Story of Felanee, The

Translator

One

The ferry crossed the Brahmaputra and reached Amingaon. Young Ratnamala, enveloped in stark white, was travelling on the ferry with her father. Her dark, sorrow-filled eyes, suddenly came alive as she spotted a couple of wagtails on the sand. The constant movement of their tiny legs raised up a fine silver dust. Seeing this, the girl smiled. Once off the ferry, father and daughter went on to board the train to Rongia. They were on their way to their home in the foothills of Bhutan where the two rivers Radhika and Krishna met and became one.

As the train entered the thick forest the girl felt a strange restlessness within her. The silver sand she had left behind had reminded her of her own silver dreams which now lay shattered. Her mind was empty.

In Guwahati she had been surrounded by people. She was relieved when the man that she was married to, and who she was so afraid of, hadn’t come to her for almost a month. He had been taken somewhere for a change of climate, to cure him of his tuberculosis, she was told. Each night she was alone she slept peacefully, her little heart singing songs of joy.

One morning, just as she finished dressing the little rag dolls she’d made for her brother-in-law’s daughter, she heard the sound of loud wailing. A horde of people suddenly rushed into her room, pulled off all her jewellery, her beautiful clothes and left her clothed in white. They then forced her to sleep on the ground. Her dolls, which she’d dressed with such care, were crushed carelessly and thrown away. Much as she wanted to retrieve them, she was unable to move.

It was a month since that awful day. Now, her father Chandradhar Mauzadar, a tax collector under the British, was taking her home with him. The train stopped at a deserted railway station and the two alighted and made their way to a bullock cart standing under the cotton tree just outside the station. Ratnamala ran to the cart. She caressed the bullocks and then jumped up to sit under the cart’s palm-leaf canopy.

They stopped outside a large house surrounded by trees and spacious, sun-drenched verandahs. The moment the two entered the house there were loud wails. Ratnamala stood silent, stunned for a while. Then, seeing her mother weeping, she too burst into tears.

Trying to forget what had happened, Ratnamala tried hard to keep herself busy, making rag dolls out of frayed bits of cloth. But each day more people arrived and seeing her they would hug her and cry. Soon her eyes lost all trace of life and became like two pieces of burnt out black coal. Her family saw her weep as she sat forlorn, her head down, in hidden corners. Unknown to her they too wept.

Ratnamala’s family then decided to send her away. Her uncle Kuladhar Barua, the Mauzadar’s younger brother, was asked to take her to his home in Palashtoli Tea Estate, where he was Head Clerk. The tea garden lay in the foothills of Bhutan and got its name from the many palash trees that stood tall among the undulating green sea of tea bushes. The bright, flame coloured flowers of the palash were in full bloom in the month of February when Ratnamala reached there. It looked as though the whole place was on fire.

The only way to reach Palashtoli was on elephant back or in a bullock cart. If someone needed transport, Mr Oliver Smith, the British Manager of the garden, would write out a slip saying: Bullock cart with soi, meaning a cart with canopy. The management often hired elephants to carry chests of tea out of the garden. The elephant Ratnamala was hired by the Head Clerk to help during the busy months.

Ratnamala, the Mauzadar’s daughter, now sat on the elephant Ratnamala as they made their way to the tea estate. Soon they reached a dry river bed. The elephant stopped for instructions for though there was no water in the river she knew that even a dry river could swell with a sudden cloud burst. And sure enough, as they halted beside the river, a tide of water swirled in a mad rush, as if to destroy and then vanished just as suddenly. The elephant knew her job; she took Ratnamala to safety across the river.

Ratnamala had visited the garden many times with her mother or her aunt but this time she was all alone with only her maid, Rambha, to chaperone her. She loved visiting the garden. The peacocks, the deer, the green tea bushes all enthralled her. The peacocks dancing with their outstretched tail feathers was a gorgeous sight to behold. The unending expanse of green forest merging with the far away blue hills was calm and beautiful.

Tigers and wild elephants would appear any time of the day and their low growls could be heard in the evenings. Huge snakes were killed by the garden workers who would carry them away slung on their shoulders as they returned home. Ratanmala was afraid of these but what frightened her even more was the fever, kala azar, which had taken so many lives including that of her uncle’s first born. This was why her father loathed the very idea of sending her to Palashtoli.

Kala azar was a terrible fever that took people by surprise. It would strike without warning, the body would shiver and shake and rattle until the person went limp with an enlarged liver and a bloated stomach. Even the most bitter quinine tablets did not help. Even though the water here was clean, the place was infested with malaria mosquitoes. Mr Smith had given strict instructions that every labourer was to take two quinine tablets when they came to weigh their tea leaves at the end of each day. Ratnamala too had been given the pills by her uncle. Each time she swallowed the quinine she remembered that she had been sent away from home. Why had her father sent her away? Tears streamed down her face.

She felt terribly depressed. She felt as though no one cared about her. Her parents seemed to have abandoned her. She was alone with Rambha in this huge house and all that the maid did was eat and sleep. She hated to be called to do any work. Her uncle too was away. He’d gone to Misamari along with a hundred workers to help in the British war effort. All the nearby gardens had been asked to send a hundred men to the airfield in Misamari where the British government planned to do a recruitment drive. Her uncle was hardly ever home anyway— whenever he had some days off he would go to visit his own family.

The only constants in her life were the elephant Ratnamala and the mahout boy, Kinaram. They were busy uprooting trees from the hilly slopes of the garden so that new saplings could be planted there. The last few days, however, there had been no work and so the two were home.

The long, quiet days seemed to hang heavy. Rambha had cooked tenga, a sour fish curry, with the fish that Kinaram had caught. Having eaten her fill Rambha lay down to sleep on a mat and was soon snoring. Ratnamala came out to stand near Kinaram who was feeding banana leaves to the elephant. His body was the colour of rich, ripe guavas. He had small eyes and when he smiled his eyes looked like two shiny pebbles lying on the bed of the Paglia river, the mad river.

He looked at her and smiled. Eat up, Ratnamala, he said. Hearing her own name, the girl started giggling.

Are you going somewhere? she asked him, seeing that he was making the elephant kneel.

Yes. I am going to join the hunt, he replied as the elephant got up again with him on its back

Who is going hunting? she asked, almost in tears at the thought of the senseless slaughter of wild animals.

The labourers are going to hunt deer.

Will you take me? she asked impulsively.

Once again he made the elephant sit so that Ratnamala could climb on to its back as she had done umpteen times before. They set off. They soon reached the iron bridge that had been constructed by the British. Kinaram made the elephant halt there. Below them lay the wet sand and stones of the mad river. Men with bows and arrows stood there ready to shoot, while from the opposite side another group of men were trying to chase a couple of spotted deer towards them. She could see the deer clearly. The garden was full of them. She had eaten venison before; in fact the stump of wood in their backyard was used to chop up meat and was quite worn out with constant use. Soon she saw the labourers move away carrying the carcasses of the dead animals on their shoulders.

The whole day went in watching the deer hunt. The next day too, Kinaram arrived with the elephant before daybreak. Rambha was deep in sleep and her uncle was away visiting his family. Ratnamala climbed on the elephant’s back and went with Kinaram. He was going to show her how to catch a batch of Jaoriya fish. The scales of the Jaoriya were black and silver. It was not easy to clean and cut this fish but Rambha didn’t mind because it was so tasty.

Kinaram had told Ratnamala that it was necessary to climb to the top of the hill to catch the fish. There were many small pools there beside the river. At dawn, as the sky turned pink, the fish came swimming in batches into these pools. And if one was really quiet, for the merest sound would disturb them, it was possible to get a good catch. As long as the sky remained pink the fish swam in and out but as soon as the first light appeared they vanished.

Kinaram made the elephant sit under a large kadam tree. She did not need to be tied because she was gentle and obedient and she would not move without Kinaram’s orders. There was a chill in the air even though the winter was still distant. But in these foothills amidst the green, one could feel the dewdrops. The girl followed Kinaram down the narrow dirt track. After a bit of a climb they reached the river bank. The sandy soil broke loose and fell away with each step they took. Every time Ratnamala lagged behind, Kinaram would stop to give her a hand.

Dawn was just breaking, a faint light was beginning to fill the sky. Kinaram gestured to her to be absolutely silent. The river bank was steep and she didn’t know how to get down, so she stopped. Kinaram stopped too and looked at her. Then, stretching out both hands to her, he helped her down the bank. Somewhere far away, a bird sang a long, sweet note.

As soon as she reached the river she looked up. The clouds seemed clothed in pink hues, the knee high water below looked pearly-pink. Kinaram pointed to the deep pools where the black and silver fish could be seen sparkling in the water. Going down to the water Kinaram spread his net. The girl followed and dipped her creamy white feet in the clear water. Seeing this beautiful young girl with her flowing black hair and creamy complexion, Kinaram stood rooted to the spot. Then suddenly he heard a sound. There was a sudden rush of water in the mad river. As the waves rushed in, Kinaram quickly picked up Ratnamala and holding her close to his chest, he raced to the bank.

They were totally drenched with the spray. Their bodies were covered with the sparkling sand. The image of the beautiful black and silver fish still fresh in their minds, they stared into each others eyes. They made not a sound lest it scare the fish away!

Soon, Ratnamala’s parents and aunt came to fetch her and take her home. They were stunned to see her. The girl looked radiant, glowing like a beautiful lotus. Was this because of the natural, fresh environment of the tea estate, they wondered? The next night they noticed a large male elephant standing at the spot where their own elephant, Ratnamala, was tied. Even in the dark his long, curved tusks were clearly visible. After this they saw the tusker there each night. They were sure that he would take the female away. But each morning he would leave before dawn and they would find the female standing solemnly under the tree.

Afraid, Ratnamala’s mother made the girl sleep next to her. One night she was shocked to find her daughter missing. Getting out of bed she saw that the door was not completely shut. Peering out she saw the two elephants standing side by side and a little distance away she could see a boy and girl also standing close to one another. The boy’s complexion shone in the dark, like the tusks of the male elephant. She was struck dumb but did not tell anyone what she’d seen. The next day she broached the subject of their return. All day she watched her daughter closely and suddenly everything fell into place. She saw Kinaram bring fragrant flowers for the girl wrapped in a plantain leaf, then she spied him bringing her ripe gooseberries. Once again Ratnamala sat and wept in quiet corners but this time no one thought this strange. However, her mother knew that these tears were different.

That night both girl and elephant disappeared. The elephant returned but the girl did not.

The story after that is short. Ratnamala had left with her lover. Fearing the wrath of the Mauzadar they had disappeared into the hills. She did not survive long—she died giving birth to a baby daughter. Kinaram went back to his village near the tea estate with the baby. One day, at dawn, people found his bullet riddled body in the very pools where he went to catch the beautiful black and silver Joariya fish. No one dared to say a word.

For a long time Ratnamala and Kinaram’s little daughter was kept hidden by the relatives to whom she had been entrusted by her father. He had given Ratnamala’s starfruit gold chain to them for safekeeping as well. Kinaram’s relatives buried the chain in their yard. People saw a strange light emanating from the spot where it lay buried and so an exorcist was called to purify the place. It was then hidden away on the hearth in a basket of mustard seeds.

The whole village helped to bring up little Jutimala. They looked after her and soon she grew into a pretty young woman. Jutimala knew that she couldn’t walk around freely like the other girls but soon she was not content to stay hidden. She started to ask questions about her parents, her home. At about this time she met a boy named Khitish Ghosh who owned a sweet shop. The small village he lived in had a railway station where city-bound trains stopped. He supplied sweets to the Mouazadar’s family on festive occasions and made good money.

Every year there was a mela in the small village where Jutimala lived and Khitish would send three workers to set up a stall there. This year he’d come to the mela himself because he wanted to buy a small pup, and he knew that Bhutanese traders often came to these fairs to sell dogs. Khitish was lonely in his new house and he thought a dog would be good company. He was a self-made man and he had no family to speak of, no one to call his own and he felt that the pup would assuage his sense of loneliness.

He first saw Jutimala at the fair. Although she wore a dokhona, she didn’t really look like a Bodo he thought. She looked like an elegant swan among the women around her. He was sure he would be able to find out more about her quite easily.

Sure enough, he found the old house where the cardamoms once grew. It looked dilapidated, no one lived there any more. Then he went straight to where Jutimala now lived. He was young, strong and fearless. His purse was full and he had confidence in his abilities and skills. He knew what he wanted.

According to the traditions of the mahout Kinaram’s family he married Jutimala and took her away. He took home a small pup as well, bought from a Bhutanese boy who had brought two pups in the pocket of his baggy jacket. He’d kissed it soundly before handing it over to Khitish.

Unfortunately, the story of Jutimala and Khitish was similar to that of the blood-soaked remains of the mahout’s body which was found in the river. Everything that bloomed was destroyed, the fragrant sandalwood forest was plundered by illegal traders, the peacocks and spotted deer were mercilessly killed for their flesh until they were extinct. All that remained now was emptiness, despair, wanton destruction, a deep silent void.

Khitish had thought that he could vanquish every danger, fight every battle. He left his groaning, pregnant wife at home one day and went out. He saw the raging fires in the distance and heard the sound of gunfire. He saw people hiding in the thick jute trying to save their lives. He was fearless so he walked on. Khitish died that day, never to return home.

Alone at home, Jutimala gave birth to a baby girl. Ratan, a distant relative of Khitish who had just managed to save his own life by the skin of his teeth, watched from a distance as people entered the small house and set fire to it. He saw Jutimala lying unconscious in the backyard. He saw how the roof had almost fallen on the unconscious Jutimala. Suddenly he heard a splash. Someone had thrown the newborn baby into the pond! The gang of marauders then disappeared. Ratan came out of hiding and went to the pond. There, in the long grass, lay the baby. Ratan Ghosh picked her up and cradled her in his arms.

This was Felänee. Her name remained Felänee–the throw away—all her life.

Two

The name stuck with her, even when, years later, Lambodar brought her home as his bride. Now Felänee was the mother of Lambodar’s son and she was pregnant again. She stood there oiling her hair with one hand and caressing the red roses, on a flower-laden shrub in the garden, with the other. Like a ripening rice field she stood there, Ratnamala’s granddaughter, Jutimala’s daughter, Lambodar’s wife, mother to little Moni and seven months pregnant with her second baby.

One morning, before leaving the house, Lambodar asked Felänee to wind up their home and pack a few things to carry with them. In the nine years they’d been married they had collected so many things. Bit by bit like little drops of rain these things had filled their world. What should she leave behind? What should she pack? The star-fruit plant that bore the sweetest fruit or the bunches of bananas that were touching the ground? The rose bush flowering in all its splendour or the pond filled with fish? Could she pack these in boxes or wrap them up in cloth? Heavily pregnant she walked about restlessly through her beloved home.

No one could sleep that night. The sounds of people screaming, as their homes and fields burned, filled the air. Last night, there had been at least six such bursts of noise. Groups of villagers kept watch through the night. Moni’s father too joined them. Moni was just seven but he was a mature child and each time his eyelids drooped with sleep he remembered his father telling him to look after his mother while he was away. He couldn’t let his father down so he forced himself to keep awake. The villagers who were patrolling in the night had seen fires burning in the distance. They had seen people in the jute fields. They had smelt petrol and seen the poisoned arrows. Each time Moni heard a loud noise he would jump out of bed.

Felänee went to her sleeping son. She wanted to hold him, to kiss him, but her swollen belly did not allow her to bend down. She could barely breathe. Her belly was distended on one side. She thought the baby must be shifting position and smiled to herself thinking of his small, sturdy legs.

Moni was muttering and thrashing about in his sleep. He was much too young for this. He should be sleeping like a log, without a care in the world. But he had been a witness to the vile actions of men. Felänee patted his pillow and set it straight.

Her husband had gone to Jiban’s shop near the crossroads where old and young would get together to talk and discuss things. Jiban’s cupboards were now empty but not so long ago he used to sell biscuits and buns as well as black tea and he subscribed to a newspaper which was an added attraction. Sometimes one or the other of his customers would bring along a small radio to the shop. Up until now no one had been particularly concerned with newspapers and radios but with all the trouble in their neighbourhood people wanted to know what was happening.

Felänee did not go to Jiban’s shop. If she had she would have heard the discussions too, and known that the young people wanted to boycott the coming election. That they did not want the woman candidate to stand from their constituency and that in trying to prevent her from filing her nomination papers two young men had been killed and many injured when the police fired at them. Felänee did not know that the bodies of the two dead boys had been carried in a procession through the city.

In fact no one who sat in Jiban’s shop knew of the circular that carried a warning. Election booths, cars and homes of traitors will be burnt; fish plates removed from railway tracks, electricity cut, government vehicles stopped and abductors severely dealt with. Chilly powder, nettles and wasps will be used and so will bows and arrows, poison seeds. Jute torches will be used to burn down homes… All that they knew was that everything was suddenly turned on its head. It was like the calm before a storm. Fear gripped everyone. At a time like this even the quiet falling of a leaf made people jump with fear.

After some discussion, the people gathered in Jiban’s shop decided that the women and children should be evacuated and sent to some safer place. There was no telling what might happen here. This is why Felänee had been told to pack up her belongings and why she was going around in circles completely confused about what to carry along with her when she left. She opened the locked suitcase where she kept her few pieces of jewellery in an old face cream jar. Her husband could not afford to give her jewellery and who else would deck up an orphan anyway.

Lambodar belonged to the Koch community. His family had enough to live by and owned some land as well. They had a house about fifty kilometers away from Mangaldoi. Lambodar had come to cultivate the land with his uncle and then stayed on in the village. He had studied up to high school. He’d first seen Felänee at the puja mela in the village and been completely bewitched by her long hair. He had been surprised to learn that her name was Felänee. But when he heard how she had survived being flung into the water right after she was born and how she had acquired the name Felänee, his heart melted.

Lambodar’s family was against the match. Felänee’s ancestry was unknown, or at best debatable, and certainly low. His family almost disowned him. But despite their disapproval, Lambodar married her and brought her home. She was fifteen at the time. It had been many years since then. She was now 23 and the mother of his son.

She opened the small bundle of cloth and took out the heavy gold chain made with starfruit shaped beads. The locket was enameled and studded with rubies. Her heart was pounding. Had she been wearing this when she got married she would have been the envy of all in the village. But who would dare to take this chain out of its hiding place? Her mother had brought it wrapped in rags when she came from the home of Khitish Ghosh and his cousin Ratan, who’d brought up Felänee. She had hidden it away in a dark corner of his house, away from prying eyes. Now, in the ‘60s, in this time of bloodshed and conflict, Felänee had taken the chain out. As she held it she remembered, once again, the stories she had heard about that gruesome night when the air was filled with flames and her mother lay dying. She had somehow managed to crawl to Ratan’s house and place her newly born baby and a ragged bundle that held the chain, her gold rimmed shell bangles and a ring that her husband had given her on a gunny sack before collapsing. Ratan had seen her from his hiding place, he had heard the baby cry and then the sound of the baby being thrown into the water. As soon as the rioters had left he had run to the pond and fished out the baby and then disappeared into the forest.

Felänee, Felänee! It was Janaki’s grandmother. Her voice sounded distorted. Felänee went out and saw that Janaki’s family had tied up their belongings and were just about to disappear into the jute fields. She remembered that she too must make haste. She put some rice and lentils to cook on the wood fire and in no time the food was ready to be eaten. Looking at the fire she felt her heart wrench. What a good man Lambodar was! She felt a warm glow as she thought of his kindness, his care, for even in the midst of all this uncertainty he had made sure she had enough firewood and water from the pond. He provided her with every comfort within his means. Suddenly she felt the baby move again…she must eat something or the baby will be in distress, she thought.

She saw a reflection sparkling on the wall. It was the jewellery she’d left on the bed; the sun’s rays had fallen on it. Quickly she covered up the jewels with a pillow. How had she dared to take this chain out? In it was enveloped the history of her grandmother, Ratnamala’s, life. A history that the Mouzadar’s family had wanted to erase. People said she looked like her grandmother. In Ratan’s house she had been treated like soft and delicate cottage cheese that must not be allowed to get sullied. She was not allowed to leave the house. Ratan knew that the Mouzadar’s car had come to his shop on three occasions.

Slowly she picked up the gold chain and wore it. The beads shone on her filled out body.

Moni! Moni! her husband called out. Instantly she put the chain into the suitcase and with a moist cloth she wiped her neck. The image of a young man lying dead in the wild cardamom thicket suddenly floated before her eyes. She had heard Ratan’s uncle telling his wife about the car waiting in front of Ratan’s shop and even now she shivered when she thought about it.

Moni went to open the door.

Have you managed to pack? Early tomorrow morning… Holding her young son, Felänee broke into sobs before he finished speaking.

Now listen to me Malati! Malati, don’t cry so, he consoled. You have a home and your parents-in-law. They have sent word that you should go to them. After I’m done, I will come too. Don’t worry. And, besides, you aren’t well now, he continued. She quietened down.

Malati, how can you forget that I am always here for you? He had used this name of endearment for the first time in the light of day. She was happy but fearful. Her special name Malati that he used seemed to wither in the heat of the afternoon sun. How could she leave him and go away tomorrow?

Unmoving, she kept gazing at Lambodar.

Three

Father and son lay down side by side on the bed. Moni started playing with his father’s hair. His mother sat in the yard outside, comb in hand. She was staring at the last rays of the setting sun as they fell on the bush of red roses, making them glow. Her bangles made a tinkling sound as she oiled her hair. The bangles had once belonged to her mother. She wondered what her mother had looked like. She must have been fair with small eyes that crinkled up when she smiled. She must have had a rounded, well filled out body. She tried to picture her in a gold bordered red sari and didn’t quite like what she saw in her mind’s eye. She must have looked lovely in a red dokhona though, she thought, woven with a wide green and yellow border. Brushing her lips against her bangles she tried to smell her mother’s fragrance. Whenever she used spices or soap, or chopped greens, or ground mustard paste, she thought she could smell her mother’s fragrance on her hands or in the bangles that had once belonged to her mother.

Thinking of her mother always made her sad. Was it a crime to belong to the Mauzadar’s family? Her mother had not chosen to be born in his house. After her father