Konkani short story translated from the book: The Salt of The Earth
Author: Jayanti Naik
Translator: Augusto Pinto
Publisher: Goa 1556
Continued from last week…
So far everything was going as planned. “Saheb, we have reached Balli; now should we proceed to Margao or should we take the shortcut to Quepem?” Shivanand’s reverie was interrupted by the taxi driver’s query.
He looked out – they had already reached Balli; soon they would reach the four road intersection one of which would lead to Quepem. “Take the short cut. You have to turn right at the crossroads! Later we’ll ask for directions.” The taxi sped towards Quepem on a recently tarred road, and Shivanand began to notice the changes that had taken place in Goa over the last forty years. This used to be a mud road meant for bullock carts; now it was hot-mixed and there was not a single bullock cart to be seen. Where there used to be a solitary Portuguese-era carriera bus, now there were all sorts of vehicles on the roads. Where once in the villages girls wore blouses with skirts or ghagaras, they could now be seen wearing jeans and tee-shirts and riding scooters. Houses with Mangalore tiles had given way to terraced houses; and everywhere shops and buildings had sprung up. Thought Shivanand, ‘I wonder whether our Amona village has changed too; I wonder whether our house is the same or has been renovated?’. Satyavati was now awake; perhaps the word ‘Quepem’ had penetrated her consciousness. “Have we reached Quepem?” she asked. “We’re still about seven kilometers away,” he replied. As they began to near Quepem a new vitality seemed to have crept into Satyavati’s usually dulled eyes, felt Shivanand. She willed her frail hand to straighten the strands of hair on her head; she brushed her clothes and sitting with her back straight up on the seat she began to avidly look at the scenery outside the window of the taxi.
“Satyavati, we’ve almost reached!” Shivanand’s voice was hoarse, “There, the hill you can see on the left is Chandranath Parvat, and right on top the circular thing you can see there is the dome of the temple of Lord Chandreshwar.” The taxi crossed the bridge over the Kushavati river and took the road left towards Quepem and Sanguem whilst Shivanand’s heart began to beat harder. “We’re just five minutes away. We’re now in Gaonkar Vaddo; and the first house in Desai Vaddo is ours. It’s the biggest house in the whole vaddo.” “Stop, stop the taxi! You see that public square there: the house behind it is ours. You won’t be able to take the taxi any further.”
Shivanand’s heart had reached boiling point. He was returning to this village, this house, after so many years. What was in store for him? He held his arm out to help Satyavati get out of the car and she too began to look around wide-eyed. “What about the luggage? And the pair of ceremonial dhoties? Aren’t you going to take them out of the taxi?”, she asked. “Let the luggage be here, for now. Let’s go to the house first. Later we’ll see about the luggage.” Shivanand was still apprehensive as to whether he would be allowed into the house at all, but he couldn’t voice his fears to Satyavati. He told the taxi driver, “Stay close to the taxi. We’ll be back after a while.” He held Satyavati by the shoulder as both started walking on the path that led towards the house which was about
two minutes away.
Shivanand was happy to see the look of eager anticipation on Satyavati’s face. Anyway at least I’ve managed to fulfill her desire before she dies, he thought. “You know, Satyavati – the built up ped of the banyan tree is a very important landmark of our village. If any mendicant Gosavi came to the village he would stick his trishul in the ground here and would take alms from the villagers. If Goddess Mharamma came – you know the devi which came on a devotee’s chest – she would stop at the tree… The ashes of the demon we made of hay and burnt during Holi would be buried near this square. There is a snake that lives in the recesses of the banyan tree – we believe it is a divine snake. It’s just about a foot long, and a saffron yellow in color. Whenever anything bad is destined to happen to the village he will be seen to give a sign about this. He is often seen moving around the area. But he doesn’t harm children. In our childhood I, Ramanand, Vithal, Govind, the children from Gaonkar Vaddo like Bhika and Morto would, whenever Dadi was not around, swing from the branches of this banyan tree. But wait now. Banyan tree? Banyan tree?…
Where has that banyan tree gone?… There’s just the stump of a banyan tree here… Did it die or was it chopped down?” Seeing that stump of a dead banyan tree there, Shivanand felt disconcerted. “If it died shouldn’t Ramanand have planted a new one? After Dadi, shouldn’t he have looked after all this? This place belongs to our family; it was built by Dadi’s grandfather, so it is our responsibility to take care of it. I must ask Ramanand about this when we get home.”
Although Satyavati was by his side, Shivanand was babbling all these things to himself; taking her a few steps ahead he stopped in amazement. “Whose house is this?? Where has our house gone??? How is it that there is a cross built here?? Have I missed the house?? No!! How can this be? How can I have forgotten that house?” Shivanand didn’t quite know what to do, and Satyavati also began to get upset. “What’s the matter? Have you come to the wrong house?” Shivanand did not reply to her question but told her, “Sit down on this platform for a while… I’ll just go to Dharma Appa’s house over there and ask them.” Helping Satyavati to sit on the platform he quickly strode into Dharma Appa’s courtyard. He saw a man standing on the steps of the house peering at him; this has to be Govind, he thought – but like me he too has greyed. “Govind!!” “Is that you Shivanand? I knew it must be you. How many years has it been since you last came to this village?” Shivanand didn’t reply. He was not in any frame of mind to answer this question. “Govind, what has happened to our house? Dadi… Aai… Ramanand… Whose house is that?” Govind began to speak as if he had already prepared a speech to answer Shivanand. “Your Dadi and Aai passed away some fifteen years ago. After they died, everything came into Ramanand’s possession, but his daughter-in-law was no good. She belonged to our caste no doubt but she was not at all interested in living in the village. Buy a flat in Margao, she kept nagging her husband. The husband also thought it best to live in Margao: it would be better for the children to go to college in future. But he didn’t have the lakhs needed to buy a flat for he was just a salaried worker.
So he sold the house off; Ramanand couldn’t oppose his son, for he was his only son, and he had to have someone to look after him in his old age: so he signed on the dotted line and along with his wife went to live with the son’s family in Margao.”
Your house was sold to a Kuwaitkar from Paroda. Ramanand got a good price they say, I don’t really know how much. He’s a wealthy man: you can tell from the bungalow that he’s built. But he doesn’t stay here regularly; he and his wife and children all live in Kuwait with him, and he comes here for about fifteen days a year when his children have holidays in Kuwait. After that the house is locked,” said Govind pointing to the lock of the gate of the bungalow, while Shivanand felt the ground where he was standing was bit by bit slipping away from under his feet. “What!! Has our house been sold to Christians? It was a house of religious rites and ceremonial observances; a house of divjekars. It was for this reason that Dadi would not accept Satyavati as his daughter-in-law; and turned me into an outcaste and drove me out of the village. Has this very same Dadi’s grandson sold the house to Christians?” “And what about all the sacred statues that we had in the house – the Zalmi, the Purush – have they been taken to the flat?”
“How could they take them to the flat? They barely have enough room in the flat for themselves: it seems Ramanand sleeps in the gallery outside, while his wife sleeps in the kitchen. There is just one bedroom for the son and daughter-in-law, while the children sleep in the sitting room.” “But where are our family deities kept then?” Let the house go, thought Shivanand: he hoped that Satyavati would have an opportunity to fall at the feet of the family’s sacred Zalmi and Purush idols. “When leaving the house, they wrapped all the idols and placed them in a cane basket and released it into the Kushavati river. They only took a photograph of Lord Chandreshwar Bhootnath with them.” Shivanand’s feet began to tremble. Oh god, he thought, what am I to tell Satyavati now? What will happen if I tell her that the house whose threshold she had been so eager to enter, just no longer exists? And which family deities is she going to fall at the feet of? To which ancestors is she to sing praises in worship in order to fulfill her duties as a daughter-in-law? Shivanand’s lips had dried up, and he felt his vision clouding over. He shut his eyes tightly. But then he realised that the rain clouds had gathered and it could pour any moment. The sky that had been so sunny just a while ago had grown dark and brooding. He looked up at the Parvat Hill. There it had already started drizzling, and it was difficult to tell the hill from the cloud.
Satyavati is sitting on the ped. I must take her back to the taxi before it begins to pour. With heavy feet he began walking back to the platform. “Aren’t you waiting? Won’t you come in?” Govind’s questions were not heard.
(THE END)
