The Water Shack

By

Bibhuti Bhushan Bandyopadhyay

(1894-1950)



Translated by Partha Banerjee




Old man Madhab Siromani the Brahmin priest was traveling to his disciple’s.

It was at least one o’clock in the afternoon. The sun had tilted just a little from its vertex. The sandy road was sizzling in mid-summer heat; the air was blowing hot. There were no signs of green here in this wilderness. A few spiny acacias stood leafless. The scant grass was parched and brown.

The poor Brahmin’s clothes became burning hot in the wind; he felt like taking them off. Grains of sand blew in flashes of wind and stung his face. People at the Nawabganj market had warned him about this vast arid land and the grave risk to cross it on a June afternoon. It was extremely foolish not to pay attention to them, and there was now no option but to regret.

Over there in the distant West, a thicket of reed grass was swaying its head. The only thing visible was a sea of glistening sand. The Brahmin was thirsty; in this hot wind his body was dehydrated, and his tongue became swollen. The thirst was so intense that he felt he could drink even the scummy dark liquid in a pond, if he could find one. But they’d told him that there was absolutely no water in this eight-mile stretch of wasteland. He must go through this extreme suffering.

Madhab Siromani started sweating profusely. It seemed fire blazed out of his ears
and nose every time he breathed. His tongue was paper-dry; he couldn't make it wet even if he pressed it against the roof of his mouth. The enormous field around him appeared to be on fire as the shiny sand heaps reflected the rays of the sun. From time to time small whirling wind shafts were throwing sand, dust and dirt on his face and eyes. The unbearable thirst made his vision blurry. He prayed for a piece of grass, a green leaf that he could chew on. He remembered all the cool water he’d ever drunk in his life…the water in his backyard pond was so cool…the natural well at the Paharpur government office was ice-cold…the last time he’d been to this disciple was when they’d brought a copper pitcher full of cold, sweet water…it was so cold that his teeth chattered. Why couldn’t they bring him some of that water now?

His thirst went out of control and dried up his chest. This vast arid land was known as the land of the tuber-sucker. He remembered someone had told him there was no bigger sand meadow than this in the entire district; he’d heard that in the past many travelers had actually lost their lives while trying to cross it in mid-summer. People had found their lifeless, curled-up bodies. Oh Lord…it’s still a couple of miles before he’d reach the next village…what if it’d now happened to him?

The old man pulled and dragged his body out of sheer will power. He kept moving like a spring-wound puppet…as if in anticipation that a pitcher of cold water was waiting for him at the end of this incredible journey…like a reward. He walked as quickly as possible for another half a mile, left the reed thicket behind him, and suddenly saw a large green tree in the distant. There must be a pond near the tree; at least, there would be shade under it.

In no time he got there and found it to be a charity water shack. A number of big, newly made clay vats stood there with water to the brim; a big bunch of green coconuts was piled on the shaded ground. There was a huge rattan-basket full of moist, germinating chickpeas, a large earthen bowl of sugarcane molasses, and a little basket of puffy sweets. A half-split bamboo cylinder was tied to a bamboo pole with coconut fiber ropes; someone was lifting water from the vat and decanting it into the cylinder. People were drinking water from the other side of the cylinder, folding their two palms inward like cups.

Villagers who sat under the tree stood up in respect for the Brahmin and greeted him. One of them asked, “Where do you arrive from, Pandit Mashai ?”

Another man said, “Stop, wait a minute. Let the Brahmin cool himself off.”

Shiromani sat down under the tree. The gigantic ficus covered a huge area; its numerous prop roots hung everywhere like elephant trunks. A villager set up a hookah for him and snapped a leathery leaf to make a smoking pipe out of it.

Ah, the breeze was so pleasant and cool now. What a peaceful place, what a nice puff of tobacco, and that too, after such a horrendous journey through the heat. His thirst was nearly quenched.

Brahmin finished smoking his hookah. A man from the charity said, “Pandit Mashai, please wash and cool off. We brought fresh sweets, specially prepared for Brahmins only. Please take it and have some rest. Don’t get out again in this sun; let it go down.”

Shiromani asked, “Who’s the owner of this charity?”

“Sir, it belongs to the Biswas family from Amdoba. They’re two brothers: Srimanta Biswas and Nitai Biswas – do you know them?”

Shiromani asked again, “Biswas? What caste are they?”

“They’re oilmen , Sir.”

Oh no! Shiromani's delight at finding the water pitchers and heaps of green coconut evaporated in a second. Of course it'd be impossible for him to drink water provided by the oilmen. Never in his life had he touched anything that came from the Shudras; his family would not do it either. Lucky for him he’d asked, otherwise by this time he’d be…

He asked someone else, “How long has this charity been going?”

The man said, “Sir, I know it’s been around for over fifteen years. Tarachand Biswas founded it. He was the father of Srimanta and Nitai. Let me tell you what’d happened here.” The man started narrating the story.

“Tarachand Biswas of Amdoba was only about thirteen or fourteen when his father died. He had no one in the world but a little sister. The poor brother and sister carried on their heads green vegetables and homegrown fruits, and sold them at village markets. That’s how they survived. That summer, Tarachand and his young sister went to the Nawabganj market to sell green palm fruits. On their way back, Tarachand lost his way in the wasteland – it would be at least eight or nine miles between Nawabganj and Ratanpur, for sure. There was not a single tree to be seen. The little girl felt sick and dizzy in the summer heat and could walk no more. I heard it from Tarachand himself: his little sister said, ‘Brother, I feel thirsty, get me some water.’ Tarachand told her, ‘Let’s move on just a bit, sister. I’ll have water for you at the fishermen’s village in Ratanpur.’ Well, that just a bit would be no less than four miles. The girl walked some but couldn’t take it anymore. She pleaded repeatedly, ‘Dear brother, please get me some water, would you please get me some water.’

Tarachand picked her up and brought her over here in the shade of this tree. The girl had stopped talking by then. Tarachand panicked. He put her down and sprinted to the fishermen’s village and brought water. But he was too late: his sister had passed by then. The girl had a tuber twig in her mouth. The ficus was smaller then, and a whole bunch of wild tubers grew underground. The poor girl tried to quench her thirst by chewing up on the twig, gyrated in pain, and then dropped dead…since then, people called this place the land of the tuber-sucker.

Tarachand later made a lot of money, and prospered in business. I heard he often had dreams of his sister; the girl would tell him, ‘Brother, you make a water shack there for the poor travelers…that’s how Tarachand established the charity here…it’s been some fourteen or fifteen years ago, I know.

Pandit Mashai, all of us who live around here know about this shack. I want to tell you Sir – people have seen strangers wandering around in the wasteland, totally lost, fatigued and disoriented, and then they’d see a small girl showing up and telling them, ‘Poor man, come with me, never fear, I’m going to fetch you water…”

The man finished his tale. Then he said, “I’m not sure if the story is true or not, Sir; I only heard it from others. But I swear I’m not making it up, to a Brahmin…that would be a grave sin.”

The man pulled his own ears in a swearing gesture and bowed at the feet of Shiromani.

The sun had gone down some more. Scores of people now came to the water shack. A farmer came up from his plough land leaving his plough behind. He was drenched in sweat. He rested for a while, took a bunch of chickpeas, molasses and water, and then struck up a conversation with others.

An old woman who lived on alms was returning to her village. She arrived at the tree, put down her sac and washed her feet. Someone said, “Oh Abdul’s Ma, want a coconut?”

Abdul’s Mom had a wide grin on her wrinkled face. She said, “Al-laah, do I want one. Let me try…I want to know how it tastes. If I die of eating it, it won’t be your fault.”

Another man arrived with a brand new pair of dhuti and cotton shirt, the dhuti tucked up above his knees. The man, covered with dust, dropped down on the ground with a thud, in a gesture of disappointment. Someone asked him, “Chhamiruddi Mia, didn’t you have your court date today?”

Mia Chhamiruddi expressed how he felt about his lawyer, and the comments he made of him were not particularly polite. He then described the saga of his lawsuit. The description, however, was such that if his lawyer were present there, he would bring out another lawsuit, this time against his own client. Finally, Chhamiruddi devoured a big chunk of peas with molasses, puffed a smoke of tobacco, and left.

It was nearly sundown. Sweet smell of half-ripe date palm was emanating from the nearby thicket. A big patch of yellow, scented flowers was glowing in the back of the field. A little bird cruised along on its open wings, singing a pretty song.

Madhab Shiromani sat there under the tree and thought of the little girl. Twenty years ago, he had an eight-year-old disabled daughter of his own. He visualized that a little girl moaned and quivered out of extreme thirst, sucked on tuber twigs out of desperation, and then helplessly died. That girl’s blessed kindness gradually made this water shack possible; here, countless poor men and women from around this bone-dry wasteland take shelter, drink water and save their lives. Under this tree, for nearly two decades, that symbol of Divine Mother keeps extending her arms to invite the hapless to her merciful wings of refuge. When the sun goes down, night sets in and the perched ground cools off, only then the divine force goes back to her own heavenly abode, after a long day’s benevolence. She would never forget the young, innocent life she’d had on this mortal earth.

Chinibas, the villager who was serving water happened to be a low-caste cattle-tender. Shiromani called him and said, “Come here, listen. Can you clean that copper urn twice and bring me some water in it? And…yes…er…didn’t you say they had some sweets made for Brahmins only?”






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