by Shona Patel
Kanai spit on the ground. “She must be badly cursed, then.”
“That is not true,” retorted Biren indignantly. He flung his stick in a wide arc across the riverbed. “My baba says only ignorant people believe in curses and bad luck.”
“Just listen to this pooty fish and his big-big talk!” scoffed a diminutive fisherman nicknamed Chickpea.
“Your father is a good man, mia, but too much education is his undoing,” said Dadu, the old fisherman. “Education leads a man astray. He becomes bewildered and loses touch with his roots.”
Kanai took a deep pull of his bidi and waggled his foot. “Because your father works with the belaytis in the jute mill he has too much big-big ideas.” He turned to the others. “Do you know his father tried to tell me the earth is round? I told him I have rowed all the rivers, but I haven’t fallen off the edge yet, have I?”
The others laughed.
Of course the earth is round, Biren thought indignantly. But he did not know how to convince the fishermen.
Tilok, the tea shop man, stuck his head out of the shack and banged a spoon on his brass kettle. “Who wants more tea?” he shouted. “Today is the last day for free tea! No more free tea from tomorrow. Tomorrow you pay.”
Biren looked puzzled. “Why is he giving free tea?”
“Don’t you know?” said Chickpea. “Tilok had twin baby boys yesterday. He should be giving everybody free tea for two weeks.” He cupped his hand and yelled, “Do you hear that, Tilok? We demand free tea for two weeks.”
“Trying to make me a pauper, are you?” Tilok laughed. He burst into song as he poured the tea in thin frothing streams into a line of terra-cotta cups.
“Just listen to him—he is such a happy man.” Kanai chuckled. “Now, if he had twin daughters, he would be singing a dirge.”
Biren pushed his toe into the sand, thinking. His mother envied Apu for having girls. She made cloth dolls for Ruby and Ratna. She dressed baby Ratna in tiny saris and put flowers in her hair. “I wish I had a little girl,” she lamented to Apu. What puzzled him was Apu wanted boys and Shibani wanted girls. They each wanted what the other had. The fishermen on the other hand were unanimously in favor of boys. Daughters were viewed as a curse, it seemed.
Kanai flicked the butt of his bidi into the sand and sighed. “I go to the temple every morning to pray my wife has a son this time.”
“I have three daughters!” grumbled Dadu. “I had to sell my cow to get the last one married off. Marrying off daughters will pick you clean, like a crow to a fishbone. I would be in the poorhouse if my son had not brought in a dowry. By God’s mercy, all four children are married and settled now.”
Biren shaded his eyes toward the far horizon and jumped to his feet. “Oh, look!” he cried. “The jute steamer is coming!”
As so it was. A black dot had just popped up on the horizon. Its square form distinguished it as a flatbed river barge designed to carry bales of jute, tea chests and other cargo.
Biren dusted off his shorts and took off flying down the crooked path toward the riverbank. A small brown mongrel with a curled-up tail chased after him, yipping excitedly.
As the steamer drew closer, Biren saw a pink-faced Englishman sitting on a chair bolted to the deck. The man had one knee crossed over the other and was smoking a curved pipe, looking as if he was relaxing in his own living room. He surveyed the tumbled countryside, the cracked and pitted riverbank and meek-eyed cows huddled in slices of shade. When the man turned his head, he caught sight of the magnificent flame tree by the tea shop and stood up to get a better view. He failed to notice the small boy who waved at him from the riverbank. The steamer passed by smoothly, leaving the water hyacinths swirling in its wake.
Kanai spat on the ground. “Go, go, mia, run, run, run,” he muttered. “Chase after the belayti, wave to him, bow to him, lick his shoes. He will never acknowledge you. To him you do not even exist. The sooner you get that into your foolish head, the better it will be for you.”
CHAPTER
7
The river breeze teased Shamol Roy awake one night. He propped up on his elbow to gaze tenderly at his sleeping wife. Shibani lay on her side, her hands tucked under her cheek. Her lips were parted, and in the yellow light of the moon her skin glowed a satiny gold. Shamol traced her nose and lips with his finger.
“Precious pearl, sweet beloved, queen of my heart,” he murmured in her ear. “Do you hear the river calling?”
Shibani’s eyes fluttered open. Her smile gleamed in the dark. “Oh,” she gasped. “Shall we go?”
“If you wish, my beloved.”
They tiptoed out of the basha in their old cotton nightclothes and house slippers. The front door closed softly behind them and they ran giggling down the road, holding hands. Free from the cares of parenthood and family, they were like children again.
Shamol and Shibani had little opportunity to demonstrate their affections for each other during the day. Trapped in their roles of husband and wife, father and mother, son and daughter-in-law, a certain decorum was expected of them. Even in their early married days, and despite their yearning, intimacy had not come easy. The door to their bedroom had to be left ajar to allow Grandfather access to the bathroom, and nature called often and at random for the old man. Shamol and Shibani took to slipping out of the house and going down to the river, where under the flame tree, and calmed by the sound of water, they’d discovered each other for the first time.
* * *
The river sky floated with a thousand stars and a lemony moon sailed in their midst. Sirius, the Dog Star, the brightest of them all, was a twinkling jewel on Orion’s belt. People whispered the Dog Star had mysterious occult powers. It caused men to weaken and women to become aroused, they said.
Shamol took Shibani’s face in his hands and kissed her until every star was pulled down from the sky. When he looked into her eyes they sparkled brighter than the heavens.
He led her to the flame tree and drew her down beside him. They leaned against the trunk, their arms around each other, and looked up at the sky.
“Oh, I forgot,” said Shamol. He fumbled in his kurta pocket and drew out a small paper-wrapped object. He pushed it into her hand. “I have something for you.”
“What is it?”
“Open it. It’s butterscotch toffee from Scotland. Willis Duff, the new engineer at the jute mill, gave it to me.”
Shibani unwrapped the toffee and took a tiny bite. “My, it is quite delicious. Here, try a bit.”
“No, no, you eat it. I only had one so I kept it for you. Every time I get something, I give it to the boys. Sometimes I feel bad—I never bring anything for you.”
She squeezed his hand. “You bring me fresh jasmine garlands wrapped with your heart. What more can a girl ask for?”
The caressing tone of her voice made his nerves tingle.
Overcome by bashfulness, he squinted at the glittering sky. “Look, there’s Sirius, the Dog Star. Do you see it?”
“It’s the brightest star in the sky,” murmured Shibani. “See how it sparkles. Maybe it’s winking.”
“Everything pales beside you, my darling.”
Shamol pushed Shibani’s hair aside to kiss the nape of her neck. “Do you remember our first time?” he said softly. His tongue tasted the salt of her skin. “Here, under this tree?”
Shibani leaned her cheek against his hand. Of course she remembered, and wasn’t Biren the result? Anything could happen on a night when the stars begged to be plucked from the sky.
The same thought must have crossed Shamol’s mind. “Little wonder our Biren has a keen interest in astronomy,” he said. “He was excited to learn that Sirius is used by mariners to navigate the Pacific. When I told him Sirius has a small companion star known as the ‘pup,’ Biren said, ‘That’s like me and Nitin. I am
Sirius and Nitin is the pup. I will show him the way.’ Then he asked me completely out of the blue, ‘Is Sirius really very serious, Baba? Does he not talk very much?’”
Shibani erupted in a bubble of laughter. “He says the funniest things, really!”
“When I explained Sirius was named after the Egyptian god and has nothing to do with the English word, he listened carefully. He has an excellent memory, our son—he remembers everything.” He sighed and was silent. Somewhere on the riverbank a night bird called. “You know, Shibani, if I had my way, I would send Biren to an English school. I have always believed a correct English education is the passport to the bigger world. The bigger world is where our sons belong.”
“The English school must be very expensive, don’t you think?” Shibani asked.
“Not necessarily. Some English missionary schools are free. It is not easy to get admission, that’s all. I heard our jute mill is affiliated with a famous institution in Calcutta.”
“Maybe you should talk to Owen McIntosh about it. Your boss likes you. There’s no harm in asking him, is there?”
“That’s true,” Shamol agreed. “Tell me, beloved, would you feel very sad if the boys were sent away to a boarding school?”
Shibani shook her head. “I only want the best for them.”
“I do, too.” Shamol sighed. “But even if the boys got admission, my biggest hurdle will be to convince my family. They all firmly believe the only agenda of missionary schools is to convert Indian students to Christianity by offering them free education.”
They were silent, each with their own thoughts, for a while.
On the far horizon, tiny pinpricks of light appeared on the river. The melancholy strains of the Bhatiyali fisherman’s song slipped in and out of the breeze.
“Look!” Shibani cried, sitting up. “It’s the otter fishermen!”
They watched as the night fishermen from the mangrove village floated by in their bamboo houseboats. The glow of their lamps threw a broken sparkle on the water, and the dark, shiny heads of their trained otters bobbed up and down, their wet, gleaming forms tumbling in the boat’s wake. The otters herded the fish into the waiting nets and when the net was lifted into the boat it was full of flashing silver.
“How clever the fishermen are, don’t you think?” mused Shibani. “They just float along singing songs and the otters do all the hard work for them.”
“It is not as simple as it looks, beloved,” said Shamol. “It has taken generations to perfect this technique. Otter fishing is an ancient tradition passed down from father to son. The otters are bred in captivity. They would never survive in the wild. It is a symbiotic relationship between man and beast. But all these old traditions are dying out, aren’t they? More and more fishermen leave the village to find work in the city. Soon the memory of the otter fisherman will remain only in song. Then that, too, will be forgotten.” He got to his feet and held out his hand to Shibani to help her up. “Come, my queen, we must go back.”
They walked back to the basha, hand in hand, fingers entwined like teenagers.
“There is so much I wish for our two boys,” said Shamol. “I want them to be curious and have faith in their own ideas. I want them to know the wonder of books but also learn from the river and the sky.”
Shibani hugged his arm tightly. “The most important thing is they have you for their father,” she said in her honeyed voice. “You have given them everything. Now it’s up to them.”
CHAPTER
8
Biren looked forward to Tuesday all week. It was market day—the only day he had time alone with Father. Since Nitin had come along, Biren was forced to share Shamol with his brother. Nitin demanded constant attention. If Father stood up, Nitin wanted to be carried. If Father sat down, Nitin climbed onto his lap. Nitin interrupted important conversations by touching Shamol’s cheek and, once having got his father’s attention, he smiled his foolish smile and went back to sucking his thumb. Father judiciously divided his time equally among family members, the same way he divided a papaya. Mother had an unfair advantage because she and Father shared the same bed and they could talk all night long. The last sound Biren heard as he drifted off to sleep was their whispered conversation.
Thank God for Tuesday. It made up for the shortfalls of the week. The fish market was too far for Nitin to walk, which was just as well, although leaving the house in his presence normally provoked a monstrous howl. The only option was to slip out undetected in the wee hours, a conspiracy that made Biren feel grown up and in league with the adults.
The bamboo grove was still dark and hushed as father and son made their way to the fish market. Shamol carried his umbrella looped over his arm and Biren skipped along swinging two empty jute bags, one in each hand.
“You don’t need an umbrella today, Baba,” Biren chirped. “Look—” he swung his bag in a big joyful arc at the sky “—there is not a single cloud in the sky.”
“I know, mia,” Shamol replied. “My umbrella is broken. I am taking it to the market to be repaired. I don’t want to be caught without it when the rains come.”
The road opened out to an expanse of the river-sky, above which a feeble sun struggled to rise. The tea shop was still shuttered. Underneath the flame tree a baul minstrel sat cross-legged on a carpet of fallen blossoms, lost in his meditation. In his bright orange robe, he looked like a fallen petal himself.
A herd of cows bumped and shuffled across the riverbed toward the grazing ground. They were rounded up by a ragged lad with a neem toothpick stuck between his teeth.
At the ghat, the river ferry had just pulled up to disgorge a crowd of villagers. Vendors with earthen pots on bamboo poles slung across their shoulders pushed past women with large baskets on their heads and tiny babies on their backs. They skirted around an old man who shuffled slowly, dragging a monstrous elephant-size foot, the skin over it knobbed and lumpy like a custard apple.
Biren was about to swivel around to take another look when Shamol cleared his throat. “There’s no need to stare at him, mia,” he said softly.
“What wrong with his foot, Baba?” Biren asked, trotting to keep up with his father. “Why is it so big?”
“The man has elephantiasis, mia, as a result of an unfortunate disease known as filariasis. It is spread by a mosquito.”
Biren looked at a puffed-up welt on his upper arm with alarm.
“Oh, Baba, I have a mosquito bite!”
Shamol glanced out of the corner of his eye and suppressed a smile. “Don’t worry, mia, you won’t get elephantiasis.”
“How do you know, Baba?” Biren cried. He scratched the bite gingerly. It made the itch worse. His leg was also beginning to feel unusually heavy.
“Because elephantiasis is a rare disease. That is not to say it cannot happen to us. After all, it takes but a small misfortune, the size of a mosquito bite, to change someone’s life, doesn’t it? You must remember to be compassionate, mia, and to try to help others less fortunate than yourself.”
“Like poor Charudi, who lives under the banyan tree?”
“Yes, like Charudi. Remind me to buy some bananas for her at the market. We can stop by the temple and see her on our way home.”
* * *
While Father was getting the hilsa fish weighed and cleaned, Biren wandered over to the chicken man’s stall to check on his favorite rooster. Week after week, the black rooster never got sold. The chicken man said it was a special-occasion bird, too big and too expensive for most people to afford. Biren was secretly thankful, because he had grown rather attached to the rooster. He admired the bird as it strutted around its wire cage cocky and bright eyed. It had shiny blue-black feathers and a bright red comb and wattles—the exact same shade of vermillion his mother wore in the part of her hair.
But today the rooster’s cage was empty. In the
next cage, six miserable hens with soiled feathers were crammed together looking half-dead.
“What happened to the black rooster?” Biren cried, pointing to the empty cage.
The chicken man made a chop-chop gesture with the edge of his palm. “Sold!” He waggled his toes and grinned widely with paan-stained teeth. “Goddess Laxmi smiled on me today. Tilok, the tea shop man, purchased the rooster to celebrate the birth of his twin boys.”
Biren’s eyes wandered over to the pile of shiny blue-black feathers and freshly gutted entrails cast to one side. A mangy pariah dog slunk around trying to take a lick. He suddenly felt nauseated.
“I have to go,” he said hastily, and ran back to his father.
* * *
Shamol flipped through his notebook. “I think we have everything,” he said. “Let me see—fish, vegetables, joss sticks, areca nut and betel leaves for your grandmother, soap nut and shikakai for your mother.” He looked up. “Is the flower man here? Oh, there he is. Let’s buy a fresh jasmine garland for your mother. She’ll like that.”
“And bananas for Charudi?” Biren reminded him.
“Oh, that’s right, bananas for Charudi,” said Shamol. “Also, there is something else I know I am forgetting.”
“Your umbrella, Baba,” Biren reminded him. He looked toward the umbrella man’s stall, but it was empty. “The man is not there.”
“Oh, that’s all right,” said Shamol, picking up his bags, “we’ll get the umbrella next week. Hopefully it won’t rain before then.”
* * *
They made their way out of the fish market and walked toward the temple. Shamol carried both jute bags to balance the weight on either side. Leafy mustard greens and bottle gourds protruded over the top of one. There was fish in the other. Biren walked beside him carrying a bunch of bananas and a large brown coconut.
Charudi—whose full name was Charulata—lived under the banyan tree by the river just outside the village temple. A hollow inside the banyan tree trunk served as her storage compartment. Here she kept a small brass pot and books wrapped in a red cotton towel. Charulata shared the tree with a family of monkeys. The monkeys seemed to have accepted her as one of their own because they never tampered with her belongings and left her in peace. They didn’t afford the same respect to the temple devotees, however. Monkeys ran off with slippers, snatched fruits out of hands, gnashed their teeth and made babies howl. The animals were a nuisance but enjoyed the sanctity of the temple, thanks to Hanuman, the Hindu monkey god.
