Flame Tree Road

by Shona Patel

  Biren was at the potter’s village watching Hori, a seventy-five-year-old potter, take a mound of clay and transform it into a large round-bottomed pitcher. Working with effortless grace, he squatted on the ground and spun the wheel. The walls of the clay first rose as a triangular form. It was then widened and finally rounded out into a perfect pitcher shape, using just the dexterity of his dampened fingertips.

  “How long did it take you to learn how to do this?” asked Biren, fascinated.

  “All my life,” said the old potter, “and all my father’s life and my forefathers’ before him. We come from generations of potters, mia. We are born into it. Everything I am today is because of the blessings of my ancestors. They guide the turning of the wheel. My fingers are their fingers. I learned how to throw a pot by first learning about the nature of the clay. Clay is very temperamental. It has a mind of its own. To shape it into something useful you have to know how it will behave under the pressure of your fingers. Every child in the village learns about the nature of clay from the day he is born.”

  Biren pondered what he said. This was what caste was all about. The collective skills of a community passed down from generation to generation, not easily picked up by an individual. Many of the pottery techniques were closely guarded community secrets.

  “Didn’t you ever want to do anything different?” Biren asked. “Like being a carpenter or a blacksmith?”

  The old potter stopped his wheel, looked at Biren and laughed.

  “What kind of question is that, mia?” he said. “Does a woodpecker ever want to be a kingfisher? Of course not! They are a different caste. We are born with different skills. Even if I worked very hard and learned the skills of a carpenter, could I ever be one? You are talking as if a man can be whatever he chooses. It is not so simple, mia, not so simple.”

  “Why not?” asked Biren, puzzled. “If you have the talent and skills to be a carpenter, you can change your profession. There’s nothing wrong with that.”

  “Just listen to yourself talk! It is not skills that make a profession, mia, it is community. Would I ever be accepted into the carpenters’ community? Do I know their customs? What would happen to my family? Where would we live? We would belong nowhere. We would become people without roots, like the water gypsies and the bauls, wandering from place to place.”

  “What is wrong with that?” muttered Biren, almost to himself.

  “Be careful, mia. This is dangerous thinking. Without the blessings of your ancestors and the roots of your community, a man can lose himself.”

  “Or he can break free and find himself,” Biren argued.

  The old potter just smiled, shook his head and started turning his wheel again to shape his pot.

  Strange, Biren thought. You can take a lump of clay and mold it into anything you want, but why is it not possible to remold a human? It would be interesting to see how far he could reshape his own destiny. He had been given every opportunity; now it was up to him.

  * * *

  Biren heard a shout and looked up to see a small boy in ragged shorts with clay-caked hands come running down the crooked path from the river.

  The boy huffed up to them. He pointed at Biren. “The fisherman told me to find this belaytidada and bring him to the river. They are waiting for him.”

  “Who is waiting?” asked Biren.

  “The real belaytis. The pink ones. They want to talk to you,” said the boy.

  “Pink belaytis. What do they want?” said Biren, puzzled. Englishmen normally did not come to a potters’ village.

  The boy just pulled Biren’s shirtsleeve. “Come, come,” he said. “The belaytis are in trouble. They sent me to get you because nobody can understand what they are saying.”

  On the way to the river, Biren gathered from the small boy that a steamer had broken down at the ghat and on board were two belaytis. The belaytis had rattled off in “eenglees” to the fishermen and nobody could understand a word. The steamer crew meanwhile had gone off toward the jute mill to get help.

  Biren arrived at the ghat to find the steamer docked and two Englishmen in the tea shop. The older of the two, a disgruntled gentleman dressed in khakis and a sola topee, sat by himself on the battered old bench outside smoking a pipe. He glanced impatiently at his pocket watch and had about him the bristling stiffness of an army man. The other fellow was inside the shop smoking a bidi, communicating with wide animated gestures with the fishermen, who were trying not to laugh.

  Seeing Biren, the fishermen all started talking at once and pointing at the two men.

  “Is there some way I can help you gentlemen?” Biren asked.

  The two Englishmen looked startled to hear him speak the Queen’s English. Coming from a man dressed like a local in a blue-and-white-checkered lungi and cotton shirt, it did sound rather odd.

  “My good fellow,” said the older gentleman, getting to his feet. He spoke in a clipped manner. “Our steamer has broken down in this godforsaken village, as you can see. We are trying to get to Silchar. I am Reginald Thompson, district commissioner, and this here—” he pointed his pipe at the other gentleman “—is Griffiths, my assistant.”

  “How do you do,” Biren said, shaking hands.

  “You don’t look like a potter, old chap,” said Griffiths, looking at him curiously. “What are you doing here? You speak bloody good English, I daresay.”

  Biren told them briefly about his education in England. It seemed Griffiths had studied at Oxford and the two of them were just getting into a conversation when Reginald Thompson cut them short.

  “Excuse me, dear fellows, this is no time for chitchat. We have a crisis on our hands,” he said brusquely. He turned to Biren. “The steamer fellows say they have to send for an engine part. This is not a simple repair. It may take another day, maybe two. They have gone to the jute mill to see if they can send word to Dhaka. Now, it is absolutely crucial I get back to Silchar tonight, no matter how late. I have an important matter to attend to in the morning. We wanted to ask the fishermen if they could take us by boat to Silchar. I understand it is three hours from here by these small boats.”

  “Yes, approximately,” Biren replied. “Do you have a lot of luggage? These small dinghies don’t hold much.”

  “We have three trunks and a couple of bags. But we decided we can take a few essentials and wait for our main luggage to come by the steamer a few days later.”

  “Let me talk to these fellows,” Biren said.

  At first, none of the fishermen were interested. One fisherman said it was his child’s rice-eating ceremony the following day, and the other one did not have a rowing partner and refused to make the journey back alone late at night for fear of river ghosts. Finally, two fishermen agreed, but first they would have to go back to the village and tell their families. And as it was already close to lunchtime, they would have lunch, then siesta. In other words, it would mean a delay of another three hours before they could start out.

  “Three hours!” exclaimed Thompson. “What do they need three bloody hours for? We are willing to pay good money.”

  The fishermen shook their heads.

  “It’s not about the money,” Biren said, and tried to explain about the rice-eating ceremony, ghosts, lunch and siesta, none of which made any sense.

  “That’s quite understandable,” Griffiths said affably.

  “Don’t talk nonsense, Griffiths,” snapped Reginald Thompson. “This is completely unacceptable.” He clamped the pipe back into his mouth and glowered.

  “Well, we might as well do some sightseeing while we wait,” said Griffiths. “This is a potters’ village. Maybe Roy can show us around.”

  “I will be glad to,” Biren replied. “The village is a short walk from here.”

  “I will stay right here, thank you,” said Thompson stiffly. “I don’t
care to visit the village in this heat. And—” he waved his pipe in a threatening manner at Griffiths “—if you are late, I will just leave without you.”

  “That’s unlikely,” replied Griffiths calmly. “The fishermen won’t leave before Roy here talks to them. Besides, what will you do here by yourself? Looks as if this tea shop is shutting down.”

  “I can very well take care of myself, thank you,” growled Thompson.

  “Well, cheerio, then.” Griffiths waved.

  As Biren and he walked off together, Griffiths said, “Thompson is not a bad sort, really. He comes off a little gruff. He sprained his foot in Calcutta and it’s causing him a great deal of discomfort.”

  “I just hope the fishermen show up like they promised,” said Biren. “I won’t be surprised if they go home and change their minds. I don’t really know these fellows. This is not my village. I live farther downstream.”

  “Oh, I’m not too worried. Thompson is the one in a big hurry to get back. I wouldn’t mind staying the night in these parts. The steamer people were saying the jute mill has a rather nice guesthouse by the river where we could spend the night. I am very much tempted by the idea.”

  “My father used to work in that jute mill before he died.”

  “Did he, now? So tell me again, what are you doing here? You had just started to tell me about it.”

  “I got my law degree in England and passed my civil-service exams. I came back to the village to see my mother. Now I am looking for a job in Calcutta,” said Biren. “I am also working with an organization to get government funding to set up schools for girls in Calcutta. This is a long-term project.”

  “That’s marvelous,” said Griffiths. “Thompson is a big supporter of education. You should talk to him. Our office organizes fund-raising events for local schools in Silchar. Thompson is also on the board of the education council in Calcutta. Once a year he goes to attend their annual general meeting.”

  That piqued Biren’s attention. “Is that a part of his job as the district commissioner?”

  “I would say that is more to do with his personal interest. But in his position he is able to influence decisions. Thompson has two daughters. He is very particular about their schooling. His own mother was a highly educated woman—a famous philanthropist. She was well ahead of her time, I believe.”

  “I wish I could talk to him more about it,” said Biren. “But he’s not too chatty at the moment, I suppose.”

  “You’re right,” agreed Griffiths. “He’s too worried about getting home. But do drop him a letter and tell him about your plans for starting a school for girls. I think he will be most interested.”

  “I may just do that,” said Biren. “But my first job is to get you both safely back to Silchar. I am just keeping my fingers crossed those fishermen show up.”

  They were standing next to the clay-mixing pit, which still had wooden poles stuck into the mounds. The workers were gone for lunch. “Now, what are we looking at?” asked Griffiths. “Tell me about the potters. From what I have gathered about India, a potter will naturally belong to a potter caste, am I correct? I believe they also marry among themselves and live in the same village generation after generation. I find India fascinating. We have a weavers’ village near Silchar and it’s the same thing.”

  “If you are born into a caste, you are automatically born into a trade at the same time,” explained Biren. “The tailor is of a higher caste than, say, the cobbler. A tailor’s daughter can never marry a cobbler’s son, as she would be marrying beneath her caste.”

  “So are you going to marry the tailor’s daughter or the cobbler’s daughter?” quipped Griffiths.

  Biren laughed. “I am afraid I am in no position to choose. I am casteless and jobless. In other words, completely ineligible.”

  * * *

  As promised, the fishermen showed up later that afternoon, and the Englishmen were sent on their way. That very evening Biren wrote Thompson a letter and mentioned the proposal for the education program. He also enclosed newspaper clippings of articles he had written for the Bengal Star. Little did Biren realize a broken-down steamer and his meeting with Reginald Thompson would play a pivotal role in shaping his own destiny.

  CHAPTER

  38

  Nitin, who was now in his second year of medical college, wrote to say he would be coming home for a visit. The last time Biren had last seen him was five years ago, before he left for Cambridge.

  Biren could hardly recognize the strapping young man who waved back at him from the steamer deck. Dressed in a handloom cotton kurta and horn-rimmed glasses, Nitin looked distinguished and scholarly.

  “Dada!” he cried as the steamer neared the bank. He leaped onto the shore without waiting for the gangplank to be lowered, and they embraced each other.

  “I would have never recognized you,” Biren said, stepping back to appraise him.

  Nitin laughed. “You sent us a photograph from England but I had none to send you. So yes, I suppose you did not know what to expect.”

  “Would you like some tea before we start back for home?” Biren asked, still trying to recover from the fact that this young man was his baby brother. He remembered Nitin as the small boy with a pensive face and hair falling over his eyes who liked to play with ants.

  “I would love some tea,” Nitin said. “You have no idea how I miss the fisherman’s tea of home. In Calcutta, they flavor the tea with cardamom. I can’t stand it.”

  They walked together to the tea stall. Nitin’s luggage consisted of only a cloth bag slung across his shoulder.

  “I didn’t realize you would not have any luggage,” said Biren. “I got the bullock cart to take us home.”

  “Forget the bullock cart, Dada. Should we send it back?” suggested Nitin. “I could do with the walk, if that’s all right. I need to stretch my legs. Besides, it will give us time to talk. There’s something I want to tell you before I see Ma and Uncle.”

  They lit their cigarettes with the burning end of the hanging rope in the tea stall and carried their cups of steaming tea out to a log on the water’s edge.

  “I got married,” said Nitin abruptly. “I don’t know how to break the news to Ma and Uncle. You must help me, Dada.”

  Biren’s first thought was Nitin had got a girl into trouble. But that was not the case. Her name was Bela, he learned, and she was the sister of his friend from medical college. Bela came from a conservative business family of Calcutta. Her father owned several sari shops. Nitin and Bela had been meeting in secret for two years with her brother acting as the accomplice between them.

  “I had plans to propose to her family after I finished college and got a job,” said Nitin. “Not that her parents would have approved of me—a village boy from Sylhet. No matter how educated I am, I will always be beneath their status. But still, I was prepared to propose formally when the time came. In the meantime Bela’s parents arranged her marriage to another.” He paused, crushing his cigarette into the mud cup.

  “Then what happened?”

  Nitin threw the mud cup into the river, startling a heron hiding in the rushes to take flight.

  “We eloped. We went to the Kalighat Temple and got married by the priest,” he said.

  “Where is Bela now? Did her parents find out?” Biren asked anxiously.

  “Yes, her brother told them. They have disowned her. I arranged for Bela to live with an Anglo-Indian spinster as a paying guest, but I can’t afford it for long. I stay in the college hostel, as you know, so Bela can’t stay with me. I came home to tell Ma about all this. I want to bring Bela to the basha to stay with the family till I finish college and get a job. Then I will take her back to Calcutta.”

  Nitin looked at Biren askance. “I don’t know how Ma is going to take this, Dada. You yourself are not married. A younger son sho
uld not get married before the older son. That, too, I did without the permission and blessings of the families.”

  “First of all, I am really happy for you,” Biren said. “You married someone you love. It’s refreshing for a change.” He got to his feet. “Let’s walk back, shall we? I don’t think Ma will be displeased. She keeps moaning there is no daughter-in-law in the house and everybody has been after me to get married. I think you will help to take the attention off me. Do you know Ma is losing her eyesight? I am worried about her, brother.”

  Nitin frowned. “I suspected that but she keeps denying it.” He walked with long, easy strides, his beautifully proportioned feet clad in a pair of open-toed Kolhapuri sandals. “So you have no plans to settle down soon, then?”

  “I will have to find someone to elope with first, don’t you think?” Biren joked.

  Nitin grew serious. “I didn’t have a choice, Dada. My intention was not to behave like a coward. I have lost the respect of my in-laws, and I don’t know if I will ever get it back. Eloping should be the very last resort. If you only knew Bela’s family you would realize I had little choice, after her hand was promised to another. She would have been married off within a month.”

  Biren put his arm around Nitin’s shoulders. They were both almost the same height now.

  “I am joking, of course, brother,” he said. “You were forced to do what you did. I am sure Bela is a very nice girl. As for my plans, I have applied for jobs in the civil service and I am also involved with an education project. Has Samaresh told you anything about it? We are trying to get funding from the British government to start a girls’ school. This venture is going to take up all my time, so marriage for me is probably not a good idea. But let’s first talk about you and how we can best break the news to the family.”

  CHAPTER

  39

  Silchar

  1st June 1894