Bishweshwar Prasad Koirala, (1914–1982) known as B. P. Koirala, was a Nepali politician and a prolific writer. He was the Prime Minister of Nepal from 1959 to 1960. He led the Nepali Congress, a social democratic political party.
As the past fades away and the days fall by, they burrow deep into me, leaving behind tunnels of varying shapes and sizes, some deep and others shallow. When I look back, I see – like images flickering on a screen – a black and blue mountain range standing tall, blocking the past from view; but I can see holes riddled across its entire chest. My past has been burrowing tunnels for longer than I can remember. I spend my days digging. Sometimes, when I am alone, I escape the present and find myself walking down one of these tunnels. Some of them are so dark that I am unable to see or find anything in them. Others retain a faint light, but I can barely make out a thing. But then, there are those tunnels that no matter how deep they go, when I walk into them, they are illuminated with a light that escaped a memorable moment. I can pull back the curtains of time and once again embody the emotions, colors and sounds of that moment. It’s almost like in grandmother’s tales of kind fairies who rub soothing balm on tired children’s eyes, through some mystical trick, the years fall off like clothes from a naked body. I become a child and I relive those days as I once did. And then I call out – “Sannani, Phaguni, Narendra dai...!!!”
So, is this not a fable? Is this story a fabrication, merely an imaginary palace of dreams, a fantastical tale that never happened? Let me tell you, no fable is ever untrue. Imagination never lies. A palace of dreams can never be built on nothing – Never. Dreams are built upon the foundations of reality. No matter how much I twist and exaggerate an event or story, or use imagination to polish or shape it, I would only make the truth more obvious and the story itself would take on a more and more realistic form. Man cannot shield himself from his own past. Even a story written as fiction is but a small incident – a singular truth – picked from the reserves of memory. What a writer writes is but a fragment of his memoirs. A story is perhaps nothing more than an attempt to reawaken and relive an experience from the past. I remember those times clearly, I recall those people like they are right here, and with a trusting voice I call them close to my heart – “Gauri Bhauju, Munariya, Narendra dai...!!!”
Narendra dai was an attractive person. Tall, wearing a clean white kurta and dhoti, with a carefully folded four-layered dupatta wrapped around his neck, curls of meticulously groomed dark, long hair settling gently upon his dupatta – Narendra had won the hearts of all the men and women in our village. Mind you, he wasn’t fair and beautiful, neither was his countenance really exemplary – where his nose should have stood tall it flattened slightly, his ears were as wide as leaves of the flame tree growing from the sides of his face, his eyes were ordinary but obscured by thick eyebrows that made them look small and sunken, his raised cheek bones made his well-nourished face take on a famished look, and, on top of this, his dry skin gave his face a look of slight depravation. But, he did have a rugged attractiveness. Not like the beauty of sculpted alabaster, but more abundant in the hardness of rough carvings on ordinary stones that reveal its inner strength and wild nature – like the beauty of a wild mountain cliff, saturated in a feeling of dread. We, the children, would experience fear, anxiety and terror in front of him and, for no reason at all, we would try to avoid him.
I did call out above – “Narendra dai!” But, as children, we were never so close to him to call him with such boldness. It’s not that he treated us badly. Rather, he always tried to be friendly with us – he would even make arrangements for and join in our sports. He’d tell us, “Boys! Play hard! If you build your bodies now, you won’t have to worry about anything later!”
It is only in the world of memories that Narendra appears so close. When we were children, our group would wander around the village, without a care for whether Narendra was home or not. Besides, Sannani and I had a small world of our own – one that was unique to us.
We lived in a small and ordinary village in the Madhesh by the banks of the River Koshi, but even in that small place, the two of us could find and invent unending treasure troves of fun as we wandered over farms, fields and canals.
Picking out a rosary pea seed from the vines entangled below the monkey fruit tree, Sannani placed the seed into the corner of her eyes with great care and made it disappear, and then, dusting her hands, said – “Look! The seed has vanished!”
I was looking at her in amazement when the rosary seed fell out from the corner of her eye.
“I’m going to pick some rosary seeds too,” I said as I jumped up and started yanking at the vines. But Sannani shouted – “Wait! Wait! You might pull a velvet bean vine instead.”
Pointing out a vine with shimmering rotund pods that was wrapped around the lowest branch of the monkey fruit tree, Sannani said, “Look! See – that sparkling pod, that’s velvet bean. You can tell them apart from a rosary pea vine. See – that one!”
Since that day, I’ve been able tell a rosary pea vine from a velvet bean vine. Not only that, on that I day, I also learnt how to carefully place a rosary pea into the corner of my eyes and make it disappear.
Around then, on the trail that skirted around the mango groves we saw some Madheshi girls from our village heading south to cut grass. I called out, “Phaguni! I know how to put rosary pea seeds in my eyes! Look, if you don’t believe me!”
Phaguni didn’t respond, but Rampiyari gave a response that eluded my comprehension, “Don’t pick up such habits at such a young age, dear!”
The girls continued walking, laughing, jostling each other, stamping their feet on the trail, hitting each other on the back with their bamboo baskets. And, one of them said, “This one is such a brat, how could she say such a thing...”
Sannani called to them, “Phaguni! Please cut down the velvet bean vine with your sickle. The monkey fruits are ripe, but we can’t pick them...”
Dinanath, the owner of the garden must have been on a machan close by. He suddenly appeared, angry – “Get out of my garden – these imps won’t leave anything standing in this garden!”
We tore across the garden fence and ran until we found ourselves standing upon Lakhan Madar’s threshing floor. Catching her breath, Sannani wheezed, “Dinanath is an angry one...”
“I dropped all my rosary seeds,” I said.
“We’ll go there again tomorrow,” Sannani said. “Those ripe monkey fruits too...”
We then started watching the drama around the threshing. Occasionally, just for fun, we would twist the ox’s tail – “Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha... Piyari.”
“This isn’t Piyari,” Lakhan Madar’s son pointed out.
“Our ox is Piyari,” I explained.
Then, suddenly deciding that the fun there was over, we left and meandered our way down to the banks of the pond by the shrine of Gosaisthan. On the southern bank was a large cluster of jujube shrubs. We ate some jujube berries, went down to the pond, got naked, and started bathing.
After a while, we came up to the embankment and were drying ourselves when Sannani’s eyes fell upon an oxcart coming our way from the west. She worriedly exclaimed, “Hide, Hide! Narendra dai! Hide, Hide!”
This is how, every now and then, we would remember Narendra as he abruptly appeared before us, and we would invariably hide from him, wishing that he wouldn’t see us.
We entered the pond again. The embankment hid us. The road lay in a dip below the northern embankment of the pond.
“Narendra dai is returning from Calcutta today,” Sannani explained.
“He would have killed us if he had seen us,” I said. “Because we ate unripe jujube, and on top of that, we walked in the sun and bathed in the pond.”
The rumbling and creaking of the ox cart came from across the embankment and then gradually faded into the distance. The sounds of the driver urging the oxen on – Ha, ha, ha, ha... La, ha, ha, ha, ha! – also came close before gradually fading away, while the swirling cloud of dust kicked up from the road resettled upon the embankment.
By the time we overcame our fears and climbed upon the embankment, Narendra dai’s ox cart had left the main road and was heading south towards home. After a while it vanished behind a cluster of Sissoo trees. We, too, went home as soon as our bodies dried.
*
Narendra dai’s arrival had moved the house into frenzy. By the outer door of the house, beyond the courtyard, the two oxen that had been pulling the cart were free of the yoke, and now had their snouts buried in a wooden trough as they feed on a mush of lentil husks, pressed mustard seeds, water with rice starch and salt. Sannani put her hand on the rump of an ox. The ox’s skin quivered in response, sending playful ripples across its body. The cart driver spoke, “There is no ox comparable to this one in the entire district. The master bought him in Kushesorethan, understand? They glided like an airplane on the Distibot road.”
Patting the oxen for their good work, he continued, “Eat well, Bhadesara.” Then, patting the other ox, he said, “And you, too, Jogendara!”
Confused and lost, we stood in the courtyard, in front of Narendra’s room. I prodded, “Sannani, let’s go inside.”
“I’m scared,” she said.
“But you’re his own sister. What are you scared of?” I asked.
“Why don’t you go in, if you’re so brave!” she snapped.
Narendra saw us outside and called, “Look – I’ve brought you all a football! Come in!”
I ran into the kitchen. Sannani stood in the courtyard, but did not go into Narendra’s room. She seemed as if transfixed by fear.
That day, Narendra gathered all the boys and girls from the village to form a football team. It was a memorable day, we had a lot of fun. We were on our knees next to Narendra, excitedly waiting as he pumped the football with air.
“Sannani! Go and fetch the pump from my bicycle,” Narendra asked. Sannani ran off.
Narendra asked me, “Know how to play football?”
I was petrified to suddenly find myself all alone with him in his room. I didn’t say anything. He went on, “Try pressing the football – see if it’s hard enough. After I fill it with the pump, it will get very hard.”
I touched the football with trepidation. But, the discomfort of being all alone with Narendra dai in his room was unbearable, so I made calling Sannani my excuse and ran out.
Sannani was standing outside in the courtyard. She whimpered, “I broke this nail when I took out the pump from the cycle. He will kill me. What should we do?” She was perplexed.
Narendra yelled from his room, “Sannani! What is taking you so long?”
We entered Narendra’s room in fear. Narendra took the pump off Sannani and started to attentively fill the football with air. Sannani did not mention the broken nail and I was scared until the moment he finished pumping air into the ball and said, “Now – press the ball and see if it is tight or not.” Sannani and I touched the ball together.
Narendra himself picked an abandoned ground for us to play on. The barren field that lay towards the southeast of our village, spread abundantly from the eastern banks of the Koshi and far towards the south. Further east, there spread a big camp of the gentlefolk of Fulkaha – a large mango grove, and beyond that elephant stables and horse stables, a small, quaint looking Ram temple by a pond, with zemindary offices just south of the pond beyond the main gate. Other villagers called that space the Agana and called the residences of the landlords Deudi. From the ground that Narendra had picked, we could see their residences and a small section of the verandah shining in the sun. The ground itself was completely abandoned. We could see pieces of bones belonging to cattle and other animals scattered across the field, some simal and sami trees and below them, bushes of thatch grass and jujube.
“This is a haunted field, isn’t it, Bhatana?” whispered Sannani.
Bhatana’s eyes widened in response.
“Of course! Look around, if you don’t believe it,” added the other children of the untouchable castes.
Narendra, who was walking ahead of us, then said, “Okay, play. I’ll watch.” Then, he kicked the ball high into the air.
“Look! See how high into the sky the ball has gone,” the girls who had come to cut grass there exclaimed in surprise.
Phaguni spoke slowly, “Babu has come as well. He hit it.”
The girls who had come to cut grass shyly turned their back to the field, squatted down and hurriedly started cutting grass with their sickles.
“Hey, Munariya!” Narendra called out, “Give us your basket. We don’t have goal posts. I’ll set it down on one side. Come on! Give it to us!”
By then, we had already started running around breathlessly, kicking the ball willy-nilly, not really caring whether we had a goal post or not. Perhaps I couldn’t run very well, because I felt that the ball never really got under my feet. It was as if Sannani and the untouchable children had taken possession of the ball. Nevertheless, there was no shortage of enthusiasm among us; we kept chasing after the football. At times, Sannani would kick the ball towards me and say, “Here! Here! Kick it! Kick it now!” But by then one of the untouchable children would pick it up and kick it in another direction. Sannani would get angry with them. Sometimes, Sannani would grab the ball with her hands and place it on the ground in front of me, and I would kick it with all my might.
We tired quickly. There was still some light left in the day. Drenched in sweat, I said, “Enough for now. Let’s play tomorrow.” Sannani picked up the ball and pressed it in the nook of her right arm and her chest.
The girls who had been cutting grass stopped their work and surrounded her. “Sannani, let us see what a football looks like,” they said.
They each took the ball one by one and played with it, pressed it and said, “Wow! It’s so light. Air! It’s filled with air.” Phaguni put the ball on the floor and with one hand pulled her dhoti above her calves, swung her leg and kicked the ball. Everyone laughed in delight.
“Where did Narendra dai go?” I asked, remembering him.
“He left a while back,” Phaguni responded. She smiled and continued, “Munariya said she wouldn’t give him her basket. She said, ‘Don’t I have to cut grass today?’ Babu said ‘The better grass is over on the southern side, green grass.’ And she asked, ‘Where?’ The girl doesn’t know her place. Babu responded – ‘Over there, beyond that cottonwood forest. Come with me, I’ll show you.’”
Rampiyari turned her head towards the south and yelled, “Hey Munariya! We’re going home! If you want to go, hurry up!”
Munariya didn’t answer from any direction.
As the sun set, we all went back home. The grass-cutters also headed back to their own homes, as did the others, the untouchable children, Bhatana, Parema, everybody.
“Today was a lot of fun,” Sannani said.
“Sannani, can I keep the football in my room?” I asked.
That was how our village got a football team out of Narendra dai’s efforts. He would make us bows and arrows, slingshots and mud pellets; and during the months of September and October, he would head over to the dam with his kites, telling us, “Come along! Watch me fly kites. In Lucknow they hold this in high esteem.”
But we could never get close to Narendra dai. We were scared, felt something akin to dread.
That day, Narendra dai had come out ready to go somewhere. He was wearing a long white kurta whose arched neckline didn’t button on his chest, but instead was fastened with a knot on his shoulder. His hair falling on his neck in curly locks, the lower tip of his Shantipuri dhoti tucked into the right pocket of his kurta, his well-folded dupatta falling from his shoulders to his thighs, and his freshly polished pump shoes. There was no one else in our village, even the district, who had such a clean and refined look. That’s why the babu sahibs from Brindakatti and Fulkahi considered him their equal and invited him during festivals. Mother and Gauri Bhauju were sitting on a rug on the porch by the kitchen and cutting vegetables for the evening meal. Gauri Bhauju was the only constant help mother had with her daily chores. Maharani was after all a daughter who had come home; Junthu Nani would be too busy laughing and socializing with the men in the living room; my aunts would mostly be too busy with their own domestic chores, and even if they found some free time, they would sit with Kaptanni Ama and draw wicks in one of the corners of the balcony where Kaptanni Ama would sit and recite the Mahabharata or Ramayana or some scripture or the other. Gauri Bhauju was the only one who didn’t have any household chores of her own, and therefore she could help mother all day long. She and mother would continuously talk whether they were making leaf platters or cutting vegetables. Mother was the only one who could confidently command her to do something – “Gauri, do this, do that...” Gauri would set forth wordlessly and, after finishing her chore, would return and sit next to mother to help her with whatever she was doing.
That day, with nothing to do, I found myself next to mother and Gauri. Kaptanni Ama had just dragged Sannani up to the balcony. This would happen occasionally when Kaptanni Ama would find her daughter’s rustic ways unbearable. She would drag her away, smooth her tangled and matted hair with oil, and rake her hair with a thick comb – with something of an angry demeanor. Sannani would start protesting in her nasal tone, “Ouch... Don’t pull my hair Kaptanni Ama!” In response, she would get a whack on her back. Sannani would start crying while Kaptanni Ama would scold and reprimand her, and continue muttering to herself. It would take a long time to comb Sannani’s hair – after a long battle of complaints, fights, crying and scolding, perhaps Kaptanni Ama’s anger would gradually dissipate and the severity of Sannani’s protests would also cool. By then, Sannani would look nice and clean – her hair, combed and oiled, would be smooth and slick, it would get tied in the back with a thin red ribbon. Her face, hands and legs would also get washed. Kaptanni Ama would collect the hair that Sannani had shed, spit into it and roll it up into a ball and, getting up, she would then throw it off the balcony. Sannani would take that opportunity to make her escape; I would be waiting at the bottom of the stairs.
Whenever Kaptanni Ama grabbed Sannani’s arms with purpose, I would run away in fear. I felt like I was an accomplice in all her crimes because I was always invariably involved in all the things that Kaptanni Ama would scold her for – wandering around the gardens and fields, picking and eating raw fruits in the sun, bathing in the Koshi, stealing produce from other people’s gardens and fields (in other words, doing everything you possibly could at that age). Once Sannani was pulled away, I would walk around with nothing to do. That was how I had ended up where mother and Gauri were cutting vegetables. I wasn’t really having any fun there. At that very moment, Narendra came out of his room looking very well put together. He bent down to save his head from hitting the roof and came down from the porch. The moment Gauri saw him in the courtyard, she abruptly got up and went into her room by the kitchen. Narendra looked happy. He casually asked mother, “Sani Ama, what you cutting?”
Even before mother answered him, he was already asking me, “You play a lot of football no?”
Feeling uncomfortable, I got up and ran behind the kitchen, towards the waste pit. There, I stood next to the wooden partition and waited for Sannani.
Around then, Narendra asked again, “Sani Ama, why don’t the kids like me? Why do they stay away from me?”
Mother answered while cutting vegetables, “Narendra, you couldn’t become a family man.”
I peeked at them through the fence.
“Why? Am I not a part of the family?” Narendra asked. He had one of his feet resting on the edge of the porch.
Mother responded, “You are a member of this family, but not a part of it. Your relationship with your father... Let us leave that aside. Your relationship with you wife... With such a relationship, do you think you will be able to find the warmth of the family hearth? A neglected wife keeps her husband outside the boundaries of family life.”
Mother was about to say something else, but Narendra spoke with some anger, “Stop scratching at the same thing all the time. I don’t like hearing any talk about her. She does not exist for me – you all need to comprehend this truth. Let us not raise this issue again.”
It became awkward for mother. Narendra was not her son; he was only five or six years younger to her. Perhaps because she didn’t have the authority to get angry with him, she spoke softly. “Then you, too, should not talk about love and affection, Narendra. Don’t say that you can’t understand the way that children perceive you and don’t flock to you. Don’t you see, the humanity inside of you has dried up?”
“Why?” Narendra asked thoughtfully, “Can one’s humanity only be judged through the relationship one maintains between husband and wife? Don’t presume that the husband-wife relationship is a natural relationship.”
Mother smirked and retorted, “Well, is it natural to wander around acting like Krishna among the village girls?”
“Who said I...”
Cutting him off, mother continued, “Please, Narendra, don’t try to trick me. Who doesn’t know in this house about Munariya and you...”
Narendra yelled, “Sani Ama, if you can’t understand something, you shouldn’t waste your breath by going around and giving your opinion everywhere.”
Dusting himself off and adjusting his dupatta by gently tugging at its frills, as he habitually did, he got up and spoke to end the discussion, “Sani Ama, you can only see the world as a wife, because of which you can only see a small portion of it. There are many things that you have not seen, many things that you don’t understand.”
Mother had some very strong thoughts about this. It would be difficult to find another person who was so staunchly on the side of wives in our society. She was ready to speak her mind. But, Narendra had clearly ended the argument and was already walking away.