June 15, 2003

Deep at night, the men came, killed the old woman’s son, set her house on fire and left. The old woman did not know why the men were angry with her son. Her neighbours put up a shelter for her of hemp and bamboo on her small plot of land.

Since her son’s death, the old woman has been living alone in her makeshift home, guarding her burnt-out homestead. Something is not quite right in her head. She can’t remember anything, and very often just mutters to herself. If some kind neighbour gives her a handful of cooked rice, she keeps it away in an earthen pot. She covers the rice with water, saying, “My son will eat it when he returns.”

Her son doesn’t return, but the other sons of the village do. The boys and girls know that the pot contains panta-bhat, rice soaked in water. The old woman does not eat the panta-bhat, so the children eat it up and go away. The old woman does not mind. In fact, if someone eats the panta-bhat, she feels quite happy.

When she is happy, she sits and cooks what rice and potatoes she has collected from different neighbours. She enjoys cooking. She feels that when she sits and cooks, all her sorrows are consumed by the flames. Only then does the pain inside her chest subside. Otherwise, the rest of the time the fire inside keeps on burning. The old woman, of course, knows that her pain will never end.

The children of the village tease the old woman when they meet her on her wanderings. “Granny, granny, where goest thou?”

“To the king’s palace.”

“What has the king given you?”

“An earthenware pot.”

“What’s there in that pot?”

“Panta-bhat.”

“Where’s the panta-bhat.”

“The gull has taken it, and the tiger has eaten it. There’s only some yogurt in the pot now.”

“We’ll eat the yogurt, old granny, we’ll eat the yogurt.

“Who the hell art thou, lad?”

“I’m the panta-bhat thief, and I’ve finished it off already.”

“Well done, you precious little jewel of mine.”

They change the tune. “Oh granny, when wilt thy bananas ripen?”

“In July.” She lifts her cudgel and rushes forward. “Beware, if you keep on eyeing my bananas, I’ll break your head into pieces.”

“Why will thou break my head? Whom dost thou have to fend for thee? Whom dost thou have to eat thy bananas?”

“You’re right. I have no one to eat my bananas.”

The old woman squats down on the roadside and keens. Her head starts to swim and the sun grows dark before her eyes. The old woman thinks of her burnt-down homestead and the banana clump. What an incomparably beautiful banana clump it is, its green mingling with maroon. The young banana clusters are tinged with maroon. They do not turn yellow even when they ripen. Instead, the maroon colour starts getting brighter till it reaches a dazzling brilliance. Young and the old alike look in amazement at the banana clusters. They say that the banana plants give life to the house. Although the killers had set the house on fire and burnt it down, the flames had not touched the banana clump. The plants stand as they stood before. The children of the village have always eyed those bananas.

The old woman wails aloud from time to time. Sometimes she embraces a banana plant and cries, “If these bananas gave life to my house, why did the house burn down? Why did the fire leap up in flames? Why wasn’t it extinguished before leaping up in flames?”

The boys and girls who surround her wipe away their tears with the backs of their hands. They know that the old woman will quieten down after her bout of weeping. Afterwards, when the bananas ripen, she will hang the cluster in front of her house. And when the children come, she will give one to each of them. The old woman is very strict in her accounts. She never gives two to anyone. She remembers exactly who has already had one. The children do not understand how the old woman can keep count so accurately, when she forgets so many things every day. When they ask her, she melts into a toothless grin, adding a few more crinkles to her already wrinkled face.

How charming she looks then! The neighbouring women consider themselves lucky when they see her smile. They wonder if a smile like this will ever brighten their faces. They do not feel optimistic. In front of them they only see an eternity of scalded lives. They go back home depressed when the old woman’s smile fades. They wish that it were everlasting.

Shanti tells her mother at night, “I get frightened, Ma, at that old woman’s smile.”

“Why?” Her mother looks at her in surprise.

Shanti replies, “I feel as if the old woman doesn’t smile, she only makes faces. Her lips twist strangely and her eyes close. Her smile drowns itself in those closed eyes. Her face seems to resemble her burnt-out homestead. It seems — Bapre!” Shanti stops, covering her face with both hands.

The mother looks at her adolescent daughter. No, she herself has found nothing frightening in the old woman’s smile. It is just a smile. Shanti’s mother asks, “Daughter, what did you want to say?”

Shanti does not look at her mother. She knows that her mother will say, “Because the old woman is in the village, there’s still light in it. Otherwise, long before, it would have sunk into darkness.”

How can human beings possibly live in a village like this? Shanti feels suffocated. She lives in perpetual fear. Anything may happen to anyone at any time. A few days back, Manija of the neighbouring village was killed by ruffians who gang-raped her. She was found in a paddy field, face down in the mud. It was her own father who carried the mud-splattered body of Manija on his shoulders back home. Manija was unrecognizable. What kind of a village does she live in, Shanti wonders, where girls die like ghosts? Their faces turning into different faces?

She looks at her mother and says, “Hasn’t the village yet sunk into darkness? To me it appears that it sank into darkness long ago.”

The mother stutters, “When? Before my birth?”

“Maybe,” Shanti replies casually. After a little while she asks her mother, “Has Manija gone to Heaven or to Hell?”

Surprised, Shanti’s mother looks at her.

Shanti says, “She was completely innocent. She therefore had no sin. Ma, what’s sin?”

“I don’t know,” her mother replies angrily.

“I’ll ask Abba. In the mosque, Abba calls the faithful to prayers. He knows everything.”

“Be careful, don’t disturb your father with these questions.”

“Why?”

“Your father is a very short-tempered man. He will lose his temper if you ask questions like this.”

“Who will answer my questions then?”

“No one.”

“No one? Is there no one in the village who can answer my question?” Shanti exclaims.

“Oh, Shanti, please be quiet. You yourself are a captive inside the house. Have you forgotten what sort of a danger we are in because of you?”

“No, I haven’t. Can I ever forget?”

After a while, Shanti giggles and says, “The son of the Union Parishad Chairman told me one day, ‘Shanti, I love thee.’ I felt like laughing out loud and said in reply, ‘I am the top girl of the school, I can’t love a wastrel like you.’ His eyes became red with anger and he declared, ‘Thy schoolgoing is stopped from today. Thou shalt not go to school till thou expressest thy love for me. If thou goest, thou wilt be kidnapped. Thou wilt be gang-raped. Acid will be thrown on thee and thy face disfigured.’ Can you understand, Amma, it’s a fairy tale. And this village is a kingdom in a fairy tale. We are all prisoners here. Demons and fiends roam our roads and alleyways. The palace of our king is a huge affair. The king is not a king of men. He is the king of devils, demons and fiends.”

Shanti again giggles.

Her mother looks at her daughter and says, “Shut up. Do shut up.”

Shanti looks at her mother’s face and is frightened. She curls up into a small ball. She is herself a burnt-out homestead. The old woman is a witch, standing with a magic wand to bewitch her. But the old woman is not a witch. Her father, who had stopped her going to school, is a witch. She loves her father very much, so the old woman must be a witch.

Shanti suddenly stops thinking these thoughts. She stands up and starts walking.

Her mother stops her. “Where are you going?”

“To granny’s house.”

“You must not go out.”

“The old woman’s house is just two houses away. That’s no distance at all! That dissipated rascal will not be lurking in this short distance.”

“Who knows what can happen when?” The mother heaves a sigh.

“Come what may,” Shanti says, breaking into a run, “I cannot remain a prisoner. I’ll go to the Chairman’s office and tell him to rein in his son.”

“Listen, Shanti, listen.”

Ignoring her mother’s entreaties, Shanti leaves and doesn’t look back.

The children are making a huge commotion in the old woman’s house. She has hung the banana cluster in her verandah. The children are busy plucking one ripe banana after another. What a pleasure it is! The burnt-out homestead has turned into a heaven.

When she sees Shanti, the old woman stretches out her arms in welcome. “Come, granddaughter, come.”

Shanti rests her head against the old woman’s bosom. She weeps. “Granny, I want to go to school.”

“Of course, you will go. I will take you to school. Come on, eat a banana first.”

While munching on a banana, Shanti asks, “Is rape a sin?”

“Yes, it is. A great sin.”

“Whose sin? The boy’s or the girl’s?”

“Why, the boy’s? It’s he who is at fault.”

“Manija has then gone to Heaven. She has committed no sin.” Shanti inhales deeply. The old woman asks, surprised, “Why did you suddenly think of this?”

“Just like that. Granny, will your house never be as it was before?”

“Who will build it for me? Do I have anyone?”

The children say, “We’ll build it for you. We will re-build the house bit by little bit every day.”

Shanti says, “That’s right. We’ll build your house for you. Let’s begin the work from today. We’ll first clean the place. We’ll leave no trace of the house having been burnt.”

The old woman mutters, “Only then will my son find peace.”

“Where’s your son? In heaven or in hell?”

The old woman looks at Shanti. What kind of a question is this? Even she herself has never thought of this. Then she brightens up and says, “He is in heaven all right. My son did nothing wrong. My child was a very good boy.”

“Yes, I know he was a very good boy. I loved him.”

“Is that so?” The old woman looks at the girl with unbelieving eyes. She feels so close to her.

Nestling her face on the old woman’s shoulders, Shanti replies, sobbing, “Yes, it’s true.”

Happiness is replaced by tears, and tears by happiness. The children also wipe their eyes without really understanding anything of what is going on. They feel as though they are weeping for something good.

After her sobs stop, the old woman says, “I have kept away some panta-bhat for my son. Eat it today.”

But before Shanti can eat the panta-bhat, Asgar comes in running. He sobs, “Oh, Allah, terrorists have stabbed our teacher, Akkas Master. Shanti Bubu, your teacher is no more.”

The old woman asks in a hoarse voice, “Why have they stabbed him?”

“He caught some of them cheating in the examination.”

“Who stabbed him?”

“The chairman’s son.”

“Oh!” At Shanti’s cry everyone grows still. A dreadful silence fills the house.

Shanti cries, “Another good man of the village is dead.”

From all round there is a sound of wailing, “He is gone, he is gone.” The cries swirl in the air and reach the skies.

After all the children have left the house one by one, the old woman squats on the ground with Shanti’s head in her lap.

The next day they hear that the girls of the village have sworn not to eat or drink till the murderer is punished. At least, the murderer has to be arrested. The village becomes agitated at this declaration.

Sitting close to the old woman and eating the panta-bhat she had kept for her son, Shanti says, “I’ve been proved wrong. There are good people living in the village. This time I will be able to go to school. I’ll again stand first in class.”

The face of the old woman lights up. Lifting Shanti’s face up with both of her hands, she says, “Did you really love my son very much, Shanti?”

Shanti doesn’t reply, just nods her head and shyly hides her face. The old woman raises her two hands and prays for her dead son.

A queen is now ruling the country. She declares that old-age pensions will be given to old men and women of the village. This news does not reach the old woman’s ears. The village boys and girls gather every day to help her rebuild her hut. The old woman squats on her verandah watching those activities. Her days pass quite well. The police have arrested and taken away the Chairman’s son. Shanti has again started going to school.

One day, after returning from school, Shanti complains tearfully, “Another young man has started stalking me. He says he will kidnap me.”

Shanti flings her school books on the verandah floor. The old woman looks at them. The white pages of the copybooks look like dead cranes lying with their wings outstretched on the ground. The old woman’s bosom fills with grief.

One day when the old woman is cooking a pot with seven different kinds of rice in it, a man comes to her with a letter from the Union Parishad. She is surprised. She has never received any letter in life. Who could have sent her a letter? She has almost started to forget her own name. The old woman turns over the letter. Kalim’s father, who delivered the letter to her, tells her, “From now on you’ll be receiving a monthly allowance of a hundred takas. The queen has made this arrangement for the old people of the country.”

After Kalim’s father has left, the old woman starts reckoning how old she is. She does not know how old she is. Still, she begins to count on her fingers — one score, two score, three, four, five score.

The old woman’s brains do not work. She thinks that age is bearing down on her shoulders. She decides that she must be sixty years old because she cannot remember anything beyond that. She is again and again reminded of the day her son was born. That was not very long ago. The old woman wants to feel happy at the thought of a hundred taka, but her eyes fail to light up. Who knows whether her eyes have cataract or something else, because her eyes pain her constantly. The old woman touches the letter to her forehead, she presses it against her chest. There seems to be no end to her pleasure. She wonders how in this world of sadness she has been granted so much happiness. The old woman raises her hands and praises Allah. A couple of months pass. The old woman is sent for by the Union Parishad office. They inform her that her six-month allowance has come. She has to collect it herself and put her thumb impression on the receipt. She must be at the office by 10 O’ clock next morning.

The old woman cannot sleep the whole night in her excitement. Six hundred taka is a lot of money. What will she do with it? She tosses and turns all night wondering what she will do. Then she decides that she will ask Shanti. Shanti will surely be able to tell her what to do with the money.

The next day when the old woman starts out for the office, Abu stands in front of her. “Where art thou going, Granny?”

“To the Union Parishad office.”

“Can I accompany thee?”

“Certainly.”

“I shall carry thy money home for thee.”

The old woman smiles. “Of course thou wilt.”

Abu prances along with the old woman. After they have gone a few steps, Parveen stands in front of the old woman. “Where art thou going, Granny?”

“To the Union Parishad office.”

“Can I come?”

“Certainly.”

“If thou canst not walk, I shall help thee shelter in the shade of a tree.”

The old woman gives her a smile. “Of course thou wilt.”

Parveen holds Abu’s hands. After they have gone a few more steps, Akkas obstructs the progress of the caravan and stands in front of the old woman. “Where art thou going, Granny?”

“To the Union Parishad office.”

“I’ll come.”

“Come. “

“When thou feelest thirsty, I shall fetch water for thee to drink.”

The old woman gives him a smile and says, “Of course thou wilt.”

Akkas holds the hands of Abu and Parveen. After they have gone a few more steps, a throng of children obstruct the old woman’s progress and ask, “Where art thou going, Granny?”

“To the office of the Union Parishad.”

“Can we come too?”

“Certainly thou canst come.”

“If thou findest it painful to walk, we shall all carry thee on our shoulders and reach thee home.

The old woman gives them a smile and says, “Of course thou wilt.”

The children accompany the old woman on her journey. They jump and sing, and, from time to time, encircle her and then let her go again. The old woman enjoys the company of the children.

It is noon when the old woman comes out of the Union Parishad office with the money. She tucks the money inside the folds of the sari at her waist.

The sun is straight overhead, and it’s scorching. The air is still. The heat is unbearable. After walking a while, the old woman starts feeling short of breath.

The children are still making merry. They ask her, “Grandma, won’t you give us some sweets?”

“Of course I will.”

“When? Let’s go to the shop right now.”

“Let Shanti come. We shall take her with us.”

“Let us then wait beneath that tree. Shanti Bubu’s school will be over soon and she will return home along this very road.”

Before the old woman can say anything, a sputtering sound of a motorcycle engine is heard behind them. The motorcycle stops in front of them. The procession comes to a halt. The two riders catch hold of the old woman and shake her, “Where’s the money? Bring it out.”

The old woman looks in front of her vacantly.

“Didn’t we say, bring out the money?”

The old woman looks completely bewildered.

Abu asks, “Why should Grandma give you the money? That is her money.”

“Shut up, you devil.”

One of the motorcycle riders gives Abu a powerful slap. The other forces the money out of the folds of cloth at the old woman’s waist and stuffs it into his pocket. Then they leave on their motorcycle, back the way they came.

Abu grits his teeth and says, “You terrorist sons of bitches.”

The old woman asks the children for a little water and asks them to help her to the shade of a tree. The children pick up the old woman from where she has fallen. They help her to her feet and set her beneath a tree. One of them runs to fetch water. The old woman reclines against the tree trunk, utterly exhausted, her eyes closed.

Returning from school, Shanti sees the old woman and the children from afar. She breaks into a run and soon reaches them.

Kneeling before the old woman, Shanti asks, “What happened?”

The old woman replies in a strange voice, “The thieves have stolen all the panta-bhat.”

Reproduced by permission from
Under the Krishnachura: Fifty Years of Bangladeshi Writing
Edited by Niaz Zaman
The University Press, Dhaka For info log on to www.uplbooks.com.
Email: upl@bangla.net.
Available at Oxford University Press, Plot # 38, Sector 15, Korangi Industrial Area, Karachi
Tel: 111-693-673
Email: ouppak@theoffice.net
ISBN 984-05-1663-9
465pp. Tk550

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