> Creative > Short Story
I don’t remember it now how it all began but it turned out to be a game for us. Perhaps on a certain wintry night, winding up the stories he was telling and putting aside the half-burnt fire woods and bamboos from the fireplace, Grandpa would tell us-
“It’s time for you to go home now. Already it’s getting much darker. I also need to boil a handful of rice for dinner.”
We children, who had gathered in the small veranda of the Grandpa’s thatched hut, would get disheartened. The same scene got repeated every day. Almost all the children of our locality would flock in Grandpa’s hut in the twilight hour to hear from Grandpa stories of ghosts, stories of porcupine hunting, stories of fishing and what not. We would become engrossed in Grandpa’s stories. We were cocooned in a fairy tale world woven by Grandpa, forgetting everything-sense of time, scolding from parents, thirst or hunger. Grandpa had an uncanny knack for storytelling. His amazing skill of storytelling would lead us down the hazy, obscure lanes and travelling along the twists and turns of the stories, sometimes we would become grief stricken at the plight of Tezimola, sometimes we would ride with a prince on his winged horse and fly amid clouds, at some other times, we would become frightened, hearing stories about Bhoot, Pishach, ghosts and witches and cling to each other, one clenching the hand of the other. When we would hear the story of the prince riding on his winged horse, the courtyard would be filled with serene moonlight while air all around would be filled with fragrance of the Kaminikanchan tree that stood at the gateway; when we would hear the stories of Bhoot and Pishach, the courtyard would get covered with a dark veil which could not even be pierced with a pin and the hoots, screeches, barks, growls and shrieks of the owl that travelled to our ears from a distance, would make our hearts to shiver with fear whilst the sound of flapping of the webbed wings of a bat would make us quiver with fright which even the heat emanated from the glowing charcoal failed to mitigate. We were overwhelmed by sorrow as well as happiness, fear as well as apprehensions. It was how we got acquainted with innumerable strange feelings which we had never experienced before and got introduced to an unknown mysterious world- a world filled with love, affection, envy, jealousy and cruelty. How effortlessly Grandpa would take us along the alleys of this unfamiliar world holding our little hands! Our emotions would rise and fall in a smooth graceful motion in consonance with the sorrows and happiness, tears and laughter of the characters in the stories. We remained lost in the stories. Long after Grandpa finished telling the story, our mind and soul would remain enchanted with the story… sometimes at the sorrows of Tezimola, sometimes by the cosy feeling of sleeping on a bed of flowers in a garden in paradise. And at some other times we would become terrorized and benumbed at the cruel act of a demon. Gradually the fire which had been ignited to dispel cold would get dimmer, the darkness all around would get thicker, the smoke would spiral upwards and would engulf our faces, the dew would begin to drop, the little leaves of the pomegranate shrub at the courtyard would drop on the ground like flakes of ice, Grandpa’s pet dog would come running from nowhere and sit beside us tucking his tail close to his body and go into slumber, the Kamrupi folk songs sung by the vegetable vendors returning home after the day’s business would grew louder and would then gradually fade away, but we would still be near Grandpa, surrounding him. Grandpa would repeat -
“It’s getting late. Go home.”
Perhaps in one such moment, one among us told Grandpa-
“Grandpa, we wish we had a Grandma!”
Our grievance was real. Had there been a Grandma, we could have listened to the stories of the Grandpa late into the night! Not only that, we could have listened to stories from Grandma also!
Hearing our complaints, Grandpa brooded for a while and uttered,
“Yes…oh…yes…..long hair, pointed nose and a beauty spot in her left cheek…”
Grandpa burst into laughter in high spirits. We too joined him in his laughter. The hut shook with our laughter. The dog started wagging his tail. A bird which might have been sleeping in a nook flew away flapping her wings shocked by the sound of our laughter.
And thus, at one time, it turned out to be like a game for us…
The intimate time that we would spend in the evening would come to an end with this game. Unwinding the knots in the stories that he had spun, pulling the net of the story that he had spread widely, he would utter-
“Go home now. It’s getting much darker. I also need to boil a handful of rice for dinner.”
Immediately one among us would utter complainingly about the want of a Grandma. In response, Grandpa would start describing one imaginary Grandma… having long hair, pointed nose and a beauty spot in the left cheek and would burst into a loud laughter, shaking everything around. This fun-filled activity of Grandpa with an outburst of heartfelt laughter was an additional bonanza for us- a confirmed gift that we received every day.
And now…
I am sitting by the side of his head on the bamboo bedstead where he is lying. A slender body frame which is gradually getting colder. Tears of pain have accumulated around his eyes filled with eye-sludges. The chest is moving up and down rapidly. He is lying on this old bamboo bedstead, motionless and silent. There are no children flocking around Grandpa, eager to listen to his stories. Perhaps his stories are finished long ago. Finished are those conversations in the interlude, those fun filled activities, those loud outburst of laughter at the end of the story. There is silence all around. Through the slightly opened bamboo door, few human figures can be seen on the veranda and in the moonlit courtyard. Amid the moonlight that flooded the courtyard, the shadows of the trees around have created a mysterious web, fascinating but inexplicable. Occasionally, through the door, comes the sound of whispers of the annoyed neighbours who have gathered at the courtyard.
Everyone has been waiting for the moment of Grandpa’s last breath. A dog is sleeping on the veranda with his tail down. This dog is not “Tiger’ of our childhood, Grandpa’s confidant, his best friend. “Tiger” is lost somewhere in the twist and turn of a long story. The pomegranate tree is also not there in the courtyard now. The children who once flocked around Grandpa, eager to listen to his stories, are no longer here. And perhaps, after a short while, Grandpa will also be no more…as if a long story is coming to an end and I am waiting to be a witness to that moment. A sense of incompleteness will linger after the end of the story-there won’t be any conversation after the story, no jokes or kidding, nor there will be that loud outburst of laughter. What will remain are the heavy but silent steps of memories across the heart.
We were exiled from the world of Grandpa long ago…..may be because of our growing age …and may be because of our gung-ho attitude. In the course of time, we all got scattered and we got scattered with such intensity as if we were artificial satellites moving into outer space defying earth’s gravitational pull. We ended up drifting in a clamorous city life. We were imprisoned in the cycle of college, career, marriage, family…….year after year. In such a stern real life story, the character of Grandpa was unnecessary, a misfit. We were like devastated Tezimola, our mind & body crushed by the daily grinding of the mechanical city life. Rootless we are, scattered here and there and growing anywhere where we can manage to get a foothold, concealing our pent-up sufferings and showing to the world our self-deceptive perceptions of happiness and achievements and people are enthralled by our false sense of pride. Perhaps Grandpa would have recognised our true selves like the merchant of the fairy tale. Perhaps Grandpa had that magic wand of the merchant by which the merchant converted the flowering shrub into a Common Myna and from that Myna, Tezimola was reborn. In our version of Tezimola, the merchant is nowhere to be found. In our story, our old, ancient Grandpa is long gone and our real minds were enshrouded by harsh realities, giving rise to a different worldview and a different way of living the life.
We carried on the social formalities, albeit mechanically. Routinely we went to the village during Pujas, Bihus and other festivals, visited Grandpa’s thatched hut and retreated quickly, carrying in our ears a tired, broken voice-
“Leaving so early?”
In the hustle and bustle of our daily life, we didn’t have any time to reflect whether that tired, broken voice of Grandpa carried any trace of sadness or grievance. Because, from the following day onwards, we needed to race against time for everything-my college, daughter’s school, wife’s office, traffic jam on the road. A little delay will make the entire equilibrium of our life topsy-turvy…
So…here I am… sitting on the driver’s seat… one after another the car’s doors are being slammed… vroom…vroom…here starts the car engine and one after another Grandpa’s utterances are coming to my ears…indistinctly…
“I’ve heard that a sheep can be created exactly alike another sheep… Is it possible to create a man also? Next time, when you come, you have to tell me…”
Lowering the glass of the car window, I might have told Grandpa-
“Why? Do you want to create a Grandma in the laboratory?”
“Yes…oh…yes…long hair, pointed nose and a beauty spot in her left cheek…”
Immediately there was that loud outburst of laughter. Perhaps I could not laugh heartily. Perhaps Grandpa’s laughter hit me hard in the heart. Gradually I raised the window glass. In the rear-view mirror, I could see Grandpa’s slender hand rising slowly and waving…bidding us adieu. Our car moved forward slowly and gradually Grandpa’s slender frame faded away from sight. An old thought, perhaps a regret, crossed my mind- wish Grandpa had a Grandma as his companion! This time around, this thought had come deep inside my heart, laden with a different meaning.
Maa called me at noon-“Perhaps Grandpa won’t survive for long. Repeatedly he is getting unconscious. As soon as he regains his senses, he asks for you. Come once somehow. Perhaps Grandpa is finding it hard to leave without seeing you once.”
We left for the village in the afternoon after managing everything-my college, Mini’s office and daughter’s school. A certain void, an inexplicable something made me restless! I got detached from that world of my childhood ages ago. In spite of that detachment and void, Grandpa had been living in my heart as symbol of that world, as a hero of our long lost world. Perhaps in a remote nook of this glitzy new world, Grandpa was lying all alone...ignored and forsaken…carrying in his heart memories and despair of a long lost world.
Coming out of the city, as our car proceeded across villages, I intentionally diverted the car to a road that branched off from the main road and ran across the paddy fields. On both sides of that road, there were acres of vacant paddy fields from where crops had recently been reaped. The fields still retained their golden tinge. Flying dust, the cattle were returning home. My gaze got fixed to the setting sun which was hanging in the sky like a huge red ball. Automatically I pressed the clutch & applied brakes…the car came to a halt by the side of the road. Alighting from the car, I went down the slope of the road into the field, amid the paddy stubs. Seeing a familiar looking stuff amid the grass interspersed with the paddy stubs, I was shocked briefly. Picking up the stuff from the ground, I became speechless for a moment-a four or five inches long reed like stuff but thinner than a reed, one end white while the other end black, variegated in colour and both the ends pointed. Suddenly an avalanche of memories crowded my mind, infusing a thrill inside me...I remembered how one day Grandpa had taken out few such thorns from a bamboo pipe and displaying those, had told us-
“These are porcupine thorns. This end remains inside porcupine’s body. If they perceive any threat, they simply raise these thorns in their body. They save themselves with these thorns, but these thorns prick them too”.
We all had started imagining the story of Kantakram in our school text- how young porcupine named Kantakram would bring pears for his ailing parents by piercing the pears with his thorns! Grandpa had told us story of porcupine hunting on that day-how the porcupines would come in the orchards at night and how, on hearing sound of their arrival, Grandpa and others would go out to hunt the porcupines taking along torch and spears in hands ……Hearing the story, we had become breathless. After Grandpa finished telling the story, he had distributed the thorns among us and said,
“These animals are gradually becoming extinct nowadays. So, question of hunting them doesn’t arise now. Instead I feel a sense of guilt remembering those hunting expeditions of my youth.”
I starred at the porcupine thorn affectionately-as if I had just met an old friend unexpectedly. I forgot where and how I had lost the porcupine thorns given by Grandpa which I had preserved so dearly. I even forgot that I had preserved them! Now this porcupine thorn which I found in this homeward bound journey made a perforation in the hard shell of time which had confined my old memories all along, gradually making them sink into oblivion. And few other porcupine thorns which I had lost long ago, started pricking my heart even more.
I showed Mini and my daughter the thorn. Holding it, my daughter examined the thorn closely by touching it with her fingers and spoke in excitement,
“Such a lovely stuff! Such a lovely stuff!”
“Yes, lovely indeed!” –I said.
“These are all lost now.”-Mini said.
“Yes…these are lost now. Perhaps we have failed to preserve them.” – I said.
I am still carrying the porcupine thorn in the pocket of my shirt. A sharp sound has brought my mind back into the reality. Looking in the direction of the courtyard through the door gap, I can see that two boys are splitting a bamboo pole into pieces. Everyone is waiting for the moment of Grandpa’s inevitable death. Grandpa is a loner. There is nobody to inform about his inevitable death nor there anyone who will cry hugging his dead body. Therefore, preparations are in full swing outside the hut to complete the formalities after his death as quickly as possible. People, who have been taking care of Grandpa’s well-being all this while, want to conduct his last rites smoothly. No I don’t have any complaint against anyone; at least they have taken care of him and provided him two square meals. The weak flame of the earthen lamp has scarcely lit the mud plastered room. Patches of plaster, made from a mixture of mud, cow dung and rice husk powder, cast on a wall made of reeds, have come off the walls, here and there. A two feet high green layer of moss has covered the walls from bottom. I look at Grandpa’s face-his wrinkled face appears sorrowful in the light of the earthen lamp. This face, from which there were ceaseless flows of stories and loud outbursts of laughter once, lay before my eyes now, tired, devastated and motionless. Meanwhile, a person comes to the room from the courtyard and putting his fingers against Grandpa’s nostrils, tells me, “Inform us when he leaves. We are in the courtyard.”
Nodding affirmatively, I look at Grandpa’s face. Tears have accumulated continuously around his eyes filled with eye-sludges. I don’t know what has made him cry-physical pain or despair for leaving this earthly life. Maa told me over phone that while he had consciousness, Grandpa had gasped my name repeatedly, asked whether I would come and expressed his desire to see me. I have arrived in the evening. It is midnight now. But Grandpa is yet to open his eyes and look at me. I have held Grandpa’s slender body again, jerked it a little and taking my mouth near his ear, said,
“Grandpa...it’s me here...Dhan.”
He opens his eyes this time. He tries to look at me batting his eyelids rapidly and manages to gasp out a word, “Who?”
Taking my mouth near his ear, I tell him once again,
“Dhan…Your Dhan!”
As if Grandpa has been able to recognise my voice this time! Extending his weak, trembling hand in the air, he fumbles for something. I grab his hand with my both hands.
“You have come!” Grandpa gasps out indistinctly. Tears roll down his cheeks.
“I know you will come!” Grandpa murmurs the words like a man talking in a dream.
I take out the porcupine thorn from my shirt pocket and place it before Grandpa’s eyes. He tries to focus his gaze at the stuff but fails to recognise it. I now prick the palm of Grandpa’s right hand with one pointed end of the thorn. Then I raise it before his eyes again. A tinge of happiness spreads across his face. With trembling voice, Grandpa asks me,
“You have preserved it?”
As I am about to utter something, I can see that Grandpa’s eyes are closing down gradually, murmurs are dying down, as if he is getting into a trance or deep sleep again. Perhaps not much time is left. The person who made our childhood and teenage years fascinating, will cease to exist after a short while.
I cast a glance at the veranda...sitting on that nook in the veranda, we used to hear Grandpa’s amazing stories...it appears to me as if it happened just a couple of days ago! But the slender man with grey hair who is lying in front of me in a moribund state reminds me sternly-ages have elapsed! I can only struggle to survive in this ocean of memories which connects the past with the present.
I am trying to remember at what point exactly we started drifting apart from Grandpa. I faintly remember the incidents now. That day Grandpa told us stories of Bhoot. In the meanwhile, we had completed primary school and began our journey in high school. Grandpa had told us stories of Bhoot earlier also. On a certain night, when Grandpa and his companions had gone for fishing or had gone for hunting migratory birds, suddenly the moonlit sky had turned gloomy after being covered with clouds. Thunder storm coupled with heavy rain had followed. In between flashes of lightning, Grandpa had seen that his companions had turned into ghosts. The thunderous sound of lightning had shattered his heart. Fishes had jumped off the bucket. And amid all this ghastly natural phenomena, Grandpa had felt an ice cold touch of hand in his shoulder. Turning back, what Grandpa had seen, had terrorized even a dare-devil like Grandpa. Grandpa had seen that co-villager Manglu, who had died five years ago in a boat capsize while going for fishing, was looking at Grandpa with a grinning face and asked him,” Have you come for fishing?” Grandpa had an amazing knack for story-telling and a knack for creating the right atmosphere. Many a nights, after we heard stories of Bhoot from Grandpa, he had to escort us back home. On many such nights, we would get awakened from sleep by dreams of ghosts, sweating profusely in fear. But on that day, just at the moment of climax in the story, one among us shouted-
“These are all fake stories. There is no such thing as Bhoot!”
In this unexpected attack, the frightful atmosphere created deftly by Grandpa in a gradual manner, disappeared suddenly. Nobody uttered a word. Grandpa also went silent for a couple of moments and after a brief while, asked seriously,
“Who told you?”
“There is no such thing as Bhoot! Our fear is the Bhoot! It is written in our text book of science.”
“And what else is there in your science text book?”
We, who had got into high school recently, told Grandpa many a things of science, showing off our newly gained wisdom. Grandpa listened to us keenly with his eyes wide open. After sometime that day, we got up to take leave. Perhaps, on that day also, we played the game. Perhaps, on that day also, someone among us, might have told,
“Grandpa, we wish we had a Grandma!”
“Yes…oh…yes…long hair, pointed nose and a beauty spot in her left cheek…”
Perhaps there was loud outburst of laughter on that day also. Perhaps shocked by that loud outburst of laughter, certain nocturnal bird might have flown away from tree, flapping it’s wings. But in spite of hearing stories of Bhoot from Grandpa’s mouth that day, we didn’t ask Grandpa to escort us back home. Gradually we were beginning to distrust Grandpa’s stories on Bhoot and his incredible theories and their explanations- that the people who die unnatural deaths or the people who have unfulfilled desires, remain on earth as ghosts even after their deaths-that those who do virtuous deeds attain Moksa, their all desires are fulfilled and they live in heaven and that others, who are sinners, rot in hell. But surprisingly, hearing about our distrust in his words, Grandpa didn’t attack us with counter arguments, which made us a little disappointed. Grandpa would listen to us attentively as to why we didn’t trust his words, nodded silently to our arguments and asked us a thing or two, to clarify his doubts.
What we failed to realize was that a drastic change took place in our relationship with Grandpa on that day. We failed to realize that an eloquent storyteller died that day and in his place, a patient listener was born! We finished telling him whatever we had got to know about science, we had to wait quite some time to acquire new knowledge to show it off before him and gradually our enthusiasm to show off knowledge got diminished over time. Occasionally when we request Grandpa to tell a story, he would blush and tell us,
“Ehh…how can I tell you now all those fake stories!”
Our visits to Grandpa’s hut became less frequent, our study load grew manifold and with the passage of time, we got detached from Grandpa imperceptibly. And with that, our fun filled daily game naturally came to an end. Thereafter, in the circle of college, career, establishing oneself in a new city, service and family life, Grandpa had become a tangent which touched the circle at a single point only. That tangent did not have the power to enter inside the circle. Those old stories, even our once favourite game, became only a memory to be recollected in some idle afternoons in our hectic daily life. We did not know nor did we cared to think whether in this detachment, the loneliness of that lone old man grew more intense or whether the memories of that daily game made the memories of that beautiful woman, with long hair, pointed nose and a beauty spot in the left cheek, more profound in him. We never asked Grandpa whether that woman was only a figment of our imagination created as a requirement of our game or was she a real woman who had existed in flesh and blood conquering the dreams of Grandpa’s vigorous youth but he had lost her in the course of his life, which made him a loner! We would never get to know whether in the daily game we played, the artificial grievance that we made about the absence of a Grandma was like a poisonous arrow for Grandpa, making him bleed profusely inside his heart, whether all his pain & sufferings took the form of a loud outburst of laughter and whether hearing the sound of that loud outburst of laughter, the nocturnal bird of sorrow that built it’s nest inside Grandpa’s heart flew away flapping it’s wings! We would never get to know! Perhaps after a while from now, a master storyteller will be gone for good, tucking in his heart innumerable stories which he had never told us before!
I cast a glance at Grandpa’s face-the face has turned paler and the heart beats seem to have decreased-as if death is staring at his face! Two youths enter inside the room and look at Grandpa-seeing signs of life in Grandpa, they become a bit irritated. Suddenly, Grandpa has started writhing and murmured-
“The thorn of porcupine!...The thorn of porcupine!”
“He is speaking incoherently in delirium!”- One youth tells the other. As they move out of the room, sound of murmurs in the courtyard travels to my ears. I am finding it hard to think whether the news that Grandpa is still alive, consoled the persons waiting outside or irritated them. I am beginning to feel that Grandpa should leave now; there is no point clinging to this life anymore. I have failed to realize what attraction has made him cling to this earth.
My eyes fell on the table in the corner--amid innumerable necessary and unnecessary motley group of articles which are lying on the table at sixes and sevens, there is a book! I pull it out. A high school textbook of science, meant for senior classes! Strange! Very strange! Or may not be so! Suddenly I remember… from the moment I left village for studying in college to the very recent times, whenever I visited Grandpa every now and then, he would wait earnestly for me with some brand new questions in his brain!
“How does Solar Eclipse occur? And Lunar Eclipse?”
“What does an astronaut eat in space? How does he sleep there?”
“Is there any life in other planets, like earth?”
“How was the Earth created?”
“If people have evolved from monkeys, then why the monkeys we see remained as monkeys?”
Innumerable questions, diverse curiosities! At first it all appeared awkward and strange to me. Afterwards I got used to it. In a word, I developed a sense of respect for him. He didn’t crave for money in exchange for knowledge. He just had an indomitable curiosity to know about the unknown! Although I was a college teacher, it was a rare experience for me.
Suddenly, Grandpa’s chest starts moving up and down restlessly, he gasps for breath, shakes his hands and legs vigorously, extending both his hands upwards he fumbles for something, the wind coming through the gap of the door has made the flame of the earthen lamp to flicker continually as if the flame is about to extinguish! I hold both the hands of Grandpa. He clenches my right hand with both his hands, applying great force and groans loudly-
“I go now!”
Touching his forehead, I utter inaudibly, ”Go!” I am finding it very hard to see this ordeal of death. It is not easy to be a witness to this sad ordeal. I can see Grandpa is trying hard to open his eyes, he manages to open his eyes somehow after a lot of struggle, he looks askance at me for a while and then murmurs-
“Where do people go after death?”
An ice-cold wave travels across my body. I am trembling. I can hear my own heart beats. In such a chaotic situation also, the words uttered by Grandpa in our childhood are coming to my mind. I have readied myself to pay him my last tribute. And in response to Grandpa’s queries, I am just repeating what he told us in our childhood-“The people who die unnatural deaths or the people who have unfulfilled desires, remain on earth as ghosts even after their deaths; those who do virtuous deeds attain Moksha, all their desires are fulfilled and they live in heaven and others, who are sinners, rot in hell.” Grandpa stares at me sharply while I take a deep breath and starts uttering-“We know Grandpa, a person like you will get your rightful place in heaven.” I can see as if Grandpa is protesting by shaking his head vigorously and tells me a bit clearly,
“You’ve told a lie, Dhan!”
“Have I told a lie?”… Have I?” … I start pondering…
Grandpa learnt it long ago that we were unruly boys who didn’t give a damn about ghosts nor did we believe in heaven or hell. Perhaps Grandpa himself no longer believes in those incredible theories now. That is why perhaps he has been able to see through my lies and let me know his reactions. Or he might feel that he won’t get a place in heaven. No, no, a person like Grandpa cannot rot in heaven and Grandpa himself believes that. Then? Does he believe that he will become a ghost in this beautiful world? Does Grandpa have any unfulfilled desires? Didn’t the woman with long hair, pointed nose and a beauty spot in the left cheek exist in realty? Or was the woman only a figment of our imagination created as a requirement of our game? Did that unparalleled exist somewhere?
Which one is true? Which one is true? What is there inside Grandpa’s mind for which he has said that I’ve told him a lie? I feel as if I’ve got entangled in the web of a mysterious story. Perhaps Grandpa might disentangle the knots in this story also, in the manner in which he disentangled the knots in the stories of our childhood. I affectionately look at Grandpa’s face to ask something-meanwhile his eyes have closed down, his chest has become motionless, his restlessness has come to an end… Grandpa is no more! He is lying motionless. He is still clenching my right hand with both his hands. I disengage my hand from his hands and lay them straight along his body and carefully placed on his chest-the porcupine thorn!
I come outside and inform the people waiting in the courtyard. Suddenly the inaudible murmurs become clear words, instantly people get busy for the last rites, no crying or wailing, no tears in anybody’s eyes, nobody to inform, none to wait for, there is no hassle at all.
No- there is no point in waiting here anymore. From tomorrow onwards again, my college, daughter’s school, Mini’s office. Crossing the gateway of Grandpa’s hut, I put my step on the road. Suddenly a bird flies away from the Bokula tree that stands in the front yard. “Where does the bird belong?” “Where has it gone?” Many a nights in our childhood, we retuned home in this way, after hearing stories from Grandpa’s mouth! I‘ve felt as if today again I am returning home after hearing a story from Grandpa after ages! Just a while ago Grandpa has finished telling his last story.
(Translated from original Assamese into English by Partha Pratim Goswami)
Navigations 
Quick Contact
Subscribe Us
Quick Mail
