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This one is from my book of short stories, "The Remix of Orchids." I hope it will interest my readers.
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The Emancipated
The MV
Sentinel finally reached the shoal off Campbell Bay. As it neared the harbour,
it blasted its siren aloud. ‘Hurrah, it’s time to disembark,’ shouted the
jubilant passengers. They gathered on deck for a grandstand view of the shore,
beckoning them with all its earthly charm and excitement. Then, another blast
indicated the ship was about to touch the jetty. The weary islanders were
happy, too, to see the boat reaching them after a fortnight. It brought a quick
turnaround in their moods, ending their wait and encouraging them to think
positively. ‘After all, ours is not a hopelessly inaccessible place on the
earth,’ they began to reassure themselves.
The dockers
set themselves to work wholeheartedly, unloading the bagfuls of consignments.
Today, they didn’t mind sweating a few extra hours to earn more money. They
knew they were working to help themselves because unloading the cargo would
eventually provide them food and comfort. Once a sleepy place, the jetty
quickly transformed into a bustling hub of activity with the arrival of
passengers and their anxious relatives, filling the space with laughter,
conversation, and other purposeful activities.
For Manglu,
the day broke with promise. Today, he would rush to the jetty to find someone
returning from his hometown who might have the information he longed for and
then to the post office to inquire about the letter that had mysteriously
stopped arriving. He had a feeling that by sunset when the post office had
sorted through the jumbled heap of letters, he would receive a card or an
envelope. It should bring an end to the ongoing drought in his communication.
Manglu dwelt
in a nameless hamlet deep within the island’s interior, approximately forty-six
kilometres from Zero Point. The locals called it Forty-six Kilometres Point due
to their unique naming convention. There, he shared a labourers’ barrack with
six other wage earners, which appeared more like an abandoned structure than a
shelter of comfort. It was a large, bare hall with a high asbestos roof riddled
with countless openings. Although it had several windows, none had panels,
allowing unrestricted airflow and wayward insects to enter as they pleased. The
fetidness wafting from the rampant wild mustard and ipomoea outside, the
trickles of raindrops dripping through the damaged roof and pooling on the damp
and damaged floor—all contributed to the gloomy ambience of the interior.
Manglu’s possessions were minimal; they included a camp bed, a kerosene stove,
a small collection of aluminium utensils, and a few items of clothing. He also
had a long clothesline stretched taut across the hall, where he awkwardly stored
his entire wardrobe.
Nowadays, Manglu
was laid off since the project of the Border Road Organisation had been
suspended for the last three months. But he was a past master at the game of
survival. He knew how to carry on and endure, yet never say die.
Today, he was
drawn to the jetty in the hope of finding some relief from his anxiety. He
hoped to encounter some convivial company with whom he could talk and make his
life more bearable. Never mind if the conversation wandered into the nonsense
he dreamt up over the past fortnight or how passionately his wife used to love
him back when he was in his village! Indeed, the ship days were wonderfully lively
and full of entertainment!
Manglu’s plan
included stopping by the post office to check for his long-awaited letter and
attending his business appointments to earn some income. His job involved
mixing bakhar, a herbal fermenting agent, in pots of rice beer (handi),
for which he would earn four rupees per pot. Of course, it was meagre, like a
slice of cake, which could not substitute for a regular meal. Nonetheless, it
supplemented his funds during his spell of joblessness, and Manglu was content
with that. By any reckoning, it was a small-scale commercial activity, earning
Manglu the prestige he would not have otherwise got on the island. Indeed, his bakhar
was the indispensable ingredient of the beverage, and Manglu knew he was
holding a trade secret.
Manglu’s
destination was the Forty-one Kilometre Point, from where he would take a bus
for the jetty. Like the hamlet where he lived, the bus stop was also a nameless
spot in his route. His was an incredible speed at the age of fifty-plus. As he
walked, he cared little about the brambles along the game trail or the boulders
that lay strewn on his way. Result: it took him slightly more than half an hour
to cover six kilometres and reach the place, despite wading across the Galathia
River.
Finally,
Manglu could catch a bus within the next two hours. The conductor happened to
be a connoisseur of his brand of handi fortified with delectable bakhar.
He warmly greeted Manglu with his amiable smile and gave him a free ride to his
destination.
The bus
reached its last stop near the post office in one hour. Manglu got off there
and proceeded to the counter to inquire about his letter. The postman greeted
him.
‘Manglu Bhai,
here’s a letter for you.’
‘A letter for
me at last? Is that from Sukra’s mother?’ Manglu mumbled impatiently.
The postman
handed him an inland letter card. The address on it was written in such ugly
handwriting that it would have easily found its way to the return mailbag had
the postman not read it intelligently. The addressee’s name was written as ‘ma’
‘lu’ in a bilingual fashion. The first letter of his name, ‘Ma’, was written in
block capitals, whereas the letter ‘lu’ was in Hindi. The omission of the
intervening letters had been conveniently indicated by an ellipsis. Moreover,
the address 46 kilometres was written not in Roman numerals but in Devnagri.
Despite everything, the letter reached Manglu.
He took hold
of it for its close examination. There was some difference between the letters
he used to receive in the past and the one he just received, but he was not
quite sure what that exactly suggested. He tore it rather hurriedly. As such,
the inland letter card was torn on the wrong side and detached along the middle
of the written portion. He tried to correct his mistake but again tore the
letter haphazardly. Now, it took the shape of a virtual jigsaw. For a signiterate
like Manglu, who knew no more than the letters his name contained, deciphering
sense out of those shreds of crumpled paper was quite a task!
With the
letter in his pocket, Manglu went to the jetty, expecting somebody there to
help him read it. While trudging past the stony road, he remembered his family.
Fifteen long years ago, a desperate job-hunting forced him out of his home. It
appeared as though everything happened only yesterday! His thatched house in
disrepair, his charmingly lugubrious wife, his playful but ever-hungry son and
daughter, and his queerly contended pet dog—Manglu remembered how he had to
leave them behind. Before departing Brambay on that sombre afternoon, he had
assured his wife he would send a money order every month. Yes, that was the
minimum which could have made any sense in a year of drought. Manglu was a
young Mundari tribesman in his late thirties. A long spell of unemployment was
unbearable for a landless agricultural labourer like him who just lived on wage
earning. Plucking lac from those palāsh trees (flame of the forest) or
collecting fuel wood from the fast-depleting forest of the Chotnagpur plateau
did not give him enough. It was highly agonising for him to see the faces of
the half-fed kids at home. The desperate, innocent souls frequently nagged for food
and cried their plaintive cries when hunger pricked their stomachs. At last,
before the incompetent father in him had to decide on the extreme, Manglu had
chanced upon an address of a labour contractor in Calcutta, who was recruiting
people to send them to places of labour scarcity. Manglu had decided to
explore. He was not alone; four others from his neighbouring villages had
joined him, too.
On reaching
Calcutta, Manglu and his friends contacted the labour contractor. They were
simultaneously apprehensive about and ready for the inconvenience. Despite
their ambivalence, they were not entirely averse to trying the unknown.
‘Job for you
people? Well, you all have the right physique, but are you ready to sail for
the Andaman and Nicobar Islands? There, you have jobs aplenty—your type,’ the
contractor had looked the job seekers in their eyes as though he was demanding
a quick response. But then, Manglu and his friends had no quick responses to submit.
Under normal
circumstances, Manglu would have stepped aside, but there was no way out this
time. His friends were eager, yet none knew about the islands. All they had was
a faint notion of its notorious reputation during the British Raj when the name
Kalapani struck fear in everyone’s hearts. Kalapani, literally
meaning “black waters,” referred to the murky waters leading to an infamous
penal settlement—a hell of solitude, torture, and morbidity for those condemned
by the harsh tides of fate.
Manglu,
however, wasn’t concerned with the past. His only hope was that the promised
employment would allow him to send money orders to his wife each month, enough
to provide his little son and daughter a square meal a day.
Finding the
job-hunters silent and wavering, the contractor started to explain his package,
and the needy souls listened to him attentively. The job would yield them a
wage of fifteen rupees per day, payable on the weekends, and its perks would
include free on-site accommodation and complimentary tea and snacks during
working hours. So far, so good. The most lucrative bait was yet to come from
his mouth, an assurance that concerned their home travel once a year. Yes, the
migrants would be rewarded with a generous package of annual travel from port
to port, and everything would be at the contractor’s cost. The assurance made
the job seekers happy, as they found they would secure more than expected!
Soon, the day
of sailing arrived. Manglu and his friends nervously boarded the ship, chose
their respective places on the deck, and spread their spare loincloths to rest.
It was an
arduous voyage, not of the kind right for a first-timer at sea. Manglu went
sick and vomited profusely during the initial two days. However, the subsequent
two days became pleasant, thanks to the sudden improvement in the weather that
considerably lessened the rolling and pitching of the ship. Then a welcome rest
came at Port Blair as he had to wait four more days to catch a boat to Campbell
Bay. The favourable weather continued. Manglu and his friends had no further
seasickness.
At long last,
the terrifying voyage had come to an end. The tumultuous Ten-Degree Channel,
the Sombrero Channel, and all the known and unknown spots on that maritime
circuit were finally behind him. Then Manglu arrived in Campbell Bay, the
promised land of bread and honey, where every drop of his sweat would bring him
money and life.
Upon his
arrival, Manglu immediately started his job, receiving orders to cut down trees
for road construction. It wasn’t long before he encountered his first
challenge: the leeches. They rained from the widespread branches of the lofty
ancient trees like tears from a distressed tree god. His more experienced
fellow workers advised him to apply tobacco to the exposed parts of his body to
keep the leeches at bay. Manglu carefully used khaini (tobacco) powder as
instructed, yet the leeches often clung to his body undeterred. He even
recalled how, on a couple of occasions, they didn’t spare his privates! Then
came another shock— the water he sipped tasted horribly toxic; it was so
unhealthy that it felt as though he were drinking concentrated limewater from a
stagnant pool in a primordial limestone cavern or the sap of poisonous cacti
drawn from an abandoned well that had collected the noxious liquid for ages. It
was only after a painful month of acclimatisation that Manglu began to slowly
tolerate the taste.
He soon
realised that he severely lacked the skills to make life livable in a new land.
He did not know how to handle a kerosene stove, so he made a challah by
putting three hollow blocks in a triangle. The experiment was not foolproof
since the rain on the island hardly spared anything dry and combustible. On
many occasions, cooking was suspended when every plank of fuel wood would go
damp and every stick of match sodden. Then, he would remain without food. By
and by, he learnt how to use a kerosene stove and bought one second-hand stove
from the labour supervisor, bartering his wages for four days.
Scarcity
prevailed everywhere, but Manglu managed it with remarkable adaptability.
Nevertheless, he missed something terribly at the end of the day. It was
his handi, the aqua vitae that was ancestral and life-giving! One day,
he started fermenting it on his own, bestowing all the tenderness it demanded,
and when the delicate drink was ready and fortified, he invited his new friends
for a drinking session. The smell of the beverage was so horribly stale that
some of the invitees were initially hesitant. However, something ineluctable
about the offer made them test the tribal beverage. Once introduced, they
slowly started adapting to the taste. It proved perfect for the kick it gave in
exchange for paltry sums. It also relieved them of the fatigue of the strenuous
work and the tension of their solitude. Thus, in less than a year, Manglu
established himself not only as an acclimatised member of the labour force on
that remote island but also as an opportunistic businessperson!
Meanwhile,
the contractor-employer began to reveal his true colours. In fact, he was not
the same contractor who recruited them with all the promising offers of
perquisites. The present one turned out to be a sub-contractor driven by the
desire to get rich quickly at the expense of the workers. He merrily withdrew
the perquisites item by item in just a few months. The first to disappear was
the service of tea and snacks during working hours. Aggrieved by this, Manglu
and his colleagues protested, not as a united labour front but as a group of
irate rustics. The employer knew how to handle the unrest.
‘Yes, I agree
there was a condition like that. But now the situation has changed. Why don’t
you try to understand? You have so many snack vendors and tea huts around the
site. Why don’t you take from them? Why do you burden a poor fellow like me?’
The new contractor-employer was relaxed in his response.
‘Then who’ll
pay for that?’ Manglu had asked the contractor curtly.
The latter
had smiled; it was his style before he had harsh words to utter.
‘Listen, you
people are workers, no freeloaders, I say. If you insist, I’ll contribute
something towards that, say fifty paise a day. Will that do?’
Manglu and
his fellow workers at the site were no hardcore bargainmongers. At best,
they were out to show their anger. Now that they had ventilated and extracted a
concession from the mulish contractor, they decided to leave the matter there.
‘That’s okay,
but be warned: we don’t like how you took us for granted. Henceforth, you’d do
better to honour the commitment.’ Manglu had uttered this as if he were serving
his employer an ultimatum.
So, their
relationship was to come to a bitter end by the end of the year when the
contractor refused to incur any amount for their passage. Instead, he offered
to deduct a portion of their wages to accumulate the funds necessary for the
tickets. It was a contractual breach on the employer’s part—Manglu and the
company had no patience to tolerate it. All of them decided to stop working.
The timing
coincided with a recruitment drive by the Forest Department. Manglu and his
friends tried their luck at the forest office. It proved a fortunate move for
all of them—except poor old Manglu. In time, he learned what had disqualified
him: his illiteracy in that there was no “signiterate” category in the
government’s classification. Manglu’s mind revolted. He couldn’t understand how
knowing the alphabet would help him perform a labourer’s work in the forest.
Were the forest officials expecting him to teach the Andaman and Nicobar
Islands wild animals the alphabet? The job needed pure physical strength and
some degree of familiarity with the Andaman rainforest. Manglu possessed both
in full measure. He was hale and hearty—even the wayward boulders from blasting
sites could not stop him—and, by that time, had already gained extensive
knowledge of the trees that grew on the island. Garjan, Padauk, Papaya, Ban
Mahua—name any tree in the forest, and Manglu would identify that in the
blink of an eye. He had first-hand experience with flora and fauna. Not for
nothing, he had endured the stings of fleas in the forest; not for nothing, he
had braved the aerial attack of leeches! But neither his knowledge nor his
physical prowess could secure him a job. Manglu was left alone on the island to
endure his luck. Never again did he encounter any of his four friends. Not even
an all-knowing crow ever cawed on his rooftop after that.
Months
flitted by, as they should, between Manglu’s ever-regular money orders. At the
end of the year, homesickness tormented him. But he was helpless. Whatever
wages he had earned throughout the year had found their way to the post office
for booking money orders. Now, he remained pauper as usual. Where would he get
the amount to pay for the ticket? Not even his savings from his handi
business could help.
Manglu
remembered his little daughter Sumia. When he left home, she was only a
four-year-old girl. He recalled her thin ponytail, loose and tousled; her lips,
cute, moist, and inquisitive; her hands, ever busy, tiny, and playful. The
image of her grappling with the guava tree in front of their house, which
branched low on its trunk, was still vivid in his memory, as was the memory of
her helping him plant jackfruit saplings in the backyard with her tiny hands.
As his child grew, many changes would have occurred—discovering them would be
quite an experience. But then, what could he do now? He could not even borrow
money for the voyage because the idea was simply dreadful; he did not want to
turn himself into a hapless debtor, no matter what. He knew that loans grow
when the borrower falters. His empty pockets were incapable of accommodating
his large fatherly emotions. In his heart of hearts, Manglu continued to
nurture his affection from afar; he remembered her as the same cherubic
four-year-old, ready to reciprocate his every gesture with her wonderfully
expressive eyes and playful giggles.
Since then,
Manglu worked under quite a few contractors. Projects had come, and projects
had concluded, but he remained stuck around Campbell Bay. Levelling of knolls,
constructing roads and jetties, cleaning forests, and erecting concrete
structures—each had the essential component of Manglu’s sweat built into it.
Once, while
shifting a giant boulder, he stumbled and got severely injured. Fortunately for
him, he did not break his bones. Yet the injury took him to the hospital for
fifteen days. On recovery, he resumed work at the old site, but there was no
compensation or monetary reward for his suffering. His employer believed in the
age-old adage: Accidents are the fallout of carelessness. Manglu had no one to
speak up for him, as he was enduring only a migrant labourer’s destiny!
Despite
occasional work interruptions and decreased earnings, Manglu never neglected
his family. In any case, there were constant reminders from his wife—the
epistles were self-explanatory, even self-extracting. Unpaid tuition fees for
her two school-going children, the urgency of the annual thatching of her
dwelling hut, special must-have expenses for festive occasions, etc., regularly
featured in the monthly demand list from his wife. Manglu had no difficulty in
visualising the situation at home. Amounts must reach the family on time to
keep them out of privation. He continued to send one money order every month,
almost mechanically, nay religiously.
Thus, Manglu
continued to provide for his family while remaining rooted in Campbell Bay, as
if choosing a self-imposed exile to keep them happy and united. Driven by a
strange motivation called hope, he simply carried on.
It was not
that he had helplessly resigned himself to his fate—in fact, on a couple of
occasions, he had managed to save the money needed for a trip home. But just as
he was about to buy a ticket, a letter from Sukra’s mother arrived, filled with
urgent requests for funds. How could Manglu ignore such an impassioned plea? He
carefully weighed his options. If he went home, he might find comfort in being
with his family, but Manglu knew he would also face the harsh reality of their
ongoing struggles. Instead of a warm welcome, he would be met with a grumble of
despair. He was certain that his family would be just as impoverished as when
he had left them years before. So, Manglu decided to act responsibly like a
true patriarch. Instead of buying a ship ticket to travel to his home, he
diverted the amount to meet his family’s needs. As such, his attempts at
returning home met their unfulfilling ends.
Before the
flashback could take Manglu to the furthest accessible end of his memory lane,
he had already reached the jetty. Lo, there was a blast from the past—Manglu
was greeted by a friend with whom he had come to this island in search of
employment a decade and a half ago. Everything associated with that momentous
voyage and the valiant struggle for living that followed it was refreshed. They
were fresh and retrievable as the activities of the previous fortnight! The gap
of fourteen years had not robbed it of its essential fervour.
With his
nostalgia and pent-up emotion driving him delirious, Manglu rushed to his old
friend and took him into the fold of his arms in a big hug. It was an occasion
to refresh, relive, and celebrate, for the two friends were reunited under
dictates of strange predestination. Manglu’s voice was marked by an overtone of
self-deprecation, and his enquiries were more poignant than inquisitive.
The slow
release of information that followed the exchange of pleasantries made it clear
to Manglu that his friend was on transfer to the island. He just returned from
Brambay after spending his leave for a month. On hearing this, Manglu was
thrilled. He grabbed the thread and asked his friend whether he could contact
his family. While his friend replied in the affirmative, Manglu sensed a
certain hesitancy in his voice.
‘What did you
see there, old boy? Did you see them all fine? Did you meet Sukra’s mother?’
enquired Manglu in one breath, fixing his expectant gaze on his friend.
Manglu’s
friend was taken aback. He did not expect Manglu to shoot an idiotic
question like that. But then, he instantly realised that his friend was not an
idiot; he was only blithely unaware of the misfortune that had overtaken him.
Fifteen years was a long time—one could literally call it donkey’s years!
Only two years after Manglu left Brambay, his wife came closer to one Oraon
young man, who happened to be the son of the Pahan of the nearby village
Kitki. Before everybody’s eyes, their relationship advanced to the point of no
return. Obviously, everything was inadmissible about the bond—it was going to
be an inter-tribal marriage if that was how the relationship was to grow; the
lady was a spent bloom who had all the responsibilities and little of her youthfulness;
the wedding was to have no social sanction but bring all the tensions; and so
on. With their knowledge about the incompatibility of the match and the
unattractiveness of their would-be daughter-in-law, the boy’s parents did not
approve of it either. As the Pahan of the village himself, his father
was a community leader who had no clue how to endorse the deviant behaviour of
his own son. Before long, this was to degenerate into a family strife, creating
a permanent rift between the father and son. Finally, the latter left home for
good.
He came to
stay with Manglu’s lady at Brambay, cared for the family, and proved a fine
person that the family needed. However, the villagers could not approve of the
relationship. They considered it unacceptable and pressured the Oraon
young man to restore the lady and the family to Manglu. But where was Manglu to
claim his wife back? On the other hand, the young man became more determined
with every hurdle raised on the path of his romance. His relationship with his
fellow villagers at Brambay deteriorated, and the matter only exploded during
the Karama festival. On that day, while all were dead drunk, somebody
commented that a blind lover had strayed into the village; he should be shooed
out like a migrant dog for the welfare of the community. This was no time to
see humour out of a plain insinuation; its tone was enough to give rise to an
altercation that would soon degenerate into a fierce fight. The young man in
love was beaten nastily. He bled profusely, and by the time he left the duel,
he had already lost a tooth.
The lady was
hurt at such inhuman treatment as meted out to her lover. She was helpless, but
by now, she had been literally pushed to the wall. It was time she bounced
back. She went straight to the Pahan of her village to register a protest,
but as expected, the elderly gentleman turned out to be an utterly
unsympathetic fellow. What was more, he was satirical and scornful! Now, she
could not help but lose her temper and challenge him in her own way—why
couldn’t she choose a second husband, and that too when she needed him for her
family’s security? The matter worsened, and she was asked to leave the village.
She considered leaving the village safer than lingering there amidst the
hostile neighbours. Since then, none had seen the couple.
After
inquiring about his family’s welfare, Manglu awaited his friend’s response.
But, instead of answering his query, his friend was curiously lost in thought.
Now, Manglu began to fear the worst. He could no longer hide his anxiety.
‘How are all
getting on at Brambay? Are they fine?’ asked Manglu in one breath.
‘Oh yes, all
at Brambay are fine. But ….’ His friend held back what he was about to utter,
wondering if it was appropriate on his part to disclose the truth so bluntly.
Manglu’s
curiosity shot up, and a sense of foreboding seized him. He began to apprehend
that something ghastly unpleasant had befallen his family during his absence.
Yet he tried to put on a brave face and encouraged his friend to tell him the
truth.
‘Why do you
hesitate to reply to my question? What’s there to hide? Are you not my friend?
True, we haven’t met for the last fourteen years. But does that mean you’ll act
so formal? And punish me for that? For the sake of our friendship, won’t you
tell me what you saw at Brambay? Are all in my family happy and safe?’ Now
Manglu was quite impatient, his voice raised, quivering with the fear of the
unknown.
Finally,
Manglu’s friend decided. With a deep sigh, he proceeded to speak out.
‘Sorry to
inform you, my friend, even this time, I couldn’t locate them. Your family is
no longer living in your village, Brambay…and I last saw them there long twelve
years ago.’
Manglu could
not understand the head or tail of what his friend was trying to drive home.
‘Why? Are the
children living with their grandfather at Kitki?’ asked Manglu.
‘No, they
aren’t at Kitki, either. In fact, I saw them last at your village some twelve
years ago, and since then, their whereabouts are unknown to me. Your wife has
taken an Oraon young man, the son of Pahan of Kitki. Our village Pahan
asked him to refrain from developing the unseemly relationship, but by then,
your wife seemed to have developed a deep fascination for that young man. After
a few months of hostility with the villagers, they married. Since then, your
children and their mother and stepfather had left Brambay,’ Manglu’s friend
thus refrained from giving a blow-by-blow account of the developments.
Now Manglu
could not believe his friend. To him, it appeared as if his friend were hurling
a rude joke at him. Manglu received one letter from his wife every month for
the last fifteen years. She was illiterate like him; moreover, she had been
habitually sending a monthly letter except for the previous few months. It was
just an ordinary slip that Manglu thought would automatically be solved as all
his letters would soon come together in a bunch. Despite being illiterate, his
wife had no dearth of literate people around to help her. She might have taken
the help of her children. His son Sukra was in a residential missionary school.
He had so far been doing well in all his examinations and receiving a
scholarship worth twenty-five rupees a month. Manglu had already sent an extra
five hundred rupees to Sukra to cover the expenses of his matriculation
examination. Sumia was in her ninth class. In almost all the letters, she
remembered her father and asked him to keep her posted about when he would
return to Brambay. Sumia was growing up as a beautiful girl. Only last March
did he remit an extra money order of five hundred rupees for a pair of earrings
for her. What more was there for Manglu to learn about his family?
Finding
Manglu lost in his thoughts, his friend tried to be apologetic.
‘Oh, how
terribly sorry I’m! Manglu Bhai. It’s quite irresponsible of me to
assume that you knew everything. But believe me, I’ve constantly enquired about
you—every time I’ve been to the mainland, I’ve enquired about you but to no
avail. I should have come to this island in search of you…at least once during
the last twelve years, Manglu Bhai.’
Every word
his repentant-looking friend uttered to explain his avoidable lapse sounded
more unbelievable than informative. Manglu felt his patience was being taken
for granted, like a boy undergoing a distress parade before a school bully. It
was difficult to withstand such a cruel joke anymore.
‘Aren’t you
fooling me, my friend? How is that possible? Every month, I get a letter from
Sukra’s mother narrating in minute detail about herself, her daughter, and her
son. Even today, I received a letter. The money orders I send every month
get paid, and I get back their acknowledgements by return post. Are you sure of
things you’re blurting out?’ Manglu tried to force his feelings of disbelief on
his friend.
‘Do you
remember if your wife ever knows how to write?’ enquired Manglu’s friend
probingly.
‘Sure, I know
she’s more illiterate than me. But then she can get the letters written
by others. Sukra is going to appear in his matriculation examination, and Sumia
is in her ninth class. Can they not write a simple letter on behalf of their
mother? How do I, an illiterate, fill in the money order form month after month
for the last fifteen years?’ Manglu argued.
Perturbed and
pitying, Manglu’s friend now tried to insist on the veracity of the
information. He thought it was too late for his friend to mend his foolishness.
Yet, it was not so to know the fact.
‘Well, I
don’t know how and with what contents you receive your letters. But then you’ve
to believe, my friend, I’m not narrating any hearsay. They’re true to their
last syllable—touch wood! This is what I’ve seen with my own eyes when visiting
Brambay. I should tell you that I might have visited Brambay seven to eight
times during the last twelve years. Every time I go there, I get the same
report that you’ve never visited the place. And do you know what I thought? I
thought since your family deserted you, you’ve had no business to be there.
But, my friend, I don’t know anything about the money orders. With your wife
missing from the village, who could have received them? Um...hold it, is it a
fraud? I think you should report the matter to the postal authorities—quicker
the better,’ insisted Manglu’s friend in his bid to persuade Manglu.
Now, Manglu
had no rational basis for his doubts. His friend’s animated and persuasive tone
abated the listener’s disbelief.
And then
followed the tremors of shock in Manglu’s psychic realm. He sensed a vacuum
expanding endlessly within him, sucking away the very purpose of his life. He
felt as if he were on the fringe of insanity, stepping involuntarily into a
different world of distress.
With his
mental strength dissipating rapidly, Manglu was frightened to witness the
ravages of his hope. His entire fifteen-year-long struggle to secure a
tolerable living for his family, his belief in the ultimate beneficence of the
unseen, and his unbroken dedication—all had ended in a great fiasco. His agony
twisting his innards, he lost all his strength from his feet. There were spasms
and shooting pains in his ulcerous stomach. He was about to collapse on the
concrete pavement of the jetty, and his friend was quick to extend a resting
hand.
‘Manglu, my
friend, it’s the cruellest information for a friend to disclose. But I wasn’t
aware that you were entirely in the dark about it. Or else… I’d have….’
‘No, no, my
old friend, please don’t… it’s my tragedy,’ grieved Manglu and a mood of
self-collected silence prevailed.
While Manglu
began to cast a vacant look on the ground, his friend took his hands in his and
pressed them for comfort. Placing his consoling hand on Manglu’s shoulder, he
took him out of the jetty, and they proceeded slowly towards the market. He
uttered his choicest invectives against the unknown mischief-makers he thought
were responsible for his friend’s plight. ‘Oh, if only I had met Manglu
earlier!’ ‘Oh, if only I could inform him about the developments’—he thought
aloud, believing that Manglu would listen to them for whatever they were worth.
But Manglu
kept mum all through. He had no desire to respond or reciprocate, no one to
blame, and no desire to investigate. While walking with his head down, he
reached the handi shop. He was scheduled to visit here for mixing baker.
‘Manglu Bhai,
ten pots are ready. Can you mix them now?’ the shopkeeper asked.
‘No, that can
wait. Now give us two mugs and serve some handi. Here’s my bosom friend,
who advised me like nobody ever. He opened my eyes. I want to treat him,’ said
Manglu in a broken voice.
Now, both the
friends started boozing. But Manglu went on guzzling mug after mug in quick
succession. It appeared he was thirsty like a homeless mongrel on a summer day!
The shopkeeper marked the unusual speed at which Manglu was slurping his handi.
But he did not point out that since he knew Manglu’s capacity to withstand the
kick of the beverage. After all, he was the master-brewer of the potion! His
friend kept looking at Manglu. During the drinking session, the friend tried to
raise the topic, but Manglu gestured to stop him. Inebriated, he laughed and
laughed and uttered incoherent lines of instant verse:
No money to
send and no letter to receive.
Now I’ll have
so much money to drink.
You made me
rich, my friend!
Shalln’t you
give your company again?
With these
words, he lost consciousness while the letter he had received a few hours back slipped
from his pocket.
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By
A N Nanda
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Labels: short story, The Remix of Orchid
