A Hearing Adjourned Sine Die

Courtesy: www.kreativenepa.com

Sulbung was a challenge to demographers. They could neither call it a village, nor a suburb, but it shared characters of both. It was a village, almost like a hinterland, because modernity at the level of thought was still a far cry. It was a suburb because an un-laminated road connected it with the main town—Ilam Bazaar—and occasionally, four-wheelers, carrying passengers, would run pass the village. It had a health-post, a high school, a post office and of course all small offices that made up the list of ‘modern’ civic amenities. Yet, Sulbung lacked many, many things.

The Pradhans and the Barals, two families standing as primordial antitheses of one another, were still not in good terms.  The women Naini and Sukhani—hide-and-seek mates since childhood days—were their respective mistresses. The childhood intimacy had flown down the River Mai; one could not stand to see the other even with the broken eye at present.

Naini had the privilege to enjoy the economic grandeur of her father, who had earned from unnamed sources, and was well known in Sulbung as a moneylender. Sukhani, coming from a pauper’s family, always lived a life of scarcity, and hence, no one counted her as anything.

The two girls, as long as they were children, played together, and created a playful world of their own innocence. As soon they made an advent into teenage, they suddenly became conscious of their economic backgrounds, and a hiatus appeared between them. It just did not suffice for them to say they were maidens. Being ‘maidens’ just did not bring them together; what counted more, and set them apart, were the labels ‘rich maiden’ or ‘poor maiden’. They were pilgrims of different routes.

By the time Naini was seventeen, she eloped with the son of a rich man. Rumors spread that the boy had a business in Kathmandu, and had visited the United States and the UK more often than not. Though Naini was completely an illiterate girl, her father’s influence had attracted the boy to marry her. Though an initial dissent was honked at her decision to ‘elope’ instead of marrying formally, the talks soon transpired when her parents knew that the boy was a big man’s son. Unprecedented pomp and splendor marked their wedding, and Naini walked out in a grand palanquin, never seen in that part of the world before. She did not wave to her friend, who stood on the pedestal at the big peepal on the crossroad, biting a fringe of her chyadar, sad and forlorn.

Within a year, news reaching Sulbung claimed, Naini’s husband died of an ‘unnamable’ disease. They invented the story that it was an air-crash. Some said, it was a road accident. Others explained that he was murdered by Daud’s men in Mumbai on account of some business misunderstandings. Explanations varied, and rooms for doubting multiplied.

Sukhani  felt sorry for her friend. Being a widow at eighteen was in fact a bad luck. She could feel the pain, and so, she shared her friend’s sorrow. Once again, Naini returned to her father’s home, and the two friends came together.

Naini would often cry in the arms of Sukhani. Sukhani, who knew that consoling would be meaningless, joined her friend by contributing more tears that make a confluence of sorrow. She had never seen Naini break down in such fits. The gush of the pain was so deep that she could almost see her friend’s heart bleed.

“Sukhani! Let everything happen to a woman; but let no one become a widow in the prime time of life!” Naini would say. Sukhani would just nod.

Yet, it was life and it had to go on. They decided to live and face it.

Soon the wounds healed, and Naini had other things to take care of her. Her beauty, with the touch of a husband—albeit dead now—had opened up and bloomed like a chrysanthemum. Her father, being rich, could afford anything for her. Her princess-like form returned, and with it her hubris. Sukhani, on the other hand, moved further to the fringe of her life, and with the passage of time, was reduced to ‘nothing’.

Before she was twenty, Naini fled with another boy of her choice, someone who worked in a bank far away. What to talk of his land; half of the village was his father’s.

Sukhani waited till a groom of her own social class asked for her hand with her father. Her in-laws, incidentally, had their house opposite to Naini’s in-laws, along the same narrow lane, and the house faced one another. This aggravated their latent enmity, much to the detriment of Sukhani.

Their lives went on, and they occasionally ran into one-another during the evenings, when both walked out to the main square to buy vegetables and dairy products. Each would exchange looks, Sukhani with expectations of warmth, and Naini with looks of indifference. Forced ‘hi-hello’ held their old-time friendship loosely. The differences were quite very stark; Sukhani parched by the ever-growing poverty though she had a job in the nearby brick bakers, and the other flattered by the piling hubris of ever-multiplying pelf her husband accumulated by God knew what means. Each, however, had one thing in common: their bellies were gradually bulging, and the uneasiness and anxiety were perhaps the same. But they never shared with one another the tale of this common plight, foisted upon their beings by their femininity.

As time matured, Naini bore a son, and Sukhani a daughter. Naini got another privilege to boast of her good fortune. She had a son! And Sukhani, a daughter – the ‘inferior sex’ in her reading. Her son, she pondered. would be everything she wanted him to be. Best of all, a pilot! And Sukhani’s daughter would soon go away to become someone’s wife.

Sukhani, however, did not have a single shred of pain on begetting a daughter. Her husband, who was making money out of sand in Qatar, was happy too, for he said on the phone, “Goddess Laxmi has entered our family with all her blessings.”

Sukhani did not envy Naini for getting a son. She single-handedly took all care of her daughter. She wondered if the children would marry one another as they grew, for the mothers were, after all, one-time mates, and knew one another too well. But, an untold coldness would soon besiege her, considering the conspicuous difference in economy, and the arrogance Naini housed in her chest. No, their children’s marriage was not a viable possibility.

Children grew in their own ways, both like two beautiful tulips just opened up in the juvenile morning sun. Sukhani would look at the growing prince across the street and see the face of her own progeny in him. It was an unexplainable feeling, perhaps common to most mothers. Naini too would see the daughter toddling and wobbling on the home-yard across the lane, and look at the baby girl as long as Sukhani was inside. As soon as Sukhani came out to pick her child, Naini would close the window of the upper-storey room where she had her luxury den. She would always love to look down from a higher location. Looking up from below was not her cup of tea.

One evening, when the sun was just about to kiss the pinnacle of the western hills far away, the two children met one another in the middle of the lane. It was safe; no vehicle would run past it. Occasionally, vegetable vendors would push their carts, or the village women with their empty panniers would be seen returning home after selling their stuffs in the market, down there, across the river. The grassy lane, therefore, was a permanent appeal for everyone, and the children made it their favorite hub.

Raja, Naini’s son, sneaked out of their bamboo stile, and presented himself in the middle of the narrow, grassy lane. Rani, Sukhani’s daughter, saw him and ran quickly to greet. The two held one another’s hands and danced to the tune Sukhani’s daughter sang, “Harabara, harabara toriko phool!” Hilarious laughter emanated out of the juvenile game, and Sukhani came to the porch of her thatch-roofed hut to look for her darling daughter.

She stood there for a long time without giving a hint of her presence to the ‘prince’ and the ‘princess’. Love gushed out of her heart and almost surged out through her lips. But she controlled. The children, innocent and serene, looked like two love birds, exchanging the first touch of their emotions. The laughter in their play defiled all hierarchies of the world.

The kids—their hands still locked into one another’s—stooped and with a collective effort, uprooted a pair of liverworts, and tucked on one another’s heads. Then, as proud winners, they ran after a swarm of dragon flies that flew with dazzling display of wings in multiple colors, brilliantly glittering in the evening sun. Their run was accompanied by laughter, infantile and uncorrupt.

Sukhani’s heart almost came out on her palm. Yet, she decided to hold back, because that was a rare spectacle, and she knew it was a stolen time that might never come again in future.

Slowly, the girl pulled the boy towards her own gate, and the children were halfway into the homeyard of Sukhani.  The girl ran in quick, brought out a pair of dolls and gave one to her buddy. With a doll in the arm of each, they looked like the happiest kids of the world. Sukhani, out of love, ran in, and came out with milk in two tumblers, and gave one to each of them.

As the children were about to drink, a thunderous cry came from the boy’s home. Naini had come down to the gate, and was crossing it like the advent of fury across the seven seas. She displayed fire in the eyes, and her disheveled hair gave her the look of Medusa, whose single sight would freeze everyone to stone. Gathering the fringe of her gorgeous red sari, she trespassed into Sukhani’s territory and caught hold of Sukhani’s lock.

“You witch; you gonna feed poison to my prince!”

“Naini! What’s that you are saying?”

“Shut up; I know your tricks. You have been a witch for seven births, and you teach spells to your daughter as well. How dared you touch my child? Have this, and this, and this, and this for your devilish design.”

She charged slaps and kicks and punches and everything upon Sukhani. Poor Sukhani; she bore them all meekly, for no one in that part of the world would listen to her voice. Naini pulled her son, and spitting on the ground, puked blasphemy to Sukhani and her innocent daughter, and entered her luxury den.

The enmity worsened, as the children grew. Often, Naini’s son would be seen looking out of the window and waving to Sukhani’s daughter. She would throw bits of papers unto his window, only to see them fall beforehand. Whenever Naini discovered the rebels, she closed the window, pulled down the heavy red Turkish curtains, and invented blindness in between. Sukhani, in spite of all those blasphemies, allowed her daughter to communicate with her peer next-door in whatever way she liked. She always taught her to love her friends, and never asked whose sons or daughters they were. She knew that bringing in parents’ names, positions and money in-between friends would ruin lives, as it had done to her.

When the children were of school age, Naini sent her prince to a private, English medium school – the only one in the village. Few could afford it, for it was unimaginably expensive. Sukhani admitted her daughter to Durga Prathamik Vidyalaya, the state-run primary school nearby. This too was a big challenge for her; yet she decided to risk it, as she never wanted her daughter to bear the blot of being uneducated, and hence by default, bear the tag of being a witch, as she grew.

Naini managed a rickshaw, to be pulled by Ramdhan, her family servant, for her son’s journey to and from the school. Sukhani’s daughter walked, hopping and jumping, playing with dragonflies and wild flowers. It was a village road, and like in towns, parents did not need to fetch the children to and back from school. Everyone knew everyone else in the village, and since there was no traffic at all in that part of the world, the girl had no difficulty. Occasionally, her teacher walking along the same route, would meet her, and the two would walk hand-in-hand, together.

Raja and Rani met on the way to and from their schools. The same way ran to the junction up there near the old peepal tree, before it parted into opposite directions. As the school times were the same, the children would exchange looks, smiles and occasional vocatives. The boy would look down from the high rickshaw, and often argue with Ramdhan that he wanted to walk with Rani. But Ramdhan, with strict warnings from his mistress, would not allow that. The child would often cry, but all in vain. Still, he gathered contentment by looking at his friend, young Rani, walking happily in her own way, playing with the dragonflies. The boy always looked sad and revolting; the girl always happy, agile and merry.

When Ramdhan reported that Raja often looked at the girl and waved to her on the way to school, his mother ordered a thick, opaque veil over the rickshaw. Henceforth, Raja could see nothing but the black canopy. His happiness on the way met a tragic end.

As long as the children were in the kindergarten, they would come back just one hour after midday. Once they entered the primary, the school hours lengthened. Naini went to the school every morning, dangling a tiffin carrier, with God knew what inside. Sukhani did not, for she had nothing to carry.

One day, it so happened that Rani was walking homeward alone. Following her was Raja’s rickshaw. Raja saw Rani from a hole between the folding of the black canopy. He ordered Ramdhan to keep stopping at places, complaining that his head went round. This way, he waited until Rani went past them, and after she was at a formidable distance, he ordered Ramdhan to drive on. Ramdhan knew the trick, but did not protest, because he knew what love was. He himself took out the photo of Phoolmati from inside his pillow quite often, and cried silently at night.

At a distance, one of the tyres of the rickshaw punctured, and Ramdhan came out to see if a workshop was anywhere around. Finding one, he ordered Raja to get down and sit silently outside the workshop until the mechanic mended the tyre. As Ramdhan was looking for the mechanic, Raja saw Rani walking at a distance. He stole the moment and ran like flash to hold her hand. Ramdhan saw the children, but said nothing; the kids slowly moved towards Rani’s residence.

The mechanic had been out. It took Ramdhan around an hour to find him. Another half an hour was invested for mending and inflating the tyre. At home, Naina was fuming, for they were late by one and a half hour than the expected time.

Rani pulled Raja into her room, and the children started embarking on a playful pastime. Sukhani saw the kids and knew the danger it signaled, but said nothing as ever. Instead, she fed them apricots and orange juice.

When the rickshaw was ready, Ramdhan paddled fast, for he knew, his mistress would be certainly out on the street, fuming with rage. He stopped his rickshaw outside Sukhani’s gate, and peeped into Rani’s room. Yes, the duo were there, Raja tucking a tulip on Rani’s head and Rani blushing with shame, dressed like a bride. Ramdhan smiled, and stood there for a long time. When a minute had waned, his eyes were fixed on an unknown space, far away from there. They were moist.

He whistled from the hole, startling the children. Seeing him, Raja came out running with a smear of fear all blotted on his juvenile cheeks. Rani waved her hands innocently, saying that they would get married ‘tomorrow’.

In the meantime, Naini had reached Sukhani’s yard. She saw Raja come running and get onto the rickshaw. She stopped the rickshaw, dragged Ramdhan down on the floor, and charged the most powerful of blows she could, and yelled, “You goblin! You are a partner to Sukhani the witch! You live at my house and work for her. Why did you bring Raja here to be poisoned?”

No word would escape Ramdhan’s lips. His world had shattered.

“Do not set your foot on my yard anymore. Live here and starve here; I care not.”

She then pulled the rickshaw herself towards her gate. People walking along the road saw, and laughed. But she was too furious to see anything.

Ramdhan had no world to go to. So, he went to the marketplace and stayed under the peepal that was a witness to the children’s love, and to the truth behind the entire tale.

The next day, police arrested Ramdhan and Sukhani. Before leaving, Sukhani called her sister, who was just twelve, to be with Rani until she returned. The magistrate wanted the hearing to happen very soon.

Naini reached the court so early that only a few starving and gray crows greeted her. It took at least an hour for the magistrate and others to arrive. She sent her son to school in the school van today, paying more than usual fare. She knew that by the time Raja was back, she would be back too.

“The two tried to poison my son. This is not the first time, Sir!” said Naini to the magistrate. “This time, Ramdhan is the accomplice,” she added.

As hearing continued, newer complaints kept pouring. The case didn’t seem settling, because Sukhani would hardly speak a word after an hour, and Ramdhan was nothing but a statue. At 4, the magistrate ordered that the children be brought to the court for ‘simple questioning’.  A police van with two constables and an inspector steered away to fetch the kids. “Do not bring them in the same van,” shouted Naini, but the cops were already too far to hear her words.

Back home, the school van had dropped Raja at his door at 3. Seeing the door closed, he went to Rani’s. Rani’s aunt didn’t know him. Seeing that Rani called him by name and happily received, she allowed the children to meet.

The children took up wedding game: the one that had remained incomplete the previous day. Sukhani’s sister joined, and invested all her heart, dressing and decorating the couple. By the end of the make-up, they looked like two little angels about to take flight heavenward. Sukhani’s sister then took them to the backyard, under the amala tree for the actual ‘ceremony’.

The police van stopped outside Naini’s home and the cops searched everywhere. No human was to be seen anywhere. Finding the house still and noiseless, they stood perplexed for a long time, and crossed the bamboo stile outside to enter Sukhuani’s home-yard. There too, similar silence ruled.

After some time, the sound of someone beating an iron drum came from the backyard. The policemen and their guide ran thither. They saw the children at work; the ‘swayambhar’ was taking place.

They hid themselves behind a pile of straw and observed the ceremony. Each flew back to the past, many years ago, when in their villages far away, they would do the same. They remembered those brides, and the innumerable times they got married. They could hardly tell where they were, but could not help biting their lower lips to stop tears from falling. Life, those days, was full of mirth and joy. But now, they were there to arrest the inventors of such guiltless happiness.

“Let’s not take them to the court,” said the inspector.

“Why sir?”

“That I cannot explain. But we are not taking them.”

The constables did not question their boss. The van steered back. On the way, they asked some people about the families. Everyone praised Sukhani and criticized Naini.

Back in the court, the inspector told the magistrate that he would not drag the children from their marriage mandap and told the entire story. With a deep sigh, the magistrate dismissed the case. When he pronounced the dismissal, his eyes were looking far away. Perhaps, he was remembering those infant brides, one after another, who could not become his, when the veil of happiness fell, and ‘reality’ pounded upon his life.