HARUN SALEM'S MASHI
MAHASWETA DEVI
Translated by Nilarko DasGupta
In the morning, Gourobi instructed Hara, “Go to the canal, Hara! Tell Joshi that I ain’t feeling well… Ask her to meet me. And see, if anyone asks you where you’d slept the night, tell them—in Mashi’s courtyard. Will you ask a member?”
Hara frowned, trying hard to comprehend. He can’t remember everything. That is why he either counts on his fingers or ties knots. Hara said, “I’m gonna tell Lokha’s mother that Mashi doesn’t feel well… What else?”
“If anyone asks you where you spent the night…”
“I’ll say, in Mashi’s
courtyard– is that all?”
“Take this rag, Hara…
You have to collect thankuni leaves.”
Gourobi rummaged
through her pots and pans and luckily found a handful of leftover chalbhaja. She tied them into a rag and
handed them to Hara. “Here you go… Drink plenty of water! Tell Joshi to drop by
if she could!”
Hara went away. Gourobi
swept her courtyard. The fuel is lit with dry leaves, sticks, and dry branches.
Gourobi can recall that her mother would bring a calf from the Brahman’s cow
that had given birth, and raise it.
The heifer would grow
up. Her mother would bear all the expenses to feed and raise it, from hay to
jaggery. When the calf grew up and turned out to be a cow, Mum would return the
cow and get the calf. If it were a heifer, she would keep it; if it were a
bull, she’d sell it to those who owned ploughs.
There are not many
people in this village. Why doesn’t anyone offer Gourobi to raise a goat? She
wouldn’t have to endure this much pain if she’d owned a heifer!
There was very little
rice left in the pouch. Gourobi prepared a porridge… boiling dumurs, tiny flowers of mocha, a pinch of salt, and a bit of
rice together. She couldn’t figure out how she and Hara would go on to survive,
eating even a handful of meals a day from the next day.
Now she got angry at
Hara’s mother. What a mad, foolish, and careless person!
No one in her seven
clans… leaving that young lad to me and shutting her eyes. Now, how is Gourobi
going to maintain her caste, and what would become of her religion!
Religion?
Gourobi felt very
angry. But when Hara returned in the afternoon, asking, “Mashi, are you going
to cook field potatoes?” Gourobi’s face lit up with a smile.
“My! So large it is!
Where did you get it?”
“We had it at home. Ma
said… Hara went on, counting his fingers, ‘ Hara, give this to Mashi!’, and
also said…”
“What?”
“Clutch on to your
Mashi’s feet.”
“Did she!”
A soft wave of emotion
rose inside Gourobi’s dry heart. When Nibaran was a kid, and Sabitri had only
learned to crawl, in the midst of mopping the floor, or doing the
dishes—whenever their cries reached her ear, she would be overwhelmed with
emotion, just like this.
Nibaran doesn’t want
her. Sabitri is struggling hard to feed her family. While Gourobi was staying
with them, she felt like a leftover; she felt like a pot from the Manasa Pujo—one that could be thrown
away at any time.
Hara’s mother had told
him about her. Suddenly, it felt very nice to Gourobi, considering herself to
be very significant. Her heart tends to melt down at little love, affection,
sweet words, and emotions. Gourobi sniffled and wiped her eyes, saying, “One
sorrowful person empathizes with the heart of another… that’s why she told you
this. Go on, Hara, go to the pond.”
In the evening, Joshi
came to sit in Gourabi’s courtyard. She runs while going. The men in their
society don’t provide rice and clothes for them… not even Joshi’s husband.
Joshi’s backbreaking labor binds their family together. They embrace their
children, loving them like animals, and try to coax their husbands.
Her nose is flat, but
her face is like a betel leaf, in the shape of a heart. Her eyes are always
wandering, looking here and there. Everyone says no one could escape Joshi’s
eyes. She could tell whether there was rice or grains inside a pipkin just by
looking at it.
“Hey, Mashi! What do
you have to say?”
Gourobi doesn’t like
Joshi swaying and throwing words at her. However, it’s her concern at the
moment.
“I’ve called upon you
to say something.”
“Go on… Wait, Mashi!
Isn’t that Hara?”
“I was going to talk
about him only!”
“What?”
Gourobi faintly smiled,
being afraid. She needs to win Joshi over. Or else how could she arrange for
Hara?
“His mum just died. The
boy roams around over here, eats a handful, and sleeps in the courtyard.”
“Doesn’t he come up
into your house? Mind you, don’t let him touch this and that, my goodness!”
“No, no… He stays in
the courtyard. Eats on his own plate… I serve him from above, avoiding his
touch!”
“Hasn’t he got anyone?”
“That’s why I ask you,
Joshi; you go up to the town regularly. What happens to orphans like him?”
“What do I know?”
“He’s left only with
his house…”
“Pooh! What house? It’s
mortgaged with their kin, Mukundobabu.”
“Is that so?”
“What else?”
“Oh my God!”
“There’s a way out.”
“What?”
“Take him to the town
and leave him there. He could live by begging.”
“That little boy!”
“What else? You’re out
of your mind, Mashi! If he could survive by begging, he would. If he can’t, he
won’t have to eat. Why are you and I being bothered?”
“That’s true indeed,
Joshi… However…”
No one had ever been
kind to Joshi, not even now. Not even a little room to sit while traveling on
trains. She has to scrape and scrounge to earn from selling rice. She couldn’t
recall even a single day since she was seven years of age when she hadn’t had
rice once a day without backbreaking labor. She gets ablaze with this sort of
kindness.
She burned with rage,
hearing Gourobi’s words. Joshi uttered, “I’m not familiar with the customs of
your own country, Mashi, but MukundoBabu’s going to kick you out if he gets to
know all this!”
“Kick me out? What sort
of words are these? Don’t you know how Mukundo’s related to me?”
“Like a family! That’s
why you have to boil leaves and shellfish to eat once a day!”
Gourobi began sobbing.
Joshi went on, “I could understand if he was kind enough to provide a mouthful
of puffed rice. You can’t get your own food and go on for others’ welfare!
Listen to me; let me leave him in the town. It’s his business whether he
survives or dies. Doesn’t anyone survive in the town, sucking mango seeds,
living on rotten bananas or bels, sleeping on the sidewalks—thousands of boys
grow up like that, don’t they?”
“Listen to me, leave it
whatever… Let’s plan something.”
“What?”
“Suppose I go to Nibaran’s.”
“Oh, now that he’s
installing a hand pump and electricity at home, will he listen to you?”
“Then?”
“If he’d take you as
his mother, would you be in this situation? Then… then what? Go and blame your
own fate.”
Joshi stood up. Before
leaving, she warned, “Don’t make a big fuss about food and all, Mashi. I’m
begging you. You don’t know Mukunda Babu like we do. He’s one of us, a man of
the house—he performed the Manasa Ghat Puja here in Bhadra month, slaughtered
goats, and we all ate together. If he hears about this, he’s going to feel
really hurt!”
Gourabi went dry with
fear. She held Joshi by her hand, pleading, “I beg you, you aren’t going to
tell anyone, Joshi! Please take that field potato.
Joshi left.
Gourabi sat there,
contemplating. What could she do now? Whom could she turn to? What if Mukunda
finds out about all this? What if he gets angry?
After thinking a lot,
Gourabi began doing the laundry. It would be nice if Nibaran could’ve suggested
a way out. If he had said, “Come, stay with me!”
Ah, won’t I ever have
such luck? When they buried Hara’s mother, Hara too gave a handful of earth.
Gourabi couldn’t make
out Nibaran’s house. A tin roof, a brick wall, and a hand pump in the
courtyard. Here and there around Gaurabi’s house, tufts of straw were stuck in.
The courtyard gets littered by leaves from the Bakful and the Mango Tree. The
other year a khatash, or a wild cat, intruded into the house.
The way Nirbaran
settled into his house, there was no space left for his mother. Nirbaran’s wife
said, "Don’t cast an evil eye on it, Mother, please don’t. The two of us
have toiled hard to put up this little hut."
“No, dear, I haven’t
cast an evil eye”.
“Please have some tea
and water. You’ve come a long way.”
“Hey! Please give me
some tea.”
“Meet your son. But
please don’t start weeping. Your son is very snuffy.”
“I know that.”
“And mind you!”
Her daughter-in-law
faced the sky, wondering. Then she told her son, “Take this money and bring
some tea. Your granny’s going to have some!”
After her son left,
Gourabi took out two rupees from her waistcloth. “Don’t tell your son! This is how I manage by cutting
areca nuts. Take this saree. Should you wear a cloth in that way? What would
people say if they saw you? Isn’t there a reputation of your son?”
That’s true.
Gourobi took the money
and cloth without realizing that if Nibaran felt so ashamed of looking at her,
he should be taking better care of her. After a while, Gourobi began to listen
carefully and, wonder of wonders, a radio was playing in Nibaran's room!
"Where did you get it from, my
dear?" she asked.
"From the shop," he replied.
"How much did it cost?" she
continued.
"I don't know, mother… Must be
nearly 150 Rupees."
"One-fifty!" Gourobi's head
spun. If she ever had one hundred fifty Rupees, her fate would change in an
instant.
"Can you give me a hundred Rupees,
dear?" she pleaded.
"From where? Am I supposed to pick
it from a tree?"
"Then I could buy a cow. The two of
us could survive nicely by selling dung cakes and milk."
"Two of you?"
"A poor lad, my dear! He calls me
'Mashi.'"
"Hasn't he got parents?"
"No one."
"No one?" she repeated,
shocked.
"No one. Very unfortunate."
Nibaran grew angry the moment he heard
about this. "Oh! Mother-in-law and son-in-law are going to drink milk, and
I'll have to buy them a cow! Stop talking nonsense!"
"Wait, Nibaran! Please think of the
boy…"
"What about him?"
"His mother…"
Gourobi narrated the entire story.
"Who could be my worst enemy except you?" Nibaran exclaimed.
"Am I your enemy?"
"What else? If this word starts
spreading, won't you and I have to atone?"
"Atone? Why on earth? Am I cooking
and feeding him or keeping him indoors? Hara is the poorest of the poor. That's
why I'm asking you to help him. What's there to repent or atone for in
this?"
"You've lost your mind entirely,
stealing leaves and creepers with all those ungentlemanly creatures. We're
going to atone. Our daughter won't get married. Don't you understand that? Stop
talking rubbish!"
"Give me a little shelter, my
dear."
"Oh! I'm a landlord to shelter
you!" Nibaran thought for a while and ultimately said, "But remember,
I still have a little reputation in society. Being my mother, you'll be left
alone in that village… which doesn't look good at all!"
"Then?"
"Get rid of that burden. Then I'll
think it over. Send for me, do you understand?"
"The lad…"
"Get rid of him. There's a war
going on in our country at the moment. You live in a village; that's why you
don't know anything about it. Every day, many people are coming to the city.
Why don't you leave the boy with them? I could arrange to leave him there in a
couple of days if you wish."
"What's going to happen
there?"
"The government will take
responsibility. Don't you remember our country? I haven't seen it
consciously!"
"Oh, how could I forget? I came
here when I was just a maid. Then the country got divided."
"So many people are coming from
there!"
"Will they let him eat there?"
"Let me leave him there first.
He'll survive if he can; he doesn't have to if he can't."
"Isn't he going to die?"
"Let him die if he does. Don't you
see people getting slaughtered everywhere every day? If he is destined to die,
no one can prevent it!"
Suddenly, Nibaran wished he could laugh.
He laughed for a while and then said, "Come here. Let me arrange for him,
and see whether I can bring you to stay with me. You're going to have a
grandson shortly!"
"Why do you keep telling her that?
I haven't lived with a mother-in-law. Haven't I got three kids? You have an
urge to call her 'mother.' Let that out! Why do you keep praying for me?"
"Why? Your mother could come here
to eat three square meals, but my mum couldn't?"
"Oh! My mummy's boy! Haven't you
managed to get my mum to extract a hundred rupees? Have you ever repaid that
money?"
"How dare you!"
The two started fighting, and Gourobi
left the house fearfully. Hara was sitting beside the bus stop.
"Let's go, Hara," said
Gourobi.
When they reached the shop, Hara said,
"You go, Mashi. Let me take the kerosene."
"Where will you get the money
from?"
"I don't pay them, Mashi. I bring
them wood and leaves, and they give me a little kerosene oil to light the
lamp!"
"Okay. Go."
Gourobi wished she could be angry with
Hara, but she thought he was a nice lad. If she got rid of Hara, Nibaran might
let him stay with him, but something in Gourobi's heart kept telling her not to
do so. Was she Hara's mother, or Nibaran's mother, who kept telling Gourobi
that she shouldn't do it?
Mukundo appeared after a few days.
"What do I hear, Pishi?" he
asked.
"What?"
"Have you given shelter to that
Hara?"
"Oh, not quite, my dear! He's
alone. I'm alone… he lies on the porch in the evening."
"No, Pishi. That's no good.
Nowadays, wherever there's murder and theft, the price of land keeps falling.
I'm going to offer that hut to the Palbabus. They're from the party and have
financial strength. They wish to make this their storehouse."
"But what will be stored
here?"
"Why do you bother? The Palbabus
will get angry if they find out. They have some rituals to perform."
"Then what's going to happen, Mukundo?"
"Nibaran has been wise in advising
you. Get rid of that lad, return to your own home. Your daughter-in-law isn't
bad."
"No one's blaming the
daughter-in-law, my dear! It's my fate that's to blame."
"Then you decide what to
do."But if you can't get rid of that boy, you'll have to leave my
hut," Mukundo said firmly.
"Leave your hut? Oh, Mukundo! Where
will I go?" she pleaded.
"What do I know about that?"
Mukundo retorted as he walked away, his boots clicking on the ground.
In a fit of rage, Gourobi confronted
Hara. "You die! It's because of you that I have to endure such pain!
Everyone treats me like a stray dog. Get lost from my sight!"
Hara, feeling tense and scared, managed
to escape. Afterward, he sat in front of their old hut, sobbing and mourning for
his mother. Eventually, exhausted from crying, he fell fast asleep. In his
dreams and nightmares, it felt as if his mother was peeking in and out. A
comforting voice whispered to him, telling him that he would see his mother
cooking as soon as he woke up, and that everything would be fine.
When Hara opened his eyes, it was pitch
dark. Someone was touching him, pushing him gently. Could it be his mother? But
his mother was dead. So who could it be?
"Oh, Mashi!" Hara cried out,
frightened.
"Wake up, Hara, I'm your
Mashi!" she replied.
"Mashi?" he said, confused.
"Yes, Hara. We will go to the
city," she declared.
"Where?" he asked.
"To the city!"
"But you never go to the city! You
can't walk," he reminded her.
"I will manage, Hara. Listen
carefully, we're going to the city. There, no one intervenes in other people's
lives. No one knows each other."
"Where am I going to stay there,
Mashi?" he inquired.
"On the sidewalk," she
answered.
"What am I going to eat?" he
asked, worriedly.
"We'll beg. No one will know your
identity, and they won't know who I am either," she explained.
"We'll beg?" he echoed,
surprised.
"Yes. We will beg on the streets,
cook at the corner, and sleep on the sidewalk… A rag doesn't get dirty in dung.
I've learned everything from Joshi," she told him matter-of-factly.
"Let's go," Hara said,
summoning his resolve.
That night, Gourobi and Hara escaped
from the village into the darkness. In the city, their 'family' would be much
larger—like the ocean. Once lost in it, every fear would vanish into thin air.
MAHASWETA DEVI- (1926-2016): Social welfare and literary creations complemented each other in Mahasweta Devi's life. Her social work primarily focuses on the indigenous (Adivasi) people of India. Deprived, disenfranchised people constitute her social work. About them, she had said, "In my writing, this portion of society comes repeatedly. I call them 'The Voiceless Section of Indian Society'. These people become the characters of her stories and novels. Devi's language is unpolished, coarse, and sharp. She rejects ornamented idioms. The above story had been published in 1378 Bangabda (Bengali year).
