Clara Linden in Nijkolmohona

If the remainder is one or three
Then a baby boy it is sure to be.
If the remainder be six, two, or four
A baby girl will be born for sure.

And if you should a zero behold A miscarriage is foretold.

It would be a boy, Kashmati Bewa had predicted. Divorce would follow, Abbas's father had declared, if after four daughters his wife did not give birth to a boy. However, the prediction held true---and Abbas was born.

A few moments ago Abbas has brought in some Glucose biscuits for Clara Linden and Mehjabeen Khan. Kashmati Bewa had sent him to fetch them from the grocery shop nearby. The three of them are sitting in the husking room: pale-skinned Clara Linden, almond-brown Mehjabeen and dark-coloured Kashmati Bewa. Quite a fetching sight in the room. Not a proper 'room' of course---a shed of sorts---a straw canopy over a tired old husking pedal with the wind blowing in from all sides.

After handing over the biscuits, Abbas goes and leans against the Jaam tree, then whispers something to his friend. He has seen on the VCR white women like Clara getting naked and doing all sorts of obscene things. This is the first time Abbas has seen one in the flesh. His knowledge about white women has been gathered from the porno movies that did the secret rounds in the village bazaar. The two friends begin to eye Clara from a safe distance.

Clara holds a pen and a notebook; Mehjabeen has a micro tape recorder and in Kashmati Bewa's hand a bamboo leaf trembles softly.

Clara is waiting intently to hear the translation of the birth prediction mantra. But Mehjabeen is in a fix. She cannot quite make up her mind how to translate Kashmati's chants into English. Mehjabeen, a star student in English literature department, finds the task of rendering the words into English a totally novel and daunting challenge. Besides, being a full-fledged urban creature, she is not quite at ease in this husking shed. She had responded to Clara's advertisement for an interpreter in a newspaper. And here she was…finally she says, 'Clara, the mantra is stored in the cassette; why don't I work on it later on?' Clara, a little disappointed at being deprived of unraveling the mystery of the mantra right away, agrees.

Yesterday, a fish-catching contest had been held in Nijkolmohona. Quite a big event. And where the largest number of fish had been netted by Abbas. The very Abbas whose birth history is under discussion.

But before delving into that history, Nijkolmohona's oldest midwife is asked how many babies she has delivered over the years. Kashmati hesitates: should she include the birth of calves and goat kids, as well? Clara, through Mehjabeen, says no, human babies only. Reassured, Kashmati replies, 'In that case, very many. I have completed one Hajj, and am near to finishing another.'

Both Clara and Mehjabeen are somewhat puzzled at the Hajj reference--they ask Kashmati to elaborate. Instead Kashmati, saying 'Have some biscuits first,' rises and comes back with a jug of clear, cool water from the tubewell, setting it down in the husking shed. Then she fetches a long rope from the room inside. It is tied in countless knots. As Clara and Mehjabeen take a bite of the biscuits, Kashmati explains, 'Each of these knots is a birth. After each birth I tie a knot. I can't read or write, so this is my record-book.' Then goes on to elaborate that if a midwife delivers 101 babies, she attains the grace equivalent of one 'Hajj.' Kashmati counts 182 knots on the rope. She hopes to complete her second Hajj. Clara and Mehjabeen, distracted by her words, forget to eat and hold their biscuits in their hands.

Kashmati points to Abbas and says, 'That boy completed my first Haj.' Not only that, but Abbas's birth was a memorable one because it had been a dramatic event. On seeing Kashmati pointing her finger at him, Abbas, standing at a distance, starts up guiltily since he is still whispering about the sexual behaviour of white women. Though they shouldn't have been able to hear him inside the husking shed, still, Abbas turns and quickly takes off for the field where he starts to hoe.

Clara Linden has come a long way---from the United States, in fact. Her research on childbirth has brought her to the remote village of Nijkolmohona. Her goal is to collect data on the birthing practices, beliefs, and rituals surrounding women of the third world. As they sit in the shad talking, curious eyes peer from between the splits in the bamboo walls around them.

Kashmati Bewa recalls how anxious Abbas's mother had been. She had borne four baby girls already. Now what was needed was a male child---otherwise a grave calamity would descend on the household. Her husband would divorce her for certain, she was told. Abbas's mother began to bewail her fate, crying out, 'What will happen to me, Sister Kashmati?'

And even though Kashmati had predicted a son after her reading, fear did not leave Abbas's mother. So in the seventh month of the pregnancy Kashmati had arranged for the seven-month ritual song to be sung--the song that was to produce a son. Several women had circled Abbas's mother and sung the song. Clara's curiosity is very aroused: 'Could we hear the song?' Kashmati feels embarrassed, explains that her voice is not melodious. But Clara is insistent. She has to collect all the data she can. So Kashmati summons Ambia, who has a good voice. The two women move to the center of the husking-shed, a bit bashful. They place their hands on each other's shoulders and start their song---a low lament---as they put one foot forward, then one foot back:

Champa is in her seventh month, mother, oh dear!
Champa wants a drink from a stream cool and clear, oh dear!
Champa wants a drink from a stream cool and clear, oh dear!
Where shall I find now a stream cool and clear, oh dear!
Where shall I find now a stream cool and clear, oh dear!
Time rolls on, time flies fast, as we speak, oh dear!
And Champa is in her ninth month now, oh dear!
And Champa is in her tenth month now, oh dear!
And Champa is lying dead tired and all spent now
Oh call the midwife from her father's land for her
Where will I find that midwife here, oh dear
And Champa gives birth to a baby boy at last, oh dear!

As the song ends, Kashmati and Ambia break out in giggles. Clara claps her hands. The tune was melancholy, and both Mehjabeen and Clara had felt a certain desolation within themselves. The song is not too difficult for Mehjabeen to translate. Clara is overwhelmed by its sweet simplicity, how each line paralleled the phases of pregnancy. Especially by that one line, 'Oh call the midwife from her father's land for her.' She discusses this with Mehjabeen, that the pregnant woman is remembering her father's home in the midst of her labour pains. Now that is indeed significant, thinks Clara. In the friendless environment of her husband's home, the woman invokes the warmth of her paternal abode. One can feel the vulnerability of the girl at this juncture, the secret pain of a woman in a patriarchal society. Mehjabeen appreciates this analysis.

At this point in the proceedings, an elderly man with a salt-and-pepper beard, slickly oiled hair, clad in white kurta pyjamas comes across the courtyard towards them. His gaze is both curious, and anxious.

'Salam Alaikum. I am Abdul Quddus, the Union member,' he says in Urdu, standing close to Clara and Mehjabeen. Kashmati draws her sari as a veil over her head. Quddus's Urdu sounds dissonant in that little shed in Nijkolmohona. Clara of course is a foreigner, and seeing Mehjabeen seated beside her he thinks so is she. He figures Bangla won't do here and the only foreign language he knows is Urdu. So Urdu it has to be. However, when Mehjabeen replies in Bengali, he is a bit disappointed. He has been deprived of a rare opportunity to show off his linguistic skills.

As the elected representative of the area, Abdus Quddus feels it is his responsibility to keep track of the goings-on in the village. So he's come to see if something's the matter here. Mehjabeen explains their presence in Nijkolmohona. Kashmoti adds with a smile, 'They want to know how I relieve women of their rapscallions.'

Quddus is relieved, and says, 'Ah!' feeling lightened with the knowledge that this visit has nothing to do with relief work, debt, foreign aid, or a police investigation. He has no interest in such trite, female matters. However, unable to suppress his curiosity he points to Clara and asks, 'Which country is she from?'

Mehjabeen supplies the answer. With an ingratiating smile pasted on his lips Quddus then takes his leave, all the while stroking his beard.

Clara, after enquiring about Quddus, turns back to the topic of Abbas. Mehjabeen turns on the cassette player.

Kashmati informs them that Abbas's mother's labour started in the late afternoon. Kashmati was summoned. Resorting to her traditional midwife expertise, she proclaimed midnight as the birthing hour.

'What kind of expertise?' she is asked. Kashmati elaborates. According to the ancient manuals, a lock of the mother's hair is laid across her face along the nose. A few drops of oil are then scattered on the hair, which will roll down to the rounded stomach. If the oil reaches the navel, the baby may be born at any time. If it falls to the left, the baby is due in a few hours; if to the right, the hour of birth is a long way off. The oil on Abbas's mother had fallen to the right.

Mehjabeen translates for Clara. The latter takes notes. Kashmati continues: she had been sure that the mother's water would not break before midnight. So she set about her preparations. She placed a piece of old fishing net and a lump of iron in the birthing room---a long-time practice with her. The net would guard the mother from evil winds and the iron was protection against jinns.

The water broke much after midnight. And almost immediately things started to go wrong one after the other. As soon as the baby began to slide out of the mother's body Kashmati saw that the umbilical cord was wrapped around its head. Very speedily Kashmati used her skillful hands and unwound the cord. Then everybody broke out in smiles when they found out that the baby was a boy. But the smiles faded just as quickly when the baby refused to cry out. Despite her best efforts he refused to take his first breath of air. And there was more: the minutes ticked by but there was no sign of the placenta. Kashmati panicked. Quickly she resorted to two measures: first, she rushed out and told Abbas's father seated outside, puffing on a cigarette, to turn over his lungi twice and put it on again. Secondly, she instructed another woman to bring a copper bowl and clang it close to the baby's ears. According to the ancient lore if the husband reversed his garment, the act would have a magical effect on the placenta. So Abbas's father quickly did as he was told, and a woman started to beat a copper bowl near the baby's ears. Gradually, the placenta came out. But the baby still showed no signs of crying out. The clang of the copper bowl grew louder. Fear gripped everyone. The baby lay still on the mat---something had to be done, and quickly. Kashmati now resorted to her next move. A cooking pot was sent for, and heated in the birthing room. She started to fry the tangled and bloody placenta in the pot. At the other end of the cord lay the motionless baby Abbas. Kashmati went on with her ritual; at one point the baby stirred and uttered a loud cry. The tension in the room evaporated. Kashmati cut the umbilical cord with the boti used for gutting fish---freshly dipped in boiling water. And that is why each year Abbas's net catches the largest number of fish at the fish-catching contest.

Kashmati Bewa pauses, then resumes. Mehjabeen translates: 'I picked up the baby into my lap first, before his mother did, from a pool of rotting blood. By the grace of Allah, and my own skills, I saved that baby from many a danger…and now he is a young lad living in the fields.' Kashmati Bewa gazes in the distance where Abbas is working in the fields. Her mind fills with peace. She is enjoying talking to the two women. Somehow, it makes her feel light-hearted. No one had really wanted to know the joys and sorrows of her chequered career. So what if they were from the city, or from some distant foreign land--they were women too.

And on the other side of the room Clara Linden is quite delighted: 'Wow, what exotic data. My thesis is beginning to take shape…Ah Abbas, what with predictions, songs, cymbals and fire, your birth is so colourful. And beside that the white apron, gloves, forceps, and monitors surrounding our births seem so drab!'

And Mehjabeen, a bit unsettled and amazed, is thinking something quite different. What strange phenomena! What is this land hidden within the land I know--strange, distant. Who is she going to translate for, she needs an interpreter herself!

Noon descends on Nijkolmohona. The wind blows through the husking room where the women, white, almond and dark, are each lost in their own thoughts.

Shahaduzzaman writes short stories in Bengali and teaches at BRAC university. The above story is taken from his book Poshchimer Meghe Shonar Shingha. Sonia Amin teaches history at Dhaka University.