It was dark midnight , in fact way past midnight.
The house slumbered . It was a large house . The servants slept on the roof , and in a room next to the barn . The night was full of the dreamless sleep and gentle snores of the bone -weary.
Three dark figures stole their way across, flopped down into their beds in the room-next to barn , and promptly went to sleep, except one . He drank some water from a pitcher, fanned himself with gamcha , and came out on his nightly rounds. He held a kerosene lantern in his hand , and was silently accompanied by the family dog , who had roused himself from his slumber at the gate, stretched his limbs and come to the man for a pat on the head and a drink of water . It was a hot and humid night .
As he walked beneath a shuttered window, the slats clicked open and an eager feminine voice enquired -"Psst!! Thakurji, how was the movie ?"
Thakurji jumped out of his skin . "Babyji !Don't startle me ." Then continued , darkly,
"Rotten bastards, dragging me to cinema -vinema , when there is so much to be done here."
The disembodied voice of babyji continued , eagerly -" Leave that , tell me the name of the movie , the hero -heroine ?"
"I don't know , babyji , go back to sleep."
"Thakurji , you have wasted your ticket money ,"
"It was their idea and money , serves them right , stupid carcasses. You should see how they sleep !With their mouths open, flies flying in and out with every snore." Thakurji continued into the darkness of the night , muttering angrily as he climbed the rickety bamboo ladder to the roof. Babyji softly clicked the slats shut and ,probably , went back to bed with her queries unanswered.
The vast roof was half full of corn cobs laid out to dry. The other half was full of slumbering forms of farm workers.The lantern threw a pale yellow light on them , the cobs glistened with night dew , the workers faces with sweat.
Thakurji tut-tutted softly and withdrew. It is all that Budhia's fault. Dragging me away, when the corn should have been shucked , bagged and stored . Now it is all wet again .With dew. It might rain too,he thought , looking up at the dark sky .
Thakurji returned back to his bed , with serious worries . A dried crop was about to be drenched. How could he sleep ?
Around 2a.m.,Thakurji's sharp ears picked up the dreadful but soft pit-pat of the first rain drops .
With a roar and a shout , the room and roof was simultaneously roused . Tens of lit torches and lanterns raced with Thakurji to the roof . A giant tarpaulin was dragged over the crop, pinned down in the corners with bricks , as the raindrops gathered momentum.
Morning , the rain stopped and bright sunshine broke through. Thakurji stripped to his dhoti , and set to work . Separating the dry from the wet .
Getting the wet ones to dry ,setting people to work on dry cobs ,shucking , weighing, bagging, labelling.
Still stripped, he came down at breakfast time . Malkain greeted him . He quickly threw his gamcha , sodden with sweat and rainwater over his bare torso.
"Thakurji, Ratan baba is coming today afternoon ."
"Achcha bibiji , ask Neeraj to soak chana right now , it shall be ready when Ratan baba alights from the train ."
Thakurji's chana was legendary. Whenever the family got together , as this time , for the poojas , chana masala was always cooked by thakurji. Ratan always looked forward to Thakurji's fabled dish.
Noon time found thakurji stirring vast pots on wood fire, sweating , and red-eyed from smoke .
"No need to add salt , thakurji, your sweat has all dripped into the chana."
A cheerful baritone breathed fresh life into the home .
"Ratan baba!" With a huge grin displaying all his paan-stained , rotten teeth, Thakurji would greet this huge man in three-piece suit, a boy whom he had bounced on his shoulders , across flooded fields.
Ratan too, dutifully , bent his gigantic, gym-shaped, Versace clad frame to touch Thakurji's feet.
His eyes moist, Thakurjis vision would cloud over, and he stirred dal with the rice ladle . Babyji silently came to his rescue, handing him correct ladles, and brought a dry gamcha to him. Then she pointed to his face .
"Wipe your face " She would whisper, then quickly snatch the gamcha away and put it in the wash tub , to go for wash , before she was chided for giving a family member's gamcha to Thakurji.
Malkain, if she saw this act of sacrilege, would turn a blind eye, for wasn't thakurji a brahmin , after all. Impoverished , but great.
Twenty years later, Malkain and Malik were long dead. Ratan baba settled abroad , never to come back .Babyji cried her heart away as she boarded the train to her "sasuraal.", never to return back.
Thakurji took permanent residence in one of the outhouses, even as the rambling house fell to disuse and disrepair.Too old , toothless , diabetic and ageing , he had nowhere to go.
One by one , the landholdings were grabbed , or sold off, with Thakurji , being a mute spectator.Most of the dealings were done in Ratan's name , and Thakurji had no way of verifying their authenticity.
The kitchen having long shut off, thakurji survived on kindness of the villagers like Budhia, who used to take turns to feed him.
That day saw Thakurji holding conversation with babyji beneath a window , which was bereft of woodwork now.The shutters and wooden slats were all gone now, but he wouldn't stop, talking, till he was gently led away by Budhia and his wife .
That night , was hot and humid and clouds were gathering. Thakurji was missing from his bed . Budhia knew where to find him . He slowly climbed up the now rotting bamboo stairs , dangerously sagging , and found Thakurji curled up on the roof , with a rain drenched , kerosene lamp next to him.
For days in delirious fever , he would chide Budhia to save the corn , and to promise him , never to go to see "night show Movie", as Budhia and his wife took teary turns to wipe his fevered brow.
Finally , on third day , he got up , went out of the door , staggered and fell in the mud , screaming hoarsely, "Ratan baba, Ratan baba, Your chana is ready."
Budhia picked his frail frame gently , and was about to tell him that there was no one out there, when he saw a shadow , Versace clad , grey-haired, pot -bellied fall across the doorway. It was Ratan baba , indeed.
Speechlessly, Budhia could make out the silhouette of a bulldozer standing behind him.
The house slumbered . It was a large house . The servants slept on the roof , and in a room next to the barn . The night was full of the dreamless sleep and gentle snores of the bone -weary.
Three dark figures stole their way across, flopped down into their beds in the room-next to barn , and promptly went to sleep, except one . He drank some water from a pitcher, fanned himself with gamcha , and came out on his nightly rounds. He held a kerosene lantern in his hand , and was silently accompanied by the family dog , who had roused himself from his slumber at the gate, stretched his limbs and come to the man for a pat on the head and a drink of water . It was a hot and humid night .
As he walked beneath a shuttered window, the slats clicked open and an eager feminine voice enquired -"Psst!! Thakurji, how was the movie ?"
Thakurji jumped out of his skin . "Babyji !Don't startle me ." Then continued , darkly,
"Rotten bastards, dragging me to cinema -vinema , when there is so much to be done here."
The disembodied voice of babyji continued , eagerly -" Leave that , tell me the name of the movie , the hero -heroine ?"
"I don't know , babyji , go back to sleep."
"Thakurji , you have wasted your ticket money ,"
"It was their idea and money , serves them right , stupid carcasses. You should see how they sleep !With their mouths open, flies flying in and out with every snore." Thakurji continued into the darkness of the night , muttering angrily as he climbed the rickety bamboo ladder to the roof. Babyji softly clicked the slats shut and ,probably , went back to bed with her queries unanswered.
The vast roof was half full of corn cobs laid out to dry. The other half was full of slumbering forms of farm workers.The lantern threw a pale yellow light on them , the cobs glistened with night dew , the workers faces with sweat.
Thakurji tut-tutted softly and withdrew. It is all that Budhia's fault. Dragging me away, when the corn should have been shucked , bagged and stored . Now it is all wet again .With dew. It might rain too,he thought , looking up at the dark sky .
Thakurji returned back to his bed , with serious worries . A dried crop was about to be drenched. How could he sleep ?
Around 2a.m.,Thakurji's sharp ears picked up the dreadful but soft pit-pat of the first rain drops .
With a roar and a shout , the room and roof was simultaneously roused . Tens of lit torches and lanterns raced with Thakurji to the roof . A giant tarpaulin was dragged over the crop, pinned down in the corners with bricks , as the raindrops gathered momentum.
Morning , the rain stopped and bright sunshine broke through. Thakurji stripped to his dhoti , and set to work . Separating the dry from the wet .
Getting the wet ones to dry ,setting people to work on dry cobs ,shucking , weighing, bagging, labelling.
Still stripped, he came down at breakfast time . Malkain greeted him . He quickly threw his gamcha , sodden with sweat and rainwater over his bare torso.
"Thakurji, Ratan baba is coming today afternoon ."
"Achcha bibiji , ask Neeraj to soak chana right now , it shall be ready when Ratan baba alights from the train ."
Thakurji's chana was legendary. Whenever the family got together , as this time , for the poojas , chana masala was always cooked by thakurji. Ratan always looked forward to Thakurji's fabled dish.
Noon time found thakurji stirring vast pots on wood fire, sweating , and red-eyed from smoke .
"No need to add salt , thakurji, your sweat has all dripped into the chana."
A cheerful baritone breathed fresh life into the home .
"Ratan baba!" With a huge grin displaying all his paan-stained , rotten teeth, Thakurji would greet this huge man in three-piece suit, a boy whom he had bounced on his shoulders , across flooded fields.
Ratan too, dutifully , bent his gigantic, gym-shaped, Versace clad frame to touch Thakurji's feet.
His eyes moist, Thakurjis vision would cloud over, and he stirred dal with the rice ladle . Babyji silently came to his rescue, handing him correct ladles, and brought a dry gamcha to him. Then she pointed to his face .
"Wipe your face " She would whisper, then quickly snatch the gamcha away and put it in the wash tub , to go for wash , before she was chided for giving a family member's gamcha to Thakurji.
Malkain, if she saw this act of sacrilege, would turn a blind eye, for wasn't thakurji a brahmin , after all. Impoverished , but great.
Twenty years later, Malkain and Malik were long dead. Ratan baba settled abroad , never to come back .Babyji cried her heart away as she boarded the train to her "sasuraal.", never to return back.
Thakurji took permanent residence in one of the outhouses, even as the rambling house fell to disuse and disrepair.Too old , toothless , diabetic and ageing , he had nowhere to go.
One by one , the landholdings were grabbed , or sold off, with Thakurji , being a mute spectator.Most of the dealings were done in Ratan's name , and Thakurji had no way of verifying their authenticity.
The kitchen having long shut off, thakurji survived on kindness of the villagers like Budhia, who used to take turns to feed him.
That day saw Thakurji holding conversation with babyji beneath a window , which was bereft of woodwork now.The shutters and wooden slats were all gone now, but he wouldn't stop, talking, till he was gently led away by Budhia and his wife .
That night , was hot and humid and clouds were gathering. Thakurji was missing from his bed . Budhia knew where to find him . He slowly climbed up the now rotting bamboo stairs , dangerously sagging , and found Thakurji curled up on the roof , with a rain drenched , kerosene lamp next to him.
For days in delirious fever , he would chide Budhia to save the corn , and to promise him , never to go to see "night show Movie", as Budhia and his wife took teary turns to wipe his fevered brow.
Finally , on third day , he got up , went out of the door , staggered and fell in the mud , screaming hoarsely, "Ratan baba, Ratan baba, Your chana is ready."
Budhia picked his frail frame gently , and was about to tell him that there was no one out there, when he saw a shadow , Versace clad , grey-haired, pot -bellied fall across the doorway. It was Ratan baba , indeed.
Speechlessly, Budhia could make out the silhouette of a bulldozer standing behind him.
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