Preeti Brahmin
Rajen felt a subtle surge of excitement. He sat at the edge of the gathering while the health workers handed out strips of free ‘Nirodh’ sachets. None of the men was actually keen to catch the other’s eyes through each could feel the gazes — real or imagined — boring into them. Rajen’s ears burnt crimson as he furtively pocketed the folded strips of a dozen sachets. The inner chest pocket of his blazer would be safe. He would have to be careful to cache them safely, what with the house under siege by a pack of wild children! He was exasperated with the situation.
Ah! But Urmi was his only sister and her two children had every right to visit after all. If only they were better behaved though! The six-year-old Seema and seven-year-old Prakriti from the city were mini-celebrities in the village full of relatives. They attracted cousins of their age like magnets. But instead of putting on sophisticated city airs, the two brats shed every shed of decorum and ‘good manners’. They would have to be taken immediately to the haat bazaar to procure their ‘play clothes’ which comprised of oversized cotton bloomers and a light cotton chemise. They would wear exactly what their country cousins preferred right down to some cheap nail polish that was picked up at the footpath with their new attire. The brood of them spent their time building hovels in haystacks, climbing custard apple trees, making expeditions into the forest and riverside, and collecting large, fleshy berries to snack upon. They would hoodwink the guards and break into betel nut orchards. Up the lanky swaying trucks, they would shimmy, feet balanced in an arc with cord around the ankles — just to steal the nuts, rolling them safely into the elastic hemline of their boomers. They hadn’t a taste for the nuts of course. It was the thrill of the entire exercise that they couldn’t pass up. At the end of the day, the brave adventurers would have to be held down at the well-side by someone able-bodied, while they got sudsy washing.
Sharp scratches earned from jumping on the haystacks, would, at the slightest touch of water, inevitably bring on scrams to pierce the dark, lantern-lit evening peace.
That afternoon, Rajen sat on the kitchen bench while his wife, Binny, fried pakoras. They pondered upon the activities of the brood of insuppressible imps and Rajen was secretly happy that he was going to postpone their parenthood. He had riled his father when the stove was set up at the kitchen window with the gas cylinder underneath the table. He hadn’t wanted poor Binny to drink wood smoke at the earthen stove. It would also let Binny keep an eye on the lane outside. He knew his father would never approve of his resorting to any birth control methods either. But he needn’t know that. His secret cache was safe in his blazer pocket anyway. It was tea time and the fragrance of the frying pakoras wafted out the window. Binny’s father-in-law stepped down the creaking steps and shuffled into the kitchen for his tea. The platoon of hungry ruffians would also break in any minute.
Suddenly, there was a stampede outside. There seemed to be some excitement. Rajen and his father sat on the kitchen bench, side by side, looking out the open window. Someone made the sound of a bugle and marched forward. The rest followed in a single file. Cheeks pumped up and blew up an awkward balloon. Every child had one. They marched across the open window proudly blowing the new balloons from the sachets discovered in their uncle’s pocket. Better the balloons than pennies they were hoping to find! Rajen’s father was staring fixedly outside without expression. Rajen and Binni just blinked emptily.
[Brahmin is the author of The Red Lion of the Hills, the biography of Ratanlal Brahmin.]