By Rajendra Bimal
This story is not one of Shravan Kumar the Puranas mention; it is the story of Sarbé, a character from the present time. It’s true that his name in the voters’ list published during the Panchayat era too appeared as Shravan Kumar. I have no idea about the lifetime of Shravan Kumar One. Shravan Kumar Two was born on December 3, 2050. The first one had blind parents; the parents of the second one had cataracts in their eyes. Both had been badly crushed under the anvil of poverty.
Both had been born in the forest. Number One was, by citizenship, an Indian, while Number Two is a pure Nepali Shravan Kumar. Number One never had to bear hassles from his brothers; Number Two has a younger brother Darshan Kumar aliasDarsé.
The two ShravanKumars had many things in common. Sarbé, or Shravan Kumar Two was born in the Ramechhap District of Nepal. Member of a family that could hardly feed corn-porridge twice a day, he went into the forest, collected and sold wood, and brought home some scanty bucks to keep his blind parents living. For this, he had become a subject of appreciation in the entire village. The blind parents took pride in their son.
When moustaches started lining the part above the upper lips of Shravan Kumar Two, he felt flashes of the currents of smiles and bantering emanating from the beautiful maids of his age, both in the forest and his heart. However, he raised a strong embankment in the flow of his emotions. Drowned in the sea of devotion for his parents, Shravan Kumar thought, ‘The time today is untellable; you never know what kind of a spouse you will find. She won’t perhaps put a band around her eyes and get ready to serve my blind parents. And…? Should I escort my blind parents to pilgrimage sites, or hanker after my youthful wife, placing her atop my head and giving her a ride around town squares?’
At last, Shravan Kumar Two decided to dump his youthful cravings into the sea of his love for his parents, and get them doused for once and for all. He decided, he would not leave any stone unturned to serve his parents, what if he had to sacrifice his life!
In the meantime Darshan Kumar, the younger brother of Shravan Kumar, secretly sneaked into India with some of his roughish friends. Before leaving, he didn’t forget to pull out mohor mala—garland of coins—off his mother’s neck at the dead of the night. Hearing his wife’s wailing, when the blind man started groping his way in the dark and crying out, the lout smothered his mouth, and beat him black and blue. Shravan Kumar was deeply saddened to see his parents’ plight, and started crying. But, Darshan Kumar had made his way by then.
For Shravan Kumar, this was a moment of crisis. He was left alone to attend to every task, including the care of his parents. He had a lot of chores to do: collect firewood in the forest, take them to market and sell, and do every single domestic work.
Shravan Kumar Two was quite envious of Shravan Kumar One. He thought, ‘How lucky he is! He dauntlessly roamed around the forest, picked fruits and fed his parents.’ Of late, however, the Forest Ministers had eaten-up the forest, leaving nothing but clearings everywhere. In the little patch that was spared, poor villagers like him had no entry.
One day, while picking oranges from the orchard of his neighbour KaluMagar, Shravan Kumar One was caught. His hand was twisted so badly that for six months, he could not use it properly. As he was thrashed on the ground, his kachhad and bhoto got frayed. He applied a paste of turmeric and lime on the bruises and continued to writhe all through the night. Yet, he endured through this very curse of the twentieth century with joy in the name of his parents. He continued to bear the pain.
When he received a letter from his loving brother after twenty years, Shravan Kumar was not only flabbergasted, but also quite happy. As he went through the lines of the letter, he was seized by indignation. The letter said, “Feeding me corn-grit porridge, you raised me among wild beasts, making me savage like boars and bears. Long back, I didn’t know the ways of the world. Once in town, I saw the world, and with that, its meaning has changed for me. I am building a home in Calcutta. I smuggle to live, and am going well with my earning. I have married a Punjabi girl. Only now I have started understanding why people call the Nepalese people ‘savage’. I have two sons; both attend an English-medium school. Very soon, I will come to the village for a single day, and return to Calcutta with parents to get their eyes operated. I shall come home with Malayapos and salwar piece for Father and phairya and cholo for Mother.” The letter nowhere mentioned that his brother was bringing at least something for him. He read the letter, back and forth, time and again. The image of his younger brother flashed in front of his eyes.
The old couple too heard him read the letter. The old man’s face lighted up with a glow, while the woman’s heart started rippling with the waves of love. Both commented with satisfaction, “Darsé has changed into a man!” They meant, Sarbé i.e. Shravan Kumar was a beast proper, while Darsé had become a man with sound earning. Shravan Kumar felt as though someone was piercing his heart with a sharp needle.
Darshan Kumar returned to the village. The entire village resounded with the news of his return, as though it were a big incident. The joy of the old couple was beyond limits. Darshan Kumar declared: “Let’s find potters; I am leaving with parents for Calcutta early tomorrow.”
Shravan Kumar waited to see if his brother offered to take him to Calcutta as well. All his life, he had stayed back in Ramechhap, tending the barren soil. His gods—those he worshipped all his life—were now all set to move away. But now, for whom was he obliged to continue lingering there? He too dreamt to see how grand the city of Calcutta really looked! Trams and trains, electric light glimmering likes fire-flies, cinema with pictures that danced, sang and talked! But then, his brother didn’t propose even once to take him to the city!
The parents started showing off, puffed by the prospect of visiting such a great city. Darsé got busy, collecting the oldies’ stuffs and packing them in a trunk. Shravan Kumar waited impatiently, anticipating if his brother or parents would ask, at least once, to accompany them to the metropolis. But seeing the swaggers and manners of Darsé, the oldies could not conjure the guts to ask Shravan Kumar to accompany.
The next morning, Shravan Kumar stood upon a small earthen mound on a cold, stony Himalayan hill in Ramecchap and blankly gazed at his blind parents and beloved brother move out of home and disappear behind the hills. When they were out of sight, he felt his cheeks and wiped the incessant gush of tears dry with the sleeve of his tattered jacket. Biting both his jaws together, he subdued the gush of emotions erupting out of his heart, and moved away from the lawn to his home that looked like a haunted place, where the invisible history of his love for parents was telling him something in an unintelligible language.
Shravan Kumar could keep no record of the number of days, months, and years he passed in this state of depression. After some time, he got yet another letter with Darsé’s hands on it. When he opened it, he found it to be the handiwork of his father, scribbled in broken alphabets. In gist, the letter said, “I am passing an extremely pleasurable life with Darshan, daughter-in-law, and grandchildren. Both of us—I and your mother—got our eyes operated! What to talk of the city of Calcutta! It’s Indralok in reality! We can say, the doctors here are big magicians. We can now see all the glittering scenes of the world now. We saw, man can lay stairs to heaven at the strength of money. You served us well, granted! But you could not give us happiness as Darsé did. And the reason is money, you know. We are deeply pleased with Darsé’s care. It feels, Darsé is our real Shravan Kumar.”
This sentence, “It feels, Darsé is our real Shravan Kumar” resounded in his mind several times. At the end of the letter, the old man had clearly stated: “In this age, a pauper son can never be his father’s Shravan Kumar. If you can, do some learning and come to Calcutta. Smuggling happened to fetch good cash here. If not, you can at least go to Janakpur. You can ferry foreign goods across the border from Bhittamod. Darsé was saying, he would surely help you even though you never helped him.”
Sarbé, i.e. Shravan Kumar Number Two, could not make out what ‘smuggling’ meant. He read the word several times, but there was nothing for him to understand. Yes, there was one thing he clearly made out: all these days, he was thinking in vain to give his parents a ride to pilgrimage sites as mythical Shravan Kumar did, carrying them on panniers hung from his shoulders. He should have, instead, run after money. These days, the trains run and the aeroplanes fly. What a fool he was!
Thinking so, he burst out into a loud laughter, and continued laughing for a while. Together with laughter, a few drops of tears rolled down his eyes, fell on the ground in Ramechhap and disappeared in front of his eyes.
Translated by Mahesh Paudyal
[Rajendra Bimal (b. 1947), PhD, is a renowned poet and storywriter. Professor of Nepali at Tribhuvan University, he writes in many languages, including Maithili, Nepali and Hindi. His published works include Chan Ahan Udasi Chhi (Maithili novel) and Rajendra Bimalka Kathaharu (stories).]