In Memory of the Victims of the Gujarat Carnage: Shah Alam Camp ki Roohein

Shah Alam Camp ki Roohein

My Translations from the Hindi Original written by Asghar Wajahat, eminent Hindi Writer

I

The days pass somehow in Shah Alam Camp, but the nights are an endless nightmare. God alone can save one from that hellish torment. And what a terrible, terrible cacophony! You can barely hear your own voice. Such shouting and screaming, raving and ranting, moaning and groaning, sighing and sobbing…

The spirits come to meet their children late at night. They caress their orphans, stroke their heads and gaze into their lifeless eyes with their own wasted and vacant eyes as though trying to convey something. Then they clasp their children to their breasts and the air is rent with the same gut-wrenching screams that had escaped from them when they were being burnt alive like so much kindling wood.

The children stay wide awake when the rest of the camp has gone to sleep. They are waiting to see their mothers…to have dinner with their fathers.

“How are you, Siraj,” the mother’s spirit asks, fondling his hair and caressing him.

“How are you, Amma?”

The mother looks visibly happy. She says, “ I am a spirit now, Siraj…no one can burn me alive any more.”

“Amma, can I become like you?”

II

One night a woman’s nervous, agitated spirit reaches Shah Alam Camp well past midnight. She is looking for her son who’s nowhere to be found – neither in the other world, not here. The mother’s heart is close to breaking with grief and terror. Other women help her in looking for her son. They look all over the camp then they go to the mother’s old neighbourhood. The whole street is up in flames -- houses are burning like stacks of fuelwood. Since they are spirits now and able to come and go as they please, they enter these raging infernos with complete ease. They search every nook and smoke-filled cranny but they cannot find the mother’s little boy.

In despair the spirits go to the homes of the rioters. The lumpens are sitting there making petrol bombs, cleaning their guns and polishing their arms. When the mother asks them about her missing son, they laugh and say, “You mad woman, when scores upon scores of people are being burnt alive, who can keep track of one little boy. He must be lying buried under some mound of ash and rubble.”

The mother says, “No, no, I have looked all over…I can’t find him anywhere!”

Then one of the rioters remembers, “Hey, is she the mother of that boy we left dangling from the trishul?”

III

The spirits come to Shah Alam Camp after midnight. They bring food, water, clothes and medicines from heaven. That is why you will not find any sick, naked, hungry or thirsty children in Shah Alam Camp. And that is also why Shah Alam Camp has become so famous. Its fame has spread far and wide among the dead. A certain dignitary from New Delhi who had come to inspect the camp was so pleased at what he saw that he announced: “This is a very fine place…all the Muslim children from all over India should be brought here.”

IV

The spirits come to visit Shah Alam Camp after midnight. All night long they stay with their children, gazing at them with love and longing, worrying about them, fretting over their future, talking to them…

“Siraj, you should go home now,” a mother’s spirit says to her son.

“Home?” Siraj whispers with dread and his eyes glaze over with terror.

“Yes, home. After all, how long can you stay here? I promise, I will come and meet you every night.”

“I won’t go home, never, never, never.” Smoke. Fire. Screams. Noise.

“Amma, I will live with you and Abba.”

“Darling Sikku, how can you live with us…”

“But Bhaijaan and Aapa live with you.”

“That’s because they were also burnt alive along with us.”

“Then I will return home, Amma.”

V

A child’s spirit comes to Shah Alam Camp after midnight. The child looks like a firefly burning brightly in a dark night. He flits and flies all over the camp, scampers and gambols, plays small, mischievous tricks on everyone. But he does not lisp; he speaks clearly. He runs and hides in his mother’s clothes. He holds his father’s finger and traipses along.

Unlike all the other children in Shah Alam Camp, this child looks amazingly happy.

Someone asks, “Why are you so happy?”

“Don’t you know… I thought everyone knew.”

“Know what?”

“That I am The Proof.”

“Proof? Proof of what?”

“I am The Proof of Bravery.”

“Whose bravery are you proof of?”

“Of those who ripped open my mother’s womb, tore me out and hacked me in two.”

VI

The spirits come to Shah Alam Camp after midnight. A mother’s spirit comes to meet her son. The son is amazed at the sight of his mother.

“Ma, why do you look so happy today?”

“Siraj, I met your grandfather in heaven today. He introduced me to his father, who took me to meet his father, even his grandfather and great-grandfather. Imagine, Siraj, I met your great-great-great-grandfather!” The mother speaks in a voice lilting with happiness.

“Siraj, your great-great-great grandfather was a Hindu… a Hindu, do you understand? Siraj, be sure to tell every one about this.”

VII

The spirits come to Shah Alam Camp after midnight. A sister’s spirit comes one night. She is looking for her brother. She looks everywhere till she finally spots him sitting on a staircase. The sister is delighted and runs to meet him. “Bhaiyya,” she cries out. The brother hears but pretends as though he doesn’t. He just sits there, mute and unmoving like a stone statue.

The sister speaks again, “Bhaiyya, listen to me.”

Again, the brother gives no sign of hearing her, nor does he look towards her.

“Why won’t you listen to me, Bhaiyya?” the sister speaks loudly. This time the brother’s face flames like fire. His eyes shoot sparks. He rises in a fury and begins beating his sister mercilessly. A crowd gathers and someone asks the girl what she has said to so enrage her brother.

The sister says, “I only called out to him, ‘Bhaiyya’.”

An old man speaks up, “No, Salima, that was very wrong of you. Why did you say that? That was absolutely the wrong thing to say.” And the old man starts crying like a baby.

The brother starts beating his head against a wall.

VIII

The spirits come to Shah Alam Camp after midnight. One night an old man’s spirit comes along with all the other spirits. The old man’s body is naked save for a skimpy loincloth. He wears chappals on his feet and holds a wooden staff in his hand. An old-fashioned fob watch peeps from the folds of his loincloth.

Someone asks the old man, “Are you too looking for a relative here in this camp?”

The old man replies, “Yes, and no.”

The others leave him alone, taking him for a senile old man. The old man walks round and round the camp.

Someone again asks the old man, “Baba, whom are you looking for?”

The old man says, “I am looking for someone who can kill me.”

“Why?”

“I was killed fifty years ago by a bullet. Now I want the rioters to burn me alive.”

“But, why do you want that, Baba?”

“Simply to tell the world, that I was not killed by their bullet, nor will I die if they burn me alive.”

IX

A political leader asks a spirit who has come to visit Shah Alam Camp:

“Do you have a father and mother?”

“No, they were both killed.”

“What about brothers and sisters?”

“No.”

“Any other living relatives?’

“No, all are dead.”

“Are you comfortable here?”

“Yes, I am.”

“Do you get enough to eat?”

“Yes, I do.”

“Do you have clothes on your back?”

“I do.”

“Do you need anything else?”

“No, nothing.”

“Nothing?”

“Nothing.”

The leader is pleased. He says to himself, “The lad is bright. Not like other Muslims.”

X

The spirits come to Shah Alam Camp after midnight. One night the Devil’s spirit comes along with all the others. He looks around and is consumed with acute embarrassment, even shame, at what he sees. He can barely hold his head up and look the others in the eye. Sheepishly, he averts his gaze, ducks his head, and furtively looks for an escape route where he is least likely to meet another soul. Intrigued by this strange creature, people catch hold of him by the scruff of his neck and shake him.

Wilting with shame, he bleats, “I have no hand in all this… all this that has happened, truly I don’t… I swear on Allah, I have nothing to do with any of this.”

People say, “Yes, yes, we know. You couldn’t have done this. You have your own standard to think of.”

The Devil sighs with relief and says, “You don’t know what a weight has lifted from my heart! So, you good people know the truth.”

They say, “Allah Miyan had come a few days ago and He was saying the same thing.”

First published in its Hindi original in Rashtriya Sahara, 9 June, 2002.

Translations -- Looking at the Wrong Side of the Carpet

There was a time, not very long, ago when all we had by way of translations in India were the Jataka-katha, Panchtantra, Gita or Mahabharata in English. The launch of Penguin India in the mid-1980s and the publication of Bhishm Sahni’s Tamas, the seminal Partition novel translated from the Hindi original, opened the floodgates. Suddenly we had translations coming out of our ears, from the various bhashas into English as well as into/between the vernaculars! This was a largely unexpected and entirely fortuitous turn of events in a country that has turned Indian Writing in English (IWE) into a national obsession. While writers of IWE are inevitably feted and lionised at lit-fests, translators too are gradually creeping out from the shadows. Translations now command equal space in the pages of literary magazines just as translators too can demand equal rights: 10% royalty and a book launch with canapés and cocktails to boot!


Over the past twenty years, translations have, stealthily but surely, made a space for themselves not only in the trade but in the public consciousness as is evident from the numbers of translated books displayed in bookstores, popular awards for translators as well as the relatively painless hunt for publishers. I would venture so far as to say that translations have become a cottage industry of sorts, especially the business of compiling short stories from and into the various languages. Anthologies offer a smorgasbord, or a tasting menu of sorts into the great storehouse of Indian literature, and enterprising translators/editors peg their collections in many innovative ways: women’s writing, South Asian writing, Dalit writing, coming-of-age writing, regional writing, partition writing, call-it-what-you-will writing! As is often the case with problems of plenty, we occasionally have random, indiscriminate, patchy, a mélange of the good, bad, indifferent translations being cobbled together with one eye on political correctness and the other on cost-effective publishing. The idea seems to be to translate freely, prolifically and indiscriminately for there is a place for everything in a market that is showing no signs of saturation. This, I think, is a disservice to translations generally and to the task of introducing regional literatures to younger fresher audiences in particular.


Having said that, only a handful of the burgeoning collections of short stories, especially from the bhasha literatures, ever fail my personal litmus test. Having read and reviewed scores of such translations -- and God help me, edited a couple of ‘samplers’ myself – as long as I chance upon something that opens a window into a world that is new and familiar, that has the power to delight and amaze, I feel the business of anthologizing and translating might be done to death but cannot be done away with. For students of literature in South Asia, as well as people from the South Asian diaspora who look upon the bhasha literatures from their part of the world as being a vital link with their cultural heritage but use English as an effective first language, translations offer the only glimpse into an otherwise closed world. So while many of us veterans in the business of translating, editing or reviewing rue the presence of certain authors or certain stories popping up like tired ghosts in most anthologies of ‘modern Indian fiction’ or certain authors and stories being mistaken for being ‘most representative’ simply because they are ‘most anthologised’, there is no denying that as long as a work of translation meets the needs of a wide variety of readers the purpose behind the endeavor is met.


Speaking for myself, having burnt my fingers with technical translations long years ago, I have since stuck to literary translations. Moreover, since I steadfastly refuse to indulge in farmaishi (command) programmes, I enjoy the luxury of translating precisely what I want or whatever – a story, an essay, a poem, a stray fragment – catches my fancy. The pleasure of sharing the tremulous sense of wonder that a piece of literature evokes with a wider audience that is sadly mehroom (bereft) due to the constraints of language and script is its own reward.


A perfect example is my introduction to the world of Phanishwarnath Renu, a Hindi writer from Bihar. The thrill of discovering something that was at once so inexplicably real and hence so immediate, despite being grounded in a milieu that was completely alien to me, was indescribable. That thrill stayed with me as I chanced upon story after story that had, on the one hand, characters and locations steeped in Bihar (a state which, incidentally, I have never visited and am therefore not familiar with at first hand), yet beckoned me – first as a reader and later, as a translator – to look for the known and the familiar. The more I read, the more this duality grew till in a strange way it resolved itself with the slowly-dawning realization that for a good writer character, plot and narration are mere props; the real thing is the story and, in the telling of it, if the writer can, perchance touch the reader at some level – be it emotional or intellectual – then the remoteness of its setting or the strangeness of its characters is of little consequence. This sense of wonder has to be shared for it to be truly pleasure-giving.


At the same time, as a translator, it is best not to suffer from delusions of grandeur. A translation has been likened to looking at the wrong side of a carpet. The colour, sheen, intricacy of the ‘right’ side is missing. The patterns, outlines, motifs and designs are all there, but they are muted and no match for the original. The translator can, at best, convey a ‘sense’ of the sights and sounds of the original, transfer the meaning from one vocabulary bank to another but must, inevitably, lose some of it in the process. He/she can mimic the rhythms and patterns of the source language, never match it cadence for cadence in the target language. Those who claim otherwise are simply deluding themselves. For, I believe translation is a skill acquired from long hours of constancy and industry. It rests on the cornerstone of fidelity and humility.


Rakhshanda Jalil has published translations of Premchand, Manto, Rashid Ahmad Siddiqui, Shahryar, Intezar Husain, Renu among several others. A modified version of this article was first published in The Herald, Pakistan, July 2011.

Manto -- A Story in Translation

Yazid* 

Translated from the Urdu by Rakhshanda Jalil

The riots of 1947 came and went. In much the same way as spells of bad weather come and go every season. It wasn’t as though Karimdad accepted everything that came his way as God’s will. No, he faced every vicissitude with manly fortitude. He had met hostile forces in a head-on collision – not necessarily to defeat them, but simply to meet them face to face. He knew that the enemy outnumbered him but he believed that it was an insult, not just to him but to all mankind, to give in in the face of trouble. To tell you the truth, this was the opinion others had of him -- those who had seen him take on the most savage of men with the most amazing courage. But, if you were to ask Karimdad himself if he considered it an outrage for himself or all mankind to admit defeat in the face of opposition, he would no doubt fall into deep thought – as though you had asked him a complicated mathematical question.

Karimdad knew nothing of addition-subtraction or multiplication-division. The riots of 1947 came and went. People began to sit down and calculate the loss of lives and property. But Karimdad remained untouched by all this. All he knew was this: his father, Rahimdad, had been ‘spent’ in this war. He had picked his father’s corpse, carried it on his own shoulders and buried it beside a well.

The village had known several casualties. Thousands of young and old had been killed. Many girls had disappeared. Several had been raped in the most inhuman way possible. Those who had been inflicted with these wounds sat and cried – they cried over their own misfortune and the heartless perpetrators of these crimes. But Kaimdad did not shed a single tear. He was proud of his father’s valiant fight to the finish. His father had single-handedly fought 25-30 rioters armed to the teeth with swords and axes. When Karimdad had heard that his father had fallen down dead, after bravely fighting off the attackers, he had only these words to say to his dead father’s spirit: ‘Yaar, this isn’t done. I had told you to always keep at least one weapon handy with you.’

And he had picked up Rahimdad’s corpse, dug a hole beside the well and buried it. Then, he had stood beside the grave and by way of prayer said only this: ‘God keeps count of vices and virtues. May you be granted paradise!’

Whoever heard of Rahimdad’s brutal murder cursed the savages who had butchered him, but Karimdad never uttered a word. Karimdad had lost several ready-to-harvest crops. Two houses belonging to him had been burnt. Yet, he never added these losses to the loss of his father. He would simply content himself by saying: ‘Whatever has happened has happened due to our own fault.’ And when someone would ask him what that fault was, he would remain quiet.

While the rest of the village was still grieving after the recent riots, Karimdad decided to get married -- to the dusky belle, Jeena, on whom he had been keeping an eye for a long time. Jeena was grief stricken. Her brother, a strapping youth, had been killed in the riots. He had been her only support after the death of her parents. There was no doubt that Jeena loved Karimdad dearly but the tragic loss of her brother had turned even her love into heartache; her once ever-smiling eyes were now always brimming with sorrow.

Karimdad hated crying and sobbing. He felt frustrated whenever he saw Jeena looking unhappy. But he always refrained from admonishing her because she was a woman and he though his rebukes might hurt her aching heart even more. One day, he caught hold of her when they were both out on their fields and said, ‘It has been a whole year since we buried our dead. By now even they must be weary of this mourning. Let go of your sorrow, my dear. Who knows how many deaths we have to see in the years ahead. Save your tears for what lies ahead.’

Jeena did not like his words. But because she loved him she thought long and hard over what he had said. In solitude, she searched for the meaning behind his words and, at long last, came around to convincing herself that Karimdad was right.

When the subject of Karimdad’s marriage to Jeena was first broached, the village elders were against it. But their opposition was weak. They had grown so weary of the constant state of mourning that they no longer had the conviction for any sort of sustained opposition. Therefore, Karimdad was duly married. Musicians and singers were called. Every ritual was performed. And Karimdad brought his beloved home as his legally wedded wife.

The village had turned into a vast graveyard a year after the riots. When Karimdad’s wedding procession wound through the village amidst shouts and cries, some villagers were initially scared. They thought it was a ghostly parade. When Karimdad’s friends told him about it, he laughed loudly. But when Karimdad laughingly narrated the incident to his new bride, she shivered with fright.

Karimdad took Jeena’s red-bangled wrist in his hand and said, ‘This ghost will haunt you for the rest of your life… even the village sorcerer will not be able to rid you of me with his witchcraft.’

Jeena put the tip of her hennaed finger between her teeth and mumbled shyly, ‘Keeme, you are scared of nothing!’

Karimdad licked his brownish-black moustaches with the tip of his tongue and smiled, ‘Why should one be scared of anything?’

The sharp edge of Jeena’s grief was becoming dull. She was about to become a mother. Karimdad saw her blossoming womanhood and was pleased.

The first Eid* came. Then the second one**. Karimdad celebrated both festivals with fervour. The rioters had attacked his village twelve days before the last Eid when both Rahimdad and Jeena’s brother, Fazal Ilahi, had been killed. Jeena shed copious tears in memory of both. But in the company of one who resolutely refused to harbour any trace of sorrowful memories, she could not mourn them as much as she would have wanted to.

*

By the time Muharrum* came around, Jeena made her first request to Karimdad. She was dying to see the famous horse and taziya during the procession. She had heard a great deal about the procession from her friends. And so she said to Karimdad, ‘Will you take me to see the procession if I am well enough?’

Karimdad smiled and said, ‘I will take you even if you are not well… and this son of a pig as well.’

Jeena hated the way he referred to her unborn baby. She would go into a huff whenever she heard it but Karimdad’s tone was, as always, so loving that it transformed Jeena’s anger into an indescribable sweetness and she would wonder how so much love could be stuffed into that awful expression -- ‘son of a spig’.

Rumours of a war between India and Pakistan had been floating for some time now. In fact, it had become a near-certainty shortly after the creation of Pakistan that there would be war between the two countries. Though no one in the village knew exactly when the war might break out. Whenever someone asked Karimdad about the imminent breakout of hostilities, he would answer briefly and succinctly: ‘It’ll happen when it’ll happen. What’s the point of thinking about it?’

Jeena was terrified at the very thought of war. She was, by nature, a peace-loving girl. The smallest tiff between friends made her unhappy. In any case she had seen enough looting and killing during the last riots. Terrified, she asked Karimdad one day, ‘Keeme, what’ll happen?’

Karimdad smiled and said, ‘How would I know whether it’s going to be a girl or a boy?’

This sort of rejoinder always made her mad but she would soon get caught up in Karimdad’s banter and forget all about the war clouds gathering over her head. Karimdad was strong, fearless and completely in love with Jeena. He had bought a rifle and learnt to take perfect aim. All this combined to lend courage to Jeena but every time she heard idle gossip from a scared friend or loose talk among the villagers, her fears would return.

One day, Bakhto, the midwife, who came to check on Jeena everyday, brought the news that the Indians were going to ‘close’ the river. Jeena didn’t know what that meant so she asked Bakhto, ‘What do you mean by closing the river?’

Bakhto answered, ‘They will close the river that waters our crops.’

Jeena thought for a minute, then laughed and said, ‘You talk like a mad woman … Who can close a river; it’s a river, not a drain.’

Bakhto gently massaged Jeena’s distended belly and said, ‘I don’t know… I have told you what I heard. They say the newspapers are full of it, too.’

‘Full of what?’ Jeena found it hard to believe.

Bakhto felt Jeena’s belly with her wrinkled hand and answered, ‘That they are going to close the river.’ Then she pulled down Jeena’s shirt and got to her feet speaking in the tone of one who knows, ‘If all stays well, the child will be born ten days from now.’

Jeena asked Karimdad about the river the moment he stepped foot inside the house. At first, Karimdad tried to fob off her insistent queries, but when Jeena kept repeating her question, he said, ‘Yes, I have heard something of the sort too.’

Jeena demanded, ‘What have you heard?’

‘The Indians are going to close our river.’

‘But why?’

‘So that our crops are ruined.’

By now Jeena was convinced that rivers could actually be closed. So all she could say, a bit helplessly, was this: ‘How cruel those people are!’

Upon hearing this, Karimdad smiled after a moment’s pause. He said, ‘Forget all this… Tell me, did Bakhto come?’

Jeena answered listlessly, ‘She did.’

‘What did she say?’

‘She said the baby will be born ten days from now.’

Karimdad hurray-ed loudly, ‘And may he live long!’

Jeena showed her displeasure and muttered, ‘Look at you, rejoicing at a time like this… when God knows what sort of Karbala* will be visited upon us.’

Karimdad went away to the village centre where almost all the men from the village had gathered. Everyone was clustered around the village headman, Chaudhry Nathu, and was asking him questions about the closing of the river. Someone was busy showering abuse upon Pandit Nehru, another wishing every manner of mishaps for him, and yet another was resolutely refusing to admit that the course of a river could be changed at will. And there were some who believed that whatever was about to happen was a punishment for our own misdeeds and the only way to avert the calamity that hovered overhead was to go to the mosque and pray.

Karimdad sat in a corner and listened quietly to the talk that swirled about him. Chaudhry Nathu was the most vocal among those who were abusing the Indians. Karimdad turned restlessly from this side to the other as though acutely frustrated. Everyone agreed on one thing: that closing the river was a dirty, low-down trick, that it was a petty, unscrupulous, extremely cruel thing to do, that it was a sin that matched the one perpetrated by Yazid.

Karimdad coughed a couple of times as though preparing himself to say something. But when yet another shower of the choicest profanities erupted from Chaudhry Nathu’s mouth, Karimdad could no longer contain himself. He cried out, ‘Don’t abuse others, Chaudhry!’

A terrible mother-related profanity got stuck midway in the Chaudhry’s throat. He turned and looked strangely at Karimdad who was, at that moment, busy adjusting the turban on his head.

‘What did you say?’

Karimdad answered in a low but firm voice, ‘I said: Don’t abuse others.’

Chaudhry Nathu spat out the profanity stuck in his throat and turned aggressively towards Karimdad, ‘Abuse who? How are they related to you?’ And then he looked around and addressed all those who had gathered in the chaupal. ‘Did you hear, people? He says don’t abuse others… Ask him: How are they related to him?’

Karimdad answered patiently, ‘Why would they be related to me? They are my enemies, what else?’

A loud, strained sort of laughter tore out of the Chaudhry’s throat with such force that it shook the hairs of his moustache. ‘Did you hear that? They are his enemies. And should one love one’s enemies, son?’

Karimdad answered in the tone of a dutiful son answering an elder, ‘No, Chaudhry, I didn’t say that. All I said was: Don’t abuse others.’

Karimdad’s childhood friend, Miranbakhsh, who sat next to him, asked, ‘But why?’

Karimdad spoke directly to Miranbaksh, ‘What’s the point, yaar? They are trying to close the river and ruin your crops and you think you can abuse them and even the score? Does it make sense? One abuses when there is no other answer.’

Miranbakhsh asked, ‘Do you have an answer?’

Karimdad paused for a minute, then said, ‘The question is not mine alone; it involves thousands upon thousands of people. My answer can not be everyone’s answer. In such situations, one can come up with a satisfactory answer only after careful consideration. They can’t turn the course of the river in one day. It’ll take them years. Whereas here, you are taking just one second to vent your pent up venom against them in the form of expletives.’ He put one hand on Miranbakhsh’s shoulder and spoke with affection. ‘All I know is this, yaar: that it is wrong to call India unscrupulous, petty and cruel.’

Instead of Miranbakhsh, Chaudhry Nathu shouted, ‘Now hear this!’

Karimdad continued to address Miranbakhsh, ‘It is stupid, my dear friend, to expect mercy or favour from the enemy. When war breaks out and we begin to cry that they are using a bigger bore rifle, or that we are dropping smaller bombs while they are dropping bigger bombs, I ask you in all honesty, are such complaints right? A small knife can kill just as effectively as a big knife. Am I not telling the truth?’

Instead of Miranbakhsh, Chaudhry Nathu began to think, but he quickly became vexed. ‘But the issue here is that they are going to close our water… they want to kill us of hunger and thirst.’

Karimdad removed his hand from Miranbakhsh’s shoulder and addressed the Chaudhry, ‘When you have already declared someone as your enemy, why complain that he wants to kill you of hunger and thirst? If he doesn’t drive you to your death from hunger and thirst, if he doesn’t turn your green fields into arid wastelands, do you think he will instead send you pans full of pilau and pots full of sweet sherbet and plant gardens and groves for your leisure?’

This only aggravated the Chaudhry. ‘What is this nonsense?’ he asked furiously.

Even Miranbakhsh asked his friend softly, ‘Yes, yaar, what is this nonsense?’

‘It isn’t nonsense, Miranbakhsh!’ Karimdad spoke as though trying to explain things to his friend. ‘Just think, in a war the two parties try their hardest to defeat the other side. Just as the wrestler who grids his loins, as it were, and enters the ring, and tries every trick in the book to bring his opponent to the ground.’

Miranbakhsh nodded his tonsured head and said, ‘Yes, that’s true.’

Karimdad smiled, ‘Then it is all right to even close the river. It may seem like cruelty to us; but for them it is perfectly acceptable.’

‘When your tongue begins to loll and hang to the ground with thirst, then I will ask you if it is acceptable. When your children cry for every morsel of food, will you still say it is okay to close the river?’

Karimdad licked his dry lips with his tongue and answered, ‘I will still say the same thing, Chaudhry. Why do you forget that only they are not our enemies; we too are their enemies. If we could, we too would have shut off their food and water. But now when they can and are going to close our river, we will have to think of a way out. But what’s the point of useless abuses? The enemy will not sprout rivers of milk for you, Chaudhry Nathu. If he can, he will mix poison in every drop of your water. You might call it cruelty, even barbariism, because you don’t like this form of taking life. Isn’t that strange? Before the commencement of war, should the two warring parties lay down a set of conditions and clauses, a bit like a nikah? Should we tell them not to kill us of hunger or thirst but that they are welcome to do so with a gun and that too a gun of a certain bore?  This is the real nonsense… Think about it, carefully and coolly.’

By now Chaudhry Nathu had reached the far limit of his frustration. He shouted, ‘Someone get a slab of ice and place it on my breast.’

‘You expect me to get that too?’ Karimdad said and laughed. Then he patted Miranbakhsh on the shoulder, got to his feet and left the chaupal.

As he was about to cross his threshold, he saw Bakhto coming out of the house. She saw Karimdad and a toothless smile appeared on her face.

‘Congratulations, Keeme! You have been blessed with a healthy baby boy. Think of a suitable name for him now.’

‘Name?’ Karimdad thought for no more than a second and said, ‘Yazid – Yazid.’

Bakhto’s mouth fell open with surprise. Whooping with joy, Karimdad entered his house. Jeena was lying on a string bed. She looked paler than she had ever before. A bonny baby lay besides her, busy sucking his thumb. Karimdad looked at him with a glance full of love and pride. Touching his cheek lightly with a forefinger, he said softly, ‘My little Yazid!’

A faint shriek escaped Jeena as she squealed with surprise, ‘Yazid?’

Karimdad looked closely at his son’s face, inspecting each feature carefully, ‘Yes, Yazid. That’s his name.’

Jeena’s voice sounded faint, ‘What are you saying, Keeme? Yazid…’

Karimdad smiled, ‘What’s in it? It’s only a name!’

All Jeena could manage was a brief: ‘But whose name?’

Karimdad answered with perfect seriousness, ‘It needn’t be the same Yazid. He had closed the river; our son will open it.’

The above story is from Naked Voices, Stories and Sketches by Saadat Hasan Manto, Translated by Rakhshanda Jalil, Roli Books/India Ink, New Delhi, 2008.

---

*  Within 50 years of the Prophet’s death, the small community of Muslims was torn by conflicting claims to leadership. The governor of Syria, Mu’aviya, opposed Ali and wrested the Caliphate from him. His son, Yazid, carried the enmity forward by demanding allegiance (bay’ ah) from Ali’s son and successor Husain. When Husain – son of Ali and grandson of the Prophet Muhammad -- declined, Yazid issued an unequivocal call: Surrender or Die! Surrender meant recognition of Yazid and the power he had wrongfully wrested. For Husain both were unacceptable; instead, he chose willing sacrifice of himself, his family and supporters.

It was the year 679 AD -- seventy men held out against 4000 in a desert named Karbala, approximately 70 km from Kufa. Rations dwindled, men died in battle, children were slaughtered and the enemy closed in on the small, besieged group. On the eighth day of battle, water supply was cut off. The river Euphrates glimmered in the distance but the way was barred. Ill, hungry, dying of thirst, the bedraggled but valiant group faced battle on the fateful tenth day, the day called Ashura, when all perished save for three male members and some women and children who were paraded till Damascus to be presented before Yazid. Quite naturally, then, Yazid is one of the most hated figures in Islamic history.

* Called Chhoti Eid in the Urdu original, meaning ‘small Eid’ referring to Eid ul-Fitr that comes after the month of Ramazan.

** Called Badi Eid in the Urdu original, meaning ‘big Eid’ referring to Eid-uz-Zuha or the Feast of the Sacrifice which is celebrated in memory of Abraham’s sacrifice of that which was dearest to him, his son Isaac.

* Muharrum is the first month of the Muslim lunar calendar. The incidents of Karbala happened during this month. Shaam-e-Gharibaan (Eve of Sorrows) on the night of the ninth day of Muharrum is a poignant cathartic occasion for remembrance. By Ashura, the tenth day, the matam or mourning reaches a frenzied climax: processions are taken out, the faithful walk on live coals, flay themselves with chains and whips. Alam, a replica of the standard or pennant carried by Husain in battle, is carried at the head of the procession. The Panja, an emblem in the shape of the open palm signifying the panj tan paak, the Five Holy Ones, namely, the Prophet, Fatima (his daughter), Ali (her husband), Hasan and Husain (their sons) – and the Taazia -- an elaborate construction of paper, tinsel and other finery replicating Husain’s tomb – are included in the procession for ‘burial’ at Karbala. Any city with a sizeable population of Shia Muslims has its own ‘Karbala’ to bury both the annual Taaziya and serve as burial ground for Shias.  All over north India, both Shia and Sunni Muslims participate in these Muharrum processions. Crowds gather to watch them, and in rural India occasionally the ‘spectacle’ overtakes the solemnity of the occasion.

* Karbala, here is a metaphor for vicissitudes, troubled times, when there might be shortages of food and water.

Phanishwarnath Renu

Old Story, New Moral

By Phanishwarnath Renu

Translated from the Hindi by Rakhshanda Jalil

Depression in the Bay of Bengal causes a cyclone to rise.

The snow on some Himalayan peak melts. Rain-heavy clouds begin to gather and unleash their fury over the dense jungles of the Terai. The plains await the impending catastrophe, tense and still.          .

The cattle grazing beside the banks of the Kari-Kosi river sniffed something in the air and shied away in startled panic. An old cow ran helter-skelter with her tail in the air. The old cowherd looked closely at the water in the river. He cupped a handful; it was cold and sweet. He sniffed it. It smelt of the earth and was reddish-ochre.

Reddish water meant water from the hills -- did it mean floodwaters were soon to be upon them?

The young cowherd scoffed at his words and laughed at his fears. But the shivering in the bodies of the animals increased. They stood in a herd beside the riverbank staring at the swirling waters and began showing increasing signs of panic. And not one of them -- not even the newest-born calf -- put his mouth to the grass to graze.

Fields of tender wheat, corn and jute spread on either side of the tributaries of the Kari-Kosi -- the Panar, Bakra, Lohandra and Mahanadi rivers -- as though someone had painted the land a rich, dark green with a coarse thick brush. Mango groves and courtyards in village after village echoed with the sweet songs of Madhushravani. And in the air there is the heady smell of the red, fuschia and yellow veils belonging to the brides -- fluttering and drying in the breeze. And a sweet sinfulness awakens in the heart of the middle-aged farmer lying atop the rough platform to keep watch over his tender milky corn as his eyes fall on the group of robust dark young Musahari women busy cutting the wild spinach growing among the crop. He begins to sing songs of viraha in a loud and lusty voice.

"Beat the old ape! Look at him, lusting after pomegranates in his old age!" says one of them.

And the rest break out into a fit of giggles, falling over each other.

Within seconds the dark giggling Musahari girls disappear into the evening gloam, as do the jute fields. And the sun that had guarded over them too sinks below the horizon. Darkness descends.

A drizzle starts. An intoxicating, unchecked joy kept hidden inside the heart all the year round takes the form of a monsoon raga and emerges in full-throated abandon: "It was love that caused Lord Rama to build a bridge across the waters... "

The easterly wind sings and dances and whirls inside a bamboo grove. And keeping tune with it countless spirits and demonesses swing from the branches of the trees chuckling and whooping with fearsome delight.

In the patter of the rain a piteous indistinct cry emerges from the darkness to shiver through the village -- He-e-e-e-o-o-o-o-o!

Is it a woman who has lost her way and is calling out for help in the darkness?

The spirits of the bamboo grove run towards the fields with countless flickering fireflies studded in their veils... Mothers clutch scared children to their bosom. Someone standing in a field far away beside the river bank again cries out for help. He-e-e-e-o-o-o-o-o!

Why is the goddess of the fields crying in the middle of the night?

Is disaster about to strike?

The cry for help becomes fainter and in its place there is a roar, a terrifying thunderous angry growl: Gooo-o-o-o­

Is it the roar of an airplane overhead?

The growl seems to be coming closer. The people from the northern-most villages shouted in one voice. A shout emerged from countless terrified throats: "Floods! O God, help!"

"Floods?"

"The waters of the Bakra river are sloshing past its eastern and western banks. There is water up till the waist beside the boundary of my fields."

"Have pity on us, Queen Kosi!"

The people of this area call every big and small stream Kosi... Can there be floods even after the Kosi Barrage has been built upstream? ... Can man win against Mother Kosi? … See what happens when you try to dam the Kosi!

"What will happen now?"

A bolt of thunder crackled and lightning struck one of the fields. The light in the eyes of the villagers dimmed... The world is drowning in a liquid darkness ... It is the end of the world … Disaster! Catastrophe!

Hapless helpless villagers attempt to pacify Mother Kosi by beating their drums and cymbals and singing songs of appeasement.

Young men from the villages set about cutting lathes and bamboos to construct makeshift shelters.

Shrill voices emerge from fearful throats to the accompaniment of drums and cymbals: "O Mother Kosi, I fall at your feet! I will offer flowers to you-o-o-u-u­... "

The only literate madman from the northern-most village goes about reciting verses from the poet Nagarjun to the accompaniment of the drums, saying over and over again: "Ta-ta-thaiya, ta-ta-thaiya, dance, dance, Kosi Maiya!"

And dancing to the tune of these words, Kosi Maiya indeed comes traipsing into the village and within the blink of an eye fields and granaries, homes and barns and trees -- everything begins to dance to this tune: Ta-ta-thaiya, ta-ta-thaiya, Dhin-tak-dhinna, Chhamak-kat-chham!

Her mouth gaping wide, riding atop a gigantic crocodile, the ten-armed Kosi sweeps heedlessly on, laughing and playful, surging on and on.

Now there are no drums and cymbals, no songs and pleas, only clamour and confusion!

Yet the youth are steadfastly at work -- putting up raised platforms and shelters above the swirling waters, slashing banana plants to make enclosures … While there is breath, there is hope!

"The water has reached the verandah!"

"The calf is being swept away! Hold it! Catch it!"

"Whose house has fallen?"

"The water is swirling about the waist!"

"Who is that climbing the palm?"

"The water has entered the house! Father! Help!"

"Climb onto the thatch!"

"Mother! Help! I'm gone! ... Father! Help! ... Watch it! ... Be careful! ... There, there... Hey Sugni! ... Ramlalva! ... O Dear Lord Mahadev! ... I am drowning! Help! ... The water has reached the chest in the courtyard! ... Not here, not here! This thatch is not strong enough! … Snake! Snake! ... Where is the rope? ... Here, pass the sickle... Ta-ta-thaiya, ta-ta-thaiya, Dance, Dance, Kosi Maiya, Dhin-tak-dhinna, Chhamak-kat-chham! "

In the patchy light of early morning the old vulture sitting on the plume of the tallest palm in the village saw: for miles all round there is nothing but swirling, lapping ochre waters, and in the middle occasional islands of what were once villages and in these villages one or two houses and sitting on their roofs a huddle of people. And there, in the distance, the corpse of a buffalo -- and beyond that drowned fields showing the drooping plumes of wilted maize.

The vulture spreads its wings and takes off.

A gaggle of wild geese is searching for its nests and eggs. The lapwing is singing its doleful song of doom and disaster.

The clouds are gathering once again. The wind is picking up once more. Mercy! Have mercy on us!

* * *

The dream of this area's lifelong Servant of the People -- the candidate defeated in the last elections' -- finally came true! Mother Kosi at long last gave him yet another opportunity to "serve" the people. Hail to thee, Mother! May you live long! This time, God willing, he will not rest till he has defeated his opponent. He is busy trying to establish telephonic contact with the District Magistrate and various Ministers of State from the office of a merchant in Ramnagar: "Hello! Hello!"

The regional correspondent of a major Delhi-based newspaper has come across a major breaking news story after years, but: "What? You don't have telegram forms? ... Trrrrinnngggg."

"Hello! Hello! Hello Purania, Hello Patna, Hello Kathiyar! ... Trrrrinnngggg."

"Hello, I am the party leader Sharma speaking. About fifty villages are completely drowned. No, sir, not boats, villages ... villages are drowned. I can't hear you... Sir... The DM must be informed, sir. ... What, sir? ... The MLA? ... But sir, he is from the opposition party! … Sir? Sir? … Hello? Hello?"

The party worker caught hold of the newspaper reporter at the post office counter and took him to a tea stall to give his account. But the tea stall was not the best place for such a narration. So he took him to his camp and said, "Write... let it be remembered that such a flood has never struck before..."

"But ten years ago..."

"Who remembers what happened ten years ago? Now, write, as soon as I got the news I reached the flood-affected areas in the middle of the night... Make sure my statement goes off today. Mine should be the very first response in print."

The reporter makes use of his journalistic horse sense: "But the MLA has already given his statement -- to the First Press of India -- on the telephone itself."

Sharma's face fell ... God has granted him this opportunity to serve the people after so long and the opponent gets first shot at making a statement to the press? The enemy gets to be first? At the time of the Chinese invasion too he had got left behind in making speeches and collecting funds. And this time, again?

"Look here, how many flood-affected villages did I say? Fifty? Make it two hundred and fifty ... If more villages are affected we will get more 'relief' for this district. I can do anything for the good of my people and my district. And if it so pleases God, by tomorrow two hundred villages can get submerged."

After giving his statement to the reporter he called an "urgent and critical" meeting of his party workers. The issue he failed to mention in his statement came in for close scrutiny at this meeting: "The kasbah of Rampur is under threat this year because of the dam built at Bardaha last year. If there is nowhere for the water to go, it just might push its way till the wagoneers' neighbourhood by the morning. "

The brave workers who lived in the wagoneer's neighbourhood looked at each other. A silent signal passed among them and a resolution was passed to engage in some secret activities.

Early next morning the reporter sent another urgent dispatch: "Last night another two hundred and fifty villages got submerged due to the breaking of the Bardaha Dam." And Sharma was working the telephone lines again: "Hello! Hello! Hello Patna, Hello Patna. . ."

The traders and moneylenders of Rampur kasbah were quick to understand that such an opportunity for 'auspicious gain' does not come every day. At the time of the Chinese invasion they had missed the bus. This time while all the fuss was going on about the drought God sent them the floods. Who would not wash his hands in the river Ganges if it flows past their door! Their godowns and granaries became empty overnight. Their books and ledgers became perfect and accounted for. They gave generously to every government and non-government appeal to donate for the flood-stricken. But wheat? Where was the wheat?

The government servants clamped government locks and seals on their empty godowns.

"Brothers! Brothers! This evening. There will be. A grand assembly. Of the people of Rampur. At the local town hall. That is. The Theatre Hall. To set up a committee. For the flood-affected. Brothers! Brothers! ..."

"Dear Brothers! Tonight there will be a great family drama on the silver screen of the Ansari Touring Cinema... Dear Brothers! Tonight..."

"If you don't have eyes, you have nothing! Those brothers who suffer from redness in the eyes -- Qr watering eyes -- Or those who have cataract and night blindness -- Must try our company's famous and renowned ointment..."

"What shall I do, dear Lord, I am stuck with an old man..."

"It's in the papers! It's in the papers! The latest news about this district! Two hundred villages are drowned!"

"It's here! It's here! The cheapest cloth from Bombay! ..."

"It's come! It's come! The relief wagon has come! ..."

"It's come! It's coming! Three dozen boats are coming! ..."

"The Minster for Irrigation is coming!"

"Donate generously, Brother, give rice-clothes-money..."

"Long Live Freedom!"

The boys of the two schools of Rampur kasbah -- the Middle and Higher Secondary -- took out processions, singing songs and collecting old clothes. By evening they had split into two groups. The quarrel flared from arguments to abuses and knives and bamboos being taken out to beat each other. All day long the boys from the Middle school shouted slogans, sang songs and when it came to putting down the leaders' names for the records the boys from the Higher Secondary school walked away with all the credit. Beat them up, the rascals!

However, the servant of the people, Sharma ji was elected undisputed to the post of Chairman of the Relief Committee. The MLA came in for a lot of drubbing from the people: You were going on and on when you had come to ask for our votes; now, forget about 'relief supplies from the government, you haven't been able to get us even a single broken-down boat? ... Come on, answer us ... how did this flood happen? ... If no one listens to you, you must resign."

The MLA's "militant workers" were absent or else things would have begun with stone-throwing and gone on to ...

All the famous leaders of the major political parties have descended on Rampur kasbah with their entourage of "workers". Each has set up his own camp.

A group of government doctors and nurses has just arrived. Government officers are occupying every room in the Dak Bungalows. A Coordination Meeting has been convened.

Each political party has proposed a representative's name for membership to the Vigilance Committee. Almost every party is split into two groups: the "official" group and the "dissident" group. In every camp, a half-buried discontent smoulders.

"... Tomorrow the Chief Minister will make a 'flying inspection'."

"... The Union Minister for Food and Civil Supplies is also flying down."

".. . The Minister for River Valley Development has issued a statement."

".. .And the relief is on its way. Ten trucks laden with rice-flour-oil-cloth­-kerosene-matches-sago are on their way."

"…. Yesterday the Vigilance Committee meeting lasted all night"

"Brothers! This evening. There will be a public gathering. In the Municipal Grounds. Where the strictest discontent will be expressed. Against the present government's relief efforts. And the arbitrary setting up of the Relief Committee…."

"Brothers! Come! Tomorrow at 10.30 am. To Launch. A fast unto death. In front of. Comrade Choube. The Resident Relief Officer. . . "

"…. Go, go, go away, you rogue. You have no faith. No faith and no shame. Go, go, go away, you rogue…."

"Brothers! ….."

* * *

Helpless, starving and thirsty people surrounded by water on all sides -- marooned atop thatches, trees and mounds -- saw the boats arrive.

The nearest boat has a flag -- a Congress flag!

The one behind has one too -- but it is a different colour!

"'... Long Live Mahatma Gandhi!"

"Huh? Why Mahatma Gandhi? What has he to do with anything?"

"Don't get so excited, or the branch will break."

"A third boat! No, it isn't a boat. It's the corpse of a cow with two vultures sitting astride it."

"Aeroplane! Aeroplane!"

The boats draw closer. The Servant of the People himself rides the first one. A 'mike' is fitted on his boat. He has been laying the groundwork, as it were, from far off: "Brothers, even though you did not vote for me in the last election, I contacted the Chief Minister, the Food Supplies Minister, the Irrigation Minister as soon as I heard of your plight..."

The workers of the opposition party ride the second boat. In one voice, they oppose Sharma ji’s claims: "This is most unfair! You are using the government boat and government aid to wrongfully campaign for the Party..."

Sharma ji is the Chairman of the Relief Committee. He is unmindful of the opposition. He carries on: "Brothers, you must give your names down to every last man to our workers. Do not clamber onto the boats all at once. Brothers, we have as yet little staff. The boats too are few. So you must distribute whatever little there is peacefully and amicably among yourselves..."

The boat carrying the Chairman of the Relief Committee sprinkles the submerged villages with speeches and goes away. The people in the boat directly behind it oppose every word. A few workers step off the boats -- carrying ledgers and account books.

"A bigger boat is on its way."

"Brother, is there only a boat coming or does it carry something? The children are faint with hunger. My daughter is about to die. . ."

Two dozen boats plied the waters till the evening, gathering people. At night the relief officer told the vigilance committee in plain words: "The boats must not carry the flag of any political party... Nothing should be given without taking a thumbprint or signature... We simply can not provide bidis ... It is unethical to either praise or criticise any political party while distributing relief supplies. Those who continue to indulge in such practices will henceforth not be given any responsibilities by the Committee."

There is no work yet for the doctors and nurses. They are busy playing 'indoor' and 'outdoor' games -- "Game-ball"... "Two spade" ... "Hey Miss Bannerji" ... "No trump".

Arrangements have been made for the flood-affected villagers on the high ground near the railway bridge -- under the trees, beside the haat, in the school compound. Arrangements have been made for people to stay in villages where the floodwaters have not entered but which are surrounded by high waters. Boats ply the waters regularly, carrying rations to and fro. Several groups of doctors and nurses have been deployed to run health centres at such places.

The waters are gradually receding.

The Musahar and ferrymen are beginning to feel cooped up in the camps. These free-spirited people hear the news of the receding waters and become restless. They are creatures of the water. They can stay for months in mud and water. ... Their thumbs have blackened with all the thumb imprints they have been giving. ... It is far better to beg for a living than to touch the halwa-puri provided as 'relief. No, no ... That dog-faced officer was trying to entice my Sugni, did you know? ... A bunch of thieves, that's what they are!                                                                                                                

"Brothers! Before you leave the camp. You must. Inform your 'in-charge'. People can return. To those villages. Where the water has receded. Twine-Bamboo-Poles. And other essentials. Shall be provided. For your relief and rehabilitation. …"

"Brothers! It is important that you know. That gross misappropriation. Of funds. Has taken place. In the supplies directed towards your relief. You must. Raise your voice. Against the existing committee. . ."

"Brothers! Brothers! Hear! Hear! Friends!"

With cries of "Brothers! Brothers!" the announcers belonging to the two opposing parties began by calling each other liars and thieves and ended up in fisticuffs. The police resorted to "lathi-charge" to maintain peace and harmony. Several flood­-affected people ended up spending the night in police custody.

A major newspaper from Delhi published an expose: "The engineers of the Public Works Department have shown remarkable short-sightedness in building several small dams on minor rivers and their tributaries, such as the old distributary channels of the Kosi. That is why those villages which were never affected by the floods, are submerged under water this year. Inept government servants. . . "

Another daily newspaper placed the blame squarely on the officials of a neighbouring country and said, "In building a barrage close to the border of our state, the neighbouring kingdom has stopped the drainage outflow of all the small rivers in northern Bihar. A flood such as this would never have happened had the concerned officials bothered to consult our experts before building the barrage."

The local newsweekly, or shall we say the district rag, declared this flood a "man­made" calamity and announced: "It isn't the neighbouring state, but the oarsmen of the neighbouring country who have drowned us!"

Rats were found to be responsible for the breaking of the Bardaha Dam. Rats had dug up countless tunnels through its foundation, making it weak and porous -- in less than a year!

"... Read! Read! ... The latest news! There is a state-wide agitation! Preparations are underway. For a No-Confidence Motion. Against the present government! A fast-unto-death. At the Chief Minister's residence!"

A relief boat carrying fifty tins of kerosene and ten sacks of flour and rice is said to be lost in the waters of the Panar rivulet... Drowned!

The opponents of Sharma ji have filed a suit against him. Let them! Sharma ji's task is accomplished. The district is echoing with the praises showered on him. All the heartache of losses incurred during the Chinese invasion and the defeat in the last election is gone. He has reaped the benefits several times over... Surely there is a God somewhere... There is justice.

.. .Brothers !

...O my countrymen, let the tears seep into your eye...

* * *

A flock of vultures is soaring in the skies. Countless dark wings -- like black clouds hovering overhead.

And on the earth bloated carcasses of dead animals. And destroyed crops and rotting plants in the fields.

The stink! Oh, that terrible malodorous smell!

Mud everywhere -- and wriggling earthworms -- and crawling insects -- on the rotting corpse of the earth.

Straggling groups of people -- heads bent, clutching babies, herding their pitifully few cocks, hens, goat and sheep, some on wagons and carts, others on their shoulders -- are returning to villages where not a trace of their huts remains nor even a pinch of grain in their fields. But their feet are racing homewards. After nearly 30-35 days of hellish exile, a flood of love has overwhelmed their hearts -- ­love for their homeless villages and mud-filled fields... For miles on end their footprints are embossed on the mud.

The villages are coming alive once again.

The gods have come once again to live in these spirits buried under government relief, debt and assistance. For the past 30-35 days they have quarreled and fought amongst themselves for life, for survival, they have begged and pleaded with government officials for relief supplies. Greed made them fight, steal, covet... Satan had come to roost in their hearts.     .

In the month of Ashwin the sun appears without fail to awaken the earth. Green tufts of grass glimmer in the drying mud.

A skein of wild geese circles above, crying "paink-paink". At this moment everything seems dear and sweet -- even the kites, crows and vultures. Are those cranes in the water-filled ditches or Koka flowers? Branches of the Haarsinghar are heavy with sweet-smelling flowers. The lilt of welcome, of new arrival, is in the air. The mother is coming! That beggar woman? Is she the Goddess Annapurna, the provider, the fertile Mother Goddess?

Blowing a life-giving chant into the idol of mud and clay, the child of the soil cried: Mother! Forgive us!

Everywhere drums begin to beat to mark the beginning of prayers.

The Ashtami moon laughs amid the clear serene waters of the Kari Kosi. A fragment of a song sung by the refugee boatmen from Bengal breaks and wafts away -- like the delicate blossoms of Rajnigandha flowers: "O my brotherrrr!...O-­O-O-O... "

The only literate madman in the district is going around reciting this one line from the poet Nirala: "A lump of soil has become a sugar-coated sweet."

(Rakhshanda Jalil has translated a collection of short stories by Renu entitled Phanchlight and Other Stories, Orient Blackswan, 2010.)