India: A Bengali story in translation

Translated by Arunava Sinha

A small market had sprung up where the asphalt highway turned to the left. The village stood behind it, hidden from view by a dense bamboo grove. The village had no electricity, but the market did. There were three tea-shops, two for sweetmeats, three for garments, one stationery store and two groceries. There was a godown, too, and a husking machine, besides a brick kiln at the back. People came from nearby villages. There was always a hubbub here till about nine at night, when the market emptied out. Only some lights kept burning thereafter. Even the hooting of the owl in the banyan tree standing at the bend in the highway seemed part of the silence.

A bone-chilling wind blew in constantly and a light rain set in. The cold was always extreme, and now the rain made it sharper. The paddy had not yet been harvested in the distant fields, and the untimely deluge could harm the crops greatly. This put the people in a bad mood. Congregating at one of the tea-shops, the farmers waited for a day with sunshine and cursed the gods of their respective religions. Eventually a furious young cultivator declared at the top of his voice, “There’s no one up there looking after us, damn it, no one.”

Since there was no one up there, everyone could do as they pleased. Rising tempers led to arguments, taking things to the brink of a fight. No specific subject was needed—anything would do. No one knew how to pass their time at home during this unseasonal, inclement weather. Everyone gathered at a small fire of civilised life to warm their feet. To dispel the boredom, discussions ranged around various themes, from film stars and popular singers to the prime minister, chief minister and legislators—or Shawra Bauri’s daughter, who had got herself a lover from the city. Hot words were exchanged, and sales rose at the tea-shop.

Suddenly an old doddering, hunchbacked beggar woman appeared from nowhere. A headful of white hair, dressed in a torn, dirty sari, with an equally filthy blanket wrapped round herself. She had a short stout stick, with the help of which she walked up the asphalt highway. Her wizened, withered face held clear signs of having lived a long time. Entering the shop in the midst of a heated argument, she asked for a cup of tea. The argument stopped when the participants saw her. They were astonished that she had survived a long walk through this terrible weather.

Drinking her tea with great enjoyment, the old woman looked around at everyone, though she didn’t speak. “Where did you come from, old woman?” someone asked.

She was bad-tempered. “What business is it of yours?” she snapped back.

Everyone laughed. “Listen to her, so fiery! A spirited horse out for a trot in the rain.”

She was furious now. “Your father is a horse. Don’t you dare say these things to me. What business is it of anyone’s where I’m coming from?”

One of the cool-headed people said, “They’re asking where you live, old woman.”

“In your heads.”

Retrieving some money wrapped in a rag from beneath her blanket, she paid for her tea and stepped out on the road again.

“She’s going to die,” people shouted, “the old woman will die.”

“All of you can die, your entire families can die,” she said, wheeling round.

Everyone watched as she tottered off towards the banyan tree standing at the bend in the road. The old woman sat down on a thick root. She was clearly an experienced woman, someone who lived amid trees.

Some people said, “If only she had gone to the village instead. She’s bound to die any time.” This led to speculation about the old woman. Everyone joined in animatedly.

There was an old saying in the village about weather like this.

Seven days on Saturday, five days on Tuesday, three days if it comes on a Wednesday. On all other days it won’t last long, beyond a single day.

This time the rain had begun on a Tuesday, and while no one had calculated how long it took to clear, when it did the sky turned blue and the sun shone brightly. And the old woman was discovered lying on her back beneath the banyan tree with her back to the pitted trunk. Inert.

When she didn’t move even after several hours, Joga the tea-seller said, “Must be dead.”

“This means trouble,” said someone. “Those animals will tear her body apart, the stench will be horrible.”

The crowd grew in ones and twos. Someone touched her forehead—it was ice-cold. Someone else checked her pulse. Dead, therefore.

The chowkidaar in the village, the sole representative of the administration, was told. “What’s the use of informing the police station?” he said. “A beggar has died in the faanpi, why do the police need to be involved? They’re ten miles away, it will be midnight by the time they arrive. The body will start rotting. Who knows when she died, don’t you see how swollen the body is?”

“What should we do then?”

“Throw her into the river. The currents will take care of it.”

The experienced chowkidaar’s advice was heeded. The river was two miles away, on the other side of the large field. It was dry now. Some people picked up the corpse and left it on the riverbed. The old woman’s body lay stiff on the hot sand in the bright sunshine.

After their return everyone trained their eyes on the horizon in anticipation of vultures.

A strange sight was seen that afternoon. A body was being carried across the field, dangling from a horizontally held bamboo pole by its arms and legs. The details became clear when it reached the market. The Muslims of the area had picked the old woman’s corpse up from the riverbed. They were chanting in Arabic, and some of them had caps on.

Those who had dumped the body were Hindus. Both surprised and angry, they asked what was going on.

“She was Muslim.”

“Where’s the proof?”

“‘Plenty of proof. Many people heard her say Bismillah.”

The local Islamic priest proffered evidence. “She was dying when I passed this way to take the bus after the dawn prayer. I clearly heard her recite the Kalima. When I returned I heard she had been left on the riverbed. The lord forgive me, how can this be allowed while we’re alive? So we have made arrangements to bury her in a grave.”

Bhattacharya, the local priest, had just got off the bus. Sizing up the situation, he said, “Impossible! I went to the town on the same bus as maulvi, does he think I’m deaf? I clearly heard the old woman chanting Hari’s name.”

Several of the others supported his claim. Nakri the barber swore, “I was at the spot yesterday to shave my customers, but I realised my place beneath the tree was taken. That was when I heard the old woman clearly recite our gods’ names.”

“You heard wrong,” said Fazlu Sheikh. “I distinctly heard her say la ilaha illa.”

Nibaran Bagdi was prone to anger; he used to be a highway robber earlier. “Lies!” he shouted.

Karim Farazi was regular with saying the Namazand considered himself a servant of the lord these days. “Don’t you dare!” he screamed back.

The dispute became more intense. There were arguments back and forth, raised voices, mounting tension. Then two groups of people began tugging at the body attached to the bamboo pole. Things grew heated in no time, the shops began to close their doors, and soon a large number of people were running up from the village, armed with lethal weapons.

The body was lying on the asphalt now. Two distinct groups had been formed on either side, both armed. They were hurling invectives at one another. “My Muslim brothers!” the Muslim priest shouted at regular intervals. “Jihad! Jihad! Nara e takbeer, Allah hu akbar!”

Meanwhile, Bhattacharya screamed, “Jai Ma Kali! Help up slay the infidels, O goddess! Jai Ma Kali!”

Roars and counter-roars rent the skies, while the blue-uniformed chowkidaar, hapless keeper of the law, stood in the middle with his stick upraised, trying to talk to both sides. Whenever either group surged forward he knocked on the ground threateningly with his stick, crying, “Don’t you dare!”

But there was no telling how long he would be able to keep the belligerent mobs apart. He began to knock on the ground madly with his stick, first on one side and then on the other. There was a fusillade of sounds.

And then a strange scene unfolded. The body was not only moving, but also trying to sit up. The armed groups on either side stared in disbelief. The chowkidaar gaped.

The old woman sat up. She looked to left and right, and saw that mobs had gathered on both sides. A sly grin appeared on her wizened, withered face.

Finally the chowkidaar spoke. “So you aren’t dead!”

“You can die, along with your entire family.”

“Are you a Hindu or a Muslim, old woman?”

Losing her temper, the old woman said, “Are all you idiots blind? Can’t you see for yourself? Can’t you see what I am, you demons from hell, you vulture-eyed creatures? I’ll gouge your eyes out—shove off from here, all of you.”

She continued tottering along the road. The crowd parted to make way for her. The further she went, the more indistinct she became in the late-afternoon sunlight.

Selected by Mini Krishnan

Reproduced courtesy of Penguin Random House

Illustrations by Siddharth Sengupta