Fever

by Samaresh Basu

  Ruhiton felt his heart drying up. He understood what Mangala meant. But was there anything he could do about it? He had done what his father had never done. Why should his sons not go their own ways too? Still, he felt the inconsistencies were far more outside jail than within it.

  Suddenly he heard snatches of song, accompanied by music. Ruhiton looked questioningly at Mangala. But before she could reply he understood what was going on from the sudden deep voice emanating from a transistor radio. In jail too, they often had music or the radio played for them over loudspeakers.

  ‘Let me take you to the old house,’ Mangala said.

  ‘Yes, let’s go,’ Ruhiton said with a sudden desperation.

  Mangala picked up the lantern. ‘Can you bring the glass and the bowl?’ she asked.

  Ruhiton didn’t understand why they had to be taken along. Still, he picked the glass up with both his hands and tucked it in under his arm, and, carrying the bowl in both his hands, followed Mangala to the house that had been built in his father’s time. The cow was no longer tied to the post. Ruhiton climbed up slowly on the front stoop. He looked at the roof.

  ‘Part of the room on the eastern side is in good shape. I’ve made all the arrangements there.’

  ‘What arrangements?’ Ruhiton asked in surprise.

  Mangala looked at him in surprise too, her eyes just like the loving eyes of the cow. But she was no longer as she had been once. ‘Why, your living arrangements, of course. I’ve put a cot in, come and see. We’ve had the roof on the eastern side rethatched too, with fresh grass. I’ve put your plates and glass and bowls in there.’ She moved with the lantern towards the room on the eastern side.

  Ruhiton looked in that direction in the semi-darkness. He didn’t seem to understand what Mangala was saying. The aluminium glass was tucked under his arm. He held the woven wicker bowl in his hands.

  ‘Well? Come along.’ Mangala’s voice floated out.

  Ruhiton went forward, treading gingerly with his toeless feet. He entered the house. A pillow and sheets lay on the cot.

  ‘Am I staying here alone? Aren’t you staying with me?’

  ‘Me?’ Mangala’s shadow on the wall seemed to tremble. Going up to the door, she said, ‘How can I stay with you? You’ll stay separately, just as you did in jail. You can no longer stay with everyone else, can you? I’ll bring your food.’ Mangala didn’t look at Ruhiton directly as she spoke. She looked in turn at his hands and feet, at the wall next to him, at her own shadow. ‘You will be looked after properly. By Karam’s grace we have all we need now. You’ll get milk to drink from the black cow.’

  The black cow. ‘The deep black eyes of the black cow…’ someone used to sing. Ruhiton looked at Mangala. For the first time in his life, he felt that his heart was breaking. But could it really break?

  ‘I’m not ill any more, Mangli,’ he said. ‘I’ve recovered. I can live with you, with all of you.’ In his nasal voice, the words sounded like a child’s petulant demands.

  Mangala’s face hardened with distrust and annoyance. Her glance was cutting. ‘That’s obvious from your appearance,’ she said. ‘Nobody keeps a person at home when they have such illnesses. At least your sons have agreed to let you stay in this old house.’

  Looking at Mangala, Ruhiton realized she was saying all this with deep conviction. Ruhiton had believed that towns could be encircled with villages. Those who shared this belief had destroyed everything around them in their conviction. But what was this torrent again in his heart? He hobbled a couple of steps forward, his eyes on Mangala. Her eyes were apprehensive, wary. She made to leave.

  ‘Have you married again?’ Ruhiton asked.

  Mangala’s eyes twinkled. Then she laughed, covering her mouth with her hand, her body shaking. ‘Does it look as though I’ve married again?’ she asked, uncovering her mouth.

  Ruhiton could not answer when he saw her laughing. By the light of the lantern, he did not look entirely human. His eyelids, shorn of lashes, were red and unblinking.

  ‘No, I’ve had no such wish ever,’ Mangala continued.

  Ruhiton was torn between happiness and pain. With hope as well as despair, he said, ‘Do you remember those days, Mangli? That time of our Liberated Zone?’

  Mangala frowned, her face tight. ‘What’s the use of remembering all that? I don’t remember them any more.’

  Someone could be heard talking outside before Mangala had finished. She looked over her shoulder. Then retreated a few steps. She looked at Ruhiton again. ‘I’d better go,’ she said. ‘Budhua’s wife Mangri is cooking all by herself. I’ll bring your food when it’s time.’ Turning around, Mangala disappeared in the darkness.

  Ruhiton remained rooted to the spot. Who had called Mangala away? It was a male voice. Was it one of his sons? Or someone else? There was no one to answer.

  The lantern cast a steady glow, his shadow was still. Crickets shrilled somewhere in the thatched roof overhead. Ruhiton turned around. The western side of the house had collapsed on its face. His childhood days floated up before his eyes. His adolescent days. His mother used to live there at the back. There used to be oxen behind the fence. There was a different smell in this room then.

  He looked at the open door again. Mangala had left. That old song of his mother’s rang in his ears. ‘Clouds gather in the north, it’s raining in the west.’ What a life! Clouds gather here, it rains somewhere else. The fine clothes of life only get wet.

  Chapter Nineteen

  LATE NIGHT IN the Terai. Who knew how late it was? Ruhiton lay on his bedstead in the impenetrable darkness in his room. Mangala had served him his dinner in his separate plate and bowl. ‘Have your dinner,’ she had said. ‘Lock the door.’ She had pulled the door shut when leaving.

  Yes, a child of the Kurmis and Mahatos never quarrelled with his meal. But can every meal be eaten, O son of a Mahato? He didn’t have that kind of appetite. He hadn’t been able to eat. He had only gazed at Mangala as long as she had been there. He couldn’t smell her familiar scent. He no longer had nostrils, but still, he had inhaled deeply.

  Ruhiton had soon become aware that a dog had entered, pushing the door open, and that the animal was eating his dinner with greedy, surprised trepidation. He had been thinking of a particular story that Mangala had told him several times. The story, told in her voice, rang in his ears.

  ‘And then…yes, and then the husband told his wife, sprinkle this magic water on me, I’ll turn into a gigantic crocodile. And then when you sprinkle the water on me again, I’ll go back to being a human being. Is that even possible, wondered the wife. Can magic water do such things? Let me check. Tilting the pot, she sprinkled the water on her husband. At once he turned into a giant crocodile. He was a terrifying sight. The wife tried to run away from the crocodile. And the pot overturned when she tripped over it, all the water spilled out…

  ‘And then? Ah ha! Then the crocodile could no longer be turned back into a human being. His wife looked at him anxiously from a distance, she didn’t dare go near him. Thus the days went by. But the man was a crocodile now. How long could he starve? Tears rolled out of his eyes from hunger and sadness. His wife didn’t understand. Then the crocodile left his home, crawled across the courtyard and submerged himself in a lake nearby. He ate plenty of fish, finally satiating his hunger.

  ‘His wife came and stood at the edge of the water. The crocodile surfaced. Approaching the shore, he looked at his wife. How shall I get you back, dear, his wife asked. The crocodile could not talk. There was nothing to say anyway. The magic water was not within reach any more…

  ‘Days went by, one after the other. The wife came to the lake and sat at the edge of the water for a glimpse of her husband. The crocodile surfaced from time to time. He looked at his wife, then dived back into the depths. The rest of their life passed this way. The crocodile’s wife kept sitting at the edge of the water, the crocodile surfaced at times to gaze at her…’

  That was all there was to the story. Mangala�
�s voice would drift into sleep. Ruhiton couldn’t stop thinking of this tale.

  Then, in the undisturbed darkness of the night, Ruhiton sat up in bed. Treading carefully on his toeless feet, he went outside the house. The sleeping Terai night was far advanced. Stars twinkled on the black canvas of the sky. He came out in the open and looked up to the west. He couldn’t see Venus. Had it disappeared behind the trees? A few scattered spots of light were visible on the northern hills, just like the stars. He began walking to the east.

  Adhikari Baba’s lake came into view. Even eight years ago, on the eastern side of the lake, beyond its high periphery, the area leading to the Mechi had been a jungle. Ruhiton had buried something as his last possession under the earth in that jungle. Was it still there? Lots of people lived around the lake now. Adhikari Baba’s temple was always crowded. Rituals and fairs were organized in January. People here vowed to sacrifice animals and birds to the gods if their prayers were met. But they were not actually slaughtered, only let loose by the lake, which was huge. The thick vines on the surface of the black water made one afraid to wade in. Nobody fished here.

  Ruhiton kept walking. He had a long way to walk. To Moynaguri village. The railway line passed nearby. A bridge ran over it. Ruhiton forced himself to move as quickly as possible. He knew the way. It ran through the fields—a secret trail.

  The road refused to end. Suddenly he heard a gurgling sound. The sound of the currents on the Mechi. Had a pale glow appeared in the eastern sky? That would mean trouble. But there it was, the edge of the lake! There was still a thick growth of trees there. Ruhiton was perspiring profusely. Even the wind that blew the night away couldn’t dry his sweat. He remembered where the paved edge of the lake, with the steps leading down to the water, lay. He went in the opposite direction. He couldn’t walk up the steep slope of the lake. He climbed on his hands and knees instead. Where was that Arjuna tree? No one had cut it in all this time, had they? The land had not been swept away, had it?

  Crawling up the slope, Ruhiton reached the top and straightened slowly. The eastern sky seemed to be looking a little pale. He spotted the Arjuna tree. It was there! Then perhaps everything was intact. He hobbled up to the tree. He glanced at the slope leading back to the edge of the water. But he had no spade or crowbar with him. Looking around, he spotted the branch of a tree. Clutching it in both his paws, he walked down the slope. His heart was beating furiously. Wonderful! It was there—the rock marking the spot was still in place! The earth had subsided slightly under torrents of rain. But the rock was still wedged in. Diba babu had known of this spot.

  Moving the rock aside with his feet, Ruhiton sat down in the depression it had left. He almost missed his footing. Lying down flat to prevent himself from rolling down the slope, he began to dig at the ground with the branch in his paws. So hard? It was like stone. But he mustn’t stop. As he kept digging, he hit soft earth. A hole appeared in the soil. The earth rolled down the sides. At that moment he spotted a part of the object. Lying on his stomach, Ruhiton inserted both his arms, holding the butt of the gun between his paws. It couldn’t be pulled out easily. After much effort, a double-barrelled gun emerged. The earth fell away. A small box was visible.

  Holding the gun between his knees, Ruhiton lifted the box. It was made of thick board, which crumbled under his touch. Bullets lay inside it. Picking them up in his paws, he sniffed the bullets. The sodden smell of earth. Soggy. He lifted the gun. Faint light streamed through the trees. He saw holes eaten into the wooden butt by termites. Both the barrels were jammed with earth.

  Ruhiton placed a third of what was left of his right index finger on the trigger. Pressing the butt against his chest, he squeezed the trigger with his withered finger. A rusty sound emerged. But the trigger moved. This withered finger was still able to squeeze a trigger! Would this gun work again if it were dried in the sun? Would the bullets fire? If the earth could be cleared from the barrels, would they shoot bullets?

  Ruhiton was panting and perspiring profusely. His tongue was hanging out. No, it wasn’t possible to remain sitting here any longer. His lungs did not seem capable of holding air. He lay down slowly. He tilted his head, resting them on the barrels. His reddened eyelids, shorn of lashes, dropped. He had just one consolation now: he had returned to his real place from the humiliation and the accursed shelter he had been provided. He could sense that waves of a deep slumber were washing over him now.

  The black water of the enormous lake shimmered in the breeze. Sudden streaks of silver appeared among the dense vines on its surface. Amidst the tendrils on the deep, dark water, the silver streaks curved away sharply.

  THE BEGINNING

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  This collection published 1977

  Copyright © Ruskin Bond, 2004

  The moral right of the author has been asserted

  Jacket images © Robert Nicol and Chetan Kishore

  ISBN: 978-0-143-42567-0

  This digital edition published in 2016.

  e-ISBN: 978-8-184-00278-2

  This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.