(Part 1 of 3 part series)
‘Cry! You slut, you bloody witch,’ Manjula, her mother-in-law, shouted at Anagha, ‘it seems that you are sitting for munja, look at the glow on your face.’ There was no way Anagha could have helped her radiantly glowing face, she was indeed so beautiful.
Anagha was sitting in one corner of the cow-dung-plastered veranda. She was wearing a white sari. She sat with her legs forming right angle, her left leg folded, rested on the ground. On her right knee was the left palm, on which was placed the right palm, and her chin relaxed on the top. She looked restless, physically but very composed, mentally. She could not cry despite making desperate attempts. Yes, she was upset. It, however, felt like the woe wasn’t about her husband who lay dead in front of her.
Few men were making preparations with some bamboo sticks, white cloth, gulal, flower garlands, and a steaming pot. He watched everything from behind the huge jackfruit tree; the same tree, under which he and Anagha played, and spent most of their childhood. His mother, Sulekha, had warned him not to go Manjula’s house that day. However, curious Anant could not put his mind to rest.
Elderly women kept crying on top of their voice sitting around the dead body. Men spoke silently to each other. Manjula rushed in and out of her house making arrangements for the funeral. She hurled arrogant looks at Anagha, and cursed her with cruellest of words, ‘Raandechi, there is not a single drop of tear from her eye’, ‘She was waiting for my Chandu to die’, she continued.
Anant felt like running to Anagha. He loved to rest on her back and cling around her neck. But his mother was a fierce woman, dare he disobeyed her. Also, the jackfruit tree was enough to make him feel that he was with Anagha. Anant could not understand anything. He hugged the tree trunk, as hard as he could. His fingers never met.
He kept looking at Anagha’s face from a distance hoping that she would give him a glance, and he could call her to play.
It had been around half a year when he had played with Anagha or even spoken to her. He flew back in times when being with Anagha was so much fun.
Anant played and spent most of time only with Anagha. She used to take a good care of him, during the day time. His mother took care of him after the sunset, the most when she hugged him and slept. Sulekha was a stern woman but loving and caring mother. At times, she used to feed Anant with her own hands, wash and wipe his mouth too. She loved making variety of sweets for her darling. She never spoke about his father, except the he worked at Tahsil office at some faraway place. Villagers, however, gossiped that Sulekha’s husband stays with some Sarode bai across the river. Sulekha tried to dissuade Anant from those talks and asked him not to pay attention to the villagers. Anant always remained in the caring custody of this mother and Anagha, both looked after him lovingly. Anagha more, as Sulekha used to be busy with daily chores and selling pickles, papad, and other homemade eatables to earn livelihood. She sat on the along the highway exhibiting the delicacies to fellow villagers and tourists. The Mumbai-Goa highway was frequented with many tourists.
Anant was born in a beautiful village, very scenic. There were many patches of fields adjoining the highway; boys played cricket on those fields when there was no crop. It took more than twenty minutes to cross those fields. Anant and Anagha ran across the fields holding each other’s hands and then run down a slope that blew clouds of dust behind their stamping feet, straight to the bank of river full of tiny rocks and pebbles. Crossing the river was fun. And then again up the hill for almost thirty minutes to reach home.
Anant’s mother had telescopic eyesight. Her eyes could draw rays of care and motherhood straight from the highway to her home, crossing over the fields, river and trees. That was her tactic of taking care of Anant. She used to exactly point out when and how he had been mischievous with Anagha. Anagha never complained.
Anant played with Anagha only, always. Others spurned Anant. The boys used to hit the cricket ball hard over the fields into the river and ask him to run and get the ball. He used to do a 200 to 300 meter sprint to bring the ball. After three breaths and moments of panting he was made to run again. Village boys and girls used to tie a handkerchief on his eyes and hit hard on his head with their fists or cricket ball. Girls always made him a servant in their game to run errands and fetch things for them. Washing clothes near the village well was another favourite game of theirs. Anant carried buckets of water and tubs of wet clothes for them. Later, he was made to clip the clothes on the drying line. Elders choose to harass him by their pervert acts.
Have you seen a woman or girl removing clothes?’ asked an elderly man whom Anant called kaka. He was taught to say so, to all the elderly men. They were all sitting together smoking chilam while playing a game of cards.
‘No,’ Anant replied, innocently.
A hard slap hit his left cheek, ‘Are you sure? If it is a lie you will get harder than this,’ they all laughed. Anant kept looking at them.
'You have mother at home, right?’ man sitting next to kaka spoke, smoking his chilam hard and blowing a smoke cloud on Anant’s face.
‘Umm,’ he nodded.‘So have you not seen your Mother remove clothes from the cupboard or from the drying line?’ they all burst out in laughter again.He looked at them. He smiled too. Later, he started laughing as well.
Anagha was sitting in one corner of the cow-dung-plastered veranda. She was wearing a white sari. She sat with her legs forming right angle, her left leg folded, rested on the ground. On her right knee was the left palm, on which was placed the right palm, and her chin relaxed on the top. She looked restless, physically but very composed, mentally. She could not cry despite making desperate attempts. Yes, she was upset. It, however, felt like the woe wasn’t about her husband who lay dead in front of her.
Few men were making preparations with some bamboo sticks, white cloth, gulal, flower garlands, and a steaming pot. He watched everything from behind the huge jackfruit tree; the same tree, under which he and Anagha played, and spent most of their childhood. His mother, Sulekha, had warned him not to go Manjula’s house that day. However, curious Anant could not put his mind to rest.
Elderly women kept crying on top of their voice sitting around the dead body. Men spoke silently to each other. Manjula rushed in and out of her house making arrangements for the funeral. She hurled arrogant looks at Anagha, and cursed her with cruellest of words, ‘Raandechi, there is not a single drop of tear from her eye’, ‘She was waiting for my Chandu to die’, she continued.
Anant felt like running to Anagha. He loved to rest on her back and cling around her neck. But his mother was a fierce woman, dare he disobeyed her. Also, the jackfruit tree was enough to make him feel that he was with Anagha. Anant could not understand anything. He hugged the tree trunk, as hard as he could. His fingers never met.
He kept looking at Anagha’s face from a distance hoping that she would give him a glance, and he could call her to play.
It had been around half a year when he had played with Anagha or even spoken to her. He flew back in times when being with Anagha was so much fun.
Anant played and spent most of time only with Anagha. She used to take a good care of him, during the day time. His mother took care of him after the sunset, the most when she hugged him and slept. Sulekha was a stern woman but loving and caring mother. At times, she used to feed Anant with her own hands, wash and wipe his mouth too. She loved making variety of sweets for her darling. She never spoke about his father, except the he worked at Tahsil office at some faraway place. Villagers, however, gossiped that Sulekha’s husband stays with some Sarode bai across the river. Sulekha tried to dissuade Anant from those talks and asked him not to pay attention to the villagers. Anant always remained in the caring custody of this mother and Anagha, both looked after him lovingly. Anagha more, as Sulekha used to be busy with daily chores and selling pickles, papad, and other homemade eatables to earn livelihood. She sat on the along the highway exhibiting the delicacies to fellow villagers and tourists. The Mumbai-Goa highway was frequented with many tourists.
Anant was born in a beautiful village, very scenic. There were many patches of fields adjoining the highway; boys played cricket on those fields when there was no crop. It took more than twenty minutes to cross those fields. Anant and Anagha ran across the fields holding each other’s hands and then run down a slope that blew clouds of dust behind their stamping feet, straight to the bank of river full of tiny rocks and pebbles. Crossing the river was fun. And then again up the hill for almost thirty minutes to reach home.
Anant’s mother had telescopic eyesight. Her eyes could draw rays of care and motherhood straight from the highway to her home, crossing over the fields, river and trees. That was her tactic of taking care of Anant. She used to exactly point out when and how he had been mischievous with Anagha. Anagha never complained.
Anant played with Anagha only, always. Others spurned Anant. The boys used to hit the cricket ball hard over the fields into the river and ask him to run and get the ball. He used to do a 200 to 300 meter sprint to bring the ball. After three breaths and moments of panting he was made to run again. Village boys and girls used to tie a handkerchief on his eyes and hit hard on his head with their fists or cricket ball. Girls always made him a servant in their game to run errands and fetch things for them. Washing clothes near the village well was another favourite game of theirs. Anant carried buckets of water and tubs of wet clothes for them. Later, he was made to clip the clothes on the drying line. Elders choose to harass him by their pervert acts.
Have you seen a woman or girl removing clothes?’ asked an elderly man whom Anant called kaka. He was taught to say so, to all the elderly men. They were all sitting together smoking chilam while playing a game of cards.
‘No,’ Anant replied, innocently.
A hard slap hit his left cheek, ‘Are you sure? If it is a lie you will get harder than this,’ they all laughed. Anant kept looking at them.
'You have mother at home, right?’ man sitting next to kaka spoke, smoking his chilam hard and blowing a smoke cloud on Anant’s face.
‘Umm,’ he nodded.‘So have you not seen your Mother remove clothes from the cupboard or from the drying line?’ they all burst out in laughter again.He looked at them. He smiled too. Later, he started laughing as well.
- Parikshit J.
Categories:
Fiction,
Short Story
