As The River Flows: The HarperCollins Book Of Assamese Stories

By Ranjit Biswas

A mother watches as her daughter, intent upon cleaning the house, tries to throw away a cherished piece of embroidered cloth; a father realizes that age is catching up with him when his children's plans no longer include him; a rape victim tries to settle into a life without her husband; a serf finds the courage to stand up to the indignities he has to face; a whole village is targeted as the armed forces come looking for a single insurgent. As the River Flows brings together some of the finest contemporary short stories from Assam which rank along with the best of Indian literature. With the wide variety of styles and content, these stories give us a glimpse into the lives of those living beside the Brahmaputra. Spanning from the 1950s to the present, this collection presents an eclectic mix of well-known stories by writers who set the tone of modern Assamese stories as also those who have gained from their pioneering efforts.

• Language: English
• Publisher: HarperPerennial
• Release date: Apr 19, 2012
• ISBN: 9789350295045

Ranjit Biswas

Ranjita Biswas is a journalist, fiction writer and translator. She contributes to national and international publications on gender issues, development, travel, and art and culture. As a translator she has won a number of awards and has to her credit three published books. She also researches on socio-cultural aspects of the north east.

Book preview

Kathanibari Ghat

Kathanibari Ghat

MOHIM BORA

Coal piled into small hillocks, the banks of the Brahmaputra molested by erosion, the sandbars exposed by a winter-dry river and the wind creating wave after wave of green in the jhow shrubs growing on them. During the monsoon, the water of the river reached up to the stone-laid main road. Now, in winter, with the riverbed dry, one had to walk down quite a distance to the ghat. The locals had constructed a makeshift bridge with bamboo and a woven mat.

The lone tea stall was ensconced on a platform over bamboo poles inserted into the sand. A wide door, patched up from kerosene tins, when placed horizontally also served as a roof under which a bench made of bamboo became a perfect place to sit down for a cup of tea, a smoke, or even a relaxing gossip session.

But I was not indulging in any of these; I was looking at the sun which resembled a huge crimson bowl. The steamer was to arrive only at nine o’clock at night. That was the scheduled time anyway. But I had arrived early. Soon, the little waves painted themselves with the vermillion of the setting sun and disappeared to some point of rendezvous.

Instantly, it looked as if somebody was angry with the shades of crimson and had wiped it clean; what was left was a woman bare of the vermillion spot on her forehead.

I felt lonely somehow. I could not see any other passenger save for one or two Nepali couples and a few tea-garden labourers. All this while, the tractors with tea-leaf boxes and those coming to collect coal had provided some kind of excitement to Kathanibari Ghat. But now, with the onset of the evening, the smoke from the factories of the tea plantations in the distance was dying. The huge boat where the ferry anchored looked like a black giant. The few men employed to load the stuff and labourers working there, the small family of the tea-stall owner and a few of us passengers were soon engulfed in the darkness.

Suddenly, there was the sound of tinkling bells. A bullock cart, the curious eyes peeping through the mud-and-straw walls of the stall discovered. The driver slowly lowered the yoke on the ground. The pair of bullocks tried to find a few sprigs of dry grass. The curtain in front of the cart was green; the colour rippled through my mind. A restless young boy aged fifteen or sixteen jumped down from the cart. He and the bullock-cart driver brought out a tin trunk which the driver lifted to his head with some difficulty. There were few other items of luggage, a hold-all, some paraphernalia. The boy led him to the boat.

My curiosity increased. The vague body emerging from the cart now took shape under the dying light of the sun. She smoothed her dress and then stood looking at the river. The young boy and the driver now reached her. They carried on towards the boat with the luggage. My eyes followed them.

After some time, the boy and the driver emerged from the boat. The boy asked the driver to yoke the bullocks and gave him money for tea. He then said, ‘Tell them that we reached here without any problem.’

The boy left him. The driver ordered a ‘single tea’ and a ‘banana biscuit’ and finished hurriedly. When a local labourer, belonging to the same place as him, asked him how far he had to go, he replied that it was ten miles.

The lamp that hung from the bullock cart was visible for quite some time; then it disappeared from view at a turning.

A pale light flickered in one corner of the boat. So they too had chosen the corner where I had put my luggage. In the whole boat, that was the only comfortable place. A lamp now came up at the entrance to the boat and another in the tea stall. These lights were like three shining poles in the world of darkness.

Somewhere, a loose chunk of earth slid down to the water. Tupung! Very near, at the shallow end of the water, I could distinctly hear the laughter of the little selekona fish. I looked at the mounds of coal. They seemed to be rushing towards me like giants in folk tales.

My mind almost begged to go to the boat – or was it because I wanted to find out about the new arrivals? I walked up the sturdy wooden plank to the boat. In the intense darkness, the odour from the tea-leaf boxes, paint, liquid tar, dry fish, burnt coal, all seemed to start a chorus – as if under the influence of country liquor. It seemed that someone had opened a box kept locked for a long time right under my nose. The workers in the boat were now busy cooking their dinner.

The Nepali family had spread a blanket not far from the corner where I had kept my luggage and were singing sonorously. Some distance away, a few people, either Santhali or Oriya, were sitting in a circle, chewing something. Toasted rice, perhaps. And near my luggage, which was kept a little to the side, a hold-all was spread out and the young boy lay on it, reading a film magazine. Near his head, the girl sat looking uninterestedly at the pages.

I was not sure what to do and so decided to organize my suitcase. The girl looked at me. But she took some time to make out my face beyond the candle wick. This gave me an opportunity to look at her face, framed by the soft light of the candle. The boy now looked at me, the magazine still in his hand. When I bent down to lift the suitcase from the floor, my face was touched by the candle light too.

The boy sat up hurriedly. The girl too put up the uroni, the part of the chador used to cover the head.

‘Is this your suitcase? Sorry, we moved it a bit. Don’t worry, we’ll sit up. You can spread your bed.’

The boy spoke with such familiarity that I hesitated. I have often been embarrassed as I seem to forget faces. But no, I had never seen him before, I was sure.

‘No, no, it’s all right. You sit comfortably; I’ll manage.’

I used a sleight of hand to hide my bedroll which was wrapped in a blanket that looked quite dirty behind the suitcase. But how could I hide the suitcase which had colour clinging to it only in places? Though it was originally of quite good family, made of English steel … But who cared for the origin these days?

As I lifted my luggage, the boy almost shouted, complaining. ‘Are you planning to go elsewhere? We’ll be offended if you do so.’ He actually began rolling up his hold-all.

‘No, relax. Who knows when the ferry will arrive! One is never sure of the time; sometimes it doesn’t come at night at all.’

‘That’s why I’m asking you to stay on. There are hardly any passengers; there’s no Assamese person either. My sister and I were discussing it just now. If only there was someone …’

I understood that the boy too was a bit worried, like his elder sister. I was trying to hide my vagabond-stamped suitcase and bedroll. Now I was apprehensive that the face behind the uroni might see the state they were in. So I quickly unrolled the contents towards their feet on the floor and sat down.

‘Perhaps it’s time to buy the ticket. Let me go and find out. Where are you headed?’ I asked. There was plenty of time to get the ticket but there was nothing else I could talk about.

‘We have to go to Jorhat,’ the boy said. He was now sitting beside me.

‘Jorhat? But it’s the ferry’s downward journey today.’ I jumped up, quite shocked. People need to be up-to-date with such information.

But these two did not seem unaware of the ferry’s schedule. The boy seemed quite happy to relieve me of my worry. Like a fifth-grade student showing off in front of a senior from the sixth grade, he took pleasure in telling me that they would go by the steamer up to Silghat and then take a bus to reach Jorhat.

‘We have to reach Jorhat tomorrow. It’s urgent.’

I wasn’t quite interested in all this explanation. Though the girl was sitting shyly in a corner when I got a glimpse of her face, it seemed she was participating in the conversation. I was wondering how, without uttering a word, she could be so active in the discussion. I was sure she hadn’t been married long; even in the pale light of the candle I could make out remnants of the freshness of a new bride, the touches of the black gram and turmeric from the ceremonial rub, mah-halodhi, still sticking to her soft skin. The air carried to me the fragrance from her dolai, the narrow chador worn between the mekhela and the chador. Of her hair tinged with oil. A full face, the hand like a rounded, elongated balloon, the bright yellowish tinge of the skin enhanced by the silk mekhela chador she was wearing. It was rare to find such a physical structure these days.

Suddenly I realized the boy had asked me something and was waiting, rather hesitantly, for a reply. ‘Oh, what did you ask? Me? Yes, I’m also going to Silghat. My house is near the place.’

‘Well, that would be nice. The ferry will reach Silghat at night. Meeting you has been lucky, isn’t it, Baidew?’

His baidew was leafing through the magazine unmindfully, but her ears were tuned in to our conversation. Now she nodded in assent and looked at her brother.

Someone had spread a rich warm colour on her smile. Otherwise how could even her forehead smile? Does anyone’s nose or chin smile? Can thick eyebrows like hers smile ever so softly?

Going by the schedule of other days, it was now time for the steamer to arrive. I stood up to enquire. The boy tried to fish out his purse. I did not allow him to and told him that the bell for ticket sale was yet to ring. In any case, I could buy their tickets too; they could pay me later. ‘If there’s time enough, we could have some tea. What do you say?’

The boy looked at his sister. She was going through the hold-all and spoke as if to herself. ‘Where’s the flask now?’

I heard her voice for the first time. Deep but soft, like butter – I wondered if such a description could fit a human voice.

The boy took out the flask. I held it and went near the railing. A river dolphin popped up from the water to check the time of night. Somewhere I could hear earth falling into the water. The waves reverberated with the beats of a madol, a little tired now, from a distant tea garden.

I learnt that they were far from issuing the tickets. Perhaps the steamer was stuck at some sand bar, the ticket seller had replied irritably. The last earthquake had apparently left his sleeping hours stuck at some sand dune too.

The family of the tea-stall owner had by now finished its dinner. The children were packing up the merchandise spread on the bamboo platform and getting ready to retire for the night. The plump, middle-aged owner was sitting on the platform in front with his cronies and playing a game of bridge. As I approached, one of them said, ‘Ten o’clock. Time to pack up.’ The person who was shuffling the cards said, ‘This is the last deal.’ They did not notice me. I did not want to disturb their absorption either, and stood in the background, watching the game. ‘Heart one’, ‘spade one’, ‘no trump’, ‘two clubs’, ‘three diamonds’ – double the words went around like fireworks. The game ended. The ones who insisted on the last game, including the owner of the stall, got quite a drubbing. Then the three of them got up to end the night’s session. I understood that they were employees of the tea garden nearby and met to play bridge in the evening.

I was looking rather pityingly at the stall owner’s face that resembled a spade now. He noticed me. ‘Do you need anything?’ he asked courteously.

‘I wanted some tea. Could you manage, please?’ I said, glancing at the kids getting ready for bed. ‘Sure! I think the ferry might not come at all tonight.’ A little boy jumped up and said. ‘One cup?’

I gave him the flask and said, ‘Three.’

‘Oh, you have family,’ the owner said. ‘Let me know if there’s any difficulty. And if you need to have dinner, I can organize it. If you need tea or hot water, just let me know.’

A very plump, dark man. But his face was very kind. His voice too was sincere. After some conversation, I came to know that his wife was not there; he had put up this little house on the sand with his children.

I suddenly felt very happy. Ah, how nice people are in this world. So much love, tenderness and sympathy. I thanked him and paid for the tea and walked back to the boat.

It was almost an hour since I had left the boat. I checked again and came to know from the ticket master that there was no hope of the ferry arriving that night. Even if it did, it would be in only at dawn. I made my way through the narrow passage between rows of tea-leaf boxes.

The party that was busy munching earlier was now snoring. I had heard the song of the Nepali family on the seventh scale. It had now reached the eighth scale with yawning.

The film magazine was sleeping peacefully on the boy’s chest. Poor soul. It was only now that he was feeling safe, having found a co-passenger he could trust. His sister was sitting near him, perhaps waiting for me. Now she shook him gently, ‘Barun, don’t you want your tea?’

Her voice did not have any unnecessary urgency; there was no unusual hurry either. I understood that she had confidence in herself, and also that she trusted others. I felt much relieved and shook off some of the earlier hesitation.

‘Barun!’ I called him.

The three of us sat down to drink the tea.

I had brought earthen cups from the stall. They brought out snacks such as coconut laddu and some savouries. I wanted to sit a little apart with the food, but they objected. So I sat with them.

‘You spread the bed properly. You can also put up the mosquito net. That way, you’ll be able to sleep more comfortably,’ I told them.

‘So is the steamer not coming?’ It was as if both of them had asked the question together.

‘What will happen, Barun?’ she asked her brother, quite worried now. I never knew worry could make someone look so beautiful. But why such urgency?

‘Is it very urgent, Barun? Some work in Jorhat?’ The words came out unexpectedly.

‘We just have to be in Jorhat tomorrow.’ This time the sister replied, though not looking at me.

‘We can think of tomorrow tomorrow. Isn’t it, Barun?’ He seemed relieved by my support.

‘Yes. She worries too much for nothing. They have written no worry. You have passed minor standard, Baidew. Don’t you understand what the words mean?’

‘But they also said come sharp,’ she smiled shyly as she addressed her brother.

‘Oh, I know my brother-in-law. He gets worked up about the smallest things. Even when he has a headache, he acts as if he’s dying and asks for you. That’s why the come sharp.’

I saw in the soft light of the candle that her whole face had blushed a bright pink. ‘No worry, come sharp.’ What was the mystery behind it?

‘Is somebody gravely ill?’

‘My brother-in-law has met with a cycle accident. He’s in the hospital. We got the telegram two days ago, but I was not there. I arrived yesterday after the school closed. My father couldn’t take leave from office either, since it’s the leaf-plucking season in the garden,’ the boy replied.

After I requested a few times, Barun spread the bedroll. The mosquito net was hung from three points. The sister went to bed without arguing.

Barun and I talked for some time and I learnt about their family. He took my address on a slip of paper. After some time, he went to sleep too.

On the other bank, a tiger must have been waiting for the hunt in the Kaziranga forest. In the distance, in the sand bars, amidst the kahua and jhow in the dark water of the Brahmaputra, unknown mysteries were winking invitingly. The stars above tried to make out the mysterious presence.

Near the boat on the bank, a few washerwomen, their hair all awry, were washing clothes. Chapat, chapat. What rubbish! They were only waves.

The young man, Barun, was a student of standard IX in the town high school. His father worked in the tea plantation. What was the name? Head Teahouse? Perhaps. Their house was ten miles away from the ghat. His sister had got married a year-and-a-half ago.

She had come home for just a week. The injury was negligible. But why ‘come sharp’? No, they could not stay long without seeing each other. They were very close. Just think, if this night could have been one-and-a-half years ago? But I haven’t had a cycle accident … Shame! What thoughts!

The candle was snuffed out by the wind. It felt nice, but I thought maybe I should not let it remain dark. I lit a matchstick. Finding the stub of a half-smoked cigarette, I tried to light the candle.

I jumped up as I heard her voice.

‘Maybe I could sleep without the light.’

‘Haven’t you slept yet?’

‘Just half awake. Can’t sleep properly.’

Naturally. I did not light the candle … I leaned on the railing and looked sharply towards the direction from which the steamer was supposed to approach. The light of the candle would not do, the light of the steamer must be brought in. I did not know for how long I stood like that. Suddenly, there was a commotion. Ferry, ferry. The bell at the ticket counter rang and many feet began running up and down.

I lit the candle quickly. The girl had already got up and now pushed Barun. He sat up, half asleep.

‘The ferry has arrived, Barun,’ I said. It was as if I had informed the people about the birth of a boy after a long, anxious wait. I asked them to roll up the bed and went to get the tickets.

As soon as I met the ticket master, I knew there was some problem. The signal from the steamer conveyed that it needed some repair. So the tickets would only be sold later. The ferry was limping towards the ghat. Barun came up to meet me, then returned to the boat to inform his sister about the mishap.

Soon it was dawn. I went to the bank. Something had to be organized. They had to reach Jorhat that day. After the morning ablutions, I drank a strong cup of tea to shake off the tiredness. I arranged for hot luchi and tea. The ferry arrived; a number of passengers got down. I saw that Barun and another young man were coming to the bank.

‘Dada, see Mamu has come. He has come from Jorhat in the steamer. I told you there was nothing to worry about.’

Mamu looked absolutely exhausted due to lack of sleep. He was the girl’s younger brother-in-law, his age almost the same as Barun’s.

‘What is the news from Jorhat?’ I asked.

Barun replied promptly instead, ‘Everything is fine. He came to fetch us as we were yet to arrive.’

‘What’s the need to fetch you?’

‘I thought if they wanted to go, I’d take them along; anyhow