By Krishna Prasad Bhusal
It was the eve of Holi. Almost everyone in Vishnupuram had assembled at a place where dry hay had been piled up high around a tall, bamboo pole. This event had started a fortnight before Holi. Every person had sincerely contributed to the ritual with at least a bale. The villagers felt to make contributions to the preservation of their legacy.
This eve was the time to set fire on the pile of hay that symbolized Holika, sister of Hiranyakashyapu. A few meters away, fire was made in some splinters and tuft. An elderly man took the lead and ignited the symbolic Holika. Soon, the edifice was ablaze. The village brightened. Children and adults got excited, and started cursing the burning Holika for her designs to burn Prahlad. They kept on encircling the fire, rejoicing the destruction of the demon.
The pile turned into ashes. A group of adults headed towards the frontiers of the village. They trespassed into the land of the neighboring village, challenging the men of the village to a duel. Verbal abuses and stone slinging began from both sides, ‘honoring’ the tradition of Holi.
The duel lasted for almost an hour. Then, a unanimous decision was made to rush to the hut where the family of a blacksmith lived. The head of the hut worked for the people of Vishnupuram, making sickles, utensils and such other stuffs. In return for his toil, he annually received not more than a few kilos of grain full of husk from the landlords’ khalihan.
The gang shouted, “Kaluwa, curse on you! Don’t you dare to come out?”
The blacksmith came out, shouting, “Why are you cursing us like that? We have done you no harm!” Then, he retreated inside, but the slander continued.
They chanted in chorus, “Down with Kaluwa! Down with Kaluwa!!”
The blacksmith’s wife yelled, “Why are you cursing us? Do you think you can do without us?”
“It’s a part of our celebration; can curse anyone we like. You bring evil unto us at times.”
The blacksmith let out a short but loud laughter.
Singing and dancing continued for quite a long time. Some boys threw clods of mud close to the hut.
Though poor, the blacksmith always held his head high. He thought it meaningless to continue listening to the curses. Holding a spade-handle in his hand, he chased the gang until it darted beyond the edge of the village.
Though intimidated by a strong and muscular blacksmith and condemned by his wife, the group was determined not to be deterred. Soon another plan was devised.
The rogues ran to the outskirts of Vishnupuram, where a shabby hut stood clearly apart from other houses. Here lived a widow considered to be of an ‘untouchable’ caste, with her two grown-up daughters. The rogues began to hurl offensive words, calling them whores.
The woman came out on the porch. She deciphered the significance of this ritual. It was not the first time these people had used the occasion of Holi to sublimate their disgust against her. But this time she was afraid, because her daughters were grown up.
The curses were not new, either. The mother knew beforehand that they would surely come.
As the crowd reached the widow’s yard like in the past, their first yell was heard: “Come out whores! Not just one; we want to see all three of you!”
The woman thought it unwise to keep on tolerating. She flung back, “Aren’t you wise men? Don’t you have mothers and sisters? Shame on you!”
The men relished her answer, and started singing obscene songs. The exchange of words continued for a long time. The two girls walked out to the porch. They could tolerate no more. Shahniya, the elder one, cried to her mother, “Matari, why don’t you do anything?
How long should we keep listening to their nasty curses?”
“Why, in fact, Matari; why? What wrong have we done to them?” added Budhniya, the younger one.
Matari burst into a shrill cry. She beat her breast and shouted at the men, “Come on, you unworthy and vile men! Don’t you ever fear your wives and daughters can hear you?”
Hearing the widowed mother teach a moral lesson, they called her ‘the whore of the village’ and flung more venom on her integrity, and invited her to share beds with them.
“You can bring your daughters along; we are many,” added their ringleader. Everyone else burst into a demonic laughter.
“Matari, can’t you avoid such beasts? Why to live in such a village if these people don’t show any regard for a woman?” Shahniya entreated.
But the greatest riddle for Budhniya was the cause of being attacked and the reason why it was repeated every time Holi festival was around
“Matari, don’t you realize that they are the meanest creatures on earth, and the most dangerous ones to live near with?” asked Budhniya.
Matari heard her daughters, but thought it better to deal with the rogues instead of answering them.
“Lo and behold! I am the whore of the village; you have rightly pointed out. It’s far better to live the life of a whore than the life of hypocrisy as you do. In the name of celebrating a festival, see what stain you have brought unto yourselves!”
The crowd shouted repeatedly that she was ‘the whore of the village,’ and was training her daughters for the same job. In the fashion of drunkards, they continued their charges against Matari, parodying a song from a popular Hindi film.
The daughters pulled their mother into the hut. Feeling ostracized, they wept bitterly for a long time.
Matari muttered, “I have never been treated decently in this village.” Pointing to Budhniya, she said, “When you were still in my womb, the zamindar made false claims on me. Guruwa, the village priest, cursed and charged me that I was a witch, preying on udders of milk-giving cows and buffaloes. Aided by a band of men, he forced my head into cow-dung and thrust some of it down my gullet.”
She sobbed her heart out. The two daughters held their mother in their arms, but their eyes were fixed upon her countenance.
Taking a deep sigh, Matari continued, “I was also blamed of stealing cow-dung from their sheds. In fact, in the hot afternoons, I often went out to collect cow-dung from the open field that belongs to no one. When everyone was shut inside, I would collect it from fields, and pile it up at the back of our hut.”
Both Shahniya and Budhniya, stricken by intense sorrow, silently listened to Matari express her lived pains and sufferings.
“And the story has continued to this day. Whenever I go to the fields of the zamindar, women treat me as an outcast. They put my nahari on a stone away from them. I have to go there to collect and eat it in isolation!”
Shahniya supported Matari to turn to another direction. “We are outcasts in this village,” she said. Budhniya was in complete accord with her elder sister, “We are condemned to live the lives of wretched creatures.”
Matari collected energy and sat on the cot. Dead silence ruled for a long time.
Breaking the stillness, Matari spoke again, “Another time, I was 41 manhandled by the eldest daughter-in-law of Guruwa. She cursed me several times, and other women joined her. I got a deep cut on my forehead. This mark is still not gone.”
Shahniya joined her mother, “How can we live in this village? Last time when I had gone to collect hay at khalihan, Bikuwa snatched my bundle and threw me on the ground. Uttering all filthy words, he accused me of pulling hay from his stack, and also dared to batter me physically. I had collected hay scattered in the field by storm, not from his stack.”
Budhniya added a portion of her experience, “Whenever I come along in the evening, some loafers surround me daily, abusing me verbally. With difficulty, I break the chain of their hands. I am always short of breath whenever they misbehave.”
“We have no peace in this world, my heeras,” said Matari. A sudden seizure of sobs almost choked her to permanent silence. Slowly, she gathered breath and lamented, “How can I take care of you in my old age and in this village full of enemies? How can I feed you every day? God doesn’t listen to us. The villagers, the zamindar and Guruwa have encased Him in their temple. He has stopped living in the hearts of humans. Who will look after you when I am dead?
“This hut of ours was built by your father when Shahniya was four years old, and Budhniya was in my womb. Early in the morning, your father would leave for the forest. For his meal of the day, I would tie two chapattis at the end of his gamchha. Carrying two boles of wood on his shoulder, he would be back home by nine at night. He had to climb the Chure Hills to collect the boles and to gather flax. He collected these bamboo poles from the banks of Turia River where dead bodies are burned. He would also go out to collect grass for roof and the walls.”
A faint light that came from their diya was getting dimmer. After flickering for a few seconds, it went out. There was no more kerosene to light it again. The mouths of Matari, Shahniya, and Budhniya had gone dry.
While they mused about their plight, they did not know when the gang went away. Though it was almost midnight, the full-moon shone brightly on the three women from the western sky. Tiranga—the constellation of three stars—appeared and watched them solemnly from the sky.
The first crow in Vishnupuram would call the break of the day in a few hours. The sun would soon usher Holi. Almost all the villagers were fast asleep in their warm beds in anticipation of the festival of colors. The dogs at the mansion of the zamindar continued to bark. The lips of Shahniya and Budhniya were dry but their eyes glittered with tears. They were thinking of something different, perhaps!
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[Krishna Prasad Bhusal (M.A) finds interest in teaching language and training teachers. He writes stories and critical research essays. His contribution to the translation of Nepali literature into English— especially children’s literature and adult stories—has been incredible. He has also edited a number of school textbooks and reference materials. His original writing is characterized by folk imageries and subaltern voices.]