Housewife

Two or three grades below the student scholarship class, our teacher was Shibnath Pandit. He was clean-shaven with short-cropped hair and a tiny pigtail. The very sight of him made the boys' spirits shrink in dread.

In the animal kingdom, one observes that those with stingers lack teeth. Our teacher, however, possessed both at once. On one hand, a downpour of slaps, punches, and cuffs rained relentlessly upon us like a hailstalking over a garden of young saplings; on the other hand, the scorching sting of his words would squeeze the very life out of us.

He used to lament that the revered bond between a teacher and disciple of ancient times no longer existed, and that students no longer venerated their teacher like a deity. Saying this, he would hurl his neglected divine majesty violently at the boys' heads and roar at intervals. Yet, those outbursts were laced with such vulgarity that no one could ever mistake them for the thunderous roar of a god. If a curse against one’s father struts around disguised as divine thunder, can its petty Bengali form really go unnoticed?

Be that as it may, no one ever mistook this deity of the lower-tier third class of our school for Indra, Chandra, Varuna, or Kartikeya. Only one god shared a resemblance with him—his name was Yama (the God of Death). And now, after all these years, there is no harm or fear in admitting that we secretly prayed he would not delay his journey to that heavenly abode for much longer.

However, it became crystal clear that there was no greater nuisance than a human deity. The gods dwelling in heaven do not torment you; if you pluck a flower for them, they are pleased, and if you don't, they don't show up to demand it. Our human deities, on the other hand, expect far more. The slightest fault on our part makes their eyes turn blood-shot as they charge at us, at which point they look like anything but gods.

Our Shibnath Pandit had a weapon for tormenting the boys—it sounded insignificant, but in practice, it was deeply painful. He used to give the boys new names. Although a name is nothing more than a word, people generally love their names more than themselves. What hardships people endure just to make their names renowned; in fact, a person wouldn't hesitate to die just to keep their name alive.

When you distort the name of a human being who holds it so dear, you strike at a place precious beyond life itself. Even a person named Bhootnath finds it unbearable if you call him Nalinikanta.

From this, one learns the truth that humans value the intangible over the tangible—valuing prestige over gold, honor over life, and their name over themselves.

Owing to these deep-seated, hidden laws of human nature, when the teacher nicknamed Shoshishekhar "Bhetki" (the Sea Bass), he felt utterly devastated. His agony doubled knowing that this nickname targeted his physical appearance. Yet, he had to endure it all in absolute quiet, sitting in silence.

Ashu's name was "Ginni" (Housewife), but a little history was attached to it. Ashu was an utterly harmless, gentle boy in class. He never bothered anyone and was extremely shy. He was probably the youngest of all, replying to everything with just a gentle, quiet smile. He studied well, and many boys in school were eager to befriend him, but he never played with anyone and would leave for home the very second school was dismissed.

At one o'clock, a maidservant would arrive from his home carrying a few sweets wrapped in a leaf-pouch and water in a small brass tumbler. Ashu felt deeply embarrassed by this; he breathed a sigh of relief only when the maidservant somehow returned home. He was desperate to hide from the schoolboys that he was anything more than just a student...

He was unwilling to reveal that he belonged to a home—that he was someone's son, or a brother to siblings. It was as if this were a grave secret, and his utmost effort was to ensure that his classmates never found out.

Regarding his studies, he had no flaws whatsoever. Except, on certain days, he would arrive late to class, and when Shibnath Pandit demanded an explanation, he could offer no proper answer. For that, his humiliation at times knew no bounds. The teacher would make him bend down with his hands on his knees and stand near the corridor stairs; boys from all four classes would see the shame-stricken, unfortunate child forced into that posture.

One day, there was a holiday for an eclipse. Returning to school the following day, Pandit moshai sat on his chair, looked toward the doorway, and saw Ashu entering the classroom, looking even more hesitant and meek than usual, holding a slate and a ink-stained cloth bag packed with his textbooks.

Shibnath Pandit let out a dry laugh and remarked, "Ah, here comes the Ginni (Housewife)!"

Later, after the lesson ended and just before dismissal, he addressed all the students and said, "Listen, everyone listen!"

All the Earth's gravitational pull seemed to drag the boy downward with immense force; yet, little Ashu sat perched on that bench with the end of his dhoti and his two legs dangling, becoming the focal target of every boy in class. By now, Ashu must have grown much older, and no doubt many days of profound joy, sorrow, and shame have crossed his life, but no single day could ever compare to the history written in that young boy's heart on that afternoon.

Yet, the incident itself was trifling and can be summarized in just a few words.

Ashu had a little sister; she had no friends or sisters her age, so all her playtime was shared with Ashu.

Their home had a porch enclosed within an iron-railed gate. That day, the sky was overcast and it rained heavily. The few pedestrians walking along the street, shoes in hand and umbrellas overhead, had no time to look anywhere else. In that cloudy gloom, amidst the rhythmic patter of rain and the quiet of a day-long holiday, Ashu sat on the porch steps playing with his sister.

That day was their dolls' wedding. Ashu was deeply engrossed, earnestly giving instructions to his sister regarding the preparations.

Then arose a debate: who should be the priest? The little girl quickly ran to someone standing nearby and asked, "Hey, will you be our priest thakur?"

Ashu turned around to look—Shibnath Pandit was standing on their porch soaked, folding his wet umbrella; he had been passing by on the street and took shelter there to escape the downpour. His sister was actually proposing to appoint him as the priest for their doll wedding!

The moment Ashu saw Pandit moshai, he abandoned his game and his sister, sprinting inside the house to hide. His holiday was completely ruined.

The next day, when Shibnath Pandit brought up this incident with dry mockery as a prologue and publicly christened Ashu "Ginni" (Housewife), Ashu initially tried to join softly in the surrounding laughter, just as he gently smiled at everything else. Right then, a bell rang, signaling the end of other classes, and a maidservant appeared at the doorway carrying two sweets on a sal-leaf plate and water in a polished brass tumbler.

At that sight, his face and ears turned bright crimson despite his attempt to smile; the veins on his throbbing forehead swelled, and his overflowing tears could no longer be contained.

While Shibnath Pandit enjoyed his refreshments in the staff room and smoked his tobacco in peace, the boys surrounded Ashu with great glee, shouting "Ginni, Ginni!" To Ashu, playing with his little sister on that holiday felt like the single greatest, most shameful mistake of his life, and he could not bring himself to believe that the world would ever forget that day.