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The Invitation
A r u p a P a t a n g i a K a l i t a
Just below the mango tree (the one that grows those small delicious mangoes) was the figure of a woman carying a small basket and picking something, probably some
leafy vegetables. As I drew near, she turned to look at me : "What are you doing here Baidew?" In the beginning I did feel a bit awkward being addressed a Baidew by such
an elderly woman. But time makes everything easier and there was also some sort of respectability in that word. I went near her and asked : "What are you doing? Trying
to pick some edible ferns?" There was a kind of urgency in what she was doing. "With all the boys and girls scouring about the place will anything remain here?" Her
basket contained just a little of these ferns. Our kitchen garden could boast of a variety of these ferns and I suggested to her : "You can pick some from our garden." She
did not move. "Come, come, we can hardly finish all that, and once these ferns and vegetables grow old they can hardly be eaten. We are soon going to clear the area, mix
cow-dung with the soil and sow some new seeds."
She walked hesitantly towards our house and drank, rather reluctantly, the cup of tea that I had offered. Just before leaving she looked at me : "Baidew will you pay us a
visit sometimes?" "I will try to make it some evening." She appeared startled : "You will come just like that? But where will I make you sit? What will I offer you? No, no,
you must come when I invite you" She smiled and left soon after. When she lifted her mekhela to walk over the bamboo fence, there was barely any difference between the
dried bamboo poles and her shrivelled ankles.
She lived just across the fence, and was known in the neighbourhood as Mrs Sarma. She often reminded one of a dark moonless night – her
dark complexion, her broad lips that became broader when she smiled, her teeth just about to fall off and her wavy hair with touches of grey.
But there was an appeal in her eyes. When one looked at her face endearingly, her eyes would shine like the lone star in the dark moonless
night. Her wide eyes bore some pain, almost like that of a frightened deer.
Everything about Sarma’s house reeked of poverty – the cracks in the roof, the compound without the fence, the toilet with a sack used in
place of a door, and the slippery and muddy area surrounding the well. Mr Sarma was a handsome man and his children had inherited his
handsome looks. Her sons were full of fads and fancies, but none of them had managed to cross the school level. I often saw her fair daughter
fluttering her eyelids and talking to a long-haired young man. People say that there was a time when Mr Sarma had been the owner of a big
shop at the heart of the town, but vices like drinking and gambling led to its closure. Though apparently serious his nature was such that,
while talking to young ladies he could never remain still. From what I have gathered Mrs Sarma had belonged to a well-to-do family in Jorhat.
Her common looks had driven away many an eligible young man, and it was feared that she would stand in the way of her younger siblings. Soon her father found Sarma
for his daughter. Sarma was eligible to become the son-in-law of the affluent Chakravarty family from two points – his handsome looks and the sacred thread on his body.
His father-in-law had set up the business for him. The sons finished off whatever was left of it. Now all that remained was the decaying house and the half katha of land, and
in this small patch of land Sarma’s wife grew varieties of flowers – chrysanthemums, gardenias and marigolds. The courtyard was swept clean and an earthen lamp was
lighted before the tulsi plant every evening.
But the fragrance of the flowers in her garden could hardly linger in the presence of the smell of liquor and meat. Her feeble rendering of prayers before Goddess Lakshmi
could barely be heard over the commotion in the house, and there were times when even the lamps were crushed under the pressure of heavy boots. It was during such
times that the distraught woman would sit under that mango tree till the late hours of the night braving the snakes and frogs. My heart would often skip a beat when the
commotion in their house went out of control. At such moments the woman would inevitably sit near the fence and weep her heart out. Very often I would call her over and
offer a cup of tea. However I could never persuade her to take a meal at my place. When the noise subsided she would always part with the words : "Please come over
when I invite you to our place." I would readily agree : "Yes, yes, why not?"
* * *
From what I could gather from my place the rooms in Mrs Sarma’s house were mostly lying vacant. Our neighbours would often speak of the kind of dowry, one loaded
truck that is, that Mrs Sarma had brought along with her and how husband and sons had finished off everything. There was a sarai made of brass with intricate designs that
would almost reach the height of a man’s waist. She would often polish it and place it under the sun. The way she would guard it with a stick, to keep away the crows, it
was as if she was trying to preserve not the sarai but her lost maidenhood.
One night at about ten O’clock when the sound of her weeping reached my ears, I went out and flashed my torch at the area just below the mango tree. There stood Mrs
Sarma clutching the shining sarai close to her bosom. At a little distance away stood Sarma with unsteady feet, grumbling to himself : "Look at the vanity of this owlish
woman! Ha! Showing off her father’s property? All these days has anyone come to have a look at your dark face?" He was clearly drunk and kept slurring his words, and
it was only when he disappeared from sight did the woman stand up and turn to me : "I have lost everything and now only the sarai remains. I have three sons and a
daughter and someday when there is a puja in the household the offerings will be made on this sarai. I will never part with this." The fragile woman somehow lifted the sarai
up to take it back home. When I showed her the way with the help of my torch, her back quivered again and again. I did not have to look at her face to know that she was
weeping.
One morning, I opened the door and there was Mrs Sarma crouching on the doorsteps. I called out: "Mrs Sarma!" The tone of my voice must have startled her, and like a
mother sheltering her babies she did something under her clothes. Just a glance was enough to tell me that it was the sarai again. I looked around for the man with the
unsteady feet but did not find him. I offered her a stool to sit on, and went out to the gate and there stood a lungi clad, fair and clean-cut young man. As soon as I opened
the gate he walked in to look for his mother. The woman covered the sarai and sat still. I went forward and asked him "What happened?" He smiled meekly at me and
replied: "The Sub Deputy Collector’s wife is very fond of me and has offered to give me a job through her husband. Everything is settled, only ..." He paused. The whole
neighbourhood knew that Sarma’s eldest son used to sell lottery tickets and had been once arrested by the police. There was a rumour that the women residing in the
government quarters were getting terribly hooked to the game of lottery. The boy’s association with the Sub Deputy Collector’s wife was also not unknown. The young man
now came near his mother: "Come on, give this sarai to me. You know how fond Baidew is of these old things. Once the job is mine I will buy you another one. No, no,
why will she give it to me?" He looked at her resentfully : "Now say, you have four sons and a ..." The handsome face now assumed a monstrous look. The woman barked
at him: "I have already said no and now don’t go on." The young man walked out in a huff.
Mrs Sarma had a cup of tea with me: "Baidew, my daughter had attained puberty last year and I had to perform the puja myself. I had planned to invite some women for
naam prasanga, but now a year has passed ..." Her voice was choked: "The annual shraddha ceremony of my parents fall on the same full moon day and I had planned to
perform the Satyanarayan Puja on that day itself. The other day I dreamt that God had emerged from my puja room and was chasing me around with an earthen lamp on
His hand. I am a terrible sinner. I have been thinking of performing all these pujas on the same day."
I tried to change the topic of conversation: "I presume pujas were frequently performed at your father’s place." Her face beamed with a shy smile: "My father was a ritualist
and every week at least two or three pujas were performed at our place. My sisters were always busy in their studies, and once my mother became too weak to work the
entire responsibility fell on me. Everyone appreciated the way I arranged the prasad and my father could make out when I did not do it."
She put down her cup of tea and rose to go: "You know, I often think of inviting our neighbours for a naam prasanga, cook some kheer and light some earthen lamps of
ghee. All these would enable me to unburden myself. Mother Goddess must be angry with me. No wonder ..." She wrapped the sarai with her shawl: "Why should I give
this to them? Someday ..." Her feeble voice bore signs of weeping.
* * *
One night, I heard Sarma roaring and that too in his senses: "Now that he had moved in with her, he is as good as dead. If he comes back I’ll chop him into two."
The other sons echoed their father’s sentiments: "How could he have gone to that deserted woman? We will move out of here if he is allowed to enter this house." In the
midst of all the commotion there was in the air the sound of somebody weeping. Next day, the word was out that Sarma’s eldest son had moved in with the deserted wife of
the grocer. Both of them were supposed to have got married in the temple of Kamakhya. People had even seen them going to the cinema together. That evening I went out
with the intention of meeting Sarma’s wife, and there she was sitting mournfully on the doorsteps. On seeing me she came forward: "Baidew, are you going somewhere? I
am sure you must have already heard about us ..." She went on to relate everything in details, but not even once did she call me in. My legs ached with all the standing.
From inside the house came the voice of the sozzled man: "Let him come ... I will show him." The woman wilted in shame. I softly suggested to her: "Now that it has
already happened, it would be best to formally bring her in." Her face visibly brightened: "Even I was thinking of that. We could at least have a naam prasanga of the women
... But none of them would hear of it and my son too doesn’t intend to come back." Her voice was choked. By now I could hardly stand and Mrs Sarma too knew it, but, the
voice from inside again reached our ears: "It is all because of this woman ... pampering her son ... thinks she is a royal lady." She lowered her head in shame and could
say no more. When I parted from her there was a look of guilt in her eyes: "You had to return from here ..." I rushed back home and when I turned to look at her, she was
again sitting on her doorsteps. And through the worn-out aanchal I could see her quivering back – a familiar sight by now.
* * *
I had seen the second son of Mrs Sarma only a couple of times, as the brawny, young man was hardly ever home. People had various opinions about him. According to
some he was the member of a terrorist gang, and that he also had some shady dealings. There were others who were of the opinion that he was a police informer and was
responsible for many young men being apprehended by the police and the army. Some also believed that he dealt in arms as well as drugs. I would often see him on his
motorbike, and like his siblings always geared in trendy clothes. But for the last couple of days he has been seen at home. After a few days a red Maruti car was seen
parked outside their house. With time more and more new shiny cars carrying their young owners were also noticed. The sound of music blared from their house followed
by loud, vulgar noises. The courtyard swept clean by the lady became a godown for logs of timber. Every night truckloads of timber would be loaded and unloaded, and
though in the beginning it did disturb our sleep later we grew used to the noise. The house too witnessed many changes – A TV antema was seen on the roof and two
concrete rooms were also added to the existing house. The outfits of Sarma’s daughter was the talk of the neighbourhood, and instead of the long-haired young man she
was now seen enjoying rides in the cars, scooters and motorcycles of those young men.
Earlier Mrs Sarma sat under the mango tree only after one of those family quarrels, but now she passed most of her time here with crotchet hooks or knitting needles in her
hands. Her health too was visibly declining. One day when she was crocheting a cover for the sarai under the shade of the mango tree I went near her. Nowadays she
would pant after uttering a few words. I wanted to catch a glimpse of her smile: "What about some celebration now that you have a new car, a new television and have also
renovated your house?" She folded her work: "Even I have been thinking of offering the puja to lighten my burden." I invited her over for a cup of tea. Nowadays there was
no need to walk over the fence as a small opening had been formed on the bamboo fence itself. She drank two glasses of water and placed her hand across her chest. I
asked her: "Aren’t you feeling well ?" "No, at times my chest feels very heavy and I find it difficult to breathe." When I inquired if she had been to the doctor there was only
silence.
She looked better after she had the cup of tea. She looked at me meaningfully: "Baidew, yesterday in the early hours of the morning I dreamt that the earthen lamp of my
puja room was dancing around the courtyard and suddenly the logs of timber caught fire. Do you know who did I see in the midst of the fire with hands pointed towards
heaven?" Her voice trembled. "Who?" "My uncle. There was fire all around him, and he was desperately calling my father. My uncle too dealt in timber, and do you know
how he died?" There was a feverish glow in her eyes now. "How?" "He was sitting on the front seat of the truck that was carrying timber when the logs fell on top of him.
His body was crushed to a pulp ..." By now she was panting.
"Please, do not speak for a while." Mrs Sarma drank her second cup of tea without any protest.
"You know Baidew, my father would often say that even trees have life, and my uncle died of its curse. Nowadays I often get the apparition of the blood-soaked body of my
uncle (as if trampled by an elephant) who was crushed under the logs, lying over the logs in our courtyard." Mrs Sarma was all the time looking at my eyes.
"You should perform the puja that you always wanted to as early as possible." I knew that the idea would at least bring her some peace.
Her face visibly brightened : "You are right. I will call the priest and fix up a date for the puja. I will let you know the day before. As I am not keeping well these days you
have to come and help me." She rose to leave.
"You just have to inform me. If necessary I will go and stay the night before." I laughed loudly and so did she.
* * *
One evening, new shiny cars were seen parked in front of Sarma’s house one after another. And even before the dusk had set in the deafening sound of Western music
rocked the whole neighbourhood. This was soon followed by the sound of gunfire. The unnerved people of the locality preferred to confine themselves to the closed doors of
their houses. The piercing screams of the young men were akin to the howling of dogs and jackals. Their ear-splitting laughter was at least able to reassure the
neighbourers that there was no dead body lying. The people were by now accustomed to the noisy scenes in Sarma’s house, but that day things went beyond the limits of
toleration. When I opened the rear door of my house I was forced to shut my ears.
My instincts had been right – there stood the shivering figure of Mrs Sarma wrapped from head to toe. "Please come in or you’ll catch a cold sitting out there." She came in
without any protest, and finished the cup of tea along with the two biscuits and a roti (prepared for our evening meal) that I had offered her. She drank a full glass of water
before going off to sleep on the bed I made for her. Through the window came the sound of the wringing of chickens’ necks. Mrs Sarma never allowed the hens and cocks in
her courtyard lest they defile her tulsi plant. But today a bright light was shining in that very place, and from our verandah one could clearly see the heap of colourful wings
of the chickens killed. When I looked at her she was already asleep.
In the morning Sarma came to take her back home. From a distance he looked like a young man in his pair of blue jeans and a matching pullover. He just gave her a look
and turned to me: "I don’t know what we are going to do with this difficult woman. Yesterday even on such a sacred occasion she disappeared from her home." The woman
with her lowered eyes continued to sit on our doorsteps. She walked back home with shaky feet only after the departure of her husband. For the first time she parted from
me without a word. The news did not take long to reach us that her second son had brought a woman home the night before. The affair had been going on for sometime and
when the situation took such a scandalous turn he had to bring her to the fold. It was rumoured that her daughter’s state too was such that she could not come out in the
open.
* * *
Mrs Sarma was not to be seen anywhere – neither on the verandah nor under the mango tree. As there was no sign of her daughter there was no one I could ask. It was
from our neighbour Mrs Baruah did I come to know that the young man did not want to shoulder the responsibility of Sarma’s daughter, and that the boy’s mother had
called Mrs Sarma ’a whore’s mother’ under her very roof. It was only at gunpoint did he finally marry her. And since her daughter’s departure Mrs Sarma had been confined
to bed due to ill health.
It was on that very day did I pass the mango tree and stepped into her house. I had to lift my mekhela to walk over the garbage and scattered logs. There was no one
around. The stench was unbearable. Mrs Sarma was sitting on a bed and her face resembled that of a corpse. She called out to me: "Baidew, can you get me some holy
water from the priest?" Suddenly there was a wild look in her eyes: "Look, look my earthen lamp is dancing about the place ... soon everything is going to burn ... fire ...
fire ..." A shiver ran down my body when I tried to touch her – it was like a skeleton’s hand. She turned towards the wall and muttering to herself soon fell asleep. It was as
if she was trying to cast off something that was stuck to her palm. I watched her trembling hand for sometime and made a silent departure.
I had been away for sometime and on my return I learnt about her death. It did not surprise me as I had already bade farewell to her silently in that dark and dingy room
itself. Sarma came and invited me rather graciously to the Shraddha ceremony.
I went to their place rather unwillingly on the day of the Shraddha. The courtyard had been cleared of all the garbage, logs and empty bottles. Mrs Sarma’s eldest son and
daughter-in-law, daughter and son-in-law had all come over for the occasion. Her other son and his wife fittingly played the role of the host and hostess. Her relatives like
her sister and brother-in-law, brother and sister-in-law too made their appearance. Looking at the various arrangements one could feel that every member of the family had
spent lavishly. A woman emerged from the house bending under the weight of the sarai that she was carrying – that sarai with the intricate designs on it. Someone gravely
arranged an offering for God on it. A handsome gentleman placed an old photograph (now newly framed) of Mrs Sarma against the sarai and lit an earthen lamp of ghee
before it. Her eyes resembling the shiny stars on a dark moonless night now seemed to stare from the photograph. It seemed as if she would walk out of the photograph to
welcome me: "Baidew, so you have come. Please ... please come and have a seat."
Translated from Assamese by Arunabha Bhuyan
Courtesy: The Assam Tribune
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Arupa Patangia Kalita has published several collection of her short and long fictions including Ayananta and Felani. She teaches English literature at Tangla College, Darrang.
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