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Borpitai has passed away. When he was struggling with his short and fast pants one after the other, Kon called up his uncle’s family in Guwahati telling them, “Pitai’s breath is growing shorter. Not certain when the end comes. Pay a visit, if possible. Tomorrow everyone may have to be fasting.”
On getting the news, the younger sister-in-law of Borpitai makes haste saying, “Kokaidew is on his deathbed. It’ll be good to give a visit. Trace a driver out.”
The younger brother has not remained fit enough to drive along during long journeys. The eyes see dimly. The waist aches. The limbs also swell. So a driver has been hired. The sister in law had packed up some clothes keeping them ready on the previous day itself. She makes a call to his daughter and son in law in Delhi saying, “...might go. Is just breathing somehow.” The daughter issues some advice from the other end to take medicines and warm clothes. Lest they walk bare-foot in the village. If they both catch a chill and fall ill who will see them? She also cannot come even if she wishes to. The sister in law, nodding in agreement, takes a bottle of Horlix, a flask of hot water, a packet of corn flakes along with medicines. Meanwhile, she rings her nephew up asking, “Have you informed Kokaidew and others in Shivasagar? Are baidew and others coming?”
“Uncle and the family are on the way. Will arrive shortly”, replies the nephew. This means the middle one of the brothers will reach today itself. This renders the younger sister- in -law even more restless. The night does not seem to progress. She gulps down a few grains of boiled rice and takes the bed. In fact, just rolls over the bed, sleep remains elusive. Wakes up at frequent intervals. Remembers the face of the elder brother in law. He is the oldest of the five siblings. Hers is the youngest. The face of the one dead three years back also flashes into the mind. The purple red skin of the woman clad in a mekhela pulled up to the ankles with the oroni laid over the head, glistens in the sun. As soon as she comes across the nephew, sister in law or anyone at the year’s end, she usually breaks into tears. Then only the voice somehow comes out. She exchanges pleasantries with them. But relapses into sobbing with a lament, “Ahh, don’t have the means even to procure a meal.”
In fact, Borpitai has had quite a few children. All the girls have been married off in different directions. Three of the sons stay away from home. They are all married. Borpitai along with Kon and his mother stays at home. It is Kon who does the cooking. When he sees his mother shed tears like this, he speaks out, “What makes you weep? What strength are you talking about? Can’t I cook and serve my aunt and others even a meal?”
His reproach makes his mother stop sobbing. She responds gently, “Won’t there be a need to kill a duck or a cock? Go and kill a cock. I’ll peel off ginger and garlic.”
Kon kills a cock. His mother arranges ginger and garlic. He cooks a curry seasoned with pepper and serves his aunt and her family a meal. His jawbones get visible in the sparkling flames of the dry fire-wood. His banyan is perforated with several small holes. The gamocha wrapped around is saturated with stains of the juice of betel- nut and that of plantain leaves and thus is wearing a floral look. After meal, his aunt tucks a hundred rupee note into his hands saying: “Keep it”. Kon throws himself into air like a small fish.
“No,no khuri. No need at all. I won’t take it for sure,” protests Kon.
“Just keep it to buy a banyan,” the aunt persists lovingly.
“I do have my banyans, shirts, pants and everything. Only when busy with chores, I have on my ragged ones.” He blows up the belly after tightening the knot of the gamocha he is wearing. The solid muscles of his calf get exposed. He offers a bota full of betel nut, betel leaf, lime and tobacco to his aunt.
He does not accept the money. Next day the aunt takes him to the market and buys him a shirt. He picks up a colourful shirt as per his choice. In the evening, once done with his day’s work in the field, courtyard and the cattle meal, he takes bath, puts on the trousers and the newly bought shirt, smears the hair with Keo Karpin oil and takes a ride on his bicycle towards the shop of Pona. There he sometimes smokes a bidi. That year his mother passed away. On the day of Tilaani, his aunt and the family reached the village. At that time he appeared solemn and matured enough. He looked after his father sitting on a mat at the corner of the veranda.
Borpitai, as a matter of fact, is like the Borpitai of the entire village itself. Very few in the village address him as Dadai. Most of the young call him Borpitai. Later on, in rituals like xakaam and others, he starts enjoying a status of prominence. Though incapable of reading the scriptures, he does chant the benediction proficiently enough. Sums up the long benedictory utterance calling for the wellbeing of the seeker with the words Joy o Ramo bola, joy o Hari bola. Borpitai usually does not talk much with anyone. Earlier he used to exchange a word or two with others, but following his wife’s death he stopped doing that also. Once through with his domestic work in the courtyard and compound, he sits still at a corner of the pirali casting a languid look into the grove full of bamboo trees in Purani Chapori. He pulls the knees closer and squats like a three-headed man. His dress includes a banyan and a dhoti extending up to the knees. Wraps an edi scarf during winter.
The scarf is made from homespun edi thread. The warmth is better. One of his daughters has woven it. The thread has been supplied by her mother, though. Plucking era leaves from compounds here and there and rearing the worms, the woman boils the leta in loads. Once taken out of the boxes, the leta is packed into bundles and they are distributed apiece to each of the neighbouring households while the boxes are sunned. Then she spins them in a takuri to produce thread and gives it to her daughter. The weaving and cutting is done by the daughter. She eloped with a boy of the village itself. They got displeased over that at first but at moments of weal and woe it is she who comes to their help. She rushes to her parents at days’ intervals. It is she who keeps track of her father following her mother’s death. Once in a while she brings a duck’s egg, the vegetables grown in her own compound and cooks the same. Sometimes, however, if short on time to cook, she explains the process to Kon.
The roof has leaked water during rains. It is time to change the thatch. Borpitai after gathering the thatch required gets on the top of the roof alone. Kon extends a helping hand. The daughter and son-in law also make their appearance. Neither the father nor the younger brother gave them the message. Someone from the village disseminated the information, “The roof of your father’s house is being mended perhaps! Have seen the old soul working.”
The news aggravates the daughter’s agony. She takes a quick bath and starts wailing, “Pitai’s venture is bordering on excesses. What makes him climb the roof? Could give a message to the villagers. A fall by chance will tear all bones into pieces.”
By the time the daughter and son in law reach there, Borpitai has already been on top of the roof. Kon throws the bundles of thatch up from below.
“What’s getting into you? What the hell are these excesses you’re up to, huh? Get down, I tell you. Get down.”
Borpitai does not utter a single word. He pulls the dhoti short into a fold and starts arranging the bundles of thatch. He does not lend ears to anyone. In the meantime an idea strikes him: will he light a bidi! But abandons it immediately after seeing the dry thatch in front. The daughter keeps wailing below.
“So you made your brothers officers. Carried bagfuls of rice and supplied them in the city. Can’t you tell them to fit some tin plates to the roof? And to install a tube well? Don’t your brothers see that you are still drinking water from the pond?”
There does exist a tape of water supply on the other side of the road beyond a few households. But the problem with Borpitai is that the womenfolk, both married and unmarried, coming in groups to catch water in the morning and afternoon hold an assembly of gossip. He feels ashamed in front of their raking tongues. What diverse issues flow from their mouths! Who is conceiving; whose menstruation has stopped; in whose household a boy from Raidang stays privately with an unmarried girl and so on. Borpitai while waiting with the bucket overhears them all.
Therefore Borpitai does not like this. Once in a while Kon brings and stores a pitcher of water. There are two people to drink. It suffices them for two days. But Borpitai does not feel good at the issue of his brothers being raised while mending the roof. In a choked voice he mutters, “Where will they give anything from? Is it a trivial matter to manage a household in the city? It is we who have to give them some rice.”
This is all he says. Doesn’t utter anything beyond that. Gets down only when through with the task. He squats on the ground with a bowl of red tea poured from the can and a lump of molasses from the plantain leaf kept on the ground. After taking tea he lights a bidi. Lost in himself he puffs at the bidi. Keeps looking at the puffs of smoke spiralling away with austere eyes. The bamboo grove adjacent to the house nurtures them all: his father, mother, aunt and his wife. When one talks about Purani Chapori, only a crematorium flashes into one’s mind. A grove dense with bamboo and other trees. Segun, Sal, Titachopa, mango, jackfruit and what not! The young ones come to graze the cattle in Purani Chapori located at one end of the village. Setting the cattle free they take bath in the Choukona beel at the back of the forest. Or at times they pluck lotus wheels; at times they lay the fish hook there. So austerely silent at daytime itself! One senses a shiver down the chest as one passes by alone. At all times a soft murmur keeps floating around from the forest. When Borpitai raised the issue of his family splitting and shifting to Purani Chapori from the ancestral house, his brothers prevented him from doing so. All the families of the uncles are staying together in the colony. Why should he shift to Purani Chapori where only the spirits hover? Reluctant to speak up, Borpitai does not utter anything. He raises a house with thatch, bamboo and wood somehow accommodating them. His wife and daughters smear the walls with cow dung. On the day of his leaving the ancestral house his brothers, sisters-in law and cousins wept overwhelmingly. With the banyan on and the lit-up bidi between fingers, Borpitai reaches the place much earlier. Immediately he clears out a spot at the corner of the pirali. Sitting there and lost in himself, he starts puffing away at the bidi, his eyes set on the bamboo grove. This makes his eldest daughter break into a scolding, “So you have sat down facing the crematorium, Huh! There you are, Pitai, on a brooding mood always! Never speak out. Do spell out what you have in mind.”
Turning the eye balls of his austere eyes, Borpitai looks at his daughter. He cannot gauge properly how seven of his children have grown up. When his younger brother and the nephews arrive from the city, they traverse the fields in the company of Borpitai’s children. They get pleasure over new experience gathered. Such diverse experiences as digging out the cenchor in the field, catching fish in the sepa, hooking, wading through the muddy field and so on get firmly etched in the psyche of Borpitai’s children. Sometimes they pick up the unripe fruits of the bohot. Or else, they wander about looking at the incubation of birds.
The little ones of the town also keep running about. The stubble of the field pierces their feet. Yet they blow pipes made of the stubble. Tuck into the mouth the dug-out cenchor hastily. Dip their bodies in the water of the beel, and the aunt cries out, “Ron, my dear ones, don’t venture into the water. You aren’t used to it. You may catch some disease when the school opens. Keep watching from a distance what Kon and others do.”
This makes Borpitai give out a withheld smile. Then he relapses into a look at the crematorium in the bamboo grove. At times he goes there and trims the weeds off. Sweeps away the bamboo leaves with a twig of tree. One of Borpitai’s daughters said to the daughter of her uncle in the city, “Our Pitai chose not to study and hence stayed back at the village. And how can he study? Your fathers stayed at the city studying and Pitai had to supply them with rice and other stuff. He had to look after the harvest here. Else, we also would have been staying and studying at the town.”
This falls on the ears of the aunt. “What did you say? You seem to know so many things. Who has told you all this?” quipped she drawing her near on the pretext of untying her hair and re-fastening the hair bane to her head.
‘Who has told you this?’ she asks again. She keeps looking at the sophisticated, round like a full moon, face of the aunt to her heart’s content and replies, “Our bouti says this.” Touching her aunt’s coloured nails, she asks, “You don’t apply jetuka?” Giving her some loving touches, this time the aunt pulls out a clip from her own hair and fits it to her hair.
“I apply jetuka during bihu. Now tell me what else your mother tells you about us?”
“What else will she say? Nothing. Just loves you all.”
She runs off to play games. The aunt realises that the girl is growing in both knowledge and intelligence. She is said to be good at studies as well. Now she tells her own children, reluctant to eat vegetables, how consumption of such stuff as manimuni, dhekiya, matikaduri and kochu grown in one’s compound makes one good at studies. She forces them to take them through some scolding. Seeing all this Borpitai gives a withheld smile. He does not keep track of the children of his brothers and sisters—who is older, who is studying what and so on. But he does reciprocate their pleadings.
Says one, “Borpitai, please carve a scale out of bamboo or a holong mari to dig out cenchor.” Borpitai is at the centre of a series of such pleadings ranging from carving out a pencil holder from bamboo thus making the pencil growing short easier to grab to constructing things like kharahi, bichoni etc which are a part of the manual craft exercise of the school. Borpitai does not say no to anyone. His body dances to the rhythm of the dangoris of the rice grains he carries along. They also chase the dancing dangoris with the bunch of lecheri on their head. Borpitai lays out the morona on the courtyard. The bulls revolve round and round. They trample the bunch of lecheri and release the grains by grabbing the bamboo post with both hands. Earn a few pennies by selling the grains at the Mahajan’s shop. Their coveted money. One holds a five rupee note, the other a two rupee note. They make a hole in the bamboo post of the cattle shed and store the money there.
The bamboo posts turn into their coffers.
“Here is a bundle of bidis. Take it Borpitai”, say his nephews who brought him such stuff every now and then when they grew up. Borpitai extends his hands to receive it after lighting the bidi tucked atop the ear.
“Pay a visit by dusk, Borpitai. Nokhowa is being arranged. Come a bit early. The duck has to be cleaned and chopped into pieces. The ash gourd is already available. Saru has got some fishes ready caught from the fishery. Do come. Else, there will be curtains on the duck feast. None at home kills it. I could have done it but can’t for that wretched woman.” Thus they come to invite Borpitai to the older residence.
“Do come, Borpitai.” As soon as he gets on top of the bicycle with such pleading, Borpitai readies himself to go with the banyan and edi chadar on his body. On reaching there he kills the duck, chops it into pieces and supplies them to the cook. The heart, liver and the intestines are cleaned and cooked separately with chillies by Borpitai. The nephew had promised him a bottle of foreign liquor. With that Borpitai sits near the fireplace outside. Gradually his face starts wearing a coloured look. The balls of the dim-sighted eyes start dancing. The liquor in the bottle also recedes fast.
“Well, Borpitai, one thing I haven’t been able to make out thus far. Have you ever spelled out the thoughts you’ve carried along? Do spell them out. You prefer to sit motionless like one possessed by a spirit! What thoughts do you keep dallying with?” Borpitai utters nothing in response to his nephew’s words. He keeps gazing at the fire uninterruptedly. Advances the cracked sole of his foot towards the fire. The back dirt inside the cracks glistens in the reddish light. The calf gets exposed due to the folded dhoti. The skin, as dry as a bone, resembles that of an iguana. Looking at the skin for a moment he laments, “The uncles have attained their prominence thanks to you. You supplied them with bags of rice at the place of their study. Even you gave them the money stored. Now when you can’t sleep from relentless cough, can’t they even take you to the city for some treatment? This is not fair, Borpitai. Such injustice is not expected.”
His mouth also starts going off track. Borpitai says just one thing, “I’m alright. Go to sleep.” Thus Borpitai reaches back home, his body wrapped in clothes up to the mouth.” There appears none to accompany him. The elders run out of time. The younger ones are afraid of ghosts. Their bodies start shivering once they reach the entrance with the brass-made borsaki in hand. As if the burha dangoria, dot, bank, jokhini and all other spirits have made their appearance! Even to make water they all queue up together, the bodies clung to each other.
The leaning front ends of the bamboo trees of the roadside touch his body. The dogs and foxes keep wailing. All in the surroundings are fast asleep. Every household has a cemetery of the older folk at a corner of the compound. He thinks of trimming the weeds off the cemeteries of his house the next day. They are overgrown with weeds. He needs a khanti for that. The next day the Sunday bazaar is coming up. Borpitai forces his way into a crowded bus named Jai Guru amidst pulls and presses. The vendors cling to the bus like bats with loads of ducks, cocks, home-made wine, vegetables and the like meant for sale in the bazaar. Borpitai somehow manages to stand up amidst the rush. The conductor cries out, “Those who are standing go to the back. Don’t stand in the way.”
Borpitai manages to hold out against the rush till the last stop of the bus. The moment the boy utters ‘those who are standing’, a helpless look engulfs his face. The bands of his sandal get torn apart on being trampled. He was wearing the pair of sandals belonging to Kon. Half of the one of the pair was missing. He reaches the bazaar with the pair of sandals in hand. Buys a khanti. On his way back he walks as many as four miles. It is better to walk along alone instead of standing in the bus. At least the cry ‘go to the back’ would not irritate. He purchases a band of the sandal for Kon. He almost has given up eating fish and meat following the death of his better half. Earlier he used to pluck the blooming titaful once he saw them. Now he does not go near them even if they bloom in their splendour. He loved the pitika of potato mixed with boiled titaful. Next day he enters the area surrounded by bamboo trees with a khanti and a hoe. The bamboo trees are growing thick and fast. This bamboo grove catches nobody’s attention. Not even the female ones who consume bottles of kharisa hanker after these trees. Borpitai whiles away most of his time in the cemetery. Trims the grass off. The mounds of soil are trimmed off and rubbed clean of the fallen leaves with his hands. All cemeteries located asymmetrically wear a fresh look. He gently drives his fingers over the heaps belonging to his father and mother. He keeps laying his hands over the mound of his better half for some time. Plants a flower seedling there. After the work is over, he goes home, pulls up two buckets of water, takes bath, goes in and says to Kon , “Will take some boiled rice.”
“Once he talked of taking some rice, I served him the same. And he has not got up since. This is what happened four days back.”
The uncle and the family arrive from the city. He tells them about his father asking for some rice. He was having shorter breaths. The limbs and hands were becoming dull. The eyeballs also were not winking.
One of the daughters prays with a grief-choked voice. The face seems to have made some movements. The sister-in-law from Guwahati says, “Seemed to say something.”
“Some evil spirit may have possessed him perhaps. Kon has said he was in the bamboo grove all day long”, whispered one sister-in-law to another. “The doctor was called in. Arrangements were also being made to take him to the city. Meanwhile his breath failed him”, says one of his daughters.
“We thought he was awaiting the brothers. Were updating him about their arrival shortly”, Kon says. Somebody is chopping the wood into pieces. Somebody else is sobbing. Seeing him move his mouth, Kon poured a palmful of water into it and pleaded with him repeatedly, “Tell me Pitai, I beg you. How many words did you ever exchange in your lifetime? Spell out what you want to say.”
He shook his hand. Wanted to lift the index finger of the right hand. Could not do so. Opened his eyes wide once. The eldest daughter rubbed her fingers gently on the forehead saying, “What made you clean the cemeteries? Should not harbour so much affection for the dead. Wish you spelled out to us all that you have carried along, Pitai.”
Pitai has breathed his last. They do not understand what he wanted to say. The younger folk gather wood, bamboo and other stuff. They ask where the body would be burnt.
“Will have to be laid together. Alongside others”, Kon replies.
“Will there be any more space there? Let’s keep it at a corner of the compound, for a change”, suggests someone. Kon goes there to have a look. A few yards of ground are available. He makes a guess. He goes inside the place cordoned off last Sunday and grabbing the mound of his mother bursts into tears with a wail, “O Bouti, O Pitai!”
Nothing has had to be done by anyone.
Borpitai trimmed off and cleared out beautifully a square-shaped space for himself alongside his wife!
Notes:
Borpitai: An appellation to address the elder father. Anyone in an identical age group is usually addressed as Borpitai in Assamese society.
Pitai: An appellation to address the father.
Bouti: An appellation to address the mother.
Kokaidew: An appellation to address the elder brother.
Baidew: An appellation to address the elder sister.
Pitika: A paste of foodstuff made by squeezing two or more boiled food items.
Titaful: A kind of shrub bitter in taste consumed as a vegetable.
Khanti: A spud.
Burha Dangoria,Dot, Baak, Jokhini: Different names of spirits in Assamese folklore.
Lecheri: A bundle of the ears of paddy freed from the leaves.
Dangori: A large bundle of paddy sheaf.
Morona: A heap of grains in stalk spread in ground for treading and releasing the grain by cattle.
Bichoni: A hand-made fan.
Kharahi : A finely woven bamboo basket.
Edi chadar: A scarf made from the thread of silk worm.
Manimuni, Dhekia, Matikaduri : Vegetables with medicinal value that grow abundantly in paddy fields.
Kochu : Egyptian arum.
Mekhela: A lower garment of Assamese women.
Oroni: A veil used by Assamese women to cover the head and mouth as a mark of respect to the elders.
Holong mari: A finely made pointed stick of bamboo to dig out something.
Cenchor: The tuber of a kind of grass growing in low land.
Jetuka: A kind of Indian henna usually applied on nails to redden them.
Bihu: An annual festival of merrymaking of the Assamese.
Pirali: The earthen plinth of an Assamese household.
Bidi: A cigarette.
Bohot: A tree that has fruits which release water when unripe.
Sepa: A cage finely woven from bamboo sticks to catch fish.
Segun, Saal, Titachopa: Some valuable trees whose wood is used extensively for making household items.
Borsaki: A large candle lighting on mustard or kerosene oil.
Beel: A wetland.
Nokhowa: A ritual in Assamese society during which the produce of the fresh harvest of the year is cooked and consumed for the first time.
Leta: A chrysalis.
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