By Pratiksha Shah
Sweltering heat pervades Narayangadh. It’s almost noon. Roads gleam, as vapor rises from the melting tar.
A woman walks briskly across a narrow galli. This single mother of three small children is on a mission. She pleads at doorsteps to wash dirty clothes and dishes for some money in return. People move their head in refusal. She dreads to think about her hungry children.
Her body is drenched in perspiration.
Her pace quickens; every step she takes makes her heart heavy:
What if she fails in her mission?
What if they have to go hungry yet again?
What if she gets no work?
She knocks. Doors are slammed at her face. The stigma of her husband’s death by AIDS follows her around. Since then, she has been living the life of an untouchable.
Sometimes she relies solely on charity. Whenever she goes to a neighboring town to work, tales of her husband travel with her.
Disappointment after disappointment chases her everywhere. Her past is merged with her present. There goes the abhagini; there goes the curse of the town. Why is the landlord tolerating her in his house; why doesn’t he throw her out? She is like a virus in our town; don’t let her brats come near your children; don’t let her venture near your house; what a contamination! Can’t wait to be rid of them…ill omen…
Words are painful. Each day brings new challenges.
The Radha Krishna Temple is her sole refuge. She sits in the small garden behind the Temple, lost in thoughts.
People are chanting hymns: Radhe Shyam, Radhe Shyam Radhe Radhe…The world becomes surreal…her inner world is filled with turmoil… there is no way out…Radhe Shyam, Radhe Shyam. . .
Chants grow louder. The rising tempo stifles her. The overpowering smell and smoke of burnt incense sticks… Temple bells ringing in her ears are unbearable. People stare at her. They see through her as if she is invisible. The whole atmosphere is oppressive. She gets up to leave.
From across the Temple, the pujari calls, “Come here; take some prasad for your children.” He hands over some tika, flowers and a big tapari. The mother heaves a sigh of relief; it would feed her children that day . . .
On the way home, she pauses at the bazaar.
There is a hard glint in her eyes.
She enters the chemist’s.
Takes a packet and slips it inside her blouse.
Her children are playing in the streets. Quietly, she enters her room.
At the corner, there is kerosene stove and some empty tins scattered here and there like her scattered hopes…scattered dreams.
She takes out the rice, dal, potato, and ginger from the tapari and pours into a dekchi. She pauses just a little while, just a little while. The moment fleets away…She takes out the packet from her blouse and mixes the contents into the dish, stirring the dekchi vigorously. Then she strikes a matchstick to light the stove.
The children barge into the room: “Ma, Ma, when did you come? We are very hungry…you promised to make something special for us today.”
The walls of the room reverberate with their cries. She is concentrating on the dish, stirring the dekchi with a spatula in a rhythmic motion as if her very life depended on it…in a trance, like a monk in deep meditation.
Kerosene stench, hot air, sweat, hunger, tears…The mother finally speaks to the eldest one: “Spread the newspaper on the floor and sit down all of you. I will serve.”
All are eager to taste the special dish. “Ma, what is this dish called?”
She replies, “Tripti.”
“What a strange name for a dish!”
The mother replies with a weird smile, “Tripti means satisfaction. You’ll love it.”
The children feel privileged. They eat the meal in silence. The mother eats the last portion from the dekchi…Kerosene stench, hot air, sweat, hunger, tears…all rising like the trailing smoke of a burnt candle light…
The children lie down on the floor and close their eyes. She kisses her children’s forehead and places herself next to them. Eyes are closed tight.
Night creeps in slowly like a silent intruder. Soon, the whole town is enveloped in darkness.
Sing me no song of hope
Sing me no song of joy
Just let me sleep in peace
Just let me close my eyes
Let me sleep, let me sleep
Don’t wake me up tomorrow…
Night, oh Night!
Hide me in the folds of your dark robes
Sing me a lullaby
Engulf me in your arms
Don’t want to see the light of day
Don’t want to wake up tomorrow…
Just take me in your arms
Let me rest,
Let me sleep
Tired I am, so tired
Let me close my eyes
Don’t want to wake up tomorrow…
Tears, my tears,
Drench my soul
I have no courage to face another day
Tired I am, so tired
So don’t wake me up,
Let me rest.
The next day, the landlord knocks on her door, “Baini, open the door, Baini . . . !”
There is no response. He breaks open the door. There they are…lying serenely on the floor…in eternal slumber…breath snuffed out…like the light of the tuki overturned in a corner.
***
[Shah, M.Phil in English from Pokhara University is a poet and storywriter. Her stories have appeared by collections like Crosswords and Hulaki. She is also a social worker, based in Kathmandu.]