HARUN SALEM'S MASHI (Final Part)

 

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).