Rose Kerketta, "Fixed Deposit" (short story in translation)
Published in Hindi in Lokpriya Adivasi Kahaniyan (2018)
That day, before noon, Kitty and I suddenly appeared before Manohar Da. Both of us were young men full of energy and in high spirits. We had walked all the way from home. It was a seven-kos (roughly 14 miles) stretch through the forest, but the entire way we kept laughing and chatting. We had been apart for a whole year. I had appeared for my matriculation exams, while Kitty had taken his intermediate exams. Just a few kos from home lay the dense Madhuban forest. It was the month of May.
The mahua trees were laden with rope-like fruits, and the air was filled with a spring-like fragrance. Riding on that fragrance were the two brothers, covering the path with sheer joy.
Near Chogotoli, the Palamaada River flowed with knee-deep water. The children’s summer vacation had begun, so they were damming the river at different spots to catch small fish. Children from Chogotoli, Maina Bera, Sikaria Tand, and Nadi Toli were not catching much fish, but rather playing around and splashing more.
Kitty went near the children of Nadi Toli and asked, “How many fish have you caught? Show me!” Peeking into their small boat, he saw three getu fish. Shaking the boat, he said, “That’s all?”
As soon as he said that, the children burst into laughter. Those standing on the sand and those standing in the water all doubled over with laughter where they stood. Kitty scooped up handfuls of water and splashed it on the children three or four times, then ran off. The children tried chasing him, tossing sand at us, but after running a short distance we both made our way out of the river. The children turned back.
The path ahead was rough and uneven, but the forest was lush with the fresh green of new leaves. The red palash blossoms were drying up, but palafuli, koroya, and bandarlori (amaltas) flowers were in bloom. Boys stood under mango trees, aiming with slingshots at the raw and ripening mangoes. Passing through Pakardanda and Kobang, we reached the Kanjjor Jhariya stream. Sitting on the rocks by the riverbank, we began soaking in the beauty of the forest. The jungle was quiet—only the crackling sound of dry leaves under the hooves of bullocks and the steps of goats could be heard.
The sun had risen overhead. People, after ploughing their fields, had returned home. Kitty and I washed our hands and faces in the cool water of the stream and sat at Manohar Da’s house. The sunlight had grown stronger. We saw that, after ploughing, Manohar Da had bathed and was now sitting down for his meal. While the food was being served, he was savoring ripe kend fruit. When he saw us stepping into the courtyard, his eyes widened in surprise. He looked at us, dumbfounded. Watching him, Kitty said, “Looks like Manohar Da doesn’t recognize us.”
“Come, come you rascals! When I used to call you, you never came. Today you’ve shown up by yourselves. What’s the matter?” He stood up, came near, patted our backs, and expressed his affection. He caught hold of us and led us to the verandah, where he made us sit on a mat. Then he called out to his wife, “Come out, look, your two wicked brothers-in-law have arrived today. Who knows which king has died that brought them here?”
His calling us “rascals” brought back old memories. Back then we were eight and eleven years old. At that time, Manohar Da had passed middle school in the village and had come to study in high school. He was weak in studies. Somehow he reached class eleven, but failed his matriculation exam. His classmates—Santosh, Erus, Walter, and Ratan—passed in third division. Kamalakant Mishra, Jaykishan, and Ram Sahay passed in first division. Father had congratulated those who passed, but scolded Manohar Da, saying, “And you—what will you ever do? You’ll remain a simpleton. All your friends will go to college, and you’ll be left grazing cattle.”
Unaffected by the scolding, Manohar Da had carelessly replied, “I won’t take up any job. I will earn from my fields and live freely, without constraint. Yes sir! I cannot do a job.”
Hearing this, Father grew annoyed and said, “You’re already a fool, and on top of that, a rascal too.”
Manohar Da had thrown that same “rascal” word onto us. He stayed back in the village and immersed himself in farming. Every December, he would bring a basket of arwa rice from the winter kheeramaji harvest to our house, saying, “Here, rascals, I’ve brought this for you. Cook rotis and eat them during the festival.” For the past ten years, bringing rice in December had become part of his routine. Even at other times, whenever he visited, he always came to meet our mother and father. He never took offense at Father’s scolding. On the contrary, sometimes he would bring lentils, ripe forest fruits, or greens and vegetables. He only shook hands with Father. Most of the time, he talked with our mother and with us two brothers. Even when we had started studying in high school, he continued addressing us as “rascals.” His affection carried a sense of belonging—but perhaps also, in his own way, he wanted to show Father that he was happy and a successful farmer.
Five years after leaving the hostel, he got married. The wedding was in January. Our school had already reopened, so Mother didn’t let us go. But Manohar Da did not take offense at our absence. On the contrary, he came directly to deliver gifts. For Mother, he brought a sari; for Father, a dhoti; and for us, a rooster. Handing me the rooster, he said, “Here, rascals, this is all that’s left for you.”
At that time, Manohar Da had pleaded earnestly with Mother. His village, too, was surrounded by dense forests. Whenever he went there, he would set traps with other children to catch little birds. Neither of us ever learned how to swim. Father tried many times to teach us in the dam, but we could never learn. Our village had many dams. After finishing work, people would go bathe in them, and we would go along too. There, we would sit on the backs of older boys.
They would carry us into the deeper water. As they moved their arms and legs, splashing noises rose—dubdub-dubdub—and when water filled our mouths, we would spit it out in a forceful spray. Yet, the fear of water never left either of us. Bringing back lotus flowers from the middle of the dam was enough adventure for us.
Mother often wished to visit the village. We would go to our own village, but despite Manohar Da’s repeated invitations, we never went to his.
This time, Mother persuaded Father. She said, “That boy respects you a lot. At the wedding, he gave you a dhoti and me a sari. Out of all your former students, who remembers you now? They do come back from the city during holidays, but does anyone even stop by to see you?”
What she said was true, and Father felt it. He said, “I don’t forbid you to go, but it’s the boys’ crucial time now. If they go to the village, they’ll wander around idly and get distracted from studies.”
“Manohar is a good boy. But he also has four brothers. If they all depend only on farming, how will things work out? One doesn’t study only for jobs—one studies to gain knowledge, too. If he had studied, he could have become a teacher in the village, guiding people along the right path. Go during the Dussehra holidays, take both boys with you then. The river’s water will have receded by that time.”
At night, we would join the older boys. They burned hay and straw, and with them, we played jhunjhur in the fields of Surguja to catch the chanchi birds. Out of our over-excitement, we would run across Surguja’s fields and trample the crops. But on the third day, complaints against us reached Manohar Da. Damaging the crops while uprooting lentils and pulses was too much. So, Manohar Da forbade us from going to play *jhunjhur*.
In the mornings, we both woke up early. Carrying a large basket, we would go down to the river and snatch away fish from everyone’s fishing traps. The first day, people were curious to see what mischief we would do. The second day, no one objected. But on the third day, while resting at noon, people whispered into Manohar Da’s ears that we were stealing fish from everyone’s traps.
That day, Da Da ignored the complaint, saying, “Where will they ever get to see and do such things in the city? Leave them—within three or four days, they’ll get bored on their own.” But his silence only made us bolder. On the fourth day, Ramdhan Kaka not only complained but also quarreled with Da Da. He said, “They’re your nephews, so you can tolerate them. Let others suffer the loss if they want, but I won’t. If they do anything again, I’ll strike them with a hammer.”
The villagers were growing angry. Even Manohar Da felt a little hurt. Two days later, after the market day, he sent us back. He said, “Go, rascals, don’t come again. When you grow wiser, only then come back.” That day, we truly appeared before him as grown-ups, for I had passed matriculation and Kitty had passed his intermediate exams.
We had time, and Father needed us. The rafters and beams of our tiled house had become weak and hollow. They needed to be replaced in the summer. That was why Father had sent us.
We rested at noon. In the evening, Manohar Da said, “There’s enough timber; let’s find some porters to carry it. Come to the village. I’ll take you around the forest.” That evening, we met people from three hamlets. Manohar Da gathered twenty-four men. On a moonlit night, he touched and showed us many trees, naming them: “This is ortonokh (a type of fig), this mukchund, this karam, gambhar, kahu, arjun, and so on.” But it wasn’t easy to recognize trees at night, so we didn’t take much interest.
That night, after dinner, everyone came carrying poles and beams. Eight men carried the rafters, six carried the two beams, and four were there to switch out as replacements. They walked almost running through the night. We went along with them, and by the time the rooster crowed a second time, we had reached our house. Our roof was repaired. With that, our ties with Manohar Da broke off. We had moved to the city for further studies.
From around 1960 onward, newspapers continuously carried reports that the reservoirs of Kansjor, Sonajor, Ambajharia, Kuladuba, Rekhti, Paras, Chhinda, and others would be dammed. Canals would be dug to provide irrigation. Since 1952, people had been suffering from drought. Relief supplies for farmers included flour. At the block level, people were even being taught how to bake wheat bread.
We could read these news reports, but the technical notices on the other pages of the newspaper we left untouched. Sometimes, out of curiosity, we skimmed to see which village lands were being acquired by the land-acquisition officers. But we never bothered to study plot numbers, survey registers, area measurements, or boundary details. Our knowledge of land extended only to the fact that this field belonged to so-and-so, that grove to another, and that such-and-such plot was ours.
Without ever delving deeper, we graduated and became babus (clerks/officials) in small towns.
Manohar Da, his village, his children, his people, his fields, and his forests all became meaningless to us. We forgot him. Father and Mother were happy that both their sons had found jobs, that they were standing on their own feet. They were full of joy. Even though two kilos of arwa rice still came from Manohar Da’s place, for our parents this no longer held much importance.
Kitty’s marriage had been arranged. We had already sent out the formal invitations in Keundri. Using that as an excuse, we did not even feel the need to go personally to Manohar Da’s home to invite him. We had become city dwellers. Our souls had shrunk. We had no remaining needs connected to the villagers.
The Kansjor reservoir was a multipurpose one. A medium-sized dam was being constructed there. Newspapers published large notices, but no paper ever reached Keundrih, Jarakel, Lawabair, or Kobang. Only the schoolmaster had a radio, but he rarely had time to listen to it. Whatever little he heard during school hours, he would pass along.
One day, suddenly, survey teams arrived. They spent the whole day measuring, staking pegs, and then left. A group of engineers in caps, overseers, and chain-men moved here and there with their instruments. They marked off Manohar Da’s courtyard, Haradhan Lohra’s field, and the entire village below with rows of poles. By evening, before leaving, they announced: “Within one year, the village must be vacated.”
In the crowd, no one dared ask where they would go after vacating.
In every village, the boys studying in high schools, the two biyas masters, Bels, and Pankras, the leaders—these were the ones who followed the engineers around. They kept telling the villagers, “We will explain everything to you.”
Five months later, people were summoned to Ranchi to receive compensation. Those who could not go had their money collected “on their behalf” by Biyas Master, leader Bels, Pankras, Nirdosh, and several others.
In Keundrih village, big leaders from various political parties, both men and women, came. The youth were excited that once the dam was built, they would get work as clerks and supervisors. Money would come directly into their hands. Then they could buy trousers, shirts, and all sorts of fashionable things themselves.
The young men from the eight surrounding villages became absorbed in their dreams. Schooling began to suffer, as the youth started following around clerks, contractors, crusher owners, and stone-breaking contractors. Through Manohar Da, Father kept receiving all the news. Every Christmas both of us brothers, along with our families, kept visiting, but Father never again brought up Keundrih or Manohar Da in conversation.
On the third day after Christmas, Didi (our elder sister) had also come. We were all sitting together, chatting and basking in the winter sun. It was about ten o’clock when a young woman arrived. Father greeted her warmly with a smile and said, “Recognize her?”
Despite our best efforts, Kitty and I could not recognize her. Didi said, “How will you recognize her if you’ve never seen her? Why, this is Manohar Da’s daughter, Meena.” Then turning to her, Didi added, “These are your uncles. The elder one is Kitty, and the younger one is Nirmal.”
After the usual pleasantries, Kitty asked, “So, daughter, what are you doing now? You’ve grown so much, and we didn’t even know.”
“I’m studying,” she replied.
“In which class?”
“B.A. Part One.”
“Where?”
“Gossner College.”
“Very good! So Da-da (father) is sending his daughter to college. How many siblings do you have?”
“One younger brother, Joonas. He doesn’t study anymore. He was in the seventh standard, but when he failed, he quit.”
“What does he do now?”
“You tell me, then I’ll know. Does he work diligently?”
“Yes, sometimes he even ploughs the fields.”
“So he does work with interest. And do you still grow cucumbers, manjidhan (a kind of rice)? Do you also manage the household?”
“Yes, I have to manage both house and field.”
“Good. Give your parents some rest. You should also take some training, perhaps as a teacher or a nurse.”
By then, much had been talked about. Meena began speaking with others in the family. The next morning, at breakfast, she said, “Both of you uncles are being called by Baba.”
“Why? What happened?”
“Baba is very ill,” Meena said, her voice choking.
“What has happened to him?”
“I don’t know. Even getting up from bed is painful for him, and he walks with a stick. He remembers you both all the time. He says, ‘Call Kitty and Nirmal kaka, I want to speak with them.’”
“Why didn’t you bring him somehow? We could have met, and shown him to a doctor too.”
Meena did not answer this. On the third day, after breakfast, she again said, “Kaka, please come with me today. I’ve been away for two days already, and I feel scared.”
“You just came yesterday. After so many days, if we meet your parents, at least let’s buy a few supplies today.”
Meena did not insist. In the evening, while talking with Kitty, we bought some clothes, some food items, and tea and sugar. At that time, Kitty and I got lost in memories of old Keundrih. Stealing fish, playing jhunjhur, all those things came back to us. The river, the forests, the paddy fields, the stones, the hills—they were all ours. Before our eyes, we saw the Keundrih village of twenty-five years ago, and ourselves as two boys of eight and eleven years. Were those same trees, those same birds still there? And the aroma of cucumber, manjidhan rice, and boiled arwa rice, when cooking, used to spread through the whole house.
On the fourth day, Meena, Kitty, and I began preparing to leave for Keundrih. Just as we were having breakfast, suddenly there was an explosion outside. Meena said, “Don’t you know, kaka? All our fields and uplands have been submerged in the dam.”
“We had read it in the newspapers, but your father never told us anything. He could have at least written a letter!”
“Our house too was submerged. The entire village is gone.”
“Where are you now?”
“We’ve built a house on another island. We got an Indira Awas (government housing) allotment.”
Kitty and I were overwhelmed with guilt. Back when we had gone to fetch wood, Manohar da was a proud farmer. At his word, twenty-four men had gathered that night. They had walked all night on foot, carrying the wood. We gave him nothing. Yet, year after year, he kept sending gifts to our family. He never once complained. Now our Manohar da is confined to an Indira Awas house. Where would tables and chairs even fit inside his home? What happened to his cows and oxen, goats, ducks, chickens, and his granary full of rice?
Kitty and I avoided even looking into each other’s eyes. Our silence made Meena even sadder. After finishing breakfast, the three of us set out on foot. A little distance away, we found a tractor, and rode the rest of the way. Near Deepa Toli, about a kilometer away, we had to get down.
As we walked toward the house, Meena grew worried. We too felt disoriented, unfamiliar with the place. The forest we had once known was gone. The old mahua and kusum trees had died. Instead of the quiet of the woods, there was the noise of poclain machines. In the distance we could see a crowd of laborers. Dust rose as earth was cut and dumped. We all walked silently.
When we reached the house, we found Manohar da sitting on a straw mat spread in the courtyard. His wife, our bhauji, stood silently at the doorway. Both looked old and utterly exhausted. Seeing her father sitting in the courtyard, Meena was happy. She said to him, “Baba, I have brought both the kakas with me.”
A smile appeared on father’s face. But that smile quickly turned into sobbing. Tears began to fall, drop by drop. Bhauji too left the doorway, came near, shook hands, and immediately turned her face away to wipe her tears. We both stood like guilty men, holding on to dada.
After a while, everyone grew quiet again. Dada made us sit beside him. After asking about our well-being, he fell silent. Then Kitty began speaking. He said, “Dada, we too got caught up in jobs and careers. We only come to see mother and father during festivals. When the children had holidays, we didn’t. Even father, you never sent us any news. And you’re an educated man, aren’t you?”
Manohar da kept staring at me blankly, as if he hadn’t even heard my words. Kitty stopped me, saying, “You’ve started complaining as soon as you arrived?” Then he turned toward dada and said, “Your daughter brought us arwa chawal, but that wasn’t enough for our hearts, so we came ourselves.”
Manohar da turned his eyes toward Kitty. Whatever was in those moist eyes, Kitty understood. He stood up at once and embraced dada tightly. Years of pain surfaced on dada’s face. Inside, he began sobbing, and the flow of tears would not stop.
Bhauji came immediately. She took Kitty by the hand and made him sit on the mat. She said,
“This will go on, but first drink some water. You have come after so many years. When I came here as a bride, now my daughter has grown old enough to be married.”
She had suppressed her emotions with great sternness. Because of that effort, her face became distorted. In a harsh voice, she said, “Meena, give them water in the lota.” When Meena gave us water in the lota, we felt a little relief. We washed our hands and face and sat comfortably. Then Bhauji said,
“Your dada has made it a custom that once a year, we must send a handful of grain from our fields to his guru and to both his younger brothers. He has been following that tradition. On the way you must have seen that Deepa Toli is now left behind.”
“Yes, we saw it,” I replied.
This time Manohar da spoke, “They’re tired and exhausted, can’t you see? First, give them food.”
Evening had already fallen. I stepped out into the courtyard. Manohar da also came out with me, and our steps turned toward the dam. The laborers were wrapping up their work, preparing to leave. As we drew closer, dada spoke with them. Then he walked toward Deepa Toli. I began following him.
He said, “Do you see? Everything is drowning. I am taking you to show that our old home too is drowning.”
When we reached, we saw the entire bari (kitchen garden/compound) submerged. The roof of the house was exposed, the walls were decaying in the rains.
Jiwadhan Lohra and Gobardhan Lohra, two brothers, were still in the village. At Amus’s house, his parents remained; the rest of the people had all moved away. Out of 53 households in the tola, only seven still had people living in them.
I asked, “Did you get compensation?”
After a long pause and a deep sigh, he said, “Yes, I got it.”
“How much?”
“One lakh.”
“How much land was there?”
“Thirty acres in the don and twenty-five acres of tand.”
“At what rate did you get it…?”
“By category — first number, second number, third number?”
Dada remained silent. I grew a little angry and said, “Even after being educated, don’t you know compensation is given at fixed rates?”
Dada remained silent again.
Kitty asked, “Have the money finished, or is something left?”
“I had kept it in the bank, but I withdrew it.”
“You withdrew all the money? Didn’t you keep anything aside for your children? What a father you are,” Kitty said irritably.
Dada stayed silent, but his face began to speak. His face, yellowed with immense suffering, trembled again and again at the temples and eyebrows. From the pain and restlessness, Manohar da’s body could not remain steady.
I pressed Kitty’s shoulder and immediately let go, then held Manohar da with both hands and sat him down. Dada sat wordlessly for a long time. His eyes were lost in a distant void. Looking at his wide-open, fixed eyes, even our faces began to grow pale.
After almost half an hour, he let out a long sigh. Then I shook him and asked, “Dada, do you want to drink some water?”
He shook his head to say “no” and lowered his gaze.
After a long while, he sighed and said, “Do you see, my brothers, everything of ours has drowned. Even two more villages behind us have been vacated. I cannot even think where I should go.”
We were in no position to give any advice to a despairing Manohar da. I asked, “Didn’t you demand land in exchange for land?”
“Everyone got scared. Suddenly a platoon of four trucks arrived. In many trucks there were officers and clerks, chainmen and amin (surveyors). Along with the officers, the police were pushing into the crowd. Children and the old ran towards the forest.
Within three days, with tents set up, all measurements and surveys were done. Only people like Jagan, Mangal, Tobiyas, Master, Junas, and the labor head from Rhea village stayed around. The officers said, ‘Do it, otherwise we’ll put everyone in jail.’
Then Matthoo, Tobiyas, and the labor head began scolding us—‘Keep quiet, old man! Do you know whom you’re talking to? Don’t you recognize them? They’re hakims, officials!’”
I asked, “They really said that?”
“Yes, they said it. They were banging their sticks. Very rude men, they don’t recognize anyone—whether elder or younger.”
“Did you check the rate?”
“No. Whatever they said, we agreed to it.”
“Then why did you withdraw the money from the bank?”
“I kept making mistake after mistake. I put the money under my eldest son Junas’s name.”
“He isn’t even educated, yet you call him your eldest! Why didn’t you put it under your daughter’s name?”
“Thinking that only a son would be the heir. But he takes it out whenever he wants and squanders it. Where he spends it, no one knows. He has become addicted to liquor. Fifty-five thousand were left, so I took it out and hid it. I didn’t keep it in the bank, fearing he might withdraw it anytime. Now he has even started beating the three of us.”
Hearing this, my heart sank into gloom. Kitty asked, “We’ve been here for two days, but we haven’t seen Junas anywhere.”
“He left on the day of the festival itself. He hasn’t returned home for four days.”
“He hasn’t run away with the money, has he?”
Dada remained silent. Evening was deepening. We quietly returned home. Inside, Jiwadhan, Sukru, and Jato were waiting for us. All of them had been prosperous farmers and artisans once. Now, not even a bird perched in their courtyards. Their conversations were full of despair—how would they live, where would they go… there was no land to get. After sitting for a short while, they left. We were completely unfit to relieve their suffering.
After dinner I said, “Let us check whether the money is safe or not.”
Dada carefully went and brought out the bundle. When it was counted, five thousand were missing. In anger Dada was about to speak, but suddenly his face fell. His father had followed tradition by making the son his heir. By not entrusting his capable daughter with the family’s future, he had made a grave mistake. But the time had passed. A storm was raging, and their home was yet to be uprooted.
Meena, though she understood everything, remained silent. It was impossible for her to leave her aged parents in such a situation.
I immediately made a decision. I said, “Both of us will return tomorrow morning. Meena will come back with the money. This time, instead of the bank, we’ll put it in the post office as a fixed deposit. We’ll buy a ‘Kisan Vikas Patra’ in Meena’s name. In seven years it will double. Don’t worry, Meena. Just manage the expenses somehow in the meantime.”
Meena listened, but her face showed no reaction.
The next morning, after breakfast, we prepared to leave. Manohar da seemed a little reassured. He handed over the money. Meena was packing more belongings in her bag than usual. Kitty asked, “Why are you taking so many things? Just one pair of clothes would be enough.”
She replied, “I’ll stay at my friend’s house for a couple of days.” Her smile reassured us.
When we reached the post office, it was one o’clock in the afternoon. We didn’t even go home, thinking we should finish this work first. The postmaster, Murli Pradhan, turned out to be our acquaintance. He called us inside, offered us seats, and served tea. He said, “In small villages, people know each other. Murli also once told him (your father) to keep the money here. But he replied, ‘Brother Murli, Junas won’t feel shy with you. That’s why I keep it in the bank. In the bank, everyone is a stranger, so he’ll feel at least a little hesitation.’”
I said, “So much trust in a rogue son!”
The postmaster Murli Pradhan was a simple villager. He added, “But Junas’s friends are drunkards, and gamblers too.”
“And the father as well—he neither saved anything for his daughter nor put any restraint on his son,” I said.
While talking, a fifty-thousand-rupee Kisan Vikas Patra was made in Meena’s name. After this, the three of us went home. At home, Meena said, “Uncle, please keep the Vikas Patra with you. If it’s with me, Junas will surely snatch it away.” I handed the responsibility of the Kisan Vikas Patra to Kitty.
On the third day, Meena said, “Uncle, I’ll just go meet my friend.” She went and returned as well. On the fourth day, at six in the morning, she started taking out her belongings to leave.
I asked, “Why are you leaving so early?”
She replied, “To catch the bus. I’m going with my friend to Delhi to work.”
Her answer shocked me. I held her and gently said, “Don’t go, daughter. Forgive us. We will visit you regularly from now on, and you should complete your studies.”
She said, “No, uncle, I cannot bear it anymore. My brother gets drunk and beats my father, he beats my mother. When I try to save them, he beats me too. He beats me even because I’m studying.”
“Don’t the villagers do anything?” I asked.
“Who’s left in the village now? And besides, there’s no farming anymore. Everyone does menial labor. All the young men are drunkards. Who will speak up against anyone?”
“Daughter, don’t go,” everyone said—Didi, Mother, Father.
But we were not prepared for her reply.
Meena said, “Uncle, this is what fate has written for me. At home I get beaten, in Delhi others will beat me.”
This sentence has been repeated for centuries, in every caste, every language, every religion. The victim must endure. A woman’s mouth is covered and silenced. She cannot challenge. Meena too was not ready to challenge.
For the last time, I said, “Daughter, go back. For the sake of your home and your parents, bear this suffering.”
“No, uncle,” she said, stretching out her hand, “It’s getting late.” She broke down, sobbing heavily, and hurried away. We, too, wept as we watched her leave. Then we returned to our respective jobs.
A week later, suddenly Didi called. With anger she said, “What did you do by going to Hundari? Fools! When you don’t know anything, why do you interfere?”
Didi speaks only when it is truly necessary. Hearing her words, I grew afraid. With a pounding heart, I asked, “What happened, Didi? What’s the matter? Please speak clearly.”
She said, “There’s no time to talk on the phone. Bring Kitty along with you. Also, bring two or three thousand rupees.” And she hung up.
The next day, the two of us went to Didi’s place. After we sat down, without any preamble she said straight away, “Use your brains! Do you know why Meena left home? Because the father put all the money in the son’s name, he felt he had the right to beat her, to kick her, to drag her out of the house?”
That demonic dog had been hiding nearby. As soon as you people left, that very evening he came home with a girl. He searched for the money. When he didn’t find it, he began to beat his parents. Then Manohar Da told him that it had been kept in the post office.
That shameless dog went to the post office. The postmaster told him that the money had been put in a fixed deposit, which couldn’t be withdrawn yet. In truth, the postmaster must not have thought he would go that far.
“What?” I exclaimed.
“Yes, from the post office he went back quietly. But when he returned home, he beat his parents so badly, so brutally that…” She fell silent and began to cry.
We pressed her, “Tell us, Didi, what happened?” Tearfully, she shouted, “He dragged his mother, his own mother, across the courtyard and beat her—just because her daughter had taken the money! That’s the blame he kept throwing at her.”
After a while, I asked, “Didn’t the villagers come? Why not?”
Kitty — “Is there anyone left in the village?”
Didi — “Only Jiwadhan and Sadhu came to inform us.”
Kitty asked, “And that scoundrel?”
Didi — “After beating them, he smashed everything—pots, utensils. He gathered up the bronze vessels and the next day went off somewhere with that girl.”
“Didn’t anyone go to the police station?”
“Who would go? Bhouji kept repeating, ‘When will Meena come, when will Meena come,’ until she died. After we buried her two days ago, I called you both.”
The next day, after breakfast, Kitty and I set off for Keunddih. By ten o’clock we had reached. When we arrived, we saw Manohar Da sitting hunched at the door. As we went up, his lifeless hands rose and then dropped again.
Kitty asked, “Dada, don’t you recognize us?” No words came from his throat, only a nod of the head. I placed some biscuits and bread in his hands. He slowly let them slip to the ground. From his reaction it seemed, had he the strength, he would have flung them back at our faces. Such utterly useless things we were offering him!
He just sat there—no movement, no lifting of his head, staring blankly at the ground. When Jiwadhan heard of our arrival, he came running. Sitting down, he spoke about the funeral. His final words were: “Since Bhouji was taken away, Dada has sat here like this. He has neither eaten nor drunk anything.”
“When will Meena come?” Manohar Da kept asking—whether to us or to himself, it was hard to say. As we turned to leave through the doorway, he said, “Don’t come again.” His eyes remained fixed on the door, stony and unblinking, his face heavy with grief.
That evening, as we prepared to return, Kitty said, “What has happened cannot be undone. Tomorrow we’ll come again and take you with us.”
But the next morning, as we were gathering the necessary things to set out, Jiwadhan arrived. Seeing him, Didi asked, “You’ve left him and come here?”
Jiwadhan replied, “No. Manohar Da himself has left… forever.”
Hearing this, all fell silent.
After a while, Jiwadhan broke the silence: “It’s good he left. At least you both were able to see him one last time. Perhaps that’s why he sat at the doorway, waiting. Sitting there, he slumped over in the night.”
We took a piece of shroud cloth and the three of us set out for Keunddih by cart.
When we reached, the villagers had already dug the grave. The body was laid on a mat, ready for the final rites. Quietly, Kitty and I spread the shroud over Manohar Da’s body.
And now even this had become one more “useless thing” for him.
Even his corpse seemed to say—“A useless thing.”