Out of the Ordinary

By

Bibhuti Bhushan Bandyopadhyay

(1894-1950)



Translated by Partha Banerjee




I was sitting in Dr. Sitanath’s office. The morning newspaper hadn’t yet arrived at this semi-rural town. Without the paper, the war gossip simply wouldn’t heat up. A few local gentlemen such as Nabin Mukhujje, Sasadhar Muhuri, Kenaram Mukhujje, Manmatha Mukhujje and Balai Dam just completed their early-hour shopping at the fresh-vegetable market; they’d now slowly gather at the doctor’s office and start talking politics. These men didn’t have a daily job to do – a few were retired government officers; the others lived on the wealth they inherited from their fathers. With ample time on hand, they’d frequently make predictions about Germany and Japan; their insider knowledge about the war and its strategies would far surpass those of Hitler, Churchill or Tojo. The mistakes Hitler had ever made, steps Churchill shouldn’t have taken, or what would’ve happened if Japan’s policies were a tad different – all of it would be regularly conferenced-in here.

At present, Kenaram Mukhujje was speaking. “Look here folks – this is where Hitler made the gravest error. What happened right after Dunkirk was that…”

Sasadhar Muhuri interrupted Kenaram’s enthusiasm, “Alright, stop it. The only thing you seem to know is Dunkirk, and nothing else. That wasn’t the problem at all. Actually, the problem was…”

In the middle of this excitement, a woman slowly arrived holding a man’s hand, and walked up the doctor’s office porch. The man could be anywhere between forty and fifty, or fifty-five; he was thin and wearing a short dhuti. The woman was not very young either, but surely much younger than the man – maybe thirty or thirty-two. She wore a sari patched in various places. It seemed there was a time when she was quite pretty, but now lean, probably due to starvation and malaria.

The woman stood at the corner of the porch and called, “Daktar-Babu?”

Dr. Sitanath looked at them with a gesture of apathy and said, “What do you want?”

The woman said, “Sir, you need to see him.”

Dr. Sitanath knew however terrible the sickness, the patients were not likely to generate much revenue. They were seriously impoverished, famine-struck. They didn’t have a decent piece of cloth to wear. The hair on their heads was dry and scruffy. There was no reason for the doctor to be cheerful about these two guests at his doorstep.

He kept smoking his pipe and asked, “What’s the trouble?”

The woman said, “What else, Sir. He’s had this fever for nearly two months now. And he got the shiver and chill too. His health is poor. I have no one else but him, Sir. Would you please see him Sir?” She now started weeping.

Dr. Sitanath said, “Come over here.”

He examined the patient briefly and said, “Hmm, I see. He’s got a bunch of stuff going. How long has he been like this?”

The man now feebly replied, “Daktar Babu, been like it for some time – for three or four months now. And this cough is not going nowhere.”

The woman raised her hand and said impatiently, “Okay, will you stop talking? God, how little you know! You’ve messed up my life … been sick for three months, eh?”

Then she turned around and said, “Don’t mind him, Sir. He don’t know nothing, he don’t mind his own life … never did. Let me explain…”

The way she described the man seemed like he was a poet, philosopher or sage, as if he was totally detached from the trivial worldly matters. Dr. Sitanath, however, didn’t show much empathy. He asked abruptly, “How long have you had gonorrhea?”

The man said, “Sir, it could be like four or five months. It was the time when…”

The woman clanged back again, “Oh, do you know it all! Shut up, will you? No Sir, he’s had it for two years now. This moron’s ruined my life. Oh what a mess I’m in now! Oh, I wish I was dead.”

Dr. Sitanath asked, “Where do you come from?”

She said, “Jhitkipota village, Sir. We are low-caste Hadi.”

“So you live in a Hadi village?”

“No Sir, we don’t live nowhere. I keep drifting with him from place to place, in search of his cure. He’s my wedded husband – I can’t get rid of him after all. For two years he’s been sick; can’t move about on his own. Tried so many treatments, done everything the village folks said, but couldn’t cure him. The man doesn’t get better, doesn’t eat well. Then I said, let me bring him over to the big doctor in town. Sir, please see him well, Sir, I got nobody else.”

So far, my role was that of an onlooker. I now asked, “What kind of work does your husband do?”

The woman clanged back again, “Work? Oh my, does the big man work! Oh yes, he’d work the day the sun rose west.”

The man was embarrassed. Softly, he said, “No Sir, I don’t work. I’m not strong enough to work. It’s her who husks rice and does midwifery to make ends meet. But it’s very hard for her, Sir, with the high prices and all.”

The woman said, “Won’t you stop? Sir, let me tell you. Does he know anything about hard or easy? Does he ever realize what it takes?”

The man was overwhelmed with gratitude. He continued in his soft voice, “By all means, Sir, what she says is true. She wouldn’t let me know anything; would do it all. I can’t work no more – it’s this crippled leg that’s in the way … look, Sir, this leg.”

The woman wiped tears with her sari, “That’s it. Don’t put that leg out to the gentlemen.”

I felt her sorrow. Strange that she’d be so kind and caring for this worthless, crippled man. I was surprised.

Dr. Sitanath said, “Didn’t you say you knew midwifery?”

The man replied, “Sir, she’s very good. Anywhere she goes, they’d give her some rice, a dhuti or sari, some little money – that’s how she pays for my treatment.”

The wife interrupted again, “Would you shut up? What d’ya know about it? Sir, midwifery used to be good business. Now you’ve built this hospital, and all the birthing women show up here. Nobody comes to us anymore. The only money I make is by husking rice. They’d give me one kilo for husking fifty kilos. But diseases have taken my health, and I’m not as strong as before. Husking is a very hard job, Sir, I get cramps in my legs every time I do it.”

I asked, “Who else do you have in your family?”

“Yama,” she said tersely.

“Didn’t you say you were a Hadi?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“How’d you come from Jhitkipota? Wasn’t it quite far?”

“We came on a boat, Sir.”

“You have a boat?”

“It’s the boat of Ratan, a kind boatman from our village. We gave him small money –whatever we could. He brought us here.”

“Do you plough your land?”

“No Sir, we have no land, no ploughs, not even a real place to live. We have a straw-thatched hut, broken. Couldn’t live in it next monsoon without some straw laid on the roof.”

It was lunchtime for me; I had to come home. Since then, however, I’d find the couple returning to the doctor every few days. The woman would beg Dr. Sitanath to lower the cost of the medicine, or ask him questions about her husband’s prognosis. It was apparent she couldn’t meet the expenses either for the treatment or for the commute. Life was getting harder each day.

I asked Dr. Sitanath, “What do you think? Is he going to pull through?”

He smiled, “I doubt it. He has other ailments too. He’s practically emaciated. I’m doing my best, that’s all.”

We of course didn’t discuss it in their presence.

About a month later, I saw them again. The woman was even leaner – it seemed she’d now need treatment too. Perhaps she was also fasting in order to save up for the husband. Her sari now had more patches than before.

When they were done with the visit and about to leave, I called her, “Come here, listen.”

“What, Sir?”

“Can you do midwifery now?”

She smiled, “That’s what my job is, Sir. I sure can.”

I brought them over to show my house: I’d need a midwife in a couple of weeks. Along the way, she kept requesting, “Sir, please find me a job, Sir. I can’t find money for his treatment no more. Even a little bottle of medicine costs so much … a rupee, rupee and a half … find me something Sir, anything … I’ll work for small money … my charges are less than other midwives, I’ll do more than they will … wash clothes, do dishes … look after the newborn … please, Sir.”

I said, “Here, this is my house. They’d need someone in about eight or nine days. Let me introduce you to the women in the house. Can you ask him to wait under this tree?...Yes, you sit here under the tree, wait for a while, okay?”

I brought her in and introduced her. But people in my family didn’t like her much. Of course their excuse was that she was nothing but an untrained, country midwife and didn’t have enough knowledge, etc. However, I suspected that the real reason was that she was a nice-looking woman and that it was me who brought her along.

A few days later I saw her again, waiting with her husband on the doctor’s porch. “Any good news, Sir?” She asked.

“Er, no, I’m sorry. It’s that they’d already found another midwife named Kamala.” It was a lie, of course.

“That’s alright, Sir. Can you find me another one?”

“We’ll see. I know of another place … will check with them.”

“Please see to it. May His mercy be upon you. In Chaitanya Charitamrita , the Lord said…”

Now, to hear this out of a low-caste Hadi woman was quite astounding. Greatly surprised, I asked, “You’ve read Chaitanya Charitamrita? Do you know how to read?”

The man said, “She’s quite educated, Sir.”

“You have that book at home?”

“Yes, Sir, she’d read it to me every night. She’d read it and cry.”

The woman protested in her usual acerbic tone, “Don’t you have to tell the whole story. Shut up now. No Sir, don’t mind him. I read it a little in the evening. Do I ever have the fortune to understand God’s words?”

“Where’d you go to school?”

The husband said, “Sir, she’d studied at her uncles’ village. They were big pork traders. Were rich too. Now they’re all gone … dead and everything … that’s why she’s in such a dire strait, ended up with someone like me.”

“Which school did you go to?”

Knowing her husband couldn’t answer this rather complicated question, she replied, “Upper Primary School, Sir.”

“Did you graduate?”

“Yes. I came to this town only for the final exam.”

The husband looked at his wife with great admiration. He said, “Sir, she got eskolasi there.” Amazing, I thought, she’d even earned a scholarship!

The wife chided him, “Will you stop?”

The man was carried away with emotion. “Sir, she couldn’t study after we were married. Her uncles died off too. With her qualities … she and me … it’s like pearl necklace on a monkey, Sir. It’s all her fate and nothing else. Instead of me taking care of her, it’s she who looks after me, feeds me. She’s the one who finds money to bring me to the doctor. Now she doesn’t earn much or get enough to eat. Says she’d eat well when I’m cured.”

The women retorted again with the usual sting.

I said, “Why, he’s only being nice to you. Why are you so cross?”

Shyly, she replied, “Sir, it’s not proper to mention it to strangers.”

“It’s alright. I don’t see anything wrong with it.”

“Sir, please find me a job.”

“I’ll try. Just wait a few days. I’ll see what I can do.”

“Without a job, it’s so very hard, Sir. I can’t take the husking no more. I must husk fifty kilos to get enough rice for the two of us. And it’s only the food. We have no clothes to wear.” She pointed at her torn sari. “Will get another piece of cloth if I find some midwifery.”

After that, I didn’t see them for quite some time. Couldn’t find anything for her either. It seemed it was not up my alley to locate pregnant women around town.

***

The Great Famine of 1942 had begun at this time. The price of rice shot up like wildfire. Hordes of hungry, starving men, women and children from near and far thronged into our little town. They had bowls, pots and pans in their hands; they were begging for the watery starch people drained out of the boiled rice. Gradually, even the starch became precious. No ordinary families had tons of starch – whatever little they had, it’d be distributed among the early-birds. The late arrivals would return empty-handed. People started dying a few at a time. The town’s affluent Kundus and Dams started charity-feeding one hundred people a day; but it was scant help to the enormous number of half-naked, starved and confused that needed much more. On top of it, throngs of refugees started pouring from Tripura; because of their strange accent, they’d find no sympathy – people would ruthlessly drive them off.

In this catastrophe, I saw countless people going completely destroyed. Often I’d think about the poor woman who husked rice to find treatment for the husband. She’d rent a boat and bring him over to the town doctor. She’d even talk about Chaitanya Charitamrita. I hadn’t seen them for a long time. I asked Dr. Sitanath; he hadn’t seen them either. He said, “How could they show up, brother? Couldn’t even pay for the pills … still owe me a few rupees, you know.”

I’d almost forgotten about them.

Toward the end of the monsoon, our district relief committee opened a new charity kitchen. Everyday, hundreds of people came to eat the khichudi cooked and distributed there. There one day, I spotted her. She was carrying a bowl of khichudi over to somewhere.

I called her and said, “What are you up to?”

She was embarrassed to see me. “Well, I mean…”

“Where’s your husband?”

“He’s sitting over there in the back of the post office. He can’t walk anymore.”

“Let me go see him.”

I went to see him just to satisfy my curiosity. Once there, however, I realized that I would’ve missed something if I hadn’t come. It was extremely rare to witness something like it.

In the back of the old post office where the government had built a makeshift cholera center, the woman’s husband lay on a worn-out rag under a bat tree. His shrunken body was practically level with the rag. The woman sat there and fed him the khichudi. It was mid-day. People were passing by – some saw them, some didn’t. After feeding him, the woman went to the cholera center’s tube-well, pumped water, soaked up the end of her sari, walked back and wrung the water slowly into the man’s mouth. The man swallowed two drips of water and said, “A little more.”

She walked back to the tube-well, soaked the end of her sari again, came back and squeezed the water into his mouth. I’d never seen anything like it.

I asked, “Why do you bring the water that way?”

She lifted her left hand to wipe sweat off her forehead. Then she said, “Don’t have no pots or pans. No other way to bring water.”

“What about the bowl?”

She picked up the bowl and showed me. “He couldn’t eat it all,” she said. “Still got a bit of khichudi left. He’ll have it at night. Wouldn’t eat much these days.”

She then put the bowl away, came back to me and said, “It’s so very hard, Sir. Could you find me some work please? Just a little bit of rice will do … I’ll work for less…”

That was the last time I saw her.




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