If a shower of flowers is called ‘flower-rain’ what do ‘shower of stars’ stand for? What name can be given to a fragrant shower of stars? How would you define that shower – the dearest one, if it comes down the moment you lie in your bed with a book in hand that appeals to you the most?

It dates back to that day. Although keen for higher studies, she had to leave school half way from the eighth standard due to financial constraints. After that, she went to a family. She would send to her family whatever she could earn by doing odd jobs in that new home. As if she had become a mint for producing money. When she was a child, she heard that a devil reigns in the guise of men. Only the robes they wear belong to God.

Is that so?

The mistress’ younger brother Dibakar had come on study leave. She cast a furtive glance at him. He was a chap absorbed in books all the time. Neither a devil nor God could reign in him as he was a boy who kept himself buried in books most of the time. As if he has attained manhood inwardly, as well as outwardly. A real man! When she went to his room to make his bed, she discovered a lot of novels and other books strewn all over the bed. During the respite from work at noon, she borrowed one or two from him and devoured them to satiate her thirst.

How sweet were those days!

The dearest ones of her life.

It was, as if, the golden era of the Gupta dynasty, which soothed her inner self. As if, an addiction overpowered her.

She was addicted to reading. Really, sweetest were those days of her life. Gradually, she became unmindful, reminiscing how a fish once tenderly reared was now gasping for breath on dry ground. How she once became assimilated with one of the characters of those stories. And how that boy Dibakar could become the hero or the protagonist of those stories!

While sweeping the room, she used to express her views to him about those stories. That character could have been like this or that. Why not so! If it were so, there would have been no mental anguish.

He gave no reply. He lent his ears to her, but said nothing. He showed no reaction of his own.

She was busy cleaning the floor. He remained sitting, motionless. As if he was there to watch her work . As if those were not her reflections about the books, but some of her soliloquies regarding weather, society and conflicts of life.

“Dibakarda! Is this not your book? It bears some other name.”

“Let me see!”

He examined the book, turning it to his side. Na Hanyate. No, it was not his book. He had borrowed it from one of his friend’s sister.

She reiterated, “I had a mind to read it once or twice again ... No, not once or twice, exactly! I wish, if I could read it a thousand times! Nay, if I could, all through my life!”

He was listening, silently.

He had informed his elder sister he would be leaving in a day or two. Somewhere, in her heart, she suffered a jolt. Did he intend to run an icy needle through her veins? Did he make her realise about the ground under her feet?

She managed to press a tiffin box into his travelling bag. “Here’s some luchi-bhaji, Dibakarda! Don’t forget to eat on the way.”

He kept silent. At the hour of leaving, without looking back, he said, “I’m leaving.”

She was aware of three atmospheric regions. She thought – his voice floats in the troposphere. She went inside. Taking a swim through her veins, the needle pierced all over her body. With a tinge of pain, she paused for a while in front of the mirror in her tiny room. Yes, she was only a maid. A maid can be a queen, that was possible only in fables. Right then, her eyes fell on a flat packet finely wrapped with a piece of coloured wrapping paper. Holding her breath, she grabbed it with trembling hands and undid the wrapping.

Na Hanyate

Na Hanyate

Something was scribbled in the opening page. It read, “This is for you, for reading all through your life!”

Overtaken by ecstasy, she fell heavily on the bed. Then she opened the book. At one time, some beams of sun- rays crept into her room. At night, moonlight peeped through the ridge of the roof. It had built a misty palace in her bosom, promising her to send some Aniruddha in her dreams.

A sudden splash of rain came down. The moment she opened the book, a sudden downpour came down. A shower of fragrant bakul flowers. And it was Dibakar outside the gate, collecting twinkling stars like flowers and putting them between the pages of Na Hanyate.

Oh, it was the most expected, yet unimagined, shower.

As if it was a dream!

Many days, months and years have elapsed since that incident. But when the eyes are shut, the entire atmosphere is full of the fragrance of the bakul flowers.

She had smelt in the air the same fragrance when she had come to Balen’s bedroom after getting married to him. Someone had planted a bamboo scoop in the river blood of her veins. Where was the icy needle that Dibakar had stuck?

With her eyelids shut, she took deep breaths in the new room! What kind of flowers were strewn all over the bed?

Yes, however incredible, it was true, those were nothing but paper flowers.

She raised her veil. Balen may not be a Government servant, but he earned a good living. He was the youngest in the family. The three older brothers lived away from home, serving here and there. Only he was still living in his paternal house in the village with his mother. He ran a grocery shop.

This was enough. What more did she need! Was she not an empty vessel in a poor man’s hearth? Although she had tenderness in her heart for Aniruddha, her clothes were only of a maid. Alright, Balen was enough for her. Yes, she was searching for a true self – a true human being in human robes. What happened to Dibakar? The voice that he had lent in the troposphere did not actually belong to that atmospheric region that a human being could reach out to. In the rain of bakul flowers, he went up to a great height, to the ‘ionosphere’, which is beyond our reach. Who, in human dress, holds divine hearts! Yes, he is Dibakar.

Balen was in his bridegroom’s dress. He had seated himself on the bed. In front of him, she bent on her knees with a jar of water in hand. She washed her husband’s feet with some water, undid her bun of hair and wiped his soles with her long hair. In a moment, a gale came in, transformed into a python and wrapped her in no time.

Balen became very anxious from within.

And she remained there, motionless.

Yes, her hair had caused an itching sensation in Balen’s feet. He felt a tickle and started giggling. Usually, most of the village folk caused him to laugh simply by pointing to his armpit. Tickled, he laughed and laughed until he grew dog tired. Till then he did not know that the soles, too, were a source of laughter.

He seemed to turn mad. He giggled on and on, and slumped on the bed of paper flowers. The bed which was supposed to keep floating today in the air, became the ground for thrashing out the paddy. He kept on giggling and laughing. No sign of coming to a stop. He went on laughing, crushing the tiny castle in the core of her heart.

At one time, she stood up. But she felt she had no spine to keep standing. She grasped one of the legs of the cot firmly. Her husband Balen’s laughter went on in high pitch. Gazing at him for a while, she spread her chadar on the floor and spent the whole night with her eyes glued to the ceiling of the house.

(To be continued)

Translated by: Suresh Sharma

Monikuntala Bhattacharyya