Again Bishambhar said with an effort, 'Hello, Peter!' Then after a pause, 'You will get used to my speech. I cannot talk very clearly.'
Now Anita observed her father-in-law carefully for the first time. His beard was grey, his head quite bald, and his face was pulled to one side. A stroke, she realized. Was it the shock of Sajan's death? Or was it some other accident? Some other misfortune, talked about in hushed tones by her fellow travellers in the taxi? Who could tell?
Bishambhar must have said something in Punjabi. The woman, obviously used to his speech, went away.
Again slowly he said to Anita, 'It is dirty here. She will clean the other room for you. You can sleep there. There is water in the pot outside the door. The toilet is out there. She will show you.' He had trouble speaking.
Anita stood up and said hurriedly, 'Please, you don't have to talk. Doesn't anyone else speak English? I can ask someone else if I need anything.'
'Bahadur will come in the evening. He is my compounder. He will... everything...' He stopped and closed his eyes.
Hopelessly Anita stared at his grey face, grey bread, and the greyish dusty bedsheet which covered him. Again the woman came and beckoned to her. The other room was a bit brighter. Outside the door was the washroom—just a lean-to where there was a big pot filled with water. Inside the room were a bare string-cot and a frayed mat which had just been laid out on a hurriedly-swept floor. The dirt from it was piled up outside the door. When the woman once again beckoned, Anita put Peter down on the cot and went with her through the inner courtyard towards the entrance of the house. A strong stench that spread as the wooden door facing the road was opened, announced the primitive basket-toilet. Anita felt nauseated, but smiled at the woman and nodded. She was sure she could not use that toilet to save her life. What on earth was she going to do?
She came inside again and sat down near Bishambhar Singh's cot on the floor. He seemed asleep. Or maybe even unconscious, she thought in alarm. But he heard her, opened his eyes and said something.
Anita bent over him and said, 'Pardon me,' and he repeated it. With some trouble, she could make out one word, 'tea'. She looked around. No stove, no kettle. She asked, 'Would you like some tea?'
'No. For you.'
'No, thanks.'
On hearing this exchange, the woman came in again. He told her something. She went out and in about ten minutes brought in a plate and a glass. There was something like bread and a mess of vegetables on the plate. Anita did not know what it was, nor what she could give to Peter. Milk, maybe? She asked her father-in-law about milk. He called for some milk. When they brought it, he again said to Anita, one word at a time, 'Mix it with water. He won't be able to digest it otherwise.' Anita was going to ask where she could boil some water, but she gave up. So many people are drinking this water, she thought, so will Peter. She mixed milk and water together and gave it to him. Strange taste, strange place, and the terrible heat. Peter threw the bottle away. Anita had had enough. 'Suit yourself,' she said, and laying him back on the cot she came out and picked up her plate.
She found herself almost faint with hunger, but asked her father-in-law before beginning to eat, 'And what about you?' He said, 'I cannot eat that, I will get my rice soon,' and opened his mouth with an effort to show that there was not a single tooth in it. She broke a piece of the thick roti and put it in her mouth. It was tasty enough but rather dry, so, with the next piece she took a bite of the curry. She felt as if her mouth was on fire. She gasped and choked, tears starting in her eyes. Bishambhar opened his eyes and smiled. He said, 'Eat it now with water. I will ask for curd in the evening.' She was surprised that this time she could understand him so well.
Peter must have given up his protest and taken his bottle. He was silent in the next room. She took her empty plate and glass and came to the door, looking for a place to wash them. A girl saw her and called her mother, and the mother with a dupatta covering her face, came and took the plate from the hands. The stench near the door was unbearable, so Anita stepped outside. Under the dried-up tree the mother buffalo was chewing the cud. Anita went and stood near her, gazing at the trucks passing by on the road. Of course the children gathered around her, but now Anita was no longer surprised by their nakedness. If she could, she would have shed all her clothes too. The calf was asleep near its mother and so were the dogs and goats. Not a leaf moved. The only breeze was the dusty gust created by the passing trucks.
In front of her, the road with its heavy traffic; across the road, the huge compound wall of the jail; behind her, the wall enclosing the houses, pierced by their front doors and the low doors to the privies; some noise of the goings-on inside. The children were slightly shy of her but still clustered about.
What am I doing here? Who are these people? Who is the woman who brought me lunch? Could she be Sajan's sister? No. If she were Sajan's sister, she would have sat with me, she would have cuddled Peter.. Why do these strangers, these neighbours attend to Bishambhar Singh? Isn't there anyone else? If Sajan had returned without marrying me, his wife would have looked after the old man. Sajan would have been alive, working, earning, perhaps the father of a couple of naked children.
Mind engrossed in such strange musings, Anita's eyes were only vaguely aware that one of the donkeys from the motley group under the tree was dragging itself slowly away from the shade. God knew why. Gradually it left the patch of shady dust and started towards the road; inch by inch it hobbled until at last it was right on the road. Anita suddenly realized what was about to happen. Half-sere anting, she jumped forward, out of circle of children around her, just as a huge, articulated trailer-truck hit the donkey and sent it sprawling to the asphalt. The truck then ran over its legs and sped on its thundering way without caring that it had hit something. Anita did not even realize that she was screaming. By the time she rushed to the donkey a couple of more trucks had gone over it. Steeling herself, she bent down to see it. Fortunately it was quite dead. The women inside the houses, shocked by her screams, came to see, and stood watching in amazement when they realized that all the screaming and crying was over a dead donkey. She was yelling, 'Pull the donkey away! Do something! Bury it!' The women stood gawking at her, and after a while, went away not knowing what to do or say. Anita could not pull herself to do anything either; she could not pull away the carcass herself, she was not up to it. She was so exhausted and spent by now, she simply turned back, and without stopping at the tree, went straight inside the house.
An older boy came running after her, and offered falteringly, wanting to help, 'Dead! Dead! Donkey dead!' She nodded and shut the door behind her. Without glancing at the bundle on the cot she went into the other room and lay down beside Peter, trying to sleep. She soon realized that it is impossible for more than one person to sleep on a string cot. Finally she lay down on the floor, on the mat and fell into an exhausted sleep in spite of the hardness of the floor and the humming and stinging of the insects, whatever they were. She did not really feel the tears trickling down her face.
The noise of people talking woke her up. Peter had started to cry because of the noise.
When she got up and lifted him, she realized how stiff and aching her own body was. She changed Peter's clothes after washing him and splashed her own face with a little water from the big pot before coming out. She left him on the cot with a new bottle and he seemed content. She saw that a group of people was sitting on the floor next to her father-in-law's cot. They fell silent as they saw her.
One of them came forward and said, 'I am Bahadur Singh. Doc-tor-sahib's compounder.
These are his patients.'
'Patients?'
'Yes. They still come to him. He still has the healing touch.'
Bishambhar Singh heard this, smiled crookedly and ironically tried to lift his now-useless right hand as much as he could. She only shook her head sadly, and not saying anything, sat down in a corner. He turned his attention back to his 'patients', resuming his interrupted questions. The people se
emed to understand him quite well. Sometimes Bahadur would interpret. At first the people were a little shy because of her, but soon they began to speak up. One group left and another came in. Sometimes someone would give a few coins or a dirty bill, which he would accept, but if nothing were offered, he would not ask.
People kept coming in a steady stream until dusk. After talking to them Bishambhar would sometimes discuss the treatment with Bahadur in English. Anita could follow most of it, especially the medical terms. Once she even suggested something. It surprised Bahadur and he kept silent. Bishambhar said, 'You are right. But that sort or treatment is not available here. The poor folk can't go to Delhi or Bombay. Are you a doctor?'
'No. I am a microbiologist. But I work in a hospital, so I know some of these things.'
'And Sajan? What did Sajan do? Did he also work in the hospital?'
Without thinking she asked, 'Didn't you know?'
He only smiled with his crooked face. So she looked down and said, 'He used to teach at the university.'
Then she sat silent, not offering any suggestions, until all the people had left. Bishambhar was tired but when she too got to go, he said, 'Please sit down.' With his left hand he took out a small bundle of dirty rupee-notes and coins and handing it over to Bahadur, said, 'Half is yours, give the rest to Harjit's daughter-in-law as usual, for my expenses. Give her these ten more. For two days' milk for my grandson and dinner for my daughter-in-law. Tell her to send curd and plain boiled lentils or vegetables. Our food will be too hot for Anita.'
After Bahadur left, Bishambhar turned to Anita and asked abruptly, 'Why have you come here?
For a moment she thought of telling him that she too had been trying to find the answer since she landed. Instead she said, 'I cannot explain it.'
'I understand that, but there still must be some tangible reason that you can think of to tell me.'
She got up without a word and turned on the light. Brought out her purse from the other room and, talking out the zero-deco-rated check, put it into the half-open hand of her father-in-law.
'What is this?'
'It's the compensation for Sajan's accidental death.'
'How much?'
'—dollars.'
For a while he was silent. She wondered how she would persuade him to take it if he said 'no'.. How she could convince him that this was not a bribe offered to conscience. She had not committed any crime against anyone, knowingly, or unknowingly. Whether to return to India or not, whether to stay with his father or not, whether the father needed him or not — all those were Sajan's decisions. Not hers. If this father had taken the trouble to come close to his son in his childhood and youth, he would have come back in spite of her. But how often did a sense of duty prevail over an American life? Relationships based only on a sense of duty are no relationships at all.
As if he could hear the thoughts in her mind, Bishambhar said, 'Thank you. I can use this. It is the duty of children to look after their parents in their old age and you have fulfilled that obligation for Sajan by bringing this to me now. That is just as it should be.' He stopped to catch his breath.
Anita felt like asking, 'Why talk of duty? Did you take any trouble to be the sort of father a son would want to take care of?'
But she kept quiet.
Bishambhar again answered that unspoken question: 'You do not recognize such an obligation, such a debt. You put all the old folk together in a 'home' and pay strangers to care for them. Nothing wrong in that either; for, if a man's worth is measured only in terms of his utility, there is no other option but to relegate him to limbo. Unfortunately, even here, there is only one solution at present to that problem: to be a burden to your own children. It is my great good fortune that there is no one left any more to carry my burden. Strangers, in charity and for money too, care for me. Now I shall divide this money into five parts. One will go to Bahadur and one to Harjit as payment for looking after me; one will pay for my food and drink, and medicines, and maybe hospitalisation and funeral; one would cover my poor patients' medical expenses; and one you should take back for Peter. Sajan did not pay his debt as a son. He refused to do that; so it is right that you, as his wife, are now doing that for him. But he also died without fulfilling his duty as a father. So now I will compensate for that a little.'
'Peter does not need anything. What I earn is enough for him,' Anita flared up.
'If you don't need it, then give it to the orphans in America. Surely there are still orphans in America?'
Anita was shocked by the cutting roughness of his reply. She had expected praise from the old man for her own thoughtfulness. Perhaps even gratitude. Both were absent from his acceptance. He was merely apportioning what he thought was his due, in a matter-of-fact manner. She saw that he understood her unspoken thought again, and smiled a little at her before closing his eyes.
When Bahadur returned to the room, Bishambhar said to her, still with his eyes closed, 'You should go back tomorrow. Bahadur will see to that. You wouldn't last long in this misery. Thank you for coming. Take care of Peter.'
And then his head lolled back as if he was exhausted. When he made an inarticulate noise, waving his useless hand, Bahadur went to him and pried the cheque from it. He did manage to say, 'Bank...' clearly, but all his strength seemed to have left him.
Bahadur tidied his bed, gave him a shot and started to leave. By then Anita had checked on Peter in the other room and had come out. She said to him, 'Wait, I want to ask you something.'
He stopped, and then followed her out of the front door. He was short, she thought, much shorter than Sajan. Even with the turban he was just about her height.
'Where are the Doctor's daughters?
'They have passed away.'
'All?'
'Yes. One passed away during childbirth at about the time Sajan went to America. One had tuberculosis, she did not last much longer after that and the last one died last year of typhoid.'
'My God!'
He did not say anything.
'Did the Doctor disown his son for marrying me?'
'Not really. They did not write to each other a lot anyway. And when he decided to settle in America, the Doctor-sahib was disappointed. After that, what was the point in writing letters to him?'
'Why was he disappointed? Because Sajan did not come back to look after his father? But priorities shift, values change; why couldn't he understand that?'
'No, it's not that simple, and certainly not that selfish. I'd rather say it was because the son did not fulfil any of his obligations... to his family, to his country...Naturally, the Doctor-sahib was disappointed. Mrs Singh, all his life the Doctor-sahib has recognized the priority, the value only of the call of his duty; his duty to these people; he has rated his own life cheap before that, why should he try to understand any other values?'
Anita looked down. A line of ants was going somewhere in the dust. Her gaze followed it. Someone had finally pulled the carcass of the donkey away from the road into the bordering dust. Dogs, crows, ants, flies were raiding it. The vultures would come soon. No one could stand to live in its stench by tomorrow. But who knows, perhaps these people are used to stenches. Used to donkeys being crushed under trucks, used to people dying of disease, in accidents and floods and epidemics. It's all a question of how much one can get used to. She thought of Bishambhar on his cot. Even when he was so nearly dead, so incapacitated, when he could not even talk properly, his poor patients were still flocking to him, and he was still caring for them the best he could.
Sajan could not understand a father who would not put his children, his comfort, even his life ahead of paying his debt to these poor people; and his father could not understand Sajan who wanted to spend his short life in the warmth of a little love, a little luxury, paying his debt to himself in the world before leaving it. In the end there remained nothing between the two but this cheque...
And Peter Robert Singh, of course!' Suddenly she felt as though she held in her hand a th
read that would lead her to the very centre of the maze, if only she would persevere. She went in and ate the thick roti with some boiled lentils and lay her stiff and aching body on the mat, and before falling asleep, said to Peter Robert Singh sleeping beside her, 'Remember Peter, children must look after their old parents. That debt has to be paid. One way or another.'
Translated by Vidyut Aklujkar and the author
ASSAMESE
The Vulture
Manoj Kumar Goswami
A Motor Car!
It was Gonu who broke the news. He related how he had seen a motor car going by the road on the other side of the river. But Tutu, Rudra and Kon—no one believed him. Gonu was, after all, adept at playing an occasional prank. Then, some moments later Butu came gasping down—Yes, he also had seen a car moving by the other side of the river.
So, it must be true that a car was plying nearby. That meant another thing also—after several years a car had come near their village. For them the reality of seeing a car was something like a hazy dream. Once, at the time of the general elections a candidate had come down to their village on a motor car to canvass for votes. The car-borne men had resembled fat cows. Then also the car had stopped outside Butu's home. So there was no point disbelieving Butu this time.
It must be a car.
They did not intend to disclose the news to anyone else. Of course Lalu must be told. So a search was launched for Lalu. Gonu ultimately found him in the backyard devouring a few unripe guavas. Lalu listened to Butu with eyes bulging. When Butu had finished, he muttered a torrent of meaningless, obscene words. Lalu's effortless ability at uttering obscene words at this age won respect for him from the others. His manner of speaking was also like grown-ups.
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