Long Night of Storm

by Indra Bahadur Rai

  ‘I started becoming scared now—lest my love and marriage be ruined because of this evil, deranged woman. I became greedy for my dream of bliss. Who knows—some day, suddenly, a small incident could occur which would destroy my dreams of a blissful future. I became determined to never again appear before her.

  ‘They said she’d come around. I was never at home.

  ‘She continued to visit. She came around for nearly a month.

  ‘I instructed mother to make up an excuse to make Kamala-didi stop her visits. Her visits to my home were scandal to me.

  ‘Finally, one fateful day, mother and others beat her and chased her away. She bled after cracking her head.

  ‘And, at her own home, she received the total bondage and suffering reserved for a mad woman.

  ‘And time flew past at its own pace.

  ‘After four years, I was passing through Kalimpong on my way home to Darjeeling from my in-laws’ place in Gangtok. When the driver we had arranged for made us wait for too long I went searching for the hotel where he regularly ate to call him to the jeep. The driver was eating. I had just told him to hurry up and was about to return when a familiar old voice called from behind.

  ‘“Bhai…!”

  ‘I didn’t have the courage to turn around and look. My bones turned to jelly.

  ‘“Bhai…! Do you recognize me?” She asked, tugging at my sleeve from behind. “Bhai—Did you recognize me?”

  ‘I turned around and looked. It was her. But, on that day, she appeared normal.

  ‘“Bhai,” she started again. “I seem to have made you suffer, embarrassed you with what I said. Bhai—how can I explain it to you! They say I was ill, Bhai! Of what I did then, I have no recollection, as if I had sleepwalked through everything, I remember nothing. The little I do remember doing, I don’t remember why I did any of it. I am telling the truth, Bhai—please believe me! The doctors cured me. Father got me married off. I don’t remember anything. Bhai—your sister is begging your forgiveness.”

  ‘I looked into Kamala-didi’s face. And, really, the expressions on her face were different. Her voice rang of truth. It wasn’t the face of embarrassment at remembering all the transgressions committed knowingly; it was a face that was drained bloodless out of fear of my incredulity. I, too, wanted to apologize for my deceitfulness and cruelty, but I found myself speechless.

  ‘“Bhai—this hotel is mine. Your eldest niece—she is over there. Your brother-in-law has gone to the bank on his own business. Sit Bhai, drink a cup of tea from my hand before you leave.”

  ‘Tired with the joys and turmoils of the heart I sat down on a bench.’

  He had finished his story by the time the jeep climbed down to the Teesta. Krishna was lost in thought in his seat. He was supposed to get off by the Teesta and walk to the town. Even after getting out of the jeep, Krishna continued to stare at the man. He wasn’t looking at Krishna.

  ‘Drive on! Let’s get going!’ Krishna heard him instruct the driver. ‘Today is Bhai Tika for everybody. My sister is waiting for me.’

  Chaprasi

  Ramlal the chaprasi was immensely proud of his son’s fine education. His son Ajay, however, often felt the shame of having for his father someone who wore a coat of thick, black cloth, drawstringed suruwal, and a red cotton turban as his uniform.

  For years, Ajay had been convincing himself that there was honour in a chaprasi’s job. There are hundreds of jobs just as honourable as being a chaprasi, and thousands more jobs are beneath it—are they all bundles of shame? Ajay had often repeated this line of logic in his heart. He was a clever boy, and this year he had passed his high-school finals without ever once failing his classes. Ajay was also well-built and good-looking. But, if in the course of a conversation anybody inquired about his father’s line of work, he would lose his voice and would reply quietly—‘He works as a chaprasi.’ And when people went quiet for a moment after hearing this, he would see the grave insult and pity in their reaction. His conscience would put constables, bearers, watchmen and gardeners in the same category as a chaprasi, but his heart would find his father’s black-and-red uniform the most unfortunate of all.

  ‘Let Babu wear his uniform only when he goes to work… he shouldn’t wear it when he goes to aunt’s, or to the bazaar on his holidays.’ In the past year, Ajay showed his dissatisfaction at home for the first time.

  ‘Are you ashamed?’ Ramlal made as if he’d pounce on his son and give him a beating. ‘Why do you eat the food I bring home by toiling in a chaprasi’s uniform? If this shames you, don’t live in my house anymore.’

  Ajay’s eyes had already filled with tears.

  ‘When did I say I was ashamed? I said that because I thought people would say that you don’t have anything else to wear. You work and feed Aama, you feed me and my sister, you pay for our school—we see that. My sister and I talk all the time about finishing our education soon and helping you…’

  Ajay could say no more. He turned to his mother and burst into loud tears. Narmada was cleaning green beans in the small kitchen; she hunched over and kept at the chore. Mother said—‘You scold him needlessly. What wrong has he said? He spoke the truth…’

  Chaprasi, who was somewhat dark and thin, with a long nose and fairly large eyes, was tucking the drawstring into the waistband of his suruwal, which he had just finished putting on, as he said, ‘I know just what he is saying.’

  Thereafter, nothing like this incident occurred in the house for nearly a year. About two months ago, when Ajay was staying home awaiting the results of his final exams, a man wearing a smart tie came to the door, craned in and shouted:

  ‘Is this the chaprasi’s home?’

  Ajay was on the bed, reading something or another, and he didn’t respond even though he had heard the man.

  ‘Is this the chaprasi’s home?’ the man shouted again.

  Ajay got up. He reached the door and kept staring at the man.

  ‘This is it.’

  Ajay had said ‘this is it’ in such a tone that the man became lost for words after hearing it.

  ‘This is it. Why?’ Ajay repeated.

  ‘Who are you? The chaprasi’s son?’ the man asked.

  ‘Yes, I am the chaprasi’s son,’ Ajay said in the same gruff voice. ‘Why? What do you want?’

  ‘It’s all right. Nothing,’ the man said, turned on his heels, and was gone.

  Ajay loathed himself after a while. His mother had started shouting from the kitchen stove, ‘People become wiser with study, but your ways will drag us all down a pit someday. The house’s man is a chaprasi—the world knows of it. If you don’t like that, leave the house and go. We don’t want to offend people in our old age on your account. Just let your father return, and see if I don’t tell him everything…’

  Ajay—perhaps affected by the book he was reading right then—immediately apologized to his mother.

  ‘Get started at a job soon. Everybody will come to show their respect,’ Mother said after the rift had been mended.

  Now, Ajay had passed his final exams and found a job as an office clerk, and was trying to erase the mark of the chaprasi job from the family name.

  Yesterday, he said to his mother, ‘Let Babu stop working now.’

  Ramlal had started on his job twenty-one years ago, when he had only just become a young man of twenty-one. After spending his first three or four years as chaprasi to the overseer, Ramlal had filled the position that had come to be vacant upon the old man Khatiwada’s death, and had thus become chaprasi to the engineer. He had married Pavitra while still working there, and now even his years were fleeing. He had to recognize all sorts of files: which file should be taken to whom; whether or not the file had been examined; if the files had been signed—he had to know everything. Sometimes even the officers couldn’t tell which signature belonged to whom: Ramlal had to teach the officers. Contractors would buy tea for the officers to get their bidding done, but it would be the chaprasi who had to run the errand. If R
amlal failed to provide an officer with a loan when asked, it was considered an unofficial inadequacy on his part. Ramlal had suffered many a ‘Burra Sahib’. The English engineer he first worked with had been a difficult man. He would make Ramlal run around day and night in a jeep with a red bundle of files. If today was spent in Darjeeling, he’d be in Bakhrakote tomorrow, and the night would be spent at the dak bungalow at Teesta. The son—the same Ajay, barely as big as a fist and perpetually sickly—would be at home. Ramlal had nearly quit his job. But, Ramlal could claim that the district of Darjeeling was built by the same Sahib. There had been an engineer who would leave the office barely once in a month; he would sit in the office and do who knows what—even Ramlal couldn’t tell. The present engineer was very smart, he had drawn such awe-inspiring plans that the district would be transformed if everything could be implemented. These days, too, for ten or twelve days each month, Ramlal had to go out on inspections with the Sahib. Who colluded with whom to embezzle how many thousand rupees regarding the landslide at Gorabari before Kharsang; from where did the stone come to build the road to Kalimpong and Algarah and why—Ramlal knew all of this, and more. Ramlal had seen every place, and had grown tired of it all, but he really liked the Baghpul bridge at Subuk, and was never satisfied of standing on the high bridge to watch the green Teesta flow under it.

  Upon returning home he would movingly describe Subuk to his wife and children. He would say—Three roads separate there; there the flow of Teesta is imperceptible; the Teesta is very wide, and who knows how deep, who could ever get midstream to measure it? ‘If you want to go, come with me. I will talk to the Sahib. Sit quietly in a corner of the jeep and see the sights,’ he would say to his son.

  Although he’d show excitement about going, Ajay never went. Recently, when a group of drivers took a procession of their vehicles for a picnic, Ajay went together with them and returned after seeing the bridge at Subuk from inside his friend Basanta’s Land Rover.

  Ajay said to his mother, ‘It really is a mesmerizing place, Aama! I will take you there someday.’

  Ramlal was drying his red canvas shoes in the sun after washing them and listening to Ajay and his mother. After listening to their talk, he finally said, ‘One of the tigers at the northern end of the bridge has been damaged by a rock that fell from the cliff above it. It was an English tiger. It is broken now and the iron rods inside show like ribs. I showed it to the Sahib the other day. It will be rebuilt soon.’

  ‘Let Babu not work anymore.’ Two months later, Ajay said this to his mother for the second time.

  Mother didn’t say anything for a moment.

  ‘We have a lot of loans,’ she then said. ‘We have three, four hundred rupees to repay. Now that you and your father both have jobs, we will repay the loans.’

  ‘You call that amount a lot of loans?’ Ajay twisted his mouth and laughed.

  ‘Your father earns only eighty-seven rupees a month. My plan is to live off that money and shell out your hundred and three to repay the loans over four or five months. After that, we can spend all the money we can, eat what we want, wear what we like… We also need to get you married…’

  ‘Quit this nonsense! Where is it written that Babu should slave away until the day he’s thrown from the jeep and breaks his legs?’ he asked. ‘I will work now. I will take care of everyone. Let him quit his job and stay home. Am I earning one hundred and three rupees for nothing?’ Ajay insisted.

  ‘What will your father do at home if he stops working?’

  ‘He will rest,’ Ajay said.

  Mother had nothing to say in reply.

  ‘Everybody says—there goes the son of a chaprasi, or, that is the daughter of a chaprasi.’ Ajay continued, ‘Chaprasis at my office call me that. Do we not have other names? When she is called the daughter of a chaprasi, even thieves and illiterate oafs dare look at my sister. They dare shout at you…’

  Perhaps his words touched his mother somewhere inwardly; she went inside her room.

  That night, Ajay could hear the murmur of his father and mother talking. Ramlal’s voice started to climb, until finally he was shouting in the dark.

  ‘So a big babu sahib has been born in this house? Arrogant prick! I’ll drag him out to the street by his hair! I have seen what plenty of babus like you really are. If you are ashamed to be a chaprasi’s son, leave my house!’

  Ajay crumpled inside his blanket. He had to make an effort even to breathe.

  His wife tried to placate him with ‘let it be’ and ‘let it go’, but Ramlal continued to rail.

  Ajay was still awake until much later, even after the shouting ceased. He was also becoming agitated. He thought—I’ll find a job in Calcutta or Assam and leave this place. But he felt love for his sister—and for his sister alone. Narmada wasn’t in the habit of complaining. But she must also feel the burn in her heart. And he also found new courage—I shouldn’t run away and let Babu’s title of chaprasi continue to survive. He recalled the sons of other chaprasis. Only if he could learn what was in their hearts… Ajay spent the night wide awake.

  Ramlal protested so much at home, but one day at the office he quietly asked Pradhan, a long-time babu, ‘Hajur! I have become old. I can’t carry on always being on the road like this. I am thinking of drawing my pension. My son is suggesting the same. In a way, the son will look after the house. He has a job now.’

  Pradhan-babu put aside the files he was studying and looked at Ramlal. ‘Ramlal, there is no rush. Don’t rush, Ramlal—don’t you rush!’ he said. ‘Listen—you and I started working here at the same time. Wait for two more years, and we’ll retire together. We had our youth then. We had all sorts of mad fun in this very office. Now we have become old, and the office is getting younger. You have a son, and he has even found a job! But God gave me neither a son, nor a daughter… But don’t you rush! We’ll leave this place together, after two years. If you find the work outside difficult, I will keep you as my chaprasi. But stay a while longer. Work here.’

  ‘As you say. I will stay,’ said Ramlal.

  And now, Ajay would invite many of his friends over and they would come asking for ‘Ajay’s home’. They would talk about the office, discuss cinema and hockey, and exchange books. Ajay’s mother was filled with happiness when they filled her home. When neighbours called it ‘Ajay’s house’, she thought of it as a victory.

  Perhaps because of years of habit, or perhaps because of his age, sleep abandoned Ramlal completely by four o’clock in the morning. He would wait for about half an hour for the dawn to show through the window. If he slept in any longer, his back, legs and knees ached. Ramlal would get up. He would start a fire with wood split the night before. As the water boiled in the kettle he would wash with cold water and finish cleaning the house with a broom. He would awake Narmada only after the water had boiled and he had dunked in the little cloth bundle of tea. After finishing a cup he would clean the drains around the house, he would take out the bowls and wash them, wash curtains and towels. He would return at noon to eat.

  Ajay’s chore was to arrange the books in the house, hang pictures and iron clothes. One day, as he was keeping house, he came across a letter written by Narmada.

  ‘…I am but the unfortunate daughter of a poor chaprasi…,’ Narmada had written.

  Ajay was afire with rage after reading it.

  Two days after this, Basanta’s mother and sister came to the house in search of Narmada. The sister screamed, rousing the village, ‘So she has found her mark! The chaprasi’s daughter couldn’t find anybody else to… She is as dark as Kali to look at. Hey, Kali! Find someone of your own level! It is because you see our wealth, isn’t it? You want to live in luxury, do you! If I had a face like that I’d have hanged myself. You won’t suit our home. Don’t even dream of it!’

  Ajay scolded aside his mother and sister and didn’t let them shout in reply, and stepped forward.

  He had a sharp tongue too. ‘Your father owns a jeep now, but we all know what h
e was like until recently. It isn’t that old a story. So, my sister looks like Kali now, does she? You are the prettiest, then. If I had a face like that I would have hanged myself to death. Wonder what hope keeps you alive?’

  After a lot more of shouting back and forth, Basanta’s elder brother arrived and dragged home the women of his family. He returned later, to talk things through and to apologize.

  The apology had the opposite effect on Ajay’s mind. His anger, which was directed at the other women until a moment ago, now descended upon his own family. It was because his father had chosen the job of a chaprasi that the family still had to suffer shame and the slings of slights until this day. And now, to erase the stain brought by his sister would take until time itself tired of it…

  Ajay scolded his sister first, and then scolded his mother. His father was returning home after a few more days, so he berated him as the source of all misfortune.

  The next day, when Ramlal returned for lunch, Ajay’s mother said, ‘It is enough. You should stop working now. Quit the job.’

  Ramlal scrutinized his wife, morsel in hand hanging midway to his mouth.

  He continued looking at her, and asked, ‘Why?’

  ‘How much longer will you grind your bones?’ his wife said. ‘You should rest in your old age.’

  ‘And then?’

  ‘Then we’ll withdraw money from the fund, sell your pension, and build a decent house. We’ll rent a few rooms out. It’ll earn the money to provide for us in our old age. It’ll be a decent roof over our heads. It will bring prestige.’

  ‘Who gave you these ideas?’

  Ajay’s mother went quiet. Ramlal continued playing with his rice, but he didn’t pick up a morsel.

  ‘Fine, then! We won’t say a word more. Do as your heart wants,’ after a moment the wife said bitterly.

  ‘So long as my limbs have strength I won’t wait for worthless worms to throw me their scraps!’ he spoke as if in declaration.

  But what would he do after quitting his job? Ramlal had asked himself this question many times before. From that moment he began pondering it more. From the fund and the sale of his pension he might collect seven or eight thousand rupees. That could build a big wooden house. After quitting his job he would sell vegetables at the bazaar. If he could make the rounds of Matigara and Naxal, there would be even more money in it—he thought of it all. After playing with the idea in his mind for two or three days he called Ajay and said, ‘A house for five to six thousand rupees, with a bit of a kitchen garden—keep an eye out for it when you are around Haridas Hatta or Rajbari. Don’t go asking after it, just keep an eye out for it.’