A large basket full of gaudy, fleshy and fragrant blossoms , freshly plucked and cleaned with generous splashes of well-water was deposited at the doorway.Narua wiped his hand on his dhoti and moved away.
Narua was not permitted inside the pooja room.
Despite the drumming of her ancestors, about who was a clean caste and who was not, grandmother always made exceptions.
Narua's father was never permitted till the first doorstep.
Narua was employed as a cook and a help.
Especially useful during the strained days of pujo,when the manpower crunch was profound.
All caste and cleanliness issues were conveniently flung out , in view of practicality.
But , puja room, and brahmin bhoj were two areas , where Narua was still not allowed. It was accepted matter-of-factly , without any fuss. He would stand patiently at the doorstep, with whatever he had been asked to fetch, till someone retrieved it from his hands : someone , bathed, clean, and non-menstruating (menstruating girls were deemed unclean too).
That day was no exception.A large group of brahmins, and a larger group of brahmin kids, male and female, were expected.Large tubs of water were kept at the doorway, and Narua kept a dry towel on the bench, standing , untouching, at a respectful distance.It was actually a farce on a huge scale. Narua was expected to help the younger kids , sometimes holding (and thereby touching ) their hands.
A menstruating me , confined to the bedroom, could watch this from the bedroom window.
Narua had just helped a baby wipe his hands. His hands held the towel. An adult male cleared his throat behind Narua. With a start, Naruah respectfully , replaced the towel on the bench , and stood two paces behind , his head bowed. The dhoti clad man first kicked the towel down , then proceeded to trample it . Next he called Narua, said something to him, I couldn't hear. Narua hesitated for a second , before placing his open palms , in front of the brahmin. I thought he was about to touch his feet. What happened next took my breath away. The old man spat into Naruah's palms , once, twice ,thrice.
I got up from my stool, my heart beating , ears burning. No one had ever done this to anyone in my home . Narua, the magic cook, Narua my storyteller, Narua , the hoister-of -brats -on -backs, stood in the blistering sun, with red pan spittle dribbling down his fingers, bowing his head silently.
I thought I should run out right this moment and tell my grandparents about this, but I was under curfew. But I could run to my brother's room from another door, which I did . Dada, too, under curfew(unwashed due to fever) plotted revenge with me. He said he would shoot the bastard with dadu's hunting rifle (that made me feel good ) or bludgeon him with his new pujo gift of a cricket bat (better)
As fate would have it, situations turned table , rapidly, that very afternoon.
After a hearty meal of pooris, and and an assortment of sweetmeats, the brahmins took their leave , one by one , chewing betel nuts and clutching gifts of clothing etc .I had already pointed out the culprit to dada through a crack in the door. He was the eldest son of the village pundit, motilalji. He , being the largest and slowest hogger of them all, emerged in the end , hiccuping and sweating from a clear over-indulgence.(My grandmother always sighed ,"Moti"s Sons . Humph!!")
Before he could reach the water tub-towel-Narua complex for washing his hands,he tripped unsteadily , his feet caught in his dhoti-folds , let out a piercing scream , and fell down, face first
in a mud path rendered soft and squishy, thanks to numerous brahmin feet traversing to and fro, with wet slippers.
Next , he started convulsing . "Mirgi" (epilepsy)!! Serves him right."Dada and I looked at each other and grinned in delight, craning our necks .
The entire bhoj ejected in large sickening blobs of vomitus from his mouth. Narua swung into action. Grabbing a clean towel, he hoisted him up into a sitting posture, then wetting the towel, he meticulously wiped the face and shirt clean of mud , and vomitus . His fellow brahmins, stood watching the tamasha, one hand clutching dhoti folds , and the other the gifts.
Nothing was said. No word of thanks or gratitude or apology. Moti's other sons came and helped him up and they quietly left.
After the plates were cleaned , verandah washed , and Narua sat down at the fire boiling some tea, Dada and I swung into action. We told the elders of the entire happening. My grandmother sat down at a stair. Dadu stopped swinging his rocking chair.
"Narua, is this true?"
My grandmother enquired. Narua just smiled and poured out the tea.
"Motia's sons , humph."
The Dadu did something unprecedented. He got up and brought out his guest list. With a black felt tip pen , adjusting his glasses on his nose, he crossed out the name of moti's sons from his list.
That evening, Narua was called in to beat the bell for evening arti in the pooja hall, as dada was ill, and the bell was too heavy for any one else to hold.
Narua was not permitted inside the pooja room.
Despite the drumming of her ancestors, about who was a clean caste and who was not, grandmother always made exceptions.
Narua's father was never permitted till the first doorstep.
Narua was employed as a cook and a help.
Especially useful during the strained days of pujo,when the manpower crunch was profound.
All caste and cleanliness issues were conveniently flung out , in view of practicality.
But , puja room, and brahmin bhoj were two areas , where Narua was still not allowed. It was accepted matter-of-factly , without any fuss. He would stand patiently at the doorstep, with whatever he had been asked to fetch, till someone retrieved it from his hands : someone , bathed, clean, and non-menstruating (menstruating girls were deemed unclean too).
That day was no exception.A large group of brahmins, and a larger group of brahmin kids, male and female, were expected.Large tubs of water were kept at the doorway, and Narua kept a dry towel on the bench, standing , untouching, at a respectful distance.It was actually a farce on a huge scale. Narua was expected to help the younger kids , sometimes holding (and thereby touching ) their hands.
A menstruating me , confined to the bedroom, could watch this from the bedroom window.
Narua had just helped a baby wipe his hands. His hands held the towel. An adult male cleared his throat behind Narua. With a start, Naruah respectfully , replaced the towel on the bench , and stood two paces behind , his head bowed. The dhoti clad man first kicked the towel down , then proceeded to trample it . Next he called Narua, said something to him, I couldn't hear. Narua hesitated for a second , before placing his open palms , in front of the brahmin. I thought he was about to touch his feet. What happened next took my breath away. The old man spat into Naruah's palms , once, twice ,thrice.
I got up from my stool, my heart beating , ears burning. No one had ever done this to anyone in my home . Narua, the magic cook, Narua my storyteller, Narua , the hoister-of -brats -on -backs, stood in the blistering sun, with red pan spittle dribbling down his fingers, bowing his head silently.
I thought I should run out right this moment and tell my grandparents about this, but I was under curfew. But I could run to my brother's room from another door, which I did . Dada, too, under curfew(unwashed due to fever) plotted revenge with me. He said he would shoot the bastard with dadu's hunting rifle (that made me feel good ) or bludgeon him with his new pujo gift of a cricket bat (better)
As fate would have it, situations turned table , rapidly, that very afternoon.
After a hearty meal of pooris, and and an assortment of sweetmeats, the brahmins took their leave , one by one , chewing betel nuts and clutching gifts of clothing etc .I had already pointed out the culprit to dada through a crack in the door. He was the eldest son of the village pundit, motilalji. He , being the largest and slowest hogger of them all, emerged in the end , hiccuping and sweating from a clear over-indulgence.(My grandmother always sighed ,"Moti"s Sons . Humph!!")
Before he could reach the water tub-towel-Narua complex for washing his hands,he tripped unsteadily , his feet caught in his dhoti-folds , let out a piercing scream , and fell down, face first
in a mud path rendered soft and squishy, thanks to numerous brahmin feet traversing to and fro, with wet slippers.
Next , he started convulsing . "Mirgi" (epilepsy)!! Serves him right."Dada and I looked at each other and grinned in delight, craning our necks .
The entire bhoj ejected in large sickening blobs of vomitus from his mouth. Narua swung into action. Grabbing a clean towel, he hoisted him up into a sitting posture, then wetting the towel, he meticulously wiped the face and shirt clean of mud , and vomitus . His fellow brahmins, stood watching the tamasha, one hand clutching dhoti folds , and the other the gifts.
Nothing was said. No word of thanks or gratitude or apology. Moti's other sons came and helped him up and they quietly left.
After the plates were cleaned , verandah washed , and Narua sat down at the fire boiling some tea, Dada and I swung into action. We told the elders of the entire happening. My grandmother sat down at a stair. Dadu stopped swinging his rocking chair.
"Narua, is this true?"
My grandmother enquired. Narua just smiled and poured out the tea.
"Motia's sons , humph."
The Dadu did something unprecedented. He got up and brought out his guest list. With a black felt tip pen , adjusting his glasses on his nose, he crossed out the name of moti's sons from his list.
That evening, Narua was called in to beat the bell for evening arti in the pooja hall, as dada was ill, and the bell was too heavy for any one else to hold.
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