GLIMPSES OF RURAL LIFE
Dr. Ram Ashish Singh
Glimpses of Rural Life is the result of my longstanding engagement with the literary universe of Shri Jagdish Prasad Mandal. Translating Gamak Jingi into English has been both an intellectual responsibility and a personal journey. This collection represents a world I have known intimately—as a student of literature, a teacher, and a reader shaped by the landscapes of Mithila.
Rural life may appear modest from a distance, yet when one approaches it with patience and a discerning eye, it reveals astonishing variety, emotional depth, and cultural richness. These stories have always carried a quiet radiance in the original. My task has been to convey that radiance to readers who may not know the language in which it was born.
Here is what truly matters: translation is not a mechanical act of substituting one language for another. It is an attempt to preserve a world. It demands attentive listening, humility, and emotional intuition. These stories do not merely depict rural life; they emerge from a specific geography, from the diction of everyday labour, from rituals and memories, from rivers that flood without warning, and from droughts that linger for years. Each narrative grows from the soil of lived experience, not from abstract imagination. Translating them into English without weakening their rhythm, emotion, or cultural texture has been a demanding yet rewarding endeavour.
My first encounter with these stories was as a reader moved by their honesty. Mandal neither embellishes nor sentimentalises. He observes. He recognises the dignity of labour, the quiet heroism of women, the complex dynamics within families, and the weariness that stems from decades of environmental uncertainty. Floods, droughts, soil erosion, and migration are not mere dramatic backdrops in his writing—they are the very conditions under which life is forged.
In translating him, I wanted the English reader to feel this pulse: the sense that rural life is not static, but in continuous negotiation with change.
What strikes me most about these stories is their moral clarity. They do not preach or offer solutions. Instead, they allow the reader to witness how ordinary people create meaning in harsh circumstances. The characters seldom have material resources. They are rarely protected by institutions. Yet they possess something deeper: resilience, humour, affection, and an unshaken sense of dignity. Their struggles are real, their hopes fragile and their efforts extraordinary.
This collection reveals a world where labour is not an abstract concept but a daily discipline. People earn with their hands—not out of choice, but because it is often the only path available. They work in fields, ponds, forests, and on construction sites. They migrate to cities and pull carts. They dig roots from parched ponds, roast seeds into edible food, pound grain, stitch clothes, and sell lime, fish, and earthenware. These stories bring such forms of labour to the reader’s attention not through statistics or social commentary, but through intimate portraits of individual lives.
Another hallmark of Mandal’s writing is his portrayal of women. Their presence is not marginal—it is central. The women in these stories are not defined by suffering, even when they suffer. They hold households together. They think ahead. They turn scarcity into opportunity. They negotiate with landlords, contractors, and market forces. They confront social stigma with courage. Their labour, often unseen, forms the invisible backbone of entire communities. As a translator, I have tried to retain their emotional cadence without softening the hardships they endure.
The ecological dimension of these stories is equally vital. Rural Mithila has always existed in a delicate balance with Nature. When rivers swell, they swallow entire villages. When drought lingers, it drains the land of life. When the Kosi or Kamla rivers shift course, once-fertile fields turn barren. Mandal’s stories recognise the deep connection between environment and human emotion. People do not merely endure natural disasters—they interpret them. They pray. They rebuild homes on elevated mounds. They search for edible plants. They dig new wells. They survive. This ecological sensibility is one reason his stories feel both deeply rooted and universally resonant.
While translating, I often reflected on how contemporary readers might connect with these narratives. Much of modern literature—particularly in English—rarely portrays rural life with such depth and clarity. Urban concerns tend to dominate the literary imagination. Yet the moral and ecological questions raised in these stories remain profoundly relevant. Whether one lives in a city or a village, the fragility of livelihood, the burden of migration, the exploitation within labour economies, and the aspirations of youth resonate across contexts. Mandal’s stories speak to conditions that extend far beyond Mithila.
My aim, therefore, has been to maintain linguistic simplicity while allowing emotional complexity to emerge. Mandal’s Maithili is economical—rich in cadence, restraint, and power. English, when approached with equal care, can convey these qualities. I avoided excessive ornamentation and resisted the impulse to explain cultural details within the narrative. Instead, I allowed the stories to speak through their own internal logic. I believe readers are capable of learning a world by walking slowly through its paths. This preface is an invitation to that walk.
Before presenting a story-wise overview, I must acknowledge something essential: translation is a bridge. But every bridge must rest on two firm pillars. One is the original author, whose vision and integrity make translation possible. The other is the reader, who completes the circle by giving the translated work new life. If this translation succeeds in bringing readers closer to Mandal’s world, the credit belongs to both.
What follows is a detailed, sequential introduction to each story in the collection. These insights aim to illuminate narrative patterns, thematic resonances, and emotional undercurrents, drawing from my reading experience and my work with the text during translation.
STORY-WISE CRITICAL OVERVIEW
The Parched Seeds of Lily Fruits (Bhentak Lava) presents a striking portrait of resilience shaped by disaster. Set in a flood-ravaged village of Mithila, the story follows Musna and Jeebchi as their world collapses. While Musna sinks into despair, Jeebchi discovers possibility. Her finding of bhentak lava—the roasted seeds of wild lily pods—transforms scarcity into sustenance and grief into renewal. Through her steady labour, the household rises again, and the fragrance of roasted seeds becomes a quiet declaration of hope.
Mandal’s narrative honours the often-unrecognised strength of rural women who rebuild life with intelligence, faith, and unwavering patience. The domestic sphere—frequently overlooked—emerges as a site of creativity and rebirth. Jeebchi embodies a truth central to Mandal’s social vision: in moments of crisis, courage often appears in the gentlest hands. Ultimately, the story reveals survival as an imaginative act, where dignity grows from the simplest forms of labour.
Lotus Root (Bisandh) portrays a Mithila village pushed to the brink of extinction after four relentless years of drought. Fields crack, ponds vanish, livestock perish, and the social fabric begins to fray under the weight of hunger. Yet the story is not merely a record of devastation—it follows Doman and Sugiya, whose quiet resilience offers a counterpoint to the village’s despair.
Doman, a landless labourer, embodies endurance without complaint. He works with unwavering discipline, even as fear gnaws at him. Sugiya, steady and practical, becomes the emotional centre of the household. Her acceptance of circumstance is not resignation but a form of inner equilibrium that prevents collapse. Through her, the household preserves dignity, even when the world seems hollow.
The turning point arrives when Doman recalls an earlier drought and the hidden bisandh in the great pond’s parched bed. Memory becomes a guide to survival. Digging into the cracked earth, the couple uncovers lotus roots and fish—symbols of life persisting invisibly beneath barrenness.
The story offers a profound meditation on resilience. Labour restores direction, faith renews strength, and memory rekindles hope. Even in the harshest drought, the earth—like the human spirit—retains a hidden reserve of sustenance for those who continue to seek it.
The Pod of a Tree, Peerar opens with the serene presence of five ancient Peerar trees—symbols of a natural order that endures without human intervention. Their quiet harmony contrasts with the turbulent lives of villagers struggling against poverty and drought. Into this fragile world return Pichkun, a migrant labourer, and his new bride, Dhaniya, whose energy and instinct for opportunity begin to alter the course of their lives.
Dhaniya stands at the heart of the narrative. Her confidence, market acumen, and courage transform Peerar pods into a source of livelihood. Where others see danger in the Sugba serpent and avoid the trees, she recognises possibility. Her actions—from climbing the trees to managing their modest earnings—reveal a steady intelligence that reshapes the couple’s future.
The emotional strength of the story lies in the partnership between Pichkun and Dhaniya. Their companionship, patient labour, and mutual trust create a new foundation for dignity. Episodes such as the fish harvest, the bicycle purchase, and Dhaniya’s gentle firmness in confronting Pichkun’s toddy habit illustrate how affection and discipline coexist in rural survival.
With Somni Dadi’s blessings and Munesari’s support, the story affirms that resilience grows where labour, community, and hope converge. Like the Peerar trees, the couple learn to thrive through grounded strength and quiet perseverance.
The Foundling Son begins with the haunting image of an infant abandoned in darkness—a moment that lays bare the cruelty born of social shame. This bleak act is immediately countered by Gangaram’s compassion. Poor, ageing, and exhausted, he chooses responsibility the instant he hears the child’s cry. The foundling becomes a blessing rather than a burden, and the story’s central tension emerges between society’s moral failure and the quiet courage of individuals.
Gangaram and Bhuliya embody a form of parenthood rooted in care rather than blood. With no wealth or livestock, they still offer the child what he was denied at birth: a sense of belonging. Kabutri’s willingness to nurse him completes a circle of communal motherhood. The narrative insists that motherhood is defined by action and emotional truth, not biology alone.
As Mangal grows, the story expands beyond physical survival into intellectual awakening. He runs a tea stall, reads voraciously, absorbs Roopchan’s folk wisdom, and eventually writes The Dead Village—a perceptive critique of rural decay. Sunayana’s recognition of his work connects two different social worlds and challenges entrenched norms of caste and gender. Her choice of Mangal marks a union based on conscience and intellect.
Through this journey, the story affirms that renewal can emerge from the most neglected lives—when empathy, knowledge, and moral strength converge.
Two Paise follows the delicate journey of Fekua, a poor village boy whose dreams lead him to the city and bring him back with almost nothing. What begins as a simple tale of migration evolves into a nuanced exploration of how poverty shapes imagination, self-worth, and the longing for home.
Fekua departs for Delhi with childlike excitement, knowing little of the demands of urban life. His innocence is anchored by the quiet, steadfast love of his mother, Ramsunnair, whose labour and faith form the emotional core of the story. Though she cannot read or write, her affection offers him a moral compass no city can replace.
Through Ratna, the narrative reveals the harshness of urban labour and the ease with which migrants fall into exploitation. Fekua learns tailoring, works hard, and briefly tastes pride—but ambition grows faster than discipline. His grand promises to his mother go unfulfilled, and the city gradually wears down his confidence.
The story’s most poignant tension lies between Ramsunnair’s hopeful imagination and the grim truth of her son’s urban struggle. Her dreams expand even as his collapse. When Fekua finally returns home, it is not in defeat, but in the recognition that dignity often survives only where love and belonging endure. The story becomes a gentle yet piercing reflection on aspiration, failure, and the quiet strength of maternal faith.
The Wage-Earning Woman, Marni presents a compelling exploration of how poverty, labour, gender, and structural inequality shape the life of one woman and, through her, influence the moral fabric of an entire village. Chatoni—a settlement without land or official status—survives through solidarity, in stark contrast to the pride and self-sufficiency of larger villages.
Within this setting emerges Marni, a woman whose life has been scarred by profound loss. A lightning strike kills Subadh, Manohar, and Taunki, leaving her solely responsible for raising two young grandchildren.
Yet the narrative does not linger on grief. Instead, it portrays tragedy as the crucible that forges Marni’s inner strength. Transitioning from agricultural work to construction, she takes up tools traditionally associated with men, rejecting the gender roles that seek to constrain her. Her journey reveals the contradictions of rural development: while road construction is meant to uplift the poor, it dismantles traditional labour systems and brings new forms of exploitation. The contractor’s clerk represents a system in which survival becomes the only wage.
Marni’s refusal to bow to social humiliation—or to submit to the authority of soldiers and contractors—forms the moral backbone of the story. Her quiet dignity unsettles those who expect compliance. Ultimately, the narrative serves as an indictment of a society built on invisible labour. Marni stands as a symbol of unacknowledged resilience, a reminder that true development rests on the shoulders of those whom progress leaves behind.
Defeat and Victory captures the emotional and economic journey of a potter’s family uprooted by river erosion and the slow collapse of traditional craftsmanship. The opening scene—where Soman and Kapli sit beside their bundles, unable to move—symbolizes a profound rupture between their past and an uncertain future. The submersion of Maircha by the Kosi River becomes a powerful reminder that ecological disaster erodes not only land but also cultural identity.
Phulchan Pandit, the guardian of an artisan legacy, owns no land but carries with him the enduring skill of pottery—his family's final anchor. In Lachhmipur, the villagers’ warm reception and the building of the family’s first home reflect a cooperative spirit that once defined rural life.
Soman’s labour, displayed in a yard full of pots, lamps, toys, and ritual vessels, represents the dignity of skilled craftsmanship. Yet Mandal resists romanticizing tradition. The introduction of metal utensils and asbestos roofs marks the decline of clay-based crafts, pushing Soman and Kapli toward hunger and despair.
The narrative takes a turn with the return of Ramdat, their long-lost son. Gifted in idol-making and decorative arts, he reimagines the ancestral craft to suit modern demands. His success underscores the central message of the story: defeat meets those who resist change, but victory belongs to those who adapt. Through Ramdat, the family rediscovers livelihood, pride, and a renewed sense of heritage.
The Cart-Puller offers a deeply moving portrait of labour, displacement, and the unspoken heroism found in ordinary lives. Bhola, born into neglect and scarred by repeated rejection, grows up without protection or affection. His mother dies early, his father remarries, and even minor mistakes invite beatings. When his marriage eventually collapses under the weight of village prejudice, Bhola leaves home—not in pursuit of ambition, but simply to escape humiliation.
Calcutta becomes the unexpected setting for his renewal. Though the city overwhelms him at first, it is among fellow migrants that he finds his first true sense of belonging. The dharamshala offers community, food, and dignity. Pulling a cart is grueling and thankless, yet the narrative frames it as a kind of rebirth. Through physical labour, Bhola discovers purpose. Every rupee he earns becomes a building block in the future of his children, Ratan and Lal—whose education stands as the clearest testament to his sacrifice.
The ethical core of the story lies in the sons’ response. Their academic success is not merely a triumph of education but the harvest of their father’s endurance. Their decision to bring Bhola home reflects a deep understanding that dignity must be reciprocated. The story ends not with dramatic victory, but with quiet fulfillment: Bhola’s life, shaped by hardship, becomes the fertile ground from which gratitude, humility, and new aspirations grow.
Livelihood is a sharp exploration of work, morality, and survival within a corrupt social order. Through the contrasting lives of Shobhakant and Umakant, the story examines two divergent paths to earning a living. Shobhakant, forced out of school by poverty, arrives in the city without a plan but refuses any work that would compromise his dignity. His apprenticeship at a bicycle shop becomes his true education. Over time, humility and skill elevate him—from mechanic to tempo driver to eventual owner. His journey demonstrates that self-respect and craftsmanship can forge an honest livelihood, even in unforgiving conditions.
Umakant embodies the anxiety of educated yet unemployed rural youth. His degree yields no opportunities, and society ridicules educated men who return to farming. This disdain for manual labour is one of the story’s most incisive critiques. Pressured to pay bribes for a government job, Umakant nearly abandons his principles. His wife’s pragmatic reasoning underscores the painful truth: corruption becomes normalized when survival is on the line.
Through Mishrilal’s reflections, the story charts the layered nature of corruption—in banks, warehouses, block offices, and ration systems—exposing a world where honesty is systematically punished. Yet the final metaphor of the mango tree reminds us that ethical choices, though constrained, remain possible. Umakant’s decision to leave the dealership and become a tempo driver marks a quiet yet meaningful victory of labour over moral compromise.
The Rickshaw Puller weaves together the intersecting lives of Jibach, Bachanu, Saradha, and the kiln workers Mahakant and Ragini to interrogate what freedom, dignity, and a “better life” truly mean. Jibach returns from Bombay dressed in urban glamour, but beneath the surface, he is restless, dependent on alcohol, and driven more by consumption than purpose. In contrast, Bachanu represents a rough, unpolished integrity. He pulls a rickshaw during the monsoons, works at a brick kiln in the dry season, and consistently puts his children’s nourishment above his own comfort. He refuses stolen income, avoids driving while drunk, and follows a personal moral code that gives him inner strength.
The story opens with scenes of drinking, gambling, and reckless spending, highlighting how easily such integrity can erode. Yet a quiet moment on the cement platform—where Bachanu feeds his family before taking his first sip—reveals a richness of life absent in the “modern” characters. His world is unforgiving, but not empty.
Ragini’s monologue serves as the emotional foundation of the story. Though educated and financially secure, she remains confined, isolated, and voiceless within her marriage. Her realization that Bachanu is, in many ways, freer than she is, stops traditional social hierarchies. Through these intertwined lives, the story critiques privilege and gendered power, ultimately suggesting that real freedom lies in self-respect, purposeful labour, and the courage to live without fear.
The Lime Hawker is a subtle, finely layered exploration of labour, dignity, and the quiet transformation of rural life. Through Makhni and her family, the story traces how a woman-centered traditional occupation adapts to shifting economic pressures while retaining a core of tenderness and moral intimacy.
The narrative opens with Makhni’s fall on the stairs—a moment that symbolically marks the end of an era. Her injury necessitates a reorganization of the household, and the reactions of Phuliya, Kabutariya, and Matkuria reveal the nuanced dynamics of real family life, where affection and self-interest coexist. Phuliya senses a new authority, Kabutariya yearns to inherit her grandmother’s ritual knowledge, and Matkuria feels relieved that his ageing mother will no longer carry heavy loads.
The extended reflection on the lime trade functions almost as a piece of social history. Once a hereditary occupation sustained by barter, trust, and memory, it represents a moral economy where livelihood and relationship were inseparable. But with the arrival of stone-lime, cash transactions, and expanding markets, this intimacy begins to fray. Change brings financial gain, but weakens older networks of reciprocity.
Yet the story closes with a quiet gesture of renewal. In the Phagun dusk, Matkuria lifts the basket from Phuliya’s head onto his own. No words are spoken. The act embodies shared labour, recognition, and partnership. Through this simple moment, the narrative affirms that true livelihood lies not only in commerce, but in the mutual carrying of burdens.
Division of the Ancestral Homestead transforms a seemingly minor village event—the partition of five kathas of inherited homestead land—into a powerful critique of moral decline, shifting values, and the enduring ethical core of rural life. What begins as a routine logistical matter gradually reveals a deeper conflict between inherited wisdom and the corrosive habits learned in the city.
Shrikant and Mukund, returning to the village after long years in government service, embody this tension. Their pursuit of prestige, subtle rivalry, and efforts to manipulate the land survey reflect an urban mindset in which influence outweighs fairness and personal gain overrides collective memory. Their distance from the village is not geographical but ethical.
In contrast stand the village elders, who uphold an older moral order. Guru Kaka’s recollections of Vaidikji, Jogindar, Mahavir, and Khaliqa evoke a world where responsibility, artistry, and courage once shaped communal life. Ramchandra, the young surveyor, restores balance by measuring the land exactly as it lies, refusing to yield to either brother’s unspoken pressure.
The story balances wit with quiet sadness. The discreet maneuvering of Buchai and Sarup exposes the vanity of the educated brothers, yet their isolation also evokes sympathy. The final, fair division becomes a moment of moral resolution, affirming that true order arises not from wealth or influence, but from justice and shared ethical principles.
Brotherhood is a profoundly humane narrative that delicately traces the threads of family, sacrifice, and moral choice. At its heart is Dinanath, a boy raised in poverty but fortified by the quiet courage of his parents, Ramkhelawan and Sumitra. Their sacrifices—his mother parting with her nose-ring, his father working beyond his means—are modest in scale but monumental in meaning. In poor households, the story suggests, every gesture becomes a promise toward a better future.
The narrative takes a dramatic turn when Ramkhelawan suffers paralysis. In that moment, Dinanath abandons his education to support the family—not out of resignation, but as an ethical choice grounded in love and responsibility. His act reveals the story’s central insight: responsibility is a form of heroism. The steady support of his maternal uncle further underscores the enduring strength of extended kinship in village life.
Dinanath’s marriage to Sushila and his slow, determined rise through labour in the rice-husking trade present an alternative model of progress—one built on perseverance rather than ambition. This stands in stark contrast to his younger brother, Kusumlal, whose education leads not to wisdom, but to detachment, indulgence, and eventual self-destruction. His decision to sell ancestral land marks his moral decline, and his lonely death lays bare the fragility of success when severed from duty.
In the closing scene, as Dinanath holds the dying Kusumlal and calls him “Brother,” the story’s moral centre is restored. Brotherhood is shown to arise not merely from shared blood, but from compassion, loyalty, and the courage to forgive.
Sister begins with the quiet decline of Sarojini, an elderly mother, yet the real drama unfolds around those tasked with honouring her final days. The story becomes a mirror reflecting loyalty, kinship, and the fragile ethics that bind families together.
Radheshyam and his wife Ragini anchor the narrative. Their acceptance of caregiving is immediate, driven by both love and the awareness that in village life, reputation often outlasts a lifetime. A parent's death—especially if neglected—can leave a permanent stain on a household's name. The emotional burden they bear is thus both private and communal.
The three daughters reveal the modern fractures within familial ties. Gauri and Sunita return without hesitation, acknowledging that certain duties transcend distance and convenience. Rita’s absence, by contrast, exposes a harsher truth: ambition and urban life can stretch bonds until they thin into justifications. Her failure to return wounds Radheshyam deeply, prompting his anguished declaration that sibling ties end with their mother’s death.
The story’s most striking moment arrives when Shabana, the Muslim neighbour intimately entwined with the family’s past, arrives at night despite the dangers on the road. Her presence quietly redefines what it means to be a "sister." Kinship, the narrative suggests, is shaped not by blood, but by courage, memory, and the instinct to stand beside someone in their hardest hour.
In the end, Sister poses a simple yet piercing question: when the hour of truth arrives, who stays—and who quietly walks away?
Match-seeker’s Visit transforms an ordinary social occasion into an intimate exploration of rural honour, economic pressure, and a widow’s layered fears. Lukhiya begins her day facing torn thatch, broken boundaries, and rainwater pooling in her courtyard. These are not merely signs of poverty—they reflect her deeper anxiety: that visitors will judge her home, her son, and ultimately her own worth as a widow striving to maintain dignity.
Everything around her becomes symbolically charged. A simple meal of rice and coarse lentils, an improvised curtain, even the utensils reserved for guests—all carry the weight of family reputation. Her irritation with Nagesar masks a deeper fear: that society attributes every household flaw to a woman’s supposed inadequacy, especially when no man stands beside her.
Nagesar’s steady, measured presence gradually softens the tension. His belief that affection, not extravagance, defines respect allows the narrative to shift from anxiety to quiet clarity.
Meanwhile, Domon and Buchan’s walk across the embankment reveals another dimension. Rural wealth is being reshaped—by borewells, fish ponds, cash crops, and hybrid mangoes. Marriage, too, becomes a negotiation of labour, land, and long-term security.
The story’s moral strength culminates in Lukhiya’s refusal to accept dowry. Her quiet assertion that she will not “buy” a daughter-in-law safeguards the ethical foundation of her household. When the match is finally confirmed, it is her self-respect—not material display—that gives the decision its true moral weight.
Regret is a quietly reflective story that explores migration, duty, generational distance, and the subtle erosion of inherited values. At its core are Raghunath, his father Shivnath, and his mother Rukmini—a triangle of aspiration, memory, and loss.
Raghunath’s departure for America follows the familiar logic of modern ambition: the pursuit of money, mobility, and a future unburdened by rural limitations. For Shivnath, however, the decision wounds a deeper layer of identity. He comes from a lineage shaped by sacrifice—his father, Devanath, risked his life in the 1942 movement. Freedom, in Shivnath’s eyes, was a collective achievement rooted in land and community. To watch his son use that same freedom to abandon those very ties becomes a source of unspoken sorrow. The story renders this contrast not through confrontation, but through silence and quiet disappointment.
Rukmini’s pain is more personal. Her son’s absence feels like an unraveling—the slow collapse of years of care, love, and devotion. Her grief echoes the emotional cost borne by countless parents whose children leave not out of defiance, but from necessity.
Raghunath’s long stay abroad becomes a gradual disintegration. A cramped apartment, mechanical labour, and his wife’s deepening loneliness expose the gap between imagined success and lived emptiness. His eventual breakdown and late awakening reveal a buried longing for the very world he once left behind.
The parents’ decision to perform their own shraddha is the story’s most profound moment. It is an act not of bitterness, but of release—an acknowledgment that their lineage, dreams, and traditions are slipping away, and that expectations must yield to reality.
In the end, Regret is less a condemnation of migration than a meditation on what freedom means when progress severs gratitude, belonging, and shared heritage. It suggests that the modern pursuit of success carries a hidden price: the quiet severing of roots, realized only when it is too late to return.
Dr Hemant follows a man’s journey from confusion and restlessness to quiet moral awakening, set against the vast, troubled landscape of the Kosi floodplains. At the outset, Hemant is burdened by family disputes, avoidance of responsibility, and a drifting inner life. His first moment of clarity comes when he relinquishes his claim to ancestral property—a gesture that frees him, revealing that the true weight he carried was not loss, but attachment.
His government posting to flood duty, along with a threatening extortion letter, propels him into a reality he has long evaded. The train, rickshaw, and boat journey becomes a symbolic passage from inertia to purpose. His contrast with Dr. Sunil—a colleague whose steady commitment to public service underscores Hemant’s own disengagement—sharpens this transition. Sunil’s quiet resolve illuminates how far Hemant has strayed from the ideals of his profession.
Crossing the Kosi River marks the story’s emotional and symbolic turning point. Its waters, filled with both death and resilience, reflect the contradictions of the society Hemant is meant to serve. In the devastated villages, he encounters courage, endurance, and an ethic of mutual care that had been absent from his insulated, urban medical practice.
Sulochana becomes the emotional anchor of the narrative. Swept away by the flood and later sheltered by Jiyalal, she embodies innocence shaped by suffering. Her image of worms in sugar and chili offers a piercing metaphor that strips away Hemant’s illusions of moral superiority. Her quiet wisdom forces him to confront the distance between his training and his choices.
By the time Hemant departs from Lachmipur, he realizes that seven days among the flood-stricken have brought him more meaning than years spent treating the privileged. The story ultimately reflects on duty, healing, and the search for fulfilment in a fractured world. Hemant’s renewal affirms that true service begins not in clinics or cities, but in the willingness to step unshielded into the suffering of others.
Bobby portrays an unlettered village woman who quietly becomes the custodian of her community’s cultural memory. Through her, the story reveals that festivals, especially Chhath, are sustained not by spectacle, but by labour, care, and the shared strength of women whose lives seldom enter written history.
Bobby knows every ritual, every seasonal rhythm, and every obligation woven into the fabric of village life. Her conversations with Sirkhariyawali highlight how the poor mark time not with calendars, but through baskets, clay, and savings painstakingly gathered over the year. Bobby’s calm presence steadies those who fear falling behind, gently reminding them that rituals are meant to sustain, not exhaust.
Rahmat’s mother adds another emotional layer. Her offerings, rooted in a vow made during her son’s illness, show how faith merges with gratitude and remembrance. Bobby immediately recognizes this tenderness and responds with a warmth that affirms the inclusive ethos of rural devotion.
When Sonrewali confesses that she cannot afford baskets, it exposes the silent shame poverty brings to days meant for celebration. Bobby’s quiet assurance that the Sun accepts anything offered with sincerity restores dignity and becomes the story’s moral centre.
Bobby herself carries the unspoken sorrow of the daughter she never had. Yet she transforms this longing into compassion, guiding rituals, settling fears, and ensuring no household is forgotten. In doing so, she becomes the emotional and cultural axis of the village.
Ultimately, the story honours the resilience and quiet authority of women whose labour preserves tradition. Through Bobby, it affirms that culture is not upheld by wealth or temple hierarchy, but by the steady hands and generous hearts of those who hold a community together.
Kamini traces the quiet rebellion of a woman handling a world that praises female virtue while restricting female agency. What begins as a simple domestic story deepens into a critique of shifting social values, the decay of educational ethics, and the fragile position of women within patriarchal marriage.
The opening exchange between the narrator and Bhaiya Kaka frames the ideological tension. Kaka takes pride in marrying off his daughter but dismisses higher education for girls as unnecessary. His views reflect an older belief that women must labour without ambition. The narrator’s gentle disagreement highlights a society caught between tradition and change.
Kamini’s marriage to Lalababu exposes the distortions of modernity. Lalababu uses dowry money to purchase a fraudulent degree, secures a college position, and grows increasingly self-important. Kamini’s quiet dignity stands in sharp contrast to his vanity. When Mrignayani enters their lives, Lalababu’s shallow infatuation reveals the fragile foundations on which women’s security is built.
Kamini’s turning point is silent but powerful. After overhearing herself being dismissed, she gathers her daughters and leaves without confrontation. Her departure becomes the story’s moral center, showing that dignity often speaks through action rather than accusation.
The kindness of strangers—the old murhi-seller, the women cutting grass—offers Kamini the compassion her own home failed to provide. Their instinctive solidarity affirms a truth the story holds dear: in a society where institutions fail women, other women often become their only refuge.
In the end, Kamini reveals how endurance, integrity, and self-respect allow a woman to reclaim her life, even when society offers her no protection at all.
Translating Glimpses of Rural Life has been more than a literary task—it has been an immersion into a world where endurance is quiet, dignity is instinctive, and complexity resides in the smallest human gestures. These stories reveal that rural Mithila is not a landscape frozen in time, but a living terrain shaped by memory, labour, devotion, and the unyielding will to rebuild after every upheaval. What may appear outwardly modest carries within it profound emotional depth and moral clarity.
Engaging with these narratives has reminded me that the rural poor are not merely subjects of sympathy. They are thinkers, creators, caregivers, and survivors. They confront drought, flood, migration, corruption, and social inequality with a calm persistence that seldom finds a place in public discourse. Their victories may seem small, yet they are ethically luminous. Their sorrows may be heavy, yet they are borne with a grace that commands respect.
If this translation enables readers to step, even briefly, into the inner lanes and courtyards of Mithila—to feel the cadence of its speech, the weight of its silences, and the hope that flickers through its harshest days—then the labour behind this book finds its purpose. Rural voices often fade unheard in the noise of modern life. Mandal listened to them with uncommon seriousness. My task has been to ensure that their stories travel further, carrying with them the truth, tenderness, and strength of the lives they represent.
-Former Principal, H.P.S. College, Nirmali, B.N Mandal University, Madhepura (Bihar)
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