At The End Of The Day

artwork by aloke

If he had not been obstinate and ill-tempered, Roti would not have been termed a bad man. Had Yadav Das, the owner of the orchard to the west of Roti's house, not cast suspicious eyes on the latter about his missing mangoes and jack-fruits, Roti would have been considered a sinless character. Yet, people did believe these stories. Ramchandrapur market was four miles away from the village, where, when it was the season for mangoes and jackfruits, many a villager had seen Roti selling them. And it was astonishing that even after questioning him closely about where he got his fruits, they did not feel quite satisfied with his answers.

Roti's only son was five years old, named Panchu. After three failed attempts in the birthing-room, his wife Narani put on Panchugopalan's amulet--and conceived this same Panchu. As protection against evil spirits, Panchu had to wear innumerable kinds of amulets, charms and tabiz. Even after performing all these rituals, Narani did not feel secure in the slightest. There was no certainty that at any moment the sacred, living mantras would not be overcome with sleep in their continuous battle against diabolical forces, that the prayers and floral wreaths bestowed on the gods might not become feeble at any moment, and which was the reason--if Panchu went out of her sight she always thought that he was gone for good--Narani always felt such anxiety.

One morning Panchu, the gift born of much worship, woke up and said something that was as terrible as it was unbelievable. Narani was holding him by his hand and going towards the crop field. Walking silently beside her, Panchu then looked into his mother's face and said, 'Ma, a crocodile will take me today.'

Narani asked, alarmed, 'What are you saying?'
'Yes, Ma, a crocodile will take me today.'
'How do you know?'
Panchu answered, 'That I don't know.'

Though at first Narani had been frightened by her son's talk of doom, yet upon further reflection she calmed down and again felt lightness in her being. Panchu was in the habit of telling tales: one evening he had seen an owl sitting on the roof of the house laughing heartily; another day, he saw a big turtle with her babies dancing in their courtyard. Panchu used to tell such absurd stories often, the mad boy!

Roti, after hearing about Punchu's story from his wife, threw him an angry glance and scolded him. In this connection, he remembered the story of the late Adhor Bakshi from their village. That time when, the day before he left on his boat journey, Adhor Bakshi in the hazy evening moonlight had suddenly been startled by his own shadow, had started jumping around in the courtyard pointing his index finger at his shadow and shouting: 'Who's he? Who's he?' That day no one had dared to look into his blood-red, unblinking eyes. Though eventually he had calmed down after much pleading, his boat never returned, and nor did he. A wise man that day had called Roti near, and said, 'Roti, all is not well. This is a sign of death; it signifies madness, or somebody whose death is drawing near.'

The prediction in every aspect came true.

Which was why Roti now admonished his son in severe tones: 'I warn you, if you say it again I'll thrash you with a green bamboo switch.'

It was the beginning of Ashar month. The brimming river had flooded sandy shoals and fields and its rippling waves lapped noisily at the steep river-banks. The transparent, gentle current became muddy and forceful; even then, however, there was nothing to fear. This river, the Kamda, her two banks and waters had been familiar to the villagers for long. She was not a death-dealing demon river, she was affectionate like a breast-yielding mother, bringing cool, sweet drinking water from mountain tops to the doorsteps of their village households. There was nothing to fear from her.

When it was bathing time, Roti called out to Panchu, 'Come on, let's go bathe.'

Afraid of the green bamboo switch, Panchu without protesting raced to his mother, and hugging her from the back with both hands around her neck, said, 'I don't want to bathe today, ma.'

'Why not?'
'I'm afraid.'

Narani picked her son up onto her lap and went out of the room, 'Panchu won't go for a bath today', she said.

Roti frowned at her and said, 'Why not, what's wrong?'

'Nothing.'
'Then why not?'
'He doesn't feel like it, so spare him today.'

Roti's voice grew even more hard. 'No, it's important to dispel such misconceptions,' he said. 'I talked about it with Babu, and he laughed on hearing it. And not just him, but others laughed too.'

Roti had narrated Pachugopalan's strange story while sharpening his razor sitting in front of Chowdhury, the village babu. Listening to him not only Chowdhury Babu but everybody else present there could not help but laugh. A crocodile in the Kamda? What could be more ridiculous? Chowdhury Babu had said, 'It's nothing, you should take him with you. If a crocodile takes someone, it'll be you.'

Taking his cue from Babu's words, Poddar the local wit had leapt in, 'Babu's right, it'll only be proper food for the crocodile.'

Hollodhar Rajbangshi had been sitting a little way off smoking a hukkah. Exhaling a mouthful of smoke he had remarked, 'Roti, how could you remain such a fool even after you've been taken care of by the Babu? And on top of everything you being a hereditary barber!'

Annoyed no end by these irksome remarks and remembering Adhor Bakshi's death Roti came back home and resolved that Panchu must be taken down to the river.

Narani said to Panchu, 'Go, my dear, for your bath. Somebody is going with you, so why fear?' She kissed him affectionately on the face, put him down, and prayed that he live a thousand years.

On other days, Panchu used to fret while oiling his body; but that day he stood and put oil on himself without fretting, then carrying a gamcha walked behind his father to the ghat.

A slope had been cut leading down to the water level so that the people could go up and down easily.

Reaching near the water, Roti came to a sudden stop--he was stricken with fear.

In the mid-afternoon sunshine, in the stillness, the vast, defiled body of water lay shining like a newly-sharpened weapon. The raging, impassable current rushed by--so swift a movement, and yet without any sound, without definition, something not clearly visible, as if all of Gangadhar's tyrannical, ruthless power was spreading over the outward surface of a noiseless, grave, undetermined velocity. The loving river had never appeared before him in such a cruel and malevolent form. This time her appearance looked so fearful, who knew what evil lurked in the bottomless, unfathomable depths!...Roti involuntarily shivered. He looked with sharp, apprehensive eyes in front of him to the south, and then on the left into the far distance. There was not even a bubble to be seen in the motionless bosom of the river; the sand-bed on the other side of the river traversed a long distance through the woods between two villages to melt away into the horizon--the conjunction looked like a long, straight, smoky-grey line! The denuded empty whiteness of the sand was embroidered with green where the grass grew far and in-between different spots. Both banks were desolate, silent. Roti began to think...

Suddenly Panchu screamed with fear, ran over to Roti, embraced him with both hands and cried out, 'What's that?'

Roti had also noticed the reason for Panchu's fright--an ugly aquatic animal had risen out of the water with a whoosh, and after a somersault, had dived back in again.

Roti started laughing, 'A dolphin, chasing fish.'

Panchu inquired, 'Why, father?'

'To eat them.' Panchu was astonished to know that dolphins ate big Ruhi and Katla fish--it was dark underwater, how did they find them?

This little incident and the subsequent laughter dissolved Roti's fear. Then he remembered that no one of this village had ever had seen a crocodile in the Kamda...that not even news about one from remote parts had ever reached this village. So why should he be afraid?

Roti carefully stepped down knee-deep into the water, so that he might not fall suddenly into deep water. He pulled Panchu close to his knees, held him with one hand and scrubbed him with the other. Holding him by both arms he dipped Panchu under the water, pulled him out, dried him from head to toe, and sent him back to house.

Roti came back home and said laughingly, 'Where's my Panchu?' From inside the kitchen, Panchu answered in a somber voice, 'Eating lunch, father.'

'Now then, a crocodile didn't catch you, did it?'

Looking at his mother's face, Panchu also laughingly replied, 'No.'

Narani said, 'Laughter appears on my boy's face after so long.'

That same day, when Narani awoke in the afternoon and stepped onto the veranda, upon seeing her Panchu along with a group of children the same age as he made themselves scarce at lightning speed. Going forward to investigate the reason for this sudden flight, Narani's eyes fell on the remnants of the evidence. She clapped her hands to her cheeks, then shouted, 'Panchu!'

Panchu's friends probably reached their houses in one dash; and even though he had started running at the same time, Panchu had not been able to cross the outer boundary of the house. On hearing his mother's call, he came out from behind the kitchen and very meekly stood before her. Upon seeing him, Narani could not help but burst out into anger.

The matter was thus: While Narani had been sleeping, Panchu and his friends had stolen a small, ripened jack-fruit from the house and eaten it. Since he did not know the proper way to eat a jack-fruit, his body was now covered with its thick, slimy juice. Moreover, carried away by a tide of joy, he had rolled around on the dusty yard, and on witnessing this apparition before her, it was but natural that the mother would fly into a fit of anger.

Among the culprits, Panchu alone was caught and, standing before his mother's furious eyes, started to cry.

Panchu escaped by a hairsbreadth from a beating; Roti, whose anxiety had been great the whole day, had been sound asleep; now, he was awakened by the hue-and-cry and Narani's angry shouting. He came outside, stretching and yawning, to ask, 'Like mother, like son--what's going on?'

'My funeral, that's what's happened! A jack-fruit was stolen and eaten, look how much brains the boy has now!'--And having said that, she then looked at Roti in such a way as to imply that stealing jack-fruits and eating them was solely the preoccupation of the male of the species.

Roti furrowed his brow, and said, 'Stop it, don't shout anymore. I'll clean him up, will that do?' He stepped onto the courtyard.

There was a toy-pot in Panchu's hand--guilty Panchu, shedding tears, held it as he walked in front of his father to the river. Roti led his son into the water, thoroughly scrubbed and scoured him, and then hauled him out. They had gone up a little distance, when suddenly Panchu stopped and said, 'Father, my pot?'

Both of them turned and saw it lying right near the water's edge.

Panchu pleadingly asked, 'May I get it, father?'

Roti said, 'Go.'

Panchu bent down, picked up the toy-pot, and turned to go, when at that moment, very close to him, two big eyes silently floated up to the surface of the water; the very next moment, the water in that spot churned mightily, the tail glittered once before swinging around with lightning speed--and in the blink of an eye Panchu fell down into the water and vanished from sight. Though Roti's eyes clamped shut and his tongue froze with fear, it did not take him long to recover--the next moment, on hearing his grief-laden cries and screams the river-bank became crowded with people.

When Panchu was again sighted near the opposite bank, he was between the jaws of the crocodile, motionless. A collective wail rose from the gathered people. On Panchu's pale death-face shone the dying blood-red rays of the sun, and the crocodile, having presented his offering to the sun, then disappeared again from the scene.

Only Panchu's mother did not get to see the sight. She had fainted.

Jagadish Gupta (born in 1886 in Kushtia-died in Kolkata in 1957) was a novelist and short story writer. Among his novels are ‘Binodini’ and ‘Kalonkito Tirtho’. His short stories include ‘Srimoti, Meghabrito Ashoni Swanirbachito’.

Badrul Hassan works at MarieStopes in Dhaka. His translations have been published in various newspapers.