Original story by Juri Baruah
Translated by Ranjita Biswas
The whiff of beef curry was floating in the air. Those who were familiar with the smell could easily imagine the rich colour of the thick curry. The smell travelled erratically along the railway track. Even the Inter City train’s speed could not erase it. It didn’t wait, like people on either side of the track, to let the train pass. It went travelling on its own steam, uncaring. Some people waiting there tried to ignore the smell. Rudreswar the Brahmin from the Padumoni village, looked rather grotesque as his nose contracted. Manohar Lal, compounder at the Hanuman tea estate, seemed unconcerned as if nothing was amiss. The girl working in the new beauty parlour at the tri-junction- the one with the Shilpi bindi on her forehead- I have forgotten her name, fiddled with the dupatta of her salwar suit trying to arrange it carefully. Near the parlour, under a shed, old dressmaker Hafiz-kai (we shortened kakai, elder brother, to kai) always seen bent over the sewing machine, paused a bit. Whether he too could smell the curry was difficult to make out from here. He looked as though he was counting the compartments of the train passing by. Only when Padmeswar, the ploughman, tinkled the cycle bell he seemed to wake up to consciousness.
Consciousness? What does it mean?
Is it like the sense of smell?
Nobody can see it. Yet even if invisible, it continues to work. It remains, alive and elusive, refusing to be caught hold of.
Like consciousness, nobody can block the smell in the air. No rule, no policeman, no fear of jail, no temple, no masjid, can outlaw it. It goes on its way independently. So the whiff of the beef curry did not bother that it could be recognised by the people. When it glided from the window of the Muslim house on the other side of the track and travelled to the backyards of houses in the Ahom colony on this side, politics did not enter its realm.
In fact, so many different smells travelled around- stark, unhindered, in the air- in the whistle of the trains running on the broad gauge line recently promoted from meter gauge, in the window of the shop that opened only in the evening. From the latter, Hasina and Pubali surreptitiously bought packets of fried green peas. They were greedy for the savoury, the packets bought for five rupees each but that seemed to be worth ten rupees. When she tried to peep through the window of the shop to look beyond, Hasina could get the whiff of pork curry and home churned rice beer. But they found the smell of the fried green peas much more enticing. Hasina’s hungry eyes and Pubali’s impatient fingers attacked the paper packets voraciously.
At that moment- yes exactly at that moment, did Pubali smell the beef curry in Hasina’s frilled frock? They had even pulled each other’s hair during a kabadi match if one tried to cheat. But that was soon forgotten and they raced to the hillock near the bridge- running parallel to the train, their hair flying, their trilling laughter carried by the air. The hillock resonated with the sound of their laughter and the bridge ricocheted with a sound of jhan..jhan...jhan as the train passed by.
Their childhood was full of so many moments like these. Even much later, it was still uncomplicated and rich with unquestioning friendship and laughter.
If the stall of Bapukon-daiti, they called him daiti-uncle, did not open for three to four days Hasina became worried. She could not concentrate and so lost in the game of kabadi. Not that Pubali escaped from the worry. The smell of the fried green peas beckoned her. True, they could also buy fried green peas at Putul-da’s shop at the corner of the road in their village. As other things too. Wooden spoons with tamarind. Bubble Gum. But the green peas here did not have the same aroma. Instead, they could get the smell of petrol. Putul-da used to sell the oil filled in plastic bottles. The young men who rode their bikes to Borsil bought petrol from him and on their way teased the girls of the village. Putul-da did not mind; he was too much of a businessman.
On Sundays, the Naga women from the hills came down, their cane baskets full of bamboo shoot, Naga pulses, dry bamboo shoot pickle, wild yam, chilli powder. They did not stop by Putul-da’s shop, they went to Bapukon-daiti’s . He did not sell anything at daytime but on these days he sold salt and soap to the Naga women. They would open the packets of Lux soap and smell it. After they left, the front yard of the old man’s shop smelt of Lux soap.
Even if Hasina tried to force her, Pubali balked at the idea of visiting Putul-da’s shop. One reason was that on the bench at its front, a group of unrecognised geniuses of the village congregated. If they saw her they called her and asked: Tell us why the earth is round. Who first discovered the steam engine? What is meant by the Leap Year? If she failed to answer they would tut-tut – what do the school teachers do these days? Nothing!
So she restrained Hasina, telling her, ‘Forget about the tamarind chutney and Hajmola. Wait a bit, those things will be available at Bapukon-daiti’s shop soon’.
As Pubali predicted, these tempting things soon appeared at Bapukon-daiti’s shop. But he hardly bothered to display them. He gave away a packet of Sargam free with green pea packets. Hasina still tried to peep into the compound beyond the window. But daiti would shoo them off , scolding, ‘Go, go home! Your mothers must be waiting with their bamboo sticks ready.”
When he spoke they sniffed the smell of cigarette. Mixed with it was also an inner distress, a regret, which he tried hard not to show.
“The old man won’t die for a while, his voice tells me.”
When Pubali said that, Hasina stopped midway. Pubali too slowed down. Their innocent exuberance and naughtiness suddenly got shadowed by the fear of a loss. Pubali then craned her neck up and poured the contents of the Saragam packet in her throat. The throat tingled with the sour taste. She finished off the packet at one go and forgot that her tuition teacher was coming to her house.
In the afternoon when she returned home after roaming around the whole day, her mother dashed out. Instead of the bamboo stick in her hand she held the pointed bamboo shola used at her loom.
Pubali did not have a chance.
‘You despicable girl, so you want to go around like a cow without a leash the whole day? How dare you? I have been looking for a teacher for so long and got one at last. But look at her, she is not at home when he comes. You’ll bring shame to the family, I tell you. You are getting worse by the day. Don’t forget you are a girl!”
Pubali was often reminded that she was a girl. It did not bother her any more. But how could she go to meet her friends when her calves bore the signature of her mother’s bamboo shola? So she put the empty packet of Sargam inside the pocket without a chain in her school bag and stayed home.
Rahmat Sir, liked by everybody, came again the next day. Pubali forgot the pain on her calves as she saw him. She removed the magazines, Prantik and Mukuta from the only table in the portico to make space and brought her maths book. She could smell the nice aatar coming out from Sir’s body.
At that moment Pubali remembered about the sanchi trees in their backyard. Sometimes when he was short of money, her father sold off one of them. Hasina had told her that from the tree one could even make aatar. For two days in a week, Rahmat Sir left behind the remnants of the perfume in the portico of Pubali’s house. Once its whiff disappeared, Pubali arranged the magazines on the table again.
Even afterwards, did Pubali, her parents, grandmother and the naughty brother smell the beef curry? Perhaps they did but found no reason to object. Or perhaps they could not recognize where it came from. Or, even if they did, they did not mind. In all likelihood, that smell was accepted as just a simple, day-to-day affair.
When Pubali attained puberty, for the ritual ‘wedding’- shanti biya- according to the local custom, ‘Ammi’, Hasina’s mother, presented her with a long, frilled frock. Hasina was yet to cross the door into puberty. So she was free from the restrictions now put on Pubali.
Those days- when they munched on the fried green peas and roamed around or played kabadi, had now disappeared from Pubali’s adolescent life. She now braided her curly, unmanageable hair. When she went to school, she went a little earlier deliberately so that the gate at the level crossing of the railway track would be shut and she could check on Bapukon daiti’s shop.
The shop was there at the same spot all right. The hut careened a bit to the side due to disrepair. The amlokhi tree next to it lent it a welcome shade. Like grandchildren to old couples.
But many things had changed, unlike Bapukon-daiti’s shop. Pubali and Hasina witnessed many of these changes- names and characteristics, the inability to differentiate between the normal way and yelling while trying to make a point. One Sunday, when Pubali’s family were having a sumptuous lunch with pork curry cooked with bamboo shoot bought from the Naga bazar, ploughman Padmeswar came running to inform them that Bapukon-daiti’s only son Ananta was found murdered. Pubali’s mother left the lunch plate unfinished. The pork curry cooked in the iron wok had lost its taste instantly. The news travelled quickly like a forest fire.
Bapukon-daiti’s father was a well-known personality in this area. He was one of those fighting for India’s freedom. A soldier who did not dream of a land divided between Hindus and Muslims. All these things Pubali and the children heard from the discussions among the elders. The man did not ask for anything after Independence. Disillusioned, he kept on living in the same bamboo cottage. Bapukon-daiti’s anger at his father doubled at the sight of the withered house. One day, he was compelled to question his father- what idealism you are talking about, what’s this country you fought for where one family takes the name of king and reigns over the subjects?
After his father died, Bapukon-daiti built this shed near the railway track and opened his shop. Well, it was apology of a shop selling nothing much- the home brewed rice beer prepared by his mother and pork curry. At first, the villagers passed sarcastic comments at this downfall of the son of a freedom fighter; they criticised him and even abused him verbally. But Bapukon-daiti stuck to his stand. He had sold all the paddy fields they had owned to meet the expenses of treatment of his ailing father. He had to earn some money to keep the home fire burning; his old mother was with him too; did they advise him to starve?
It was his self-defense but underneath was also a simmering resentment. This was his way of defiance against the country- the society- the system. Bapukon-daiti could not take up the gun- could not go shouting slogan on the highway- he did not want to visit office after office in the town to buy a job. So he used to say, ‘Let it be; I’ll stay in the village and protest in my own way’. The children learnt all this when their mothers talked about Bapukon-daiti.
After that incident of the murder, Rahmat Sir stopped coming to teach Pubali. A suppressed nervousness seemed to suck in everything around. Except for the trains that passed by, everything else seemed to stop moving. Pubali could not meet Hasina as before. There was a time when she fought with others wanting to include Hasina in their group while going dancing for Jeng-Bihu. Pubali’s aunt was yet to get married. She took out her box of multicoloured powder and put on their foreheads bright red spots. Below the big red spot she also had put a small black one. Hasina’s bun was rather big with her smooth silky hair. She looked beautiful but Pubali did not feel jealous. Rather she was proud to show off her friend when they went visiting the households in the village - dancing as per custom of Rongali Bihu.
Pubali paused, lost in the long narrative of memory. Memories- so rich and luxurious, but one does not have to pay for them; they come by themselves. They come in a file to wait in the wings and then like a whirlwind, churn with reminiscences in a mind disturbed by the present. These lazy political times cannot stop them from coming.
When Pubali wanted to go to Hasina’s place for celebrating Eid, her mother did not say no. She did not scold her when she took out from the only almirah in the house her ‘Bihu’ frock, still new. As she parted her hair in the middle, Pubali peeped into the hollow of the bamboo pole in the verandah where she had cut a hole and made it her saving bank. Should she take out some money? Her father could read her mind and gave her a ten rupee note. Pubali’s solemn face had brightened instantly. She ran to Bapukon- daiti’s shop with the note in her hand.
If today, just once, she could smell the fried green peas and halwa with cashewnut, she would return to her innocent childhood , something long gone by.
The forecourt of Hasina’s house with their Bougenvillia plants had now Hasnahana flowers blooming. They filled her adolescence with their perfume. Under the starry sky she had returned home walking by the road skirting the railway track after enjoying the Eid feast. But she and Hasina in their ignorance never thought that this it would be the last time they were together thus.
The government had changed- the contour of the people’s groups was changing- their problems, their argument, even the tests of tolerance and patience were changing rapidly.
There was no way to know whether the window to Bapukon-daiti’s shop opened or not. Pubali’s brother Rontu was not a customer of that shop like Pubali and Hasina. For their group, new kinds of packets were arriving. Things that were available in the globalised world. Packets of potato Chips, Kur-kuri, pouches of jam and jelly brightened Putul-da’s shop. The petrol bottles had by now disappeared from there. In their place hung colourful posters offering recharge facilities of mobile phones.
But even then the sound of the afternoon kettle drum had emanated from the village temple, namghar. During exams, Pubali and friends got up at the call of the azan at dawn and at the sound of the evening azan, sat at their study table.
For Pubali, the end of her friendship with Hasina was rooted at Bapukon-daiti’s son’s death. At least, she blamed it for this loss. People were slowly forgetting about the incident. But they did not cross over to the other side of the railway track as before. The path near the railway track stood as a dividing line between Hasina and Pubali. An undefined line that teaches both sides to accept ‘we are different from each other.’ The more that line extended, the more Bapukon-daiti’s shop bent sideways.
At the bend of the road leading to the namghar, a liquor shop came up where people gathered to drink even at daytime. That bright young man who sometimes asked them questions like why the earth was round sitting on a bench in front of Putul-da’s shop, even he had opened a dhaba selling liquor. The only difference was, instead of fried chana, he sold chilli chicken and tandoori roti. Oh, not to forget, on the huge TV screen you could always see figures in vulgar dance movements.
These things were discussed by the women who gathered in their courtyards in the afternoon, helping each other to pick grey hair or nits from their hair. Pubali eavesdropped while cleaning the chimney of the table lamp. From their gossip, she seemed to get the unsavoury smell of roasted legs of ducks.
‘After doing so well in studies, this is what he has brought to the village?” they discussed.
’Didn’t you see that day the youngest son of Pitamabar and that uncouth man, what’s his name—actually we shouldn’t take his name- he ogles at the girls all the time- both of them stood against the headlight of a car and standing there, peed...’
Aunt Geeta did not bother about Pubali’s presence while divulging to her mother all the gossip of the next village. You could call it gossiping about others, or criticism. Nattering about others kept the women happy in the afternoon, enough to keep them away from the TV. But it was also a kind of warning about the future.
The warning was sounded to Pubali too. As to every young girl in the village. Even in the caution, there was a certain smell. That of the body. The odour of the monthly menstruation, and at other times the aroma of Himani cream and perfume. Pubali or Hasina in their days of wild freedom could never imagine that even smell can signal a certain age.
Even then you could see, through the gaps in the compartments of the running train, all those familiar faces- Rudreswar the Brahmin from the Padumoni village looking rather ugly with his contracted nose, compounder Manohar Lal’s expressionless face, the impatient girl with Shilpi bindi on her forehead from the beauty parlour , the tired eyes of old dressmaker Hafiz-kai , the mud covered legs of ploughman Ratneswar and in the middle, there was Ananta, Bapukon-daiti’s son- and his wife Arfeen.
Ananta and Arfeen did not go by the rules. They did not believe in set boundaries. They did not object to any kind of smell. Was this refusal was Ananta’s way of protesting at the prevailing time? A time when mistakes and crime blurred the lines. The namghar that was built following Guru Sankardev’s philosophy of no discrimination among people was now a place where people were talking about castes and religious divides. Together, the people seemed to suddenly get the smell of the beef curry. From the masjid from where the pure call of azan cleansed people’s minds, came out people with their eyes reflecting unsaid words like kafir.
And like this, the days were merging into a blanket of oblivion. In that state of forgetfulness, the bloated dead body of Ananta floating on the Nafuk stream became a symbol of useless protest. That evening, even the train booming across the railway track had not been able to suppress the heart-rending cries. Namghar, masjid, the pundits and maulavis- nobody expected to solve the problem of those screams. Yet they had set the rules - went by them – kept the rules alive.
Eventually as time accepted these rules, one day Hasina and Pubali again faced each other, standing on both sides of the railway track. In their childhood, together, they had learnt to count the number of compartments of the passing trains. But their adolescence taught them to count the rings in the boundary line of resentment and revenge.
When the gate at the level crossing lifted, both Hasina and Pubali tried to move from their designated places. They again wanted to smell each other. And question the arrogant rules. They understood why, when the sound of the evening azan drifted out from the masjid, a recorded reading of the Gita-paath was played with a loud volume in the namghar.
Yet, nobody could hide the smell of the beef curry. They could not forget either the taste of the pork curry at Bapukon-daiti’s shop. And thus, Pubali and Hasina were approaching a debate on ‘it was not there before.’
They advanced towards each other and met again across the railway line- where there were explanations galore about the minority, the cow thieves was a daily topic, the story of Deendayal Upadhyaya like Gayatri mantra, and the increasing divide among people was the TRP of the media. The scene on the other side seen through the gaps in the train compartments seemed to be same, the dupatta on the girl’s shoulders slipped again and again, but people had humps on their backs burdened with intolerance.
Pubali and Hasina had taken deep breaths. The smell of beef or pork was not there in their breathing. That smell had lost its individual identity forcibly layered with a tinge of saffron. That breath was on sale, the price measured on the scale of conscience and idealism. That smell was pierced, again and again, by shards of glass made of differences and dividing lines. We had forgotten what our names were– farmer, labourer, opposition leader, lover, common man, aam admi, but we knew that the smell clung to our bodies nonetheless.
We could not return to ‘before’ from its clutch.
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