It was the middle of the month of Bhadra. With the onset of autumn, the dark nimbus of the monsoon had left the sky. Clouds came in brighter tones as did sunshine. After the previous year’s drought and poor crop, this year’s rainfall has been abundant. The paddy on the fields had a dark green hue and looked thick and healthy. A serene mood prevailed all around. Families of householders were busy with Durga puja preparations that began with the most laborious and important of them all -- plastering the walls with mud. This was to be followed by painting alpona designs at the threshold using white and red chalk, roasting rice into puffed and popped rice, and preparing sweets like naadu and mudki. There was no end to the chores related to puja.
“That woman has ten hands, along with those of her children and retinue; how could we two-handed ones match her strength?” Ginni, the matron of the Chatterjee family thought aloud.
Today their house was going to receive the first coat of mud. The artisans had arrived at the chandimandap to start working on the idol.
Red clay had been dissolved in a bucket of water. The daughters-in-law and maids were ready -- with their saris tied to their waist and their gold bangles covered with rags -- to witness the plastering of the idol’s frame with mud.
“Dear, can one of you go and check how long it’s going to take?” Chatterjee Ginni asked the women. “Where are all the boys?”
“They are all at the puja site,” one of the girls said.
That -- the chandimandap -- was exactly where the boys had gathered. Kumareesh, the elderly idol maker was busy arguing with the watchman, “Will you donate your prize money to me? Why should I do your work?”
Kalachand, the watchman said, “Hey, why are you getting worked up? Do they let you grab that soil so easily? Have you seen how they curse you and chase you away?”
“Why, couldn’t you get some on the sly during your night patrolling? Or did you skip your routine last night?”
“How can I skip my duty? I have to go for at least one round. How would I know that you’ll be here today? Forgive me, please.”
Approaching the door, Chatterjee Ginni asked, “O, Kumareesh, are you done yet? The girls are waiting with the mud batter. How long will you keep brabbling here?”
Kumareesh was a short, frail man. His limbs, narrow like the hands and legs of puppets, moved as swiftly. His walk was equally agile. Even before Chatterjee Ginni could finish speaking, he began shouting at the top of his voice, “What do I even tell you, Ma; I can’t work with this Kalachand anymore. He makes no effort, has no brains, no hands, no legs, nothing -- what can I do, you tell me?”
Even as he yelled out those words, he drew closer to the matron and bowing before her said in a calmer voice, “Are you doing well, Ma? And your children? All the Babus? And the dear sisters and Bou-Mas, is everyone fine?”
Ginni-Ma smiled and said, “Yes, everyone is fine. How about your children…”
Snatching words off others’ mouths was Kumareesh’s old habit. He began ruefully, “Where do I begin Ma, measles, stomach upset, fever are all playing hopscotch. Doctors and boddis have turned me into a pauper.”
Then, in a quieter tone, he said, “I heard that Chhoto Babu is back, I’m so happy to hear that. Why don’t you bring Bou-Ma, our dear daughter-in-law now? That will fix everything. His blood is young after all, he made one mistake…everything will be all right.”
Putting a lid to the subject, Ginni-Ma said, “What’s taking you so long to get started? The girls are all waiting with the wet mud; when will they take a bath?”
Kumareesh said, “Everything is ready, we just need the soil from the prostitutes’ quarters…”
With that his voice rose to a crescendo, “Why don’t you ask that watchman about that soil? His highness forgot about it. Tell me, what can I do, now I must go myself to fetch the soil. There’s no effort, no system in place, everything is simply my burden to bear…” He made his way towards the said quarters with great speed even as he mumbled, “I have to do everything, now let me see where I can find a prostitute’s house. That rascal says they will curse him. What nonsense! They never say anything to me. My fees is a mere twelve rupees, have they bought me over with that money? I can’t keep up, I will simply quit. Why do I have to treat them like royalty?”
Even though it was remote, this was, after all, a village. Unlike in the city, women didn’t engage in the flesh trade openly here. But there was no dearth of fallen women among the lower classes. At the northeast corner of the village lay the Dom settlement -- their men often stole while the women were into prostitution. They did all this in the clear light of the day with the knowledge of their family members. As he stepped into that settlement, Kumareesh said, “Where are you all, my dear sisters?”
At a distance, a few girls were giggling and falling over each other under a tree. Startled by Kumareesh’ voice, they looked around.
One of them said, “That same scumbag is back, that artisan -- he’s here to grab soil.” She burst out laughing, infecting her friends with the laughter as they all exploded into a flutter.
“Here you are. How are you, dear sisters? Do come and get colours from me, all of you. How was the Bhadu I made for you -- wasn’t it good?” Grabbing a handful of soil, Kumareesh walked over to them.
One of the girls said in mock anger, “Hey, you came to get the soil, didn’t you? Why will you take it, hey?”
“Hey, girls, take it away from the swine’s hands, come on, let’s get it.”
Kumareesh ran for his life toward the street and said, “This is for the idol, sister, for the idol. Come over, all of you, I will give you colours, brushes, you all would paint the lotuses at the doorstep.”
The girls again broke into peals of laughter.
One of them said, “Hey, let’s catch the old man.”
“You have to give colours to all of us,” said another.
Kumareesh kept nodding wildly even as he darted away, “Oh, yes, yes, when it’s time to colour the idol, I will…”
He vanished into an alley.
*
The Chatterjee womenfolk began the auspicious work of plastering the mud with ululations. This was like a game for them. In the name of plastering, they would smear each other and themselves with mud. This would go on for more than a couple of hours after noon, at the end of which they would go to the river bank to wash their hair and finally return home. This moment was amongst their most anticipated of festivities throughout the year.
As soon as the eldest daughter smeared the wall with the first coating of mud from atop the stool she stood on, the middle daughter splashed some mud on the eldest daughter-in-law, saying, “We must start by painting your face with mud first -- you’re the family’s senior most daughter-in-law.”
Bawro-Bou, the eldest daughter-in-law, didn’t hit back at the middle daughter in revenge; instead, she flung a mud-coated rag at her elder sister-in-law and said, “And after that, it’s the eldest daughter’s turn!”
The eldest daughter immediately slapped the rag on the face of the middle daughter-in-law, saying, “Next is our middle Ginni!”
The middle daughter-in-law had her face intently held up towards the stool-perched eldest daughter-in-law, so the soiled rag landed straight on her face and remained stuck there. Everyone burst out laughing.
Right at that moment, a beautiful young woman picked up a ball of mud and tossed it at the middle daughter saying, “No one threw mud at you, did they?”
The women’s giggling let up; disconcerted, they looked at each other.
The young woman said to the eldest daughter-in-law, “Why didn’t you call me, Bawr-Di? I’ve been waiting for this for so long.”
“Chhoto-Bou, you’d better ask Ma before playing with mud,” the eldest daughter-in-law said.
Chhoto-Bou, the youngest daughter-in-law, didn’t have to ask her mother-in-law. Chatterjee Ginni herself appeared on the scene. Looking at Chhoto-Bou, she said, “You don’t deal with the mud, Bou-Ma. Amulya will be livid if he came to know. You go from here now.”
The youngest daughter-in-law’s face went pallid. A sigh escaped her as she stepped away into a corner. The ladies’ enthusiasm had already been dampened, now they simply got busy completing the task at hand. The eldest daughter said with an air of annoyance, “Not even a single coat of mud has touched the wall yet. Hey, Bawro-Bou, come on, let’s get to work!”
Kumareesh reappeared too, screaming at the top of his voice, “There’s no stool, no cane chair, how will I start the idol? By climbing up a date tree? Where is Ginni-Ma? I need a stool, Ma, I’m a short man.”
Scanning the surroundings once, Chatterjee Ginni said, “Where’s the other stool? Do you know, Bawro Bouma?”
Transfixed by the beauty of the youngest daughter-in-law, Kumareesh asked, “Who is she, Ginni-Ma?”
Embittered by her continued presence, Chatterjee Ginni said, “You’re still here, Chhoto Bouma? Didn’t I ask you to leave? Come on, go up now, will you?”
Pulling on her veil, the youngest daughter-in-law quietly left the scene.
“So this is our Chhoto Bouma?” Kumareesh said. “Aha, she’s like Goddess Durga herself, so pretty. I haven’t seen a face like that before. Sigh, with a bride like that, why would our Chhoto Babu…goodness!”
Chafed, Ginni-Ma said, “You’re here to build the idol, Kumareesh; what does it matter to you? Here, Bawro Bouma, now where is the other stool, pray tell?”
Admitting his mistake, Kumareesh said with repeated swerving of his head, “You’re right, you’re right; what is it to me? You’re right, but don’t worry, all will be well. Aha, I’ve never seen a face so…”
Interrupting him, Ginni-Ma said, “You carry on, Kumareesh; I’ll have the stool sent over. Don’t waste your time blabbering here; get on with your work.”
“Aggey, yes, I have so much on my plate -- I’ve been commissioned for twenty-seven idols this year. Do I have time for idle chatting?”
His exaltation might have been inappropriate, but Kumareesh’s enraptured observation that Chhoto-Bou’s face resembled Goddess Durga’s wasn’t an exaggeration. The Chatterjees’ youngest daughter-in-law was indeed very beautiful. Her face -- with its big eyes, an aquiline nose, two perfect cheeks, and a small forehead -- was prettier than anyone else’s. But what stood out was her chin, the outline of which gave her face an extraordinary dimension of grace. Yet, behind all this beauty lay hidden the young woman’s singed forehead. Beneath her pure and crystalline appearance, that forehead appeared like a bed of dirty weed submerged under transparent water.
Five years ago, when as a twelve-year-old, Jamuna, the youngest daughter-in-law, had just crossed the open fields of girlhood to step into the cloistered garden of adolescence, she was married off to the youngest Chatterjee son, Amulya. At the time, Amulya was twenty-four years old. His landholding family was reasonably well off, and as the youngest of his mother’s children, he had no problem leading a wayward life. His mornings went towards wrestling bouts, lifting weight and wielding sticks, following which he would scarf down ten rotis or pawrotas before going for his bath. On his way back, he would swallow some country liquor at Saha’s store and return home by two in the afternoon, only to polish off lunch and indulge in a siesta. He would go out in the evening again, and when he returned at midnight or even later, he wouldn’t be in a state to find the gates of his own house. His mother would stay awake, waiting. There was no shortage of complaints against him -- one day it would be about him thrashing someone, the next day about smashing another’s head, or entering into someone’s property without permission. Following the death of his first wife, he was married off to the good-looking Jamuna. On the very night of their wedding, he beat Jamuna mercilessly and went out of the house. A few days later he went to take a dip in the Ganga River, where he ended up killing a man who was ruthlessly mistreating a fellow woman devotee. This crime saw him spend a few years in prison. It had only been a month since he was released and came back, following which, Jamuna too was brought back to her in-laws’ house.
Five years ago, the incident had caused the Chatterjees a great deal of embarrassment, but with time, they got used to the disgrace and eventually managed to raise their lowered heads again. The only anxiety and disquiet they now faced was regarding Amulya. Discomposure could still be tolerated, but the anxiety of him getting into trouble again was hard to cope with. Everyone worried, but the responsibility to keep that anxiety at bay lay with Amulya’s young bride alone. There was no end to the restraints she had to adhere to and no dearth of people to remind her of her limits. Jamuna would tremble with fear.
Kumareesh continued to work on the idol through the night; his nephew Jogesh held a lantern for him. Even as he coated the idol with mud, Kumareesh thought of the young bride. He’d really taken a liking to her. Such a pretty girl and what a husband she’d found herself with! He had been building the idol for the Chatterjees for many years and had known Amulya since he was a little boy. He would coat the idol at the very spot he stood in now and the boy would ask him, “Won’t you give it to me, Mistry?”
“I will, I will,” he would tell the boy.
“When?”
“Tomorrow.”
“No, give it to me today!”
“Babu, this goddess is yours after all, why do you want Kartik now?”
“No, you make Kartik for me.”
Kumareesh would laugh and say, “Our nutty Babu.”
What had that boy turned into! Even that was acceptable, but for such a beautiful girl to be tied to him! The face of the idol flashed in full clarity before him. He decided to counsel Amulya the next time he met him.
“It’s late, Uncle, let’s wind up for the night,” Jogesh said.
“Let it be!” Kumareesh said in anger. “Do you want to spend the entire day tomorrow here too? We have to make twenty-seven idols, do you remember?”
“So be it,” a tired Jogesh said. “Look, the watchman has started his calls already.”
Dropping the ball of mud in his hand with a thud, Kumareesh said, “There you go!
Go to hell all of you, you figure out everything; I’m done here.”
Moving away from the site of the idol, he began washing his hands in a bucket of water.
“Hup, hey, hup, hup!”
A roar tore through the night’s quiet as the disciplinary commands were uttered in a loud and clear voice. Kumareesh said with a sudden delight, “Hey, you were right, it is the watchman. It’s indeed quite late. Come on, prepare my tobacco now.”
Jogesh began fixing the hookah for his uncle.
“Hup, who’s there? Hey, you rascals!”
Kumareesh was taken aback. In the soft glow of the lantern, he saw a young man as powerful as Mahishasura standing before him. His eyes were bloodshot, his feet wobbly. Hitting the ground with the sturdy bamboo stick he held, he shouted, “Hey you rascal!”
Kumareesh recognized him at once -- this was Amulya. But his current state sent shivers down his spine. With a reverential bow, he asked, “Are you well, Chhoto Babu?”
Seeing the lantern, the idol, the clay, and Kumareesh together, Amulya remembered everything. “Aren’t you the idol maker?” He asked.
Gratified, Kumareesh said, “Aggey yes, I’m Kumareesh, the idol maker.”
Holding up the lantern, Amulya said to Kumareesh, “A sly fox met a hen -- sly fox means a clever jackal. So you’re plastering the clay. Good, good. Goddess Jagadamba, Mother dearest!”
Kumareesh said in a flattering tone, “Are you well, Chhoto Babu?”
“This body is mortal after all. I’m an iron man and have an iron body. Look, look here.” Saying this, Amulya held up his biceps and pulled up his clenched fist before Kumareesh.
“See, press this to check for yourself. Hup!”
Kumareesh shook in fear. Amulya hit his arm with the stick and said, “We can drive a motor on this one -- a tomtom. Here, I spread my hand before you; come on drive a car over it.”
Kumareesh looked at him in disbelief. In the bamboo forest by the pond, bamboo stalks brushed against each other in the night breeze to make a screeching rustle.
Amulya jumped up and yelled, “Hup! Who’s there? Hey!”
The noise from the bamboo grove didn’t abate; the breeze held strong.
Swinging his stick, Amulya said, “It’s a ghost.”
“Aggey no, it’s bamboo,” Kumareesh said.
“Of course, it’s a ghost. Or some vile man making dirty gestures.”
Then, in a low voice he said, “Every one is going down the gutter. Loose characters, all of them. That swine, Jado, he plays the flute, wants to be a ladies man. I’ll beat the hell out of him!”
The wind grew fiercer, and the noise emanating from the bamboo forest attained a sharper and even more shrill tone. A wildly upset Amulya walked in the direction of the noise, shouting, “Hup, hup, you’re trying to scare me, are you? You rascal ghost, come, face me if you can. Come on, hup!”
Kumareesh kept looking at Amulya in amazement. Suddenly, as he looked up, perhaps to pray to a higher power, he noticed a stream of light floating over the horizon. Jamuna stood by the window, holding the iron grills of her upper-story bedroom; she seemed oblivious to being recognized in the light streaming out of her room. With the help of the light in her room up there, her eyes looked for Amulya down below. Kumareesh kept looking at her with a sad yet hypnotized gaze.
By this time, Amulya was busy waging a war in the bamboo forest. “Hup, hup, come on, hup.” He kept hitting at the bamboo stalks with his stick.
Bringing over the hookah to Kumareesh, Jogesh said, “Come, let’s walk home while you smoke. The mosquitoes here seem to have been let out of a hive. My hands and legs are swelling with their stings.”
Startled, Kumareesh said with a sigh, “Bou-Ma, why don’t you call Ginni-Ma, why are you standing there like that?”
The light was shut out in a flash, as was the window.
Kumareesh called out to Amulya, “Chhoto Babu, O’ Chhoto Babu!”
His words didn’t reach Amulya’s ears, who continued to fight with the bamboo forest.
Only Jamuna knew how unbearable her own life was, yet, looking at her outward actions, no one could tell that. Like the fleeting moon of autumn, her face occasionally got covered by clouds, but she kept smiling radiantly through it all.
Kumareesh couldn’t stop feeling pained for her. He kept despairing within. After about twenty days, he returned for the two-coat process -- of layering the idol, first with straw and then with clay. This had to be followed by sticking the head, and fingers and toes to the hands and feet. The frenzy of puja activities had taken over the Chatterjee family by then. The work of cooking puffed rice had begun. Besides the expenses to be incurred over the four days of puja, one had to account for the big expenditures on Vijaya Dashami -- the day of immersion and Ekadashi, the day after that. These two days saw as many as five hundred people come for free food. Along with the eldest and the middle daughters-in-law, the eldest daughter helped cook the puffed rice and store it in huge wicker baskets. The middle daughter took out large vessels from the store room, cleaned them and put them back, ready for preparing fresh spice mixes. Even the youngest daughter-in-law had been employed -- she sat in a corner of the porch and cut betel nuts into small pieces.
Looking for old cloth for wrapping the idol, Kumareesh appeared in the courtyard and began yelling, “Ginni-Ma, where are you? See, what trouble I am in, where is Ginni-Ma now, Ginni-Ma!”
Balancing the puffed rice wicker basket to her waist, Bawro Bou said, “This Mistry has to create a ruckus. Can’t you speak softly?”
The eldest daughter remarked, “Our Mistry comes on a flying horse; it has no time to wait.”
Embarrassed, Kumareesh said, “Didi-Thakurun is right. It’s my habit to behave like that. Do you know what my mother-in-law said about me? She said, it was difficult to discuss anything with me; people would mistake our consultations for quarreling.”
The eldest daughter-in-law said with a smile, “I see. Now tell me, what do you need?”
Panchu Dashi, the cook said, “This Kumareesh makes us go crazy with all his shouting.”
Kumareesh retorted, “Your words cut sharp, Thakurun. Can one get anything in this house without shouting? Doesn’t anyone here know that I need old cloth? I’m not sitting in one spot, playing with a spatula the whole day. I have twenty-seven idols…”
Cutting him short, the eldest daughter-in-law said, “Everything is ready -- cleaned and folded for you.”
Looking around her, she could only spot Jamuna for the task and said, “Chhoto Bou, why don’t you get that bundle of cloth from the top of the wooden trunk there?”
Edging closer to the eldest daughter-in-law, Kumareesh whispered, “Bawro Bouma, does Chhoto Babu still come home late at night?”
“Why do you ask?”
“No, I just wanted to know if he’s paying more attention to his family. Our Chhoto Bouma is like a golden doll. I feel heartbroken looking at her.”
Bawro Bou advised him in whispers, too, “Don’t mention that to anybody else. Ma will be upset if she came to know, and if Chhoto Babu learned, all hell will break loose.” With that, she put down the empty wicker basket and proceeded to get the cloth bundle herself. By this time, Jamuna had already brought the bundle and came out to the courtyard. Grabbing it off her hands, Bawro Bou gave it to Kumareesh and said, “Come to Ma if you need more; we won’t be able to help you.”
Chhoto Bou said in a soft voice, “Didi, would you ask him to make me an elephant like the one Middle Sister has?”
An ecstatic Kumareesh said, “I made that elephant for Mejo Didimoni. I will make for you too, why, I will make two. With a mahout on top of the elephant.”
Bawro Bou said, “Chhoto Bou, you go inside now. And Kumareesh, you carry on too -- you’ve got your cloth. Get going now.”
Clutching the cloth bundle, Kumareesh went away. A group of boys had created a commotion at the chandimandap, leaving Jogesh and another artisan frustrated. Someone had run away with the head of the buffalo. Kumareesh shouted from behind, “They are wrecking everything. Come, where are you boys, come, rub some poison ivy on them. Go, get them now, Jogesh!”
The boys were very scared of poison ivy -- they had heard it caused ulcers. The group of boys dispersed quickly. Kumareesh dipped a fat brush into a mix of cow dung and liquid mud and splashing the solution at them said, “Go on now, all of you, come when the idol is done.”
*
At night, Jamuna kept her room’s light on and sat by the window, alone. Silence had fallen over the house. After another tiring day of puja chores, everyone had retreated to their own rooms. Perhaps they had even fallen asleep. Jamuna felt scared to sleep alone in the room. Even Amulya’s terrible visage when he returned home drunken made her feel comforted and helped her fall asleep as soon as she hit the bed. She’d almost gotten used to Amulya’s violence. At first she used to fear his affection more than his wrath, but now even that has become familiar to her. But she couldn’t shake off the fear the loneliness of the early night hours brought her. The thought of ghosts scared her. She would lie down on the bed after closing the doors and windows, but kept the light on.
Tonight as the artisans kept working on the idol at the chandimandap, she sat by her open window, reassured by the presence of other wakeful humans, even if separated by a distance. It made for an interesting sight too. A young artisan created delicate fingers from long clay dough rolls, another made jewellery by casting the dough into moulds, while Kumareesh worked on the idols’ faces. Using a sharp bamboo twig, he drew eyebrows on the clay mounds with swift deftness. After this, he would polish the face with a coat of clay from the Ganga River. Jamuna had seen this so many times in her childhood -- the polish would be as fine as cemented floors.
“Bou-Ma, are you still awake?”
The words startled Jamuna. Pulling down her veil, she stepped aside and bit her tongue. Kumareesh had seen her.
“I’ll make a nice pair of elephants for you. Will also bring you two clay be-rackets. You can keep the elephants on those.”
Jamuna returned to the window sheepishly and said softly, “Could you make two fairies under the brackets so it appears as if the fairies are holding them on their heads?”
“Or do you want two birds instead? As if two flying birds were holding the brackets on their wings?”
Jamuna pondered which one would look better.
Kumareesh resumed his work silently too. A few minutes later, he said, “I’ll also make you a pair of horses, Bou-Ma.”
Delighted, Jamuna said, “Na, make me a pair of prawns instead.” She pulled aside her veil now. “It’s so hot!”
“Prawns? All right, I will make those as well as the horses for you. But you have to give me a trophy, Ma.”
Jamuna’s face lost its colour. “All right, bring me only two elephants,” she said hastily.
“Why, Ma, did I scare you by demanding the trophy? Don’t worry, I’ll bring all those figurines for you. Just give me one of your old sarees in return.”
In the darkness of the night, an affectionate relationship had started building between the frightened young bride and the artisan, just like the gradual construction of the goddess’s idol.
“Hup, hup, come on, face me. If you’re your father’s son, come out!”
Amulya roared with laughter. Frightened, Kumareesh looked up to warn Jamuna and noticed the window slowly closing. He focused on his work.
“Hey you, Mistry!”
“Greetings, Chhoto Babu.”
“That idiot, Romna, he’s now the president, that swine. One fat punch he’ll get from me, I tell you. Asks for tax and feasts on mutton, fish and pulao. We shall see.”
Kumareesh kept quiet.
Tonight, Amulya dashed to the gate of his house and kicking it, roared, “Come, who’s there? Open the door!”
A little later, Jamuna’s stifled moans could be heard as Amulya hit her hard and said, “Quiet, quiet now, I say!”
*
Four days before the start of the Puja, Kumareesh returned to colour the idols. Jamuna couldn’t contain her happiness. Kumareesh had brought along a huge tray filled with brackets, elephants, horses, prawns and even a pair of parrots for her.
Chatterjee Ginni wasn’t pleased. “Why do all this without Amulya’s permission? How much for these, now?”
Astonished, Kumareesh said, “Will I take money for this, Ma? What are you saying? She’s my Bou-Ma too, after all…”
The eldest daughter said with a snigger, “Everyone brings gifts for pretty people. We, the dark ones…”
“I will bring for you too, Didimoni. You’re the eldest sister, how can you talk like that?” Kumareesh interrupted angrily.
The eldest daughter quickly left the scene.
Chatterjee Ginni reminded Jamuna not to let Amulya know about any of this.
That night, Jamuna came to the window again and said to Kumareesh, “These are beautiful, Mistry!”
An ecstatic Kumareesh said, “Did you like them, Ma?”
Nodding with renewed joy, Jamuna said, “I like them very much. The elephants are more beautiful than the one Mejdi has.”
“You wait there, Ma, I’ll go and paint the goddess’s eyes now. Lakshmi and Saraswati already got theirs, now it’s the Mother Goddess’s turn.”
Jamuna sat with her gaze fixed to the spot.
“Hey, who’s there? Are you here to steal and rob? You rascal, I will beat the pulp out of you! Hup, hup!”
Sounding off his warning to an imaginary offender, Amulya turned homeward a little earlier than usual tonight.
Despite her mother-in-law’s cautionary advice, Jamuna couldn’t resist showing her toys to Amulya. She felt happy from within today, and on top of that, Amulya came and pulled her over to his chest. Thrilled to bits, Jamuna removed the cover from the tray Kumareesh had brought and showed him the toy figurines. “Aren’t these beautiful?”
Picking up the prawn, Kumareesh said, “Tiger prawn, will this bite me?”
Jamuna burst out giggling.
Looking at the horse, Amulya said, “Kya baat, a flying horse -- cheen-heen-heen!”
Jamuna said, “The Mistry brought me all this.”
“Mistry, that sly fox? Hey, Mistry!” Opening the window suddenly, he said “Good man, the sly fox is a good man, achchha aadmi!”
He closed the window just as abruptly and pulled Jamuna close to him again.
*
Humiliation, guilt, and anxiety plunged Chatterjee Ginni into deep despair. She couldn’t bring herself to look at or speak with the neighbours gathered at the chandimandap. As soon as the rituals related to the puja were done, she retreated inside. But even there, everyone was abuzz with whispers. The eldest daughter was whispering as the eldest daughter-in-law listened to her with her eyes bulging in disbelief.
The mother said with folded hands, “I beg of you, Ma, please stop talking about that now. Oh god, look at my destiny!”
The eldest daughter-in-law said, “How will that help, Ma? The neighbours are all discussing that.”
The eldest daughter agreed. “A good-looking woman must know her limits, even if she happens to be the mistress of the house. She could spend her time reading epics like Ramayana and Mahabharata instead of…”
Interrupting her, the mother said, “Please, Ma, I beg of you, stop this. Amulya will lose it, if he ever came to know.”
At that very instant, Jamuna stood transfixed before a mirror and trembled in fear. Who could deny that the goddess’s face seemed to be a carbon copy of her own?
That was what the womenfolk were gossiping about. The resemblance between the idol and Jamuna hadn’t escaped anyone’s eyes.
She was a sinner before gods and humans alike -- a mountain of sin saddled her head. What would happen when her husband learned about it? Her entire body shook at the anticipation of his reaction.
Jamuna was fortunate, however. Amulya didn’t even stray close to the house during the puja days. His time was spent supervising the animal sacrifices at the sites of other family pujas. When a goat was brought to the sacrificial wooden block, he would straighten its head, pour some ghee on it and ask for it to be slaughtered.
After the sacrifice, he would go with the dhaaki drum players and dance to their beats. On some nights, people would help drag his inebriated body, on others, nobody knew his whereabouts.
On Vijaya Dashami, he did hear about the idol incident. He didn’t simply hear about it, he saw it with his own eyes. The scandal, too, rung out through the village as loudly as the beating drums and gongs on this day of the idol’s immersion.
One of the maids working with the Chatterjees came running from the street and said, “Ma, Dadababu has gone crazy. He’s swinging his stick and saying -- what, just like my wife, is it?”
Everyone shivered in anticipation of the imminent terror. Amulya’s absence in the last few days had allowed Jamuna to regain some degree of composure, but today as she feared his return, a foreboding came over her and she desperately looked for a way out. If that wasn’t enough, the entire village was now talking about her! Where would she hide her disgrace? She went and hid herself between two huge trunks in her room. Downstairs, everybody was discussing the juicy gossip as were the neighbours next door. Jamuna could hear it all through the open window -- oh, the shame of it!
Amulya returned a little later, a spring in his steps. “Hup, hup, Ma, where are you, my mother? What a fine bride you got for me -- first class. She looks just like Ma Durga. Just like a Durga idol. Hey, Chhoto Bou? Where are you, Chhoto Bou?”
But where was Chhoto Bou? No one could find Jamuna even after searching the entire house. Amulya went around screaming all through the night.
The next day, a big crowd assembled at the chandimandap to collect payment. Everyone was going to be rewarded. The rewards were of many kinds -- clothing, lamp stands, pitchers, cotton towels, other puja materials, even the offerings made to the goddess. Kumareesh was among them too -- he was expected to receive a big endowment. He had put on a new red-bordered shirt and a new shawl and carried an umbrella under his arm and a bundle of clay toys and dolls. He dashed his way into the village.
The idol bearers returned with the wooden frame left after immersing the goddess’s idol into the river. Before retiring for the season, they asked Chatterjee Ginni to give them their farewell treats -- mudki and naadu.
At that very moment, the family’s maid saw Jamuna’s body floating on the banks of the river across the Chatterjee mansion. The colourless dead body was quickly pulled out. Amulya threw himself over it and bawled uncontrollably.
Kumareesh entered the house and stood like a man struck by lightning.
Boddi -- Traditional village doctor
Bhadu -- A goddess of wealth in South Bengal
Mistry -- Artisan
Mahishasura -- The buffalo demon Goddess Durga is believed to have slayed
Dhaaki -- Traditional drum players
Tarasankar Bandyopadhyay (23 July 1898 – 14 September 1971) was an Indian novelist who wrotein the Bengali language. Bhaswati Ghosh writes and translates fiction, non-fiction and poetry. Her first book of fiction is “Victory Colony, 1950”. Her first work of translation from Bengali into English is “My Days with Ramkinkar Baij”. She is currently working on a nonfiction book on New Delhi, India. Visit her at https://bhaswatighosh.com/
