(Translated by Khademul Islam)
Alighting from the bus Jatin’s shirt caught the hand of some careless fellow passenger and tore a long way at the shoulder. Standing on the street Jatin turned towards the crowded bus, about to depart, and cried out accusingly at the first figure he saw, “You did it, mister, didn’t you, tore my shirt? Can’t you be a little more careful?”
The man replied, “Why are you accusing me? Did I do it?”
This was correct. That this indeed was the man who had torn his shirt, Jatin could not say with any degree of certainty. He hadn’t seen with his own eyes who actually had torn it. And before Jatin could frame another sentence the bus went off. And it seemed as if from inside the bus a little laughter, the collective smirking of a few, floated through the air back at him. In silent rage Jatin stood staring at the back of the vanishing bus, momentarily frozen. Those who had been friends even a few minutes back were now all his foes. He truly could not fix the blame on somebody. He had not seen anybody tear at his shirt. The heartless, invisible hand which was tearing him to pieces all day and night was the very hand that had torn his shirt and left.
In the shop at the corner a middle-aged Muslim wearing a blue lungi was snipping betel leaves with a pair of scissors. He looked at Jatin and said in a sympathetic tone, “What is the use of thinking further about it, dada? When things go, they go this way. Your shirt had gotten frayed anyway. Here, have a cigarette.”
On seeing the despairing expression in Jatin’s face, perhaps a bout of sympathy had awakened in the shopkeeper. Jatin did not refuse his gift. Stretching his hand forward he took the cigarette. He took out the last of the coins from his shirt pocket, held them out and said, “Give me a few more.”
Walking a bit south down Suresh Sardar Road Jatin came to the Dev Lane. It was on his left. He stood there for a minute smoking his cigarette and thinking whether he should go or not to Sati’s. How could anyone present themselves at the residence of respectable folks wearing a torn shirt? But what choice did he have? Unless he could get a loan of a few rupees it was now or never with Jatin. It was the end of the month and his household had broken down. On top of it all, in the middle of all this, his youngest son had just recovered from a bout of typhoid. His wife Lalita had told him, “However you do it you have to get money to at least buy half of the required rations. Otherwise the children will wither and die. There’s not even a single grain of rice in the house.”
So Jatin had left the house in the morning in search of a loan. There was no one left in Kadapara to ask. Everybody Jatin knew there was owed some money. By not paying his debts Jatin had not been able to extend his creditworthiness. Even from the small bazar shop where he worked, during his son’s illness Jatin had taken his salary in advance and spent it. Even if he asked, his employer would refuse to give any more. Of all the people from his old ancestral village who were now in Kolkata that Jatin knew, Sati’s was most well-off. Her husband Prafulla Bose did not have to toil at a job. His family owned a very large furniture shop in Bow Bazar. The house they lived in in Dev Lane was also their own; they did not have to worry about rent. A better place to approach for a loan Jatin did not know.
But how would it look if Jatin presented himself at such a house in his torn shirt? No matter what, in that house he was still considered, in a sense, part of the “‘bride’s side”’ from the old village. Somebody from the in-laws’ side. Still, what else could he do except not go there. Today he could not return empty-handed to his house; Lalita would come at him with a broom. Oh, what evil eye had possessed him today to take this Number 33 bus? He knew very well that this was a very crowded bus. So many had their pockets picked! And now not only he didn’t have the pocket – his whole shirt was gone! Today he hadn’t taken the bus for the pleasure of it; in these hard times he hadn’t felt like spending his last few coins.
Yesterday, after his sandal had torn, he had gone out wearing his neighbor Subal Das’s slip-on shoes. Subal had offered them on his own, “I am not going out today. You can wear my shoes if you like.” But if only Jatin had known that Subal’s feet were like a dainty maiden’s! Another man’s shoes had not worn well with Jatin, and blisters had sprouted on both his feet. Within a day the blister on his left foot had burst and then had become infected. Now his own shoes felt like somebody else’s. Yet, with this wounded foot Jatin had hobbled all the way from his house in Kadapara to Shealdah station. Then at the turn of the road at Shealdah, seeing the Number 33 bus at the stop, he had felt an overwhelming longing for it. He had thought, let me give my foot some rest. But in order to save his foot that he would so easily lose his shirt was something that had not simply occurred to him. And this one shirt of his constituted his total wardrobe.
A lovely double-story house with a new coat of whitewash on it. As he rapped the knocker on the door, a tiny dab of fresh green paint appeared on the tip of Jatin’s finger. A little later, his face covered in shaving lather, Prafulla stood at the door. He was around 32 or 33 years old, but with a bursting vigor that made it seem as if he hadn’t even crossed 25 or 26. “Arre, it’s you! Please come in, come in!” Prafulla laughingly invited Jatin in. Clad in an expensive lungi, a milk-white Turkish towel hanging on his shoulder—Prafulla cut quite the expansive figure, inviting Jatin like a most honored guest into his home. Such exquisite courtesy! Thinking of his own clothes Jatin yet again felt bashful.
Taking him into the inside family rooms, Prafulla raised his voice and called out, “Come, Sati, see who’s here!”
Prafulla called out for his wife in front of guests in the modern style. Even though he was a member of the trading class, he had an MA degree. Instead of trying to get a job after his father died, Prafulla had taken charge of the family business. However, he had radically changed the way both his household and the business was run, had transformed his own family’s lifestyle and manners. No doubt he had done it so that everyone could see that changes had been wrought from the way his father had done things. And because he didn’t want anybody to think that he was not capable of being in government employ, he had gone ahead and gotten himself a university education, which had brought with it all its accompanying styles and ways.
Sati had been supervising the cook in the kitchen. Hearing her husband’s voice, she now came into the room. Upon seeing a male outside of her immediate household she veiled her head with her sari end. Then she recognized Jatin and cried out, “Oh my God, you! I was wondering who is this man… How very nice of you to come today.”
Beside the dressing table was an almirah with an expensive inlaid mirror. Jatin caught a fleeting glimpse of himself in it: a thin, drawn face, a two-day stubble on his face, some of it white. Not very clean clothes. The sandals on his feet well over two years old. Come to think of it, the torn shirt actually went very well with this look. Had it not been ripped it would have looked out of place.
Sati asked, “Jatu da, what happened?”
Jatin attempted a small laugh. “What can I say? I was on the bus and some passenger got hold of my shirt and gave such a tug …”
Before Jatin could finish his sentence he caught husband and wife stealing a glance at each other. True, the shirt was so worn that anybody would be hard-pressed to believe that somebody had actually torn it. It was a cheap, colorful garment, bought from a street vendor. For over a year this was the one shirt Jatin had been wearing. That this shirt had not fallen apart on its own, that it had been torn by someone pulling at it—if people disbelieved his tale they couldn’t really be blamed.
Prafulla now said, “True, true, what you are saying. It’s impossible to ride trams and buses because of the overcrowding. Which is why I take taxis—” and then came to a sudden stop as his wife shot him a warning look.
Sati now changed the subject and motioning Jatin towards a comfortable, overstuffed chair said, “Do sit down, Jatu da. And boudi (Jatin’s wife) is well, I trust? The children, too?”
If he sat in the chair Jatin no longer would have to face the mirror. So respecting Sati’s request Jatin went over and sat down.
He said, “No, not well, I am afraid. They keep getting sick all the time. The youngest one just recovered from a month-long bout with typhoid. Anyway, enough of me! Tell me how all of you are doing. Where are the two girls? I don’t see them.”
Sati laughed sweetly, “They are at school, Jatu da.”
Jatin said, “Really? You got the little one in school too? But she isn’t even four yet!”
Sati laughed again and in a vaguely apologetic way said, “She is in kindergarten. The school bus comes to take her. What can I do? She drives me crazy in the house.”
Jatin thought how he couldn’t afford school for his own children. The eldest was now ten. Once in a while he sat down with them at home, with a slate and pencil in his hand.
Jatin further noted that, like Prafulla, Sati too looked much younger than her age. It was hard to believe that she had an eight-year-old daughter. Sati was a great beauty, and because of it she had gotten a husband who was both rich and educated. Even after marriage Sati had managed to hold on to her looks, to her youthfulness. She had put on a little weight perhaps, but that was all. A little plumpness however was not a bad thing in a rich household. Jatin now recalled his wife, her face. Lalita perhaps was a year or two older than Sati, but after having four children Lalita’s body had broken down to the extent that she looked as if she was Sati’s mother.
Lalita’s face reminded Jatin of why he had come here. Prafulla had finished his shaving by then. Looking at him Jatin said, “Prafulla bhai, would you have a few rupees? I am very hard up.”
It was a humbly stated plea. Prafulla, in a slightly embarrassed way, replied, “Oh, okay, okay. We will see about that later. Why don’t you have some tea first? There is no need to be so rushed.”
Prafulla, having come back into the room after washing his face, now went to the clothes stand and began to change.
Jatin smiled and said, “I am not in a rush. You seem to be the one in a rush. Where are you going so early?”
Prafulla with a smile on his countenance said, “I have to go on an urgent task, Jatin da. Please don’t mind me. I couldn’t sit down and have even a few words with you. But of course your near and dear one is in the house so you should have no difficulty in finding somebody to talk to.”
He then turned to his wife, “Sati, look, the Lord Shiva has come to the goddess Annapurna in the guise of a beggar! You decide what to give or not give him. We of the Nandi Bhringi gang meanwhile will have to flee.”1 Saying this, Prafulla laughed out loud.
Sati said, somewhat irritated, “Did you hear that, Jatu da? No words stick in his mouth.”
Prafulla said nothing in reply, merely kept on smiling and began to button his silk kurta. After he went out Sati said, “There is a government contract he is supposed to get, which is why he had to rush out. It’s a very competitive market out there, you know.”
Jatin said, “That is absolutely correct.”
Sati said, “Just sit. I will be right back.”
Jatin thought about the crack Prafulla had made a few minutes back. Was that why Sati had gone out of the room, too embarrassed to sit in front of him by herself? Prafulla’s remark felt like a stab. Jatin’s beggarly appearance was not a disguise; it was his real self. Was that why Prafulla had knowingly made his heedless gibe? Jatin and Sati were not only from the same village, but from the same neighborhood in the village. Sati had no doubt told her husband about her childhood playmates, and seeing Jatin must have made Prafulla remember her tales. It was true, though, that as children Jatin and Sati had been very close—how many times while at school Jatin had plucked guavas from trees for Sati he had forgotten. When the time came for flowers to be given instead of fruit, Sati’s parents became watchful since the social and economic gulf between the two households was large. Sati left for Kolkata. She was to attend school there while living with her maternal uncle. Marriage prospects were also be simultaneously pursued. Jatin’s father had died before all this happened. Whatever land—five or seven bighas—they had, already had been lost to creditors. And before all this, Jatin, failing to get even a Third- class pass, had given up on his studies. But all that now seemed to be in a past life. In this life he had put aside all that sorrow, shame and hardship. Otherwise could he have come here to Sati’s husband Prafulla to beg for a loan of a few rupees? All that was in some other life.
Sati came now with a plate full of luchees and halwa.
Jatin asked, “Is this what you call ‘tea’?”
Sati laughed a little and said, “This isn’t tea. Tea is coming.”
Another woman brought in the tea tray. This was the maid, Jatin took a look and understood. About forty or perhaps a couple of years older. Clean clothes, a black bow on her dhuti. Taut body.
Sati said, “Okay, Bimala, you can go now. Mind the cooking, I will be along shortly.”
Sati poured the tea into the cup with her own hands, then softly said, “Do you remember all the things from your childhood, Jatu da?”
Jatin said, “Is it possible to remember everything?”
Sati said, “I do. I won’t ever forget the taste of those guavas or the tender cucumber.”
“There is a curse on childhood reminiscences”—a little while back this unmemorable line from the book written by a memorable writer had popped into Jatin’s mind. But looking at the care being lavished on him by Sati, hearing her words, he felt that all of it was not a curse.
Even though Sati repeatedly invited him to stay back and have lunch at the house, Jatin did not oblige her, saying that he had a lot of work to do, that after getting the money from her he had to go to the ration shop to buy the necessities. Jatin told her this without any hesitation or shame and Sati put up no more objections. She opened her almirah, drew out a five-rupee note and gave it to Jatin.
Jatin said, “But I have no change.”
Sati said, “Oh, please, you can give it to me later.”
Just as he was about to leave, Sati said, “Wait, there is one more thing.”
She began to sort through the clothes in the almirah and then drew out a silk, hand-woven panjabi from it. She said, “Throw away that torn shirt and wear this. How can you go out on the street wearing that?”
A small gesture yet Jatin’s eyes began to fill up with tears. He got a grip on himself and replied, “But I do have other clothes to wear at home.”
Sati said, “Am I saying that you don’t? I am giving this to you to wear on the street. It’s a new one, I sewed it myself. He just wore it once, and then I washed it and put it away.You don’t have anything to be concerned about.”
“That’s not what I am concerned about.”
“So then? It should fit you. Both of you are about the same height.”
Sati also brought out three white buttons for it. And so Jatin had to don the garment then.
She said, “Fasten the buttons properly. Or should I do that, too?” And then, blushing at her own words, attempted to change the subject by saying, “Oh, by the way, do you know that Nripen Dutta’s daughter Rita’s marriage has been fixed?”
Nripen Dutta was also from the same village as Jatin, a lawyer who practiced at the High Court. His house was in Dickson Lane. Though he had to yet build his own house he had already bought land for the purpose at Kasbah. Jatin would also drop in from time to time at Nripen Babu’s, to plead for a job, or to ask for five or ten rupees.
Jatin said, “Yes, I do know. The marriage is on this 27th of Asharh, a week from now. He specifically has asked me to be there. Aren’t you all going?”
Sati laughed and said, “If we don’t go you think we won’t hear the end of it? We are providing all the furniture. I told him to give it at a rate lower than the market one, since we know them.”
Jatin said, “That’s right. All right, I should be on my way, it’s late in the day already.”
Sati said, “All right, but do come again. But why have you wrapped up that torn shirt and put it under your armpit?”
Jatin said, “Let me take it. It can be put to use at the house.”
Sati said with a little smile, “Why, you think it will fit boudi?”
Jatin said, “Oh, no, nothing of that sort.”
Back at his house, Jatin expansively told the story of his visit to Sati’s house.
Lalita made a show of jealousy and said, “It’s not Sati, it’s my shoteen2 . So you ate well, had a good time, and also got a panjabi into the bargain. Your luck is running well. What do I have?”
While putting away both the torn shirt and the new panjabi Lalita said, “Not bad at all. Why don’t you put on your torn shirt again tomorrow and try your luck with another Sati? You should be able to get something. You have been to Sati’s house before. Why, there was none of this kind of generosity then. It’s all because of this torn shirt.”
Jatin lit a cigarette and laughed.
He took his eldest son Montu with him to the ration shop. He spent the money buying groceries. The day went very well. It was as if the hovel was suddenly transformed into a palace. The children he usually shunned, today Jatin called them over and cradled them. The home smelled of cooking. Jatin pulled the small cot to where his wife was sitting and made jokes and small talk with her.
Lalita, while cooking, turned to Jatin and said, “So what is up with you today? You took off from work today, and are just sitting around yakking. What is going on?” Then she smiled and murmured to herself, “I think I know what’s going on with you.”
The next morning Jatin, having put on the new panjabi given by Sati, was about to go out of the house, when Subal from next door appeared, “My, Jatin da, you bought that new panjabi?”
Jatin said in a grave tone, “Hmm…”
“How much was it?”
Jatin said, “About six or so...”
Subal said, “Wonderful. You drove a very good bargain.”
Then about five or six days later Subal appeared on the doorstep again, “You have to loan me your new garment, Jatin da.”
Jatin, taken aback, said, “What? Why do you need this panjabi?”
Subal said, “I have a job interview on Hastings Street at 10:00 today. But there is nothing nice in the house I can wear. You have to give me yours.”
The boy, after clearing his Intermediate examination, had been unemployed for the last three years or so. Sometimes he desperately sought a job, but nothing ever materialized. Jatin slowly took off the garment and gave it to him, not at all happy about doing so. He did so because he felt he had to. After all, a boy from the neighborhood! Just the other day he had loaned Jatin his pair of shoes of his own accord. Sometimes he helped Jatin’s children with their studies. Once he had even gathered all the children of the slum and begun a school, but the increasing poverty of his household ensured that it didn’t last long. Besides, this loan was for a job. This was for livelihood. At such times how could one refuse one’s fellow man?
Instantly Subal put on the panjabi. “See how wonderful it looks on me,” he said, smiling.
The little resentment that had resided in Jatin’s heart now vanished on seeing Subal’s smile.
Jatin laughed, too, and said, “Yes, it does look wonderful on you.”
Jatin’s thoughts went back to his youthful days—at that age everything looked good on one! Then, he too would have looked wonderful alongside Sati.
Jatin said, “It has gotten somewhat dirty over these last few days.”
Subal said, “That’s nothing. I’m going to rinse it now and put it out to dry.”
That evening Subal came around and said that the interview went very well. He laughed and said, “Your garment has merit to it.”
But he did not take it off and hand it to Jatin. Jatin, meanwhile, felt too embarrassed to ask it from him. He thought, I will take it from him tomorrow. Tomorrow was Nripen Dutta’s daughter’s wedding; tomorrow he had to have it.
But next morning there was no sign of Subal. He had quarreled with his father, and, wearing Jatin’s panjabi, had stormed out of the house at midnight and gone to stay with a friend of his at Kachrapara. His parents, both his father and mother, had made cutting remarks about his lack of a job.
Jatin sank down to the ground with his head in his hands. Today he had to have his panjabi; today was the day of the wedding.
Both husband and wife went over to Subal’s house and had a huge quarrel with his parents. What kind of a son did they have who would do such a thing. Had borrowed a garment and then kept it for two days. Absolutely no sense of responsibility. Nobody had seen an idiot son like this for ages. Subal’s father and mother argued back in their son’s favor. Subal was not the only one borrowing things from neighbors. His shoes, his umbrella, even his cheap blade had been borrowed by Jatin for shaving. Why were all these insults only being directed at Subal.
Every inhabitant of the slum it seemed turned out to enjoy the spectacle. Seeing it, Jatin with his wife returned home.
Maybe Subal would return any moment now—with this hope the whole day went by. But Subal did not come back home. God only knew which hole he had fallen down into!
Jatin went in search of a new panjabi throughout the whole neighborhood, even slipped the local laundry owner two annas, but could not find a suitable garment to wear to a wedding.
Hiren Sarkar of the laundry said, “Sorry, brother, can’t trust anybody from the slums. I have learned that lesson well.”
Jatin sat down and thought hard whether he should go to the wedding or not.
Lalita said, “Will it look good, you not going? Nripen babu invited you personally. If you don’t go he will certainly note it. You go to him at all hours with your hands out. I think you should go.”
Jatin said, “I can go, but what will I wear?”
Lalita brought out a coarse-weave dhuti and that shirt of his, and by the afternoon had it ready to wear, having patched it up, washed it, and hung it out to dry. It had had a few holes in it in the front; Lalita with her own hand mended it. But she could not disguise how worn it looked, especially at the shoulder and back, where the repair stitches were clearly visible.
Jatin sat down, and after thinking God knows what for a while, said, “Okay, then, give it, let me wear it and go.”
Lalita said, “There’s no harm in that. You are not part of the bridegroom’s party, you are going at the bride’s invitation. Why do you need to dress up that much?”
Jatin listened to his wife’s logic, and laughed, “That’s correct.”
The two little ones Neemu and Tepi ran to Jatin and, embracing him, said, “Babu, aren’t you going to take us as well?”
Jatin was unprepared for this—Nripen babu hadn’t invited anybody else.
“This is not our village home. This is Calcutta. An affair of eminent people. Without an invitation how can you take others?”
Lalita scolded them and took them away.
Today Jatin did not walk to his destination. Paying his fare of six paisa he took the bus straight from Kadapara. Lalita was right, he decided, he was of the bride’s party. It was all right if he didn’t dress up in finery. The moment he got there he would take off both his shirt and his vest. Yes, he would have to take off his vest; like his shirt, it too was worn out. Once he reached the wedding place he would take off both garments, head for where the food was stored and pick up a bucket of sweetmeats. He would tie a gamcha around his waist. Nripen babu would be pleased at that. And the people there would think that he was the closest of relatives.
The bus had gone a little further when Jatin spotted another lit-up and sparkling house where a wedding would be taking place. A beautiful, well-adorned and made-up bride could be seen through a window. A lot like Sati. Jatin remembered that Sati would be there at the wedding too, and instantly his mind was flooded by an intense, mysterious joy. He was not going to Nripen babu’s house; he was going to a place where Sati was coming. Till now he had not yet had the luck to be at a wedding where Sati had also been present. When Sati’s wedding took place in Calcutta he had been back at the village; when Jatin had had his wedding at the village home then Sati had been in Calcutta. And at no other wedding ceremony had they been together. This was the first time. Jatin felt a strange and enchanting joy taking hold of his mind. It was as if he had shed ten years from his age. A flood of youthfulness washed over his soul and body.
But arriving in front of the house Jatin felt a little bewildered. There were lines of cars to the east and the west. Inside were bright lights, crowds, a festive bustle. On the roof where a shade had been erected with bamboo poles was ensconced the bridegroom’s party. A line of people with platters of luchees, buckets of meat, and piles of sweetmeats were going up the stairs, climbing down, and rushing hither and thither. Some faces wore glasses, on wrists were gold watches.
Wandering through the house Jatin came upon Nripen babu himself. Today he was not clad in Western coat and trousers. A short dhuti, on top a white short-sleeved shirt, a balding head—the very picture of a fifty-year-old Bengali bhadrolok—the courteous father of the bride.
Seeing Jatin he said with a smile, “There you are, Jatu. Sit down, sit down. Find a spot somewhere and sit down. You are in your own house. Why aren’t you all attending to Jatu?”
It was not clear to whom Nripen babu addressed this remark since there were no attendants nearby.
Jatin, somewhat nonplussed, said, “I am fine with not sitting down. I am a member of the household.”
Nripen babu said, “All right then. We will see to you later.”
Saying this, he was about to walk off, when Jatin hurriedly called him back.
“One more thing. Prafulla babu—are they here?
“Which Prafulla babu?” Nripen babu furrowed his brow slightly.
“The one who has a furniture store in Bow Bazar.”
“Oh, yes, yes, they have come.”
“His wife…” It was with some embarrassment that Jatin asked this question.
Nripen babu said, “Yes, wife, children, they’re all here.” Then he busily marched off.
Well, Sati was here then! Again, his heart filled with joy. But how was he to meet her? How was he to search her out among all the women in this mansion? How was he to enter that barred fortress? Aside from the outer room allotted to the bridegroom’s party there was no way he could enter the inner confines of the house.
At first Jatin beckoned one or two boys to come to him, but they ignored him. Then, at last spotting a nine- or ten-year-old girl in a frock Jatin went up to her. “Hey, girl, will you do what I tell you?”
“Tell me.”
“Prafulla Babu’s wife Sati Devi, Sati Basu, do you know where she is, which room? Can you tell her to come out here?”
The girl said, “Oh, you are talking about Aunt Sati? Yes, I can. Why don’t you come with me?”
Jatin hesitated., “I am going to wait here.”
The girl laughed. “Why? Are you afraid? Come on, I will lead the way. They are all on the second floor. Where they are making up the bride, they all are there.”
Now Jatin without hesitation followed the girl upstairs. Then, after they reached a secluded spot on a long, narrow verandah, she said, “Wait here. I am going to call her.”
After a little while Sati came and stood in front of him, looking like a sculpture of Rajrajeshwari!3 Jewellery covered her entire body. Her head was unveiled, her hair coiled into a neat, tight bun. In the part of her hair was the faintest trace of sidhur, so faint it was not clear whether she had one or not. Sati looked as if she was the bride of this household. Enchanted, Jatin stared at her dumbstruck for a moment. As if today he had nothing more to say. As if today he hadn’t come to ask for anything, he had come simply to look at her.
On seeing Jatin, Sati was somewhat taken aback, “You? I had thought that…”
Jatin laughed and completed the sentence for her, “… who knows who.”
Sati said, “No, not exactly that.”
Then her eyes alighted on Jatin’s shirt. “Oh, you wore your torn shirt again here? What happened to the panjabi?”
It was now that Jatin remembered the shirt he had on. Glancing at it he said in an apologetic, confessional tone, “Oh, don’t even mention it! A headstrong neighbor boy took it to wear to his job interview. He begged me so much that I had to give it to him.”
Sati looked at him coolly for what seemed a long time, and her face seemed to harden slightly. But when her eyes fell on his shirt with its mends a little laugh broke out on her lips.
Sati, in a tone of dismissive gaiety, said, “All right, all right, I’ll listen to that story some other day. I am very busy today. The bride’s adornment is not complete yet. I will be seeing you.”
Sati with a swaying walk disappeared into the adjoining room. Soon there arose the tinkling, merry laughter of a flock of young women.
For some moments Jatin stood there stock-still. Then he swiftly went downstairs. He dissolved into the crowd, and went across the doorstep of the house with its necklace of lights. Sati’s words, Sati’s laugh—they were like a sharp, poisoned needle in his side.
Sati had not believed his words. She had not that first day, and not today.
They gave donations, they gave, but they did not believe in the humanity of the poor. To Sati he was not a beggar in Shiva’s guise, he was just a beggar.
End Notes
1. Here Prafulla is having an elaborate play on words. It is impossible to translate his reply into English, but a sense can be given. Shiva is the Hindu god of destruction and transformation, whose second consort and wife is Parvati. She is not different than Shiva’s first wife, named Sati, also the name of Prafulla’s wife in the story. Annapurna is the goddess of nourishment, who is an avatar of Parvati. Nandi and Bhringi are rishis (saints) who are intensely devoted to Shiva. What Prafulla is saying that Shiva (or Jatin, who knew his wife Sati when they were children) has appeared as a beggar (since Jatin is asking for money) and that she (Sati as Annapurna) should rightfully attend to him, while hangers-on such as himself (one of the Nandis and Bhringis) had to go and attend to other things.
2. Here too is a play on words: Shoteen with Sati (which is pronounced in Bengali as Shoti). Shoteen is Bengali for husband’s first wife.
3. Rajarajeswari Devi is also a consort of Lord Shiva – the Empress to Emperors. Here the author means to say Sati looked like a queen in all aspects.
Khademul Islam is a writer and translator.
