bleeding profusely and the bullet was embedded in the flesh. ‘He
needs an operation,’ said the village pharmacist helplessly. ‘The bullet
should be taken out immediately.’ He looked nervously around, and
dabbed at the wound with an ineffectual wad of cotton which was
immediately soaked with blood.
By this time people from the whole locality had assembled in the
house. Partha looked at the tense faces all around him—old faces,
young faces, faces full of love and concern—and a smile lit up his
eyes. There was no sign of pain there. He only looked weary, as if he
would fall asleep soon.
Ghanashyam and his brother were making a makeshift stretcher
outside. Ghanashyam’s brother noticed how Ghanashyam’s hands
trembled. Everyone was acutely conscious of the fact that time was
running out.
Suddenly a horn sounded in the forest bordering the village. It
was a code: the news would reach all the villages in the area within
the next few hours. Partha’s eyes opened wide at the first sound. His
body stiffened and then relaxed as the answering echoes reached him
from the distant hillocks. A faint smile touched his lips. Blood oozed
out of the wound in his shoulder.
Even before the evening, thousands of men belonging to the
Hajong, Garo, Dalu, Koch and Banai tribes came down from the
hills towards the village. Each man was carrying some kind of
weapon. Through the darkening sal forests descended the armed men
 367

like a river in spate, lighting up the gloom with their countless torches.
The military deployed in the area were curious at first, then anxious,
and, finally, frightened. As the echoing sound of the drums came
nearer and nearer, the soldiers clearly understood that they would be
hopelessly outnumbered. Their superior officers reviewed the situation
and ordered them to retreat.
Within a few minutes the leader of the tribal army reached the
riverbank with his followers. He was a figure tall and erect, his eyes
burning with courage and resolve. It was Sulakshan.

f
Bhadra was checking proofs at the table they had given her at the
Aruna office. At the next table the reporters had been having leisurely
cups of tea until a few minutes ago. Kunal had been there too, but he
had gone out when the tea party had broken up. He had forgotten
his bag, though. It was lying on Bhadra’s table. Bhadra looked out of
the window. The sky was a nondescript grey. A sudden gust of cold
wind rushed into the room. She shivered.
The news editor took a paper from the teleprinter and scanned
it casually.
‘The Tebhaga movement has become quite fierce in the Hajong
tribal belt, you know,’ he said to a colleague. ‘The peasants seemed
to be putting up a tough fight.’
Bhadra felt very proud just to hear that. She was part of the
movement now. She tried desperately to concentrate in her work, but
every time she lowered her eyes to the proof sheet she seemed to
hear Partha’s voice calling her name. She did not know why he
returned to her thoughts so persistently today.
The news editor took another sheet of paper from the teleprinter.
‘They’re gunning the Hajongs down,’ he said, reading from the paper.
‘Seventeen of them have been injured, and . . . ’
He stopped suddenly. ‘A peasant leader has been shot dead,’ he
said after a pause.
‘Shot dead?’ Jyotirmoy asked anxiously, leaving his table and
walking over to the editor. ‘Who is it?’ he asked.
368 Sabitri Roy

‘Partha Das,’ said the editor.

Bhadra stared at the faces in front of her—blank, shocked faces
that refused to give her any hope that the words she had heard a few
minutes ago were false. She felt light and insubstantial, as if there
was no solid ground under her feet. She clutched the table hard and
with a superhuman effort forced back the scream that rose to her
throat from the pit of her stomach. Then, fighting the darkness that
threatened to descend before her eyes, she rose from her table and
walked out of the room before anyone noticed her.
Kunal returned to the office a little later. His bag was lying on
Bhadra’s table but Bhadra was nowhere to be seen. Strangely, her
bag and pen were also there, as if she had left suddenly.
'Has Bhadradi gone out somewhere?’ Kunal asked Jyotirmoy.
Jyotirmoy stared at Kunal, his face drained of colour. ‘Bhadra?’
he repeated uncertainly, trying to force his mind back to mundane
matters. ‘She must have, I suppose. She certainly didn’t say anything
before she left. Strange, though—she was supposed to finish checking
the proof today.’
Kunal was trying to make sense of the mystery when Jyotirmoy
spoke again. ‘You haven’t heard the news, have you?’he asked. ‘Partha
has been shot dead.’
Kunal stared stupidly at Jyotirmoy; unable to believe the words
he had just heard. In an instant, the meaning of Bhadra’s absence
became clear. He picked up Bhadra’s bag, pen and the proof sheets
and left the office.

Bhadra was lying on the bed in the dark. Kunal switched on the
light. She was dry eyed but she looked as if all the blood had drained
from her face.
‘Bhadradi,’ he called softly.
She sat up. ‘Kunal,’ she said. Her voice sounded unreal, as if it
was coming from very far. ‘Do you remember, Kunal, I told you
once that if I had anything to reveal about my life, you would be the
first one to know?’ Bhadra asked. ‘Well, this is the day. It’s time.’
 Harvest Song 369

It seemed to Kunal as if Bhadra was dredging up the words from

the depths o f her consciousness. Kunal had never in his life seen
such naked, raw grief. He stood there watching helplessly as she
hugged herself tightly, fiercely fighting the darkness that threatened
to engulf her. She tried to speak but not a sound emerged from the
pale cracked lips. Instead, her body seemed to be crumbling under
the physical weight of grief.
‘Bhadradi,’ Kunal said, coming over to the bed and resting his
hand cm her shoulder. 'The world will never tolerate such injustice. I
tell you, it shall not be so.’
Kunal had never felt so close to tears.

Debaki was in her kitchen garden watering the plants when

Dinabandhu returned from Juran’s shop with the day’s paper. One
look at her father's face and Debaki realized something untoward
had happened.
'What’s wrong, Baba?’ she asked anxiously.
‘Partha has been shot dead,’ Dinabandhu said tonelessly, handing
her the paper.
‘No!’ the exclamation was tom out of Debaki’s throat. She
scanned the paper quickly, still in shock. As the printed words stared
back at her remorselessly, there was no room for doubt left in her
mind. Debaki dropped slowly down on the floor. That was how Kunal
discovered her in the afternoon when he came over to see her. She
was still sitting at the doorway, looking completely devastated.
The rebels have issued a public appeal for donated blood for their
injured comrades,’Kunal said. ‘Many of us are going to donate blood
today. I just thought I’d look in on you before . . . ’ his voice trailed
off helplessly as Debaki continued to stare blankly at him. ‘Well,’
Kunal said again, ‘I should be off really, I have a lot to do.’
Kunal was to leave for the Hajong belt that very day with the
medical volunteer cote. He turned to go.
'Please wait a minute,’ Debaki called. Kunal turned to find her
on her feet. ‘I’m coming with you,’ she said.
‘Coming with me?’ repeated Kunal, without comprehending.
370 Sabitri Roy

‘To donate blood,’ said Debaki.

In silence the two of them walked side by side down the narrow
road. In silence they climbed into a bus and reached the hospital. A
sepulchral silence pervaded the entire hospital today. Everyone
seemed to be in mourning.
Without a word, Debaki joined the queue. She was directed to a
bed against the wall and the doctor approached her soon. The syringe
pierced her vein, drawing blood into a tube. Debaki stared mesmerized
at the tube as it filled slowly with her blood. It had a kind of symbolic
significance for her—as if her blood flowed directly into Partha’s
body, giving him eternal life.
‘They have shed your blood, Parthada,’ she pledged silently, ‘but
I’ll give double that for your comrades.’
Long afterwards, Kunal came in to find Debaki standing near the
table. The doctor had left, so had most of the donors. He walked up
to her and touched her lightly on the shoulder.
‘Go home, Debaki,’ he said softly. ‘You have a lot of work left

Debaki looked up at Kunal, her eyes misty with tears.

‘Even if a thousand police sergeants fire their machine guns, they
won’t be able to obliterate men like your Parthada,’ Kunal said. ‘The
Parthas of this world can never die.’

A year had passed by. It was the harvest season again. The light
autumn breeze played once more in the golden fields. The ears of
corn, heavy and ripe, leant over the clear waters of the river,
undulating in the breeze. The thin sand banks surfaced again along
the Someswari, white cranes alighted on them as they had always
done.
Bhadra stood on the edge o f the fields, looking out towards the
golden horizon. Against the horizon a scarlet wave materialized, then
surged slowly up towards her. It was a sea of people, mostly women,
carrying scarlet flags. They arrived soon where Bhadra waited for
them, under a similar red flag hoisted on a pole on the riveibank.
 Harvest Song 371

This was the place where die meeting was to take place.
The weather-beaten faces looked up hopefully at Bhadra. In the
front row was Saraswati, with her infant son strapped to her back.
Bhadra’s gaze moved on and halted abruptly as it rested on the face
of an old woman. It was a face frozen with grief. It was the face of
Partha’s mother. Unable to bear the fathomless stare, Bhadra looked
quickly away.
‘I am here to speak to each of you today/ Bhadra began. ‘All of
you are mothers, wives, sisters. It is time you came forward to avenge
the wrong that has been done to you. Do not forgive those that are
responsible for devastating your lives, for destroying your children’s
future. Come forward and stand beside your men. The hands that
have rocked the cradle will now pick up spears. It is time.’
Bhadra’s voice, deep and resonant, travelled over the calm waters
of the river and the golden fields towards the dark line of the
distant forests. The women listened spellbound, mesmerized by
Bhadra’s words.
She left the meeting with Sarathi when her speech was over. They
were headed for the next village. The muddy track they followed led
through bramble and nettle bushes, skirting swamps and ditches,
brushing past ruined temples full of scorpions. Bhadra wore an old
brown sari draped like a peasant woman and walked barefoot. With
her hair tied in a tight bun behind her head, her face looked tanned
and unrecognizable among the scores of other native women. It would
fool their enemies, Bhadra knew. But it was a change more
fundamental than that. Anyone who saw Bhadra nowadays realized
that she had transformed beyond recognition. She seemed to be
burning with an inner fire, streaking towards some distant destination
at a meteoric pace. Even Sarathi, used to the rough life, could not
keep up with her.
Suddenly, she felt a sharp pain in her foot. They stopped and
Sarathi cleaned the mud off her foot. There was a deep gash there,
obviously caused by a sliver of glass or a broken shell. The wound
was bleeding heavily.
‘Wait here,’ Sarathi said. ‘I’ll get some herbs.’
Within minutes he was back with some medicinal herbs. He
extracted the juice from them and applied it on the wound, tying it
up with a piece of cloth from Bhadra’s sari. While he was still bending
372 Sabitri Roy

over her foot, he spoke suddenly. ‘I’ve heard about you from
Parthada,’ he said softly. ‘He told me everything.’
Bhadra was startled. Told me everything!’ It was as if the three
simple words summed up an unfinished chapter in her life. They
started to walk, emerging from the muddy track on to the fields again.
There was a curiously companionable silence between diem. Bhadra
shot a glance at Sarathi—her comrade in this war. The face that was
stem and grave in its commitment suddenly looked softer in a deep
sympathy and understanding. Bhadra felt a new surge of confidence.
She would hold on to her dream, she would help build a new world—
a world that would be as lively, as beautiful and innocent as the son
of Sulakshan and Lata. She felt completely at home here, amidst this
sea of golden paddy fields. In each ear of ripe rice Partha had left his
love. . .
Yet, every night, Bhadra would wake up feeling suffocated. From
her thin straw mattress in her mud hut, she would look up at the
night sky. Sometimes she would see the bright moon of the fourteenth
day, sometimes the slim crescent of the second. The tall tree that
hung its branches over the river seemed lit from within by the fire o f
someone’s eyes. At such times, a familiar voice would waft to Bhadra
on the moonbeams from the distant forests, whispering, ‘The
fulfilment of love is in creation.’ With that whisper also returned the
burning memory of a touch—and Bhadra shut her eyes and hugged
herself to hold on fiercely to that memory, to the pain that was hers,
and hers alone.
Slowly, very slowly, the pain spread through her body and
dissolved in her blood. On the river, a boat sailed to its destination,
the boatman singing a haunting tune. Bhadra lay sleepless with the
whisper of the breeze and the boatman's distant song in her ears,
looking out to the sinking moon. The boat sailed on with the tide.
 373

Glossary

ambabachi 7-9 Ashar, or the equivalent three days in late June,

the summer solstice, when upper caste widows do
not cook but eat fruit or other uncooked foods.
batasa a small sugary disc.
brata rituals performed by women who take a vow for
the fulfilment of a particular desire that requires
fasting and steadfast observance.
cbbatak about half an ounce weight.
babisbyi vegetarian kitchen.
Jyaistha mid-May to mid-June.
Kartik mid-November to mid-December.
kboi fried paddy grains that turn light and white.
korta head of the family
mahashai/masbai Sir; as suffix, sign of respect.
maund 80 pounds or approx 37 kg.
moa a ball-shaped sweet made of puffed rice and
molasses.
murki a sweet made of khoi and molasses.
poa approx 8 ounces weight.
Paush mid-December to mid-January
Sbravan mid-July to mid-August,
seer 2 pounds weight.
Sabitri Roy's trilogy, P a k a D h a n e r G a n . translated for the
first time into English, provides an epic panoram a o f rural
Bengal o f the late 1930s and the 1940s, encom passing the
freedom m ovem ent, war. and the Tebhaga m ovem ent, the
peasants' uprising against unjust 'taxes' by the zam indars or
landlords. Spanning generations, this story show s how the
struggle changed rural Bengal. The peasants and their
leaders took ideas o f equality into the fields, som etim es
paying with their lives. While focusing on a m om entous
social revolt. Roy also writes o f young w om en and men,
struggling for personal freedom , o f trying to take decisions
on their ow n lives, free from the bonds o f an oppressive
social hierarchy, o f wrestling w ith com m itm ent and the
search for personal fulfilment.

Tanika Sarkar provides an incisive foreword that places the

novel within its tum ultuous historical context.

Sabitri Roy w as a sym pathizer but not a m em ber o f the

C om m unist Party, which censored her novel, S w a r a li p i.
She w rote m any novels and short stories, all focusing on
the political and social issues o f her time.

C handrim a Bhattacharya is a journalist; Adrita Mukherjee

is a writer, based in N ew Zealand.

C over design Risili Barua ISBN 81-85604-50-9

C over printing Roman Printers Rs 350.00