by Shona Patel
He missed Shibani and the boys. He was spending only one day away from his family and he was already homesick. He wondered what they were doing. Shibani was probably chatting with Apu. The boys would be out playing somewhere; there was no schoolwork after all.
His thoughts turned to Biren. The child was a dreamer. Biren saw the magic in the mundane. He imagined things bigger, better and more elaborate. When most children made a paper boat, Biren made a steamer ship with a chimney. When other children drew a duck, Biren drew a swan. He had natural showmanship and expressed himself with touching eloquence. His flashy good looks added to his charisma. Biren had curly hair, a straight nose and a wheat-colored complexion, but his most striking feature was his dark, expressive eyes.
Then there was, of course, little Nitin with his wandering smile and look of perpetual bafflement. No star quality there, Shamol thought tenderly of his younger son, but God had given the little fellow his own charm to get by in the world.
He wished he could do more for his boys. They deserved a better education, for one. He remembered what Shibani and he talked about a few nights ago by the river. She was right. Maybe he should broach the subject of the English boarding school with his boss, Owen McIntosh. There was no harm in asking after all.
The rain had almost stopped. In another ten or fifteen minutes he would be able to lock up the godown and leave. Shamol decided to use this time to write Owen McIntosh a letter and drop it off with the godown keys at the jute mill office on his way to his cousin’s house.
He found a clean sheet of paper, uncapped his fountain pen and began to write.
* * *
Biren had just got back from school when Kanai brought news that Shamol was not coming home that evening. Biren’s heart gave a little jump. That meant no homework. It was the perfect day to go fishing with Kanai.
After some persuasion, Kanai agreed to take him. It was a gloomy afternoon, and by the time they arrived at the backwaters, the clouds had deepened to purple-black like an angry bruise across the sky. A sly wind flicked the water and pushed the boat toward the reedy marsh, where it was difficult to cast the line because the wind blew it in the wrong direction. After an hour on the wobbling boat Kanai said they should go home. Biren was deeply disappointed.
Shibani was sitting on the bed, hemming the bottom border of a leaf-green sari. She wore an old turmeric-stained blouse and petticoat and her head, wrapped in a cotton towel, looked like a giant breadbasket. Biren had never seen his mother so slovenly. In the evenings she was usually dressed in fresh clothes with flowers in her hair. Then he remembered his father was not coming home that day.
Nitin hung upside down off the edge of the bed, swinging his hands. Shibani kept her foot firmly pressed on his bottom to make sure he did not slide off.
“I was worried about you,” she said. “Today is not a good day to be out in the open water. Kanai should have more sense than to take you.”
“We hardly got any time to fish,” grumbled Biren. “There were many other boats still out in the river, but Kanai made me come home.”
“Did you catch a big chital fish, Dada?” Nitin righted himself. His hair, long and straight, hung down like river reeds over his eyes.
Biren shook his head.
Shibani cut the thread with her teeth. “Go and wash your hands and face,” she said. “I want you to take these saris to Apumashi’s house before it starts raining. Come back immediately. Your grandmother is not feeling well. We are going to eat dinner and go to bed early tonight. I have to wash my hair in the morning.”
* * *
That night Shibani dreamed of a snake.
She could not see it, but she felt it twisted around her throat in thick damp coils, choking her breath. When she tried to scream, the coils tightened. She woke up drenched in sweat to find her long oily hair freed from the towel wrapped around her neck. Her hand crept instinctively to Shamol’s side of the bed and a small sadness fluttered in her heart when she touched his empty pillow. She lay in bed and thought of him. She hoped he would get some sleep that night. Shamol’s cousins were a big noisy family with several ill-behaved children who ran rumpus over the house. Would he miss her? She smiled. Of course he would. Her husband was a deeply romantic and sentimental man.
Shibani’s heart swelled with gratitude when she thought of him. He was such a caring husband and a good father. Shamol discerned unique qualities in each child and wove them into their self-confidence. She remembered a phase Nitin had gone through when he’d wanted to dress up in girl clothes and play with dolls all the time. Shamol had never once tried to dissuade him or make him feel it was wrong. “The child is only acting out his imagination,” he’d explained to Shibani. “He will grow out of it.” And sure enough, Nitin soon had.
Samir in the meantime had turned around and called Nitin a sissy. He’d done it in a mean-spirited way and Biren had been quick to lash out in defense of his young brother. “You are the sissy,” Biren had shot back. “Imagine a grown-up boy like you riding in a palanquin!”
Shamol, who had overheard their quarrel, had quickly diffused it by telling the boys about the brave Scottish Highlanders in their wool-pleated kilts and Roman emperors who wore togas. He’d gone on to talk about Japanese emperors and brave Samurai warriors who were borne aloft on palanquins because of their exalted status. At the end Shamol had had all three boys keen to wear kilts and togas and ride in palanquins.
Shibani’s fingers caressed her husband’s pillow, remembering. She slipped her small supple hand under it and found a sprig of dried jasmine from the garland of her hair. Her sweet husband must have tucked it there. Breathing in the scent, she drifted off into a dreamless sleep.
* * *
An inky darkness had fallen outside by the time Shamol finished his letter. The rain had ceased and the candles, now reduced to shapeless gobs, spluttered in their pools of wax. Outside the door the jackals howled in a lonely chorus. Shamol quickly folded the letter, gathered together his things and picked up the ledger and keys from the table. Then he blew out the candles one by one. As he stepped off the platform, the keys slipped from his hand and fell with a clatter to the floor. He bent down and felt for them in the dark and bumped up against what he thought was the leg of the table. But it was hard and muscular and writhed against his upper arm. Too late, he realized it was a snake. He jerked back his hand and heard a loud spitting hiss followed by a needling stab on his right wrist. Shamol’s knees buckled; he grabbed the table to steady himself and slowly crumpled to the floor. A milky film floated before his eyes, his tongue twisted to the roof of his mouth and ribbons of white froth dribbled down his chin. The last thing Shamol Roy felt was a tremendous crushing pain in his chest and the sensation of being sucked underwater.
Twenty minutes later, he lay dead in the jute godown, surrounded by the rats and the filth. His hand clutched his pocket that held the six pencil stubs wrapped in a blotting paper he had planned on taking home for his son.
CHAPTER
13
The disheveled man waiting for Biren in the headmaster’s office looked vaguely familiar. His hair was uncombed and he was still in his night pajamas. It finally dawned on Biren he was their neighbor, Apu’s husband, a man he had probably seen five times in his life and never spoken to even once.
“Mr. Bhowmik will take you home,” said the headmaster, fiddling with a bunch of papers on his desk. He did not explain why. From the look on their faces, Biren knew something was wrong. It must be something to do with his granny, he thought. Maybe she had died. Old people died quickly and suddenly after all. Like Kanai’s granny. Kanai said one day she was chewing betel nuts on the front steps and chatting with the neighbors and the next day she was gone.
On the boat ride back home the man turned his face away toward the jute fields and made no attempt at conversation. He was not one to talk much, from what Bi
ren remembered. If Granny had died, why hadn’t his father come to get him? It was not like Father to send a stranger in his place.
Maybe he could trick Apu’s husband into conversation.
“I wonder if it will rain tonight,” Biren remarked, peering up at the clouds. “This changing weather is terrible. It is making us all sick. My granny had a high fever last night. She was terribly unwell.”
The man coughed and gave a brief nod but did not say anything. The silence was getting sticky. The boat rowed past the backwaters.
“I went fishing out to the backwaters yesterday,” Biren said brightly. “Kanai the fisherman caught a big chital fish a few days ago. Fifteen kilos, imagine!” Biren cast a sly glance to see if the man was impressed, but he just crossed his arms over his chest. “But it was hopeless for me,” Biren continued. “I did not even catch a two-inch pooty fish! It is this rough weather, you know. When it gets too windy, the fish go down too deep and don’t bite. It was a good thing we decided to come home...” His last few words dribbled off. His pitcher of conversation was running dry.
Finally, as the boat pulled up to Momati Ghat, the man cleared his throat. “You will stay at our house today,” he said. Biren was startled to hear his voice. It was low and throaty. Something warned him not to ask further questions.
They entered Apu’s house through the front door, which had a different street entrance from their own. Nitin was already there, behaving in a manner that would have earned him a sound paddling from Shibani. A half-packed trunk lay open on the floor. Nitin and Apu’s two little girls, Ruby and Ratna, had pulled out an expensive silk sari from the trunk and ran shrieking through the house as they trailed the leaf-green silk behind them. Biren remembered it as the same sari he had delivered the day before.
A toothless granny with collapsed cheeks, her hair coiled into a walnut-size bun, sat on the bed with a string of prayer beads wrapped in her hand. She called after them in a wavery voice, “Careful, careful.”
“Ma!” yelled Apu’s husband loudly in the old woman’s ear. “I am going out. Keep an eye on the children, do you hear? Don’t let them out of the house.”
Biren tugged the man’s hand. “Can I go home?”
“Not now,” said the man. “Your Apumashi will come to get you both later.”
“Where is Apumashi?”
“She’s gone...out,” said the man. “You all stay here. You must not leave the house.”
He turned around and left.
Four-year-old Ruby came running up to Biren and hugged him tightly around the waist. “Oh, my husband! My sweet husband!” she cried. She grabbed his hand and kissed it feverishly.
“I am not your husband,” Biren said gruffly, snatching his hand away. He disengaged her arms from around his waist.
“But of course you are,” Ruby replied in a sugary voice. She gave him a sly, coquettish look. “You are, you are, my handsome husband.” She twirled her skirt and sang. “We are going to get married. I will wear a red sari and we will exchange garlands. Oh, I love my husband! We are getting married.”
“Getting married! Getting married!” shrieked the other two, flinging the folds of the sari up in the air.
“Careful, careful,” chirruped the granny.
It was strange, but there didn’t seem to be another soul in the house.
“Granny!” yelled Biren in the old lady’s ear. “Where is everybody?”
“Everybody?” pondered the granny. “Everybody must be doing puja.”
The puja room was empty, the sandalwood joss sticks burned down to a bed of ash.
Biren grabbed Nitin as he ran by and shook him by the shoulder. “Nitin, who dropped you here? Where is Ma?”
Nitin shrugged off his brother. Reckless and out of control, he ran off screaming behind Ratna.
The kitchen looked as if it had been abandoned in a hurry. On the floor were several brass platters of grated coconut, sesame seeds, mounds of jaggery and a large basin of rice flour batter. Biren turned to the window, which faced the pumpkin patch, beyond which he could see the rooftop of his house in the distance. A small slice of their courtyard was visible. He saw several men in the courtyard but could not make out their faces.
Then he heard a strange sound. What was it? It was between a howl and a moan. Then came another and another. There were waves of them. It sounded like a dying animal in mortal pain. Maybe it was a wounded jackal in the taro patch. Biren made a note to himself to look for the poor creature when he got home.
CHAPTER
14
What a damned, wretched day, thought Owen McIntosh, the Scottish owner of Victoria Jute Mills. He sat on the veranda of his bungalow, the pipe in his mouth remained unlit, his cup of tea untouched. After the horrific events of the day before, he felt no desire for the small comforts he looked forward to every evening when he got home.
A dreary darkness had settled around the bungalow compound, and in the distance the jackals howled in chorus. It was around this time yesterday that Shamol Roy had suffered the fatal cobra bite in the jute godown and breathed his last. Owen was horrified to think of the poor man lying in his own vomit all night, surrounded by rats, cockroaches, the jackals wandering in and out of the open doorway. When the laborers found his body in the morning, the jackals had half dragged it out of the doorway and it was a gruesome sight. Owen McIntosh covered his eyes and felt the bile rise to his throat at the memory of what he had seen.
What a fine young man Shamol Roy had been. He’d had so much promise and was undoubtedly one of the best employees of Victoria Jute Mills. Owen believed Roy deserved better. He had been too educated and genteel for the rough work he did in that filthy godown, managing the common laborers, day in and day out. That man had a quiet presence about him, a dignity of carriage, speech and manners that belied his humble village upbringing. From what Owen knew, Shamol Roy had been the only earning member of his joint family. He had accepted the godown job because the pay was slightly higher than the administrative work at the mill office. Owen had had every good intention to promote him to a better paying position in the main office as soon as he could find someone to replace him. At one point, he had even toyed with the idea of grooming Roy as his personal assistant. Now it was too late.
More than just sadness and regret, Owen McIntosh was tortured with guilt. He knew in his heart he had delayed Shamol Roy’s promotion because of his own self-interest. Raw-material management was a critical part of the jute mill business and Owen had yet to find someone as responsible and capable as Roy. Roy had had a gentle way of dealing with the rough laborers. He had known each laborer by name and often asked after their families. Shamol Roy had been meticulous about his job and never acted bossy or condescending toward his assistant. Because he’d managed the godown operation so faultlessly, Owen had let him run it. He had not tried hard enough to find a substitute, and the soft-spoken young man never once complained.
Shamol Roy had elected not to live in the jute mill quarters provided free to employees. Rather, each day, he traveled up and down by boat from his village to work. Most other workers went home only on weekends. A cluster of cheap wine shops and brothels had sprung up around the jute mill area to cater to these men. Many showed up to work red-eyed and hungover in the mornings, but Shamol Roy had always arrived impeccably dressed, never absent or late. He had to return home every night to tutor his children, he’d explained, to help them with their schoolwork, as he did not want them falling behind in their studies. Owen also knew he had collected the discarded pencil stubs from the office to take home to his son.
He had once met the older boy at the office of Saraswati Puja. Held in the jute mill compound during early spring, the puja was a joyous occasion celebrated with the beating of drums and blowing of conch horns. Employees brought their wives and children from the villages, dressed in bright new clothes to see the bed
ecked Goddess of Learning seated on her snow-white lotus, holding a stringed vina in her hands.
Owen had been in his office when Shamol Roy had walked in with his eight-year-old son. A bold and curious child, he was intelligent beyond his years. The boy had sat on the edge of his chair and knew more about jute manufacturing than most of the employees at the mill. Thoroughly charmed, Owen had, with mock gravity, offered the lad a job. To his surprise the young fellow piped up, “Thank you, sir, but I must complete my education first.”
“And did you make a special wish to the goddess Saraswati today?” Owen had inquired gently. “What do you want to be when you grow up, young man?”
“I want to be a lawyer,” the boy had replied without hesitation.
“Indeed! And why not a doctor, may I ask?”
“Because...” The boy’s soulful eyes had deepened. “Because if I am a doctor, I can only make my living if people fall sick, but if I am a lawyer I can make my living by fighting for what is right.”
Owen had been astounded by his sage-like answer. What was more remarkable, Shamol Roy had let his young son take center stage, never once chiding or belittling the boy in front of his boss. He had treated his son respectfully like an adult and as a result the boy stood tall and felt entitled to speak his mind.
Owen thought about his own two children. Alan, his son, was the same age as this boy, maybe a wee bit older, and his daughter, Margie, was six, but both his children seemed like toddlers compared to Shamol Roy’s boy.
Owen’s heart was filled with despair. What would become of Shamol Roy’s young sons? Who would tutor them, who would give them the confidence to strive higher? Their education would be cut short and they would be sucked back into their village life. What a waste of potential. The more Owen thought about the two boys, the more wretched he felt. He blamed himself in part for Shamol Roy’s death. How was he ever going to live with himself?
