1.Lotus Root (Bisandh)/ 2.The Parched Seeds of Lily Fruits (Bhentak Lava)
Jagdish Prasad Mandal (Original Maithili Short Story)
Dr Ram Ashish Singh (English Translation)
English Translation of the
Maithili Story The pod of a tree, Peerar
Original Author: Shri Jagdish Prasad Mandal
English Translation: Dr. Ram Ashish Singh
The pod of a tree, Peerar
Round, green, and tender in abundance fruits hung along the branches as
lush and bright as the leaves themselves. These were the pods of the
Peerar trees. Five such trees stood in the village, old and majestic.
The great mango, jamun, and shisham trees that grew later were said to
have sprouted in their shade.
The eighty-year-old Kariya Baba would often say, “For as long as I can
remember, those five trees have looked just the same. So many storms
have struck, lightning has fallen again and again, yet not a twig of
those five has ever broken.”
They were not very tall, perhaps ten yards at most, nor wide and
sprawling like banyans. Their branches were close and compact, strong
enough to block the light rain, not letting a single drop reach the soil
below. Dense green leaves dressed each tree like a festival garland, and
the sharp, neat thorns stood along the branches like silent guards. The
leaves were broad and even, as if carved from the petals of sacred lotus
or the tanger flower. Their blossoms were just as beautiful.
Through hundreds of storms, rains, and summers, the five Peerar trees
had stood together, never fighting for space, never shading one another
out. Alike in height, colour, and grace, they seemed like five sisters
in quiet companionship. When they bloomed, it felt as though each smiled
at the other’s youth, laughing in the joy of shared life.
No one had ever cared for them, no one watered their roots, no one
trimmed their branches, no one ever tended their growth. All sixteen
signs of good fortune depended only on God’s care. Perhaps that was why
the five trees stood proud and self-reliant, owing no debt of gratitude
to anyone. Every day they smiled and swayed gently in the mild village
breeze.
Each year the five trees would bloom together. Their flowers ripened
into pods, then fell away. Afterward, the mature pods, having lived a
full life, would invite the wind like a final guest and send it to
summon the birds. The birds came, pecked the ripe fruits, and carried
away the seeds. In this giving of themselves, the trees fulfilled their
lifelong duty.
People avoided working the land beneath those trees, for it was believed
that green serpents, called Sugba lived on the trees. It was said to be
so green and vine-like that no one could see it until it struck. Whoever
was bitten by it, people believed, would find the gates of heaven and
hell open before them, with nothing in between.
The northern part of the vast agricultural tract had once been guarded
by an old couple, Ratna and his wife. Both had died two years earlier,
and since then no one had dared to take the job. Everyone feared the
Sugba snake that lived in the Peerar trees. Who would risk life and limb
for a few handfuls of grain each year?
A year earlier, Pichkun had gone to Morang to find work. When drought
came, even the farmers suffered, so what chance did the labourers have?
Many evenings went by without a single hearth being lit. The poor sold
their cows and goats; some went to Morang, some to Siliguri, others to
Assam. Pichkun too had borrowed fifteen rupees from the caretaker young
woman before leaving. Since then, the village had spoken of him as a man
lost to debt.
Of the many men who had gone out to work, some reached Biratnagar, some
Rangeli, some Siliguri, and some far into Assam. Everyone had given up
Pichkun, thinking him a hopeless case, and begun to search for work.
Pichkun sat alone by the roadside near Itahari, under a tree just beyond
the crossroads. He ate flattened rice and ghughni from a small leaf
bowl. While eating, he saw two men walking northward. Gathering his food
quickly into the edge of his towel, he began following them, eating as
he walked, listening to their talk, and joining their easy chatter as
they went along the dusty path.
As they walked on, they reached near Dhankuta. The two men with whom
Pichkun was travelling were farmers. One of them offered him work.
The man’s name was Mangat Ram. He and his wife employed more than fifty
labourers. He owned a three-storied house built entirely of sal and
timber. Some of his fields lay on the hills where he grew finger millet,
foxtail millet, and other hardy grains. Around those plots he had
planted lemon and orange trees as well.
When Pichkun looked up at the sunlight glimmering on the hills, the
slopes appeared to him like a bleached desert. Everywhere he saw small
trees, large trees, and layers of forested ridges. Watching it all, he
thought he had stepped into another world. Yet because the path was
known, he trusted that in three days’ time he could find his way home
again.
The vast barns, the large straw piles and the huge sheds filled his
heart with contentment. His employer was wealthy; his job felt secure.
He thought, “He will never dismiss me. When I wish to visit home, I can
go on leave and return. I have already learned the road.”
After a full year of labour, the longing to see his village grew strong.
In all that time he had sent no money home. How could he have? He knew
nothing of post offices, and no one travelled that route to carry news.
During that year he grew close to a young Tharu woman named Dhaniya,
about eighteen or nineteen, a servant in Mangat Ram’s household. She
agreed to travel back with him.
Before leaving, Pichkun bought a woolen sweater and a blanket for his
mother, and for himself a pair of full trousers, a long-sleeved sweater,
and another blanket. For his neighbours he bought oranges and lemons. He
packed the clothes and fruit carefully in a bundle, tucked his money
inside the pocket of his trousers, and wrapped the bundle with care. For
the journey’s snacks he carried some puffed rice.
Dhaniya packed all her savings, clothes, and belongings that night. They
did not dare to leave through the forest after dark, so they waited
until dawn. As soon as the morning light appeared, both of them quietly
set out with their bundles. They took the same road by which Pichkun had
once travelled. Reaching Itahari, they boarded a bus, got down at
Bathnaha, and continued on foot. Crossing the Kosi by boat, they walked
to Nirmali and from there took a train to their village.
Pichkun wore full trousers, a shirt, and sandals. His hair was uncombed,
a bundle slung over his shoulder. He walked ahead, Dhaniya followed
behind. Reaching home, both bowed and touched his mother’s feet. The
neighbours barely recognized him.
Inside the house, Pichkun removed his sandals near the hearth, untied
his bundle, and quietly showed his mother the roll of rupee notes. The
sight of the thick bundle made the old woman tremble with joy. She
gathered all the clothes, pushed the money deep beneath them, and tied
up the bundle again, placing it carefully in the corner of the loft.
Dhaniya sat quietly in the veranda.
The mother looked toward her son and asked, “Who is this girl?”
Smiling, Pichkun replied, “Your daughter-in-law. I married her there.”
Within moments, women from nearby houses began to arrive to see the new
bride. Pichkun’s mother gave each of them a lemon from the bundle.
Pichkun took out a ten-rupee note and handed it to his mother, saying,
“Mother, I am hungry. Go and buy some rice and spices from the shop.
Cook first, then I will bathe. After three days of travel, my body feels
heavy with sleep.”
The news of the new bride spread through the entire neighbourhood. Women
came calling her to visit, and the elders decided to arrange a small
feast in honour of the wedding.
On the seventh evening after their arrival, Pichkun and Dhaniya went to
visit Somni Dadi. The old woman was sitting in her courtyard, spreading
a mat and playing with her grandchildren. Pichkun bowed and touched her
feet, then gestured to Dhaniya to do the same. Dhaniya touched the
grandmother’s feet and then sat at the corner of the mat. With a glance,
Pichkun asked her to start pressing the old woman’s legs. As Dhaniya
began to massage them, Pichkun said softly, “Dadi, everyone in the
village had thought I was lost for good. But I had gone to Morang,
worked for a year, earned something, and even got married there. Now
we’ll stay here in the village. You are the eldest among us, give us
your blessings.”
In the northern embankment lay the largest stretch of land belonging to
Somni Dadi. For two years no one had watched over it. She asked Pichkun
to take charge of its guarding, and also offered him five kathas of land
to cultivate on share.
Seeing the chance for steady work, Pichkun agreed. The old woman gave
him two bamboo poles for the hut, a bundle of straw, and a handful of
rope to build it.
The next morning, Pichkun and Dhaniya went to the northern embankment to
mark the spot for their hut. They chose a slightly raised patch of land
where rainwater never collected. Pichkun stood there, measuring and
imagining the place.
Meanwhile Dhaniya’s eyes wandered toward the Peerar trees. She walked
closer and began inspecting the pods. Seeing them hanging thick and
heavy, she tore a strip from her sari, tied it around a branch, and
climbed up the tree. The sight of the green, plump pods filled her with
delight. She picked ten of them, each one shining and full like hidden
coins newly unearthed from the earth.
While she worked, Pichkun started digging and levelling the ground with
his spade. Dhaniya kept breaking off pods from the tree, her thoughts
bright with hope, poverty turning toward fortune, hardship giving way to
a faint light of prosperity. Her joy overflowed into song. She began to
hum softly and called out to her husband, “Our fate has awakened! Look,
the tree is full of ripe pods. Tomorrow we’ll pick them and take them to
the market. They’ll sell for a good price.”
Pichkun did not understand. He did not believe her words. Irritated, he
asked, “Do you even know what this is? If it were something people could
eat, wouldn’t everyone have already taken them?”
But just as Dhaniya saw in the Peerar pods a sign of luck and renewal,
Pichkun too felt happiness at his own fortune, the new job guarding the
embankment and the five kathas of land for cultivation. So he decided
not to quarrel and said gently, “I don’t know much about trading in the
market. How will we sell them?”
Dhaniya was used to market work in her parents’ home. She knew every
kind of farm labour and was equally skilled in raising ducks and hens
and selling them in the bazaar. With that same boldness she said, “I’ll
make a hook from a bamboo pole, pluck pods every day, and sell them in
the market. You stay with me and watch.”
The month of Asin arrived. The rains stopped. It was the season of
movement. The heavy monsoon had left the fields shining with green rice
plants. Wherever the eye turned, the same lush green stretched
endlessly. At sunrise, dew glistened on the leaves like pearls. The
fields looked like brides in green saris and green blouses, wearing the
morning light like a head ornament.
A soft east wind began to blow, spreading a gentle laziness through the
air. Along the embankment, Pichkun dug three small channels for the
rainwater to flow down into the lower fields. Then he blocked the ends
to make little pools. As water collected, small fish leapt and fluttered
in them.
Dhaniya would drain the pools and catch the fish. Pichkun carried them
in a basket to sell at the market and even went around the village
selling them door to door. One of the other fish sellers advised him to
buy a bicycle, saying that carrying the basket on his head left the body
smelling of fish.
The thought of a bicycle excited Pichkun, though he had never learned to
ride one. For a moment he hesitated, then imagined himself pedalling
slowly through the village, the basket tied behind him, selling fish
with ease. That night, while returning from the market, he told Dhaniya,
“We should buy a second-hand bicycle.”
Earnings always brought a spark of joy to Dhaniya. Smiling, she said,
“Why second-hand? We’ll buy a new one.”
It was the time of Jitiya festival, when millet bread and fish were
eaten in celebration. The day before, villagers had already given
Pichkun baskets of fish to sell. Before dawn, he woke Dhaniya, saying
eagerly, “I’ve already sorted all the fish from the pools.”
But Dhaniya, thinking it was only a dream, went back to sleep. In the
darkness before dawn, Pichkun quietly lifted the baskets and nets and
went to the fish pools. It was still too dark to see the fish clearly.
Pichkun sat beside one pool, Dhaniya beside another. He lit a bidi and
smoked as they both began to gather the fish.
It was the day of Jitiya. People were eager for fish. Before long, men
and women started arriving near the pools. With no weighing scale or
balance, Pichkun began selling by estimation. The best of the fish sold
quickly. They carried home the remaining catch and spread across the
courtyard. More than half was still unsold.
Knowing that on a festival day one could not depend on the market alone,
Pichkun said to his wife, “Cook the meal quickly. I’ll go sell the rest
around the village.”
Dhaniya hurried to make flatbreads and fry the fish curry. After eating,
Pichkun loaded the basket onto his bicycle and went door to door. By
noon, every last fish was sold.
The sun blazed fiercely. On his way back, Pichkun stopped by the toddy
shop. The place was crowded with tipsy men. There was hardly space to
sit, so he bought a small pot of toddy and drank it standing. Then he
paid and rode home.
From a distance, Dhaniya saw him pedalling the bicycle unsteadily and
felt her heart twist. She had feared this, Pichkun had taken to toddy.
She spread a mat and lay on the veranda, covering herself with a sheet,
and began to weep.
When Pichkun entered the courtyard and saw her crying, he went near and
asked softly, “What happened, eh?”
Hearing his voice, Dhaniya wailed even louder. Bending down, Pichkun
opened her mouth gently and asked again. Sniffling, Dhaniya said, “I’m
dying! A deep pain has seized my chest. Go, bring mustard oil from the
shop. Rub it all over me; only then will the pain leave.”
Staggering a little, Pichkun brought a bottle of oil from the shop and
began to massage Dhaniya. Turning on her side, she made him rub her body
thoroughly. When his hands began to ache, she said, “Now it feels
lighter around the chest.”
The word lighter filled Pichkun with hope. He continued to massage her.
Gradually his intoxication faded, and her anger too began to soften. He
was relieved that his wife had survived; she was pleased that she had
given him a good lesson for drinking toddy.
With the earnings of Asin and Kartik, the foundation of their life was
laid. From Peerar pods to fish, everything brought profit. The man who
had once lived a life poorer than cattle had finally stepped into the
realm of human dignity. Just as humankind once lived in huts and now
builds houses, Pichkun too began to dream of replacing his thatched hut
with a small brick house.
There was still no sure source of drinking water, so the couple decided
to make arrangements before the next year. They had no bed, no utensils,
yet they were content to plan gradually for each need.
The paddy in the embankment ripened beautifully. The fields gleamed with
heads of grain, green, golden, red, and black. Pichkun and Dhaniya spent
most of their days there, living in home only at night. If they stayed
away, stray cattle and grass cutter women would destroy the crop.
Every evening Dhaniya visited old Somni Dadi, speaking joyfully about
the ripening rice. The old woman blessed her from the heart.
By the time of the Sama festival, the crop was ready. Seeing the heavy
panicles bending low, Dhaniya told her husband, “We should dig and clean
around the roots of the Peerar trees, so that they bear well next year.”
Pichkun agreed. He carefully loosened the soil around each root and
spread goat and sheep manure around the five trees. Then he poured two
buckets of water at each trunk.
After fifteen days, the trees changed colour, bright green and fresh.
New buds began to bloom at every tip.
Just as parents care tenderly for their children, the couple tended to
those trees. And seeing such devotion, the five Peerar trees seemed, in
their quiet, swaying way, to bless Pichkun and Dhaniya in return.
English Translation of the Maithili Story The Foundling Son
Original Author: Shri Jagdish Prasad Mandal
English Translation: Dr. Ram Ashish Singh
The Foundling Son
☰
It was the third evening of the lunar fortnight. The moon of Chauth had
not yet risen, but a pale glow had begun to spread from the east. In
that quiet darkness, a young unmarried woman, fearing the gossip and
shame of society, crept out and left her ten-day-old infant by the
roadside. For nine days she had hidden the child, pretending illness to
her family. But when the truth began to press upon her, she could no
longer bear it. On the tenth day, she placed the baby at the edge of the
path, covered it lightly, and hurried back home.
Five or seven minutes later, Gangaram was returning from the market.
Suddenly he heard the cry of a newborn. His steps faltered. Standing
still on the road, he listened carefully.
That was no sound of bird or beast, it was unmistakably the cry of a
human child.
Startled, Gangaram’s mind was filled with doubt. How could a baby’s
voice be here, in such a place? There was no one in sight. He stood
motionless like a stake driven into the ground, staring into the dim
light. After a moment, he began to move slowly toward the sound.
It was too dark to see clearly. Around him, insects and tiny creatures
sang their many-voiced songs—some calling to their mates, others humming
in contentment—filling the embankment with restless murmurs.
At last, Gangaram reached the spot and saw the infant. One part of his
mind said, yes, it’s a human baby. Another whispered, but how could a
child have come here?
He set down the bag of vegetables he was carrying and gently placed his
right hand on the baby’s small body. A chill ran through him; his whole
skin bristled. Yet a strange warmth of joy rose within. Steadying
himself, he lifted the baby in both arms, pressed it against his chest,
and held it there. With one hand he brushed away the bits of grass and
leaves clinging to its skin.
The child kept crying. Gangaram took off his shoulder cloth and wrapped
the baby snugly in it. Slinging the vegetable bag over one shoulder, he
carried the infant against his chest and walked home through the
deepening night.
Reaching home, Gangaram smiled and said to his wife, “Today God has been
kind. He has given us a son.”
The words “given us a son” startled Bhuliya. She rushed forward, took
the baby from her husband’s arms into her own, and stared at it
closely.”Where did you find this child? Ah, what a beautiful boy he is!
''
“I found him on the roadside while coming back from the market,”
Gangaram said calmly.”Take care of him. If he is meant to be ours, he
will live. If not, he will go back the way he came.”
Hearing this, Bhuliya’s mind began to race. We don’t have a cow or even
a goat. How will we feed him milk? She herself could not nurse, for age
had dried her body. A wave of helplessness rose in her, then faded. A
thought struck her. My sister-in-law next door, still has a nursing
child.
The thought lit a spark of hope. Bhuliya folded her hands toward the sky
and murmured in gratitude, “O Lord, just as you make flowers bloom in a
withered forest, you will surely arrange food for this child too.”
Gangaram was fifty, Bhuliya forty-eight, but the difference between them
showed more than numbers. Gangaram still stood strong, while Bhuliya,
wrinkled and frail, looked past sixty. Yet as soon as she held the baby
in her arms, a strange warmth flooded her veins. It was as if youth
itself had returned. Her face glowed, her eyes came alive.
Their hearts filled with joy, bubbling like air trapped beneath water.
To calm the crying child, Bhuliya pressed it to her breast. For a moment
the baby grew quiet, then began to cry again, for no milk came.
Next door lived Gangaram’s younger brother, Rooplal. His wife, Kabutri,
was nursing their own three-month-old baby. Hearing the wail, Bhuliya
went over with the foundling in her arms.
Kabutri, seeing her neighbour carrying a crying infant, gently laid her
own child on the cot, took the foundling in her lap, and offered it her
breast. The hungry baby latched eagerly, sucking noisily. Watching this,
Bhuliya said softly, her voice trembling with emotion, “May God bless
you with seven more sons.”
Kabutri laughed at Bhuliya’s words and said, “I already have four of my
own. If I manage to raise seven more, how will I ever keep up? Take back
your blessing, sister. Whatever is written in my fate will be enough.”
Changing the subject, Kabutri added, “Sister, it is strange that in this
old age your husband has got such a fine-looking son. He does not
resemble either of you. His eyes, his face, his nose, nothing matches.
He looks nothing like Brother.”
Bhuliya frowned.”You never learned when to speak and when to stay
silent. You have no sense of respect for elders or shame for what you
say.”
Still smiling, Kabutri teased, “Come now, sister, what has happened to
you? You scold me as if I were the one who caused it. If you two ever
get another child, perhaps that one will resemble you.”
Bhuliya did not lose her temper. The child’s presence had softened her
heart like water soaking dry earth. Looking tenderly at the sleeping
baby, she said quietly, “Your brother found this child on the road while
returning from the market.”
Kabutri replied sharply, “Then why does the foundling’s face resemble
him so closely? He must be hiding something from us.”
Bhuliya, a little vexed, said, “All right then, let it be ours. At least
now you can rest your tongue.”
Kabutri laughed again and said, “Sister, I will nurse this child just as
I nurse my own. I will not let him go hungry. God has given me enough
milk to feed both. It is a joy to see light enter your dark home.”
Hearing this, Bhuliya’s heart overflowed with gratitude. The hungry
child drank his fill and soon fell asleep. Kabutri laid him gently on
the cot and said, “Let him stay here, sister. If he wakes in the night
and cries, I will feed him again.”
“Very well,” Bhuliya said softly, and returned to her own courtyard.
She told her husband, “Now the child will live. The woman from Godhanpur
has plenty of milk. She will raise both children.”
Gangaram looked toward the other house. The thought of the baby being
fed elsewhere made his heart ache, but Bhuliya’s words calmed him.
Still, a doubt lingered in his mind. He asked quietly, “Why did you
leave the child there? Shouldn’t he be brought to our own courtyard?
After all, he is ours now.”
Looking at her husband, Bhuliya said, “You are a man. How could you ever
understand what a mother feels? Only a woman can know that. Once a
mother presses a child to her breast, she can never again think of that
child as anything but her own.”
Gangaram fell silent. A thought stirred in his mind, and he asked,
“Since we are to be his parents now, shouldn’t we give him a name?”
Bhuliya smiled, and the image of the Chhath festival came to her
mind.”Usually the women of the house gather and name a newborn
together,” she said.”But no such ceremony was held for this child. Let
the two of us choose his name ourselves.”
Gangaram laughed softly.”Then call him Mangal,” he said.
Seven months passed. The boy began to teethe and soon could stand and
toddle on his own. He started eating solid food and drinking water. The
love that grew between the couple and the child became so deep that
neither wanted to let him out of sight, even for a moment. Bhuliya
stopped working as a field labourer. She began spinning thread in the
veranda and selling it in the village. Though she owned no loom herself,
she worked on others’ looms and earned a little money.
The couple felt young again. They worked the whole day without feeling
tired. Whenever Mangal called her “Ma,” Bhuliya’s heart overflowed with
joy, and she would lose herself in the sweetness of that word.
When Mangal turned five, his father enrolled him in the village school.
He studied there through the fifth grade and was now ten years old. But
by that time, Gangaram’s body had weakened so much that people no longer
called him for labour work. Somehow, the couple managed their living by
spinning and selling thread.
Life was growing heavy, but in ten-year-old Mangal’s mind, a spark of
awareness had begun to shine, like the sun rising in a child Hanuman’s
grasp. One day he said, “Baba, you and Ma cannot work as you used to. I
want to open a tea stall. If you build me a small thatched shed on the
road, I will run the shop.”
The idea struck Gangaram’s mind. But then he wondered, who in the
village even drank tea? How would the shop run? Still, he built a small
thatched stall for his son. There was a neem tree in their yard. He sold
it for twenty-five rupees and used the money to buy the utensils needed
for making tea.
Mangal opened his tea stall. It was the first of its kind in the
village, and the first shop always has an advantage. At first, people
hesitated, unsure about this new drink, but soon they began to like it.
Gradually, the shop became popular, and the earnings were enough for the
two of them to manage their living.
Within three years, both Gangaram and his wife passed away. While they
were alive, no one in the village had ever spoken ill of Mangal. But
after their deaths, murmurs began to spread, and people started looking
at him differently. Yet, the sales at his shop did not decline, for tea
had already become a habit among the villagers.
Even after running the shop, Mangal’s thirst for learning remained
alive. Whatever little money he could save, he spent on buying books,
paper, and pens. He studied by himself and practised writing every day.
Before his death, Gangaram had told Mangal the story of his birth. That
story revealed to him how superstition and cruelty still clung to
society like the roots of a weed. From then on, Mangal began to study
not only books but also the ways of the world around him.
Running the tea stall gave him the gift of conversation. Sitting there,
he learned to talk to people. In the evenings, after the rush of
customers had thinned, Roopchan would come to the stall. Mangal would
make two glasses of tea, and as soon as Roopchan drank, his mind would
brighten.
Roopchan was the village storyteller, though a poor man. He had a few
regular customers, but between them he would spend hours at the stall,
spinning tales. He told a different story each time, sometimes of kings
and queens, sometimes of lovers like Rani and Saranga, or Rajni and
Sajni. Other days he spoke of Gonoo Jha, of the brave ballads of Alha
and Rudal, or of Dina-Bhadri, Lorik, and Salhesh.
In this way, Mangal’s store of wisdom began to fill up with the
knowledge of books, the knowledge of society, and the wisdom of folk
tales. Whatever story he heard at night, he wrote down the next day
whenever he found time. The more he wrote, the smoother his lines
became, and his curiosity grew stronger.
One afternoon, as the sun tilted westward, a man came to Mangal’s tea
stall for a cup of tea. His appearance was simple, and he carried a
leather bag in his hand. The man was the editor of a magazine called
Bharat Jagaran. He had come to the village to study its condition and
culture.
While talking with Mangal, the editor became completely absorbed. He
felt as if his heart and Mangal’s heart had set out on the same journey
together. When the trance broke, both of them laughed. The editor said,
“Boy, make some tea. I have not had any all day. Tonight I will stay
here and talk to you in detail.”
Mangal prepared tea, and they both drank together. After eating and
drinking, they sat side by side late into the night, talking. Mangal
placed before the editor all the stories he had written so far. The
editor flipped through the pages. The language and style might not have
been refined, but the themes touched his heart. Smiling, the editor
said, “These are wonderful pieces. This is exactly what I came searching
for.”
He opened his bag, took out some magazines and books, and said, “These
contain the proper methods of writing. Study them carefully. Once you
understand the foundation, write on that basis. I am an editor. I run a
monthly magazine. I will publish one of your stories every month and
send you a copy.”
For three or four hours, the editor explained everything to Mangal. The
next morning, after tea, he left.
From that month onward, Mangal’s stories began to appear regularly in
the magazine. Among his many readers was a girl named Sunayana. She was
pursuing her M.A. in philosophy. In the fifth issue, the editor also
mentioned that Mangal was working on a novel titled The Dead Village.
The name stirred something inside Sunayana. Her heart danced. She
thought, our country is a land of villages, and if the village itself is
dead, what will become of the nation?
The idea struck Sunayana’s mind like a spark. The same Sunayana who
never spoke openly in front of her father was now ready to discuss the
matter with him.
That evening, her father, Advocate Sahab, returned from court, drank his
tea, and went for a walk. When he came back, he took out a case file to
prepare for the next day’s hearing. His wife brought him another cup of
tea. As he sipped it and chewed his betel, Sunayana entered the room,
sat on the chair in front of him, and said, “Father, there is a question
running in my mind. Could you please explain it?”
“What is it?” he asked.
“I read in a magazine today that the village is truly dead. If the
village is dead, and our country is made of villages, then what do we
call the country?”
Advocate Sahab did not pay much attention to the seriousness of the
question. He said lightly, “That is the concern of writers and thinkers.
I have nothing to say on it.”
“But writers are also part of this same society,” Sunayana replied.”They
live lives like everyone else. Then why would a writer write something
like that?”
“The words of a writer can be understood only by another writer,” her
father said.”I am a lawyer. I understand the law. Now go, I have to
prepare a case.”
Sunayana rose quietly and went to her room. She sat down and began to
think. In a country where there is no clean water to drink, no balanced
food to eat, no proper clothing to wear, and no decent shelter to live
in, what else can one call it but a dead land? People still drink impure
water, somehow manage a few morsels, sit beneath trees to keep warm, and
live surrounded by countless diseases. What can such a country be
called?
And beyond all that, in a civilization thousands of years old, where the
light of knowledge—symbolized by the goddess Saraswati—has still not
reached every person, what kind of nation is that? So many questions
stood before her, shaking her mind. Lost in thought, she sat on the
chair and drifted into deep reflection. At last, one decision settled in
her mind: she would first read The Dead Village. But where could she
find the book? Then another thought came. She would write to the author
directly and ask for it. She took out the magazine, copied the writer’s
address from it, and wrote it carefully on a small slip of paper.
The next day, Sunayana set out to find Mangal’s address. It was around
nine in the morning. After serving the early customers, Mangal had
arranged the kettle, teapot, saucepan, and glasses in front of the
stall. He was cleaning the hearth and clearing out the ashes.
Sunayana came to the tea stall because it was the place where one could
easily find anyone in the village. Reaching the stall, she asked, “Could
you tell me where I might find a man named Mangal in this village?”
Hearing his own name, Mangal was startled, but he stayed silent. It was
as if he were searching for himself through her eyes. Sunayana sensed it
too. After a moment of silence, Mangal spoke, “Sister, if Mangal lives
in this village, I will certainly help you find him. But since you have
come all the way here, how can you leave without tea? Please sit down.
This is Mithila, after all. Here, welcoming a guest is as natural as
welcoming one’s own family.”
Hearing his words, Sunayana felt as if a thirsty traveller had suddenly
found cool water. She sat on a bench made of split bamboo.
Mangal washed his hands, cleaned the small pan, lit the fire, and began
to make tea. As Sunayana stood up from the bench to come closer to the
hearth, the edge of her kurti caught on a bamboo splinter and tore
slightly. She did not bother about it and quietly sat near Mangal.
Seeing her sit beside him, Mangal asked, “What brings you to Mangal?”
Sunayana replied, “Mangal is a writer. He has written a novel called The
Dead Village. I tried to find it in the market but could not, so I came
to locate the author himself.”
Mangal let out a long breath and said softly, “And how do you know
Mangal?”
“I read his stories in Bharat Jagaran,” Sunayana replied.”There I came
across a mention of his novel The Dead Village. I wanted to read it, so
I came here.”
Mangal understood everything. His heart overflowed with quiet joy. He
thought, to quench someone’s thirst is as necessary as feeding the
hungry. But I have only one copy of the manuscript I’ve written. If I
give it away, a whole year’s labour will be lost. Yet not giving it
would be a greater sin.
Then another thought came: I could tell her that once my circumstances
improve, I will have it printed. For now, there is only this one copy.
Yes, once it is published, I will surely send her one. Until then, she
can stay here and read it.
By then the tea was ready. They both drank together. After finishing her
tea, Sunayana said, “Please give me Mangal’s address.”
Surprised, Mangal replied, “My name is Mangal. I am the one who wrote
that novel. But it has not been printed yet. Only this handwritten copy
exists. I would request you to read it here. When it is published, I
will make sure you get your own copy.”
Sunayana was astonished. She looked at Mangal from head to toe. His face
was darkened by smoke from the hearth; his clothes were coarse and faded
like old rags. Poverty seemed to shine from every part of his body.
Seeing him like that, her eyes were filled with tears. Wiping them
quietly, she said, “I cannot read the novel here. Reading a book means
understanding it deeply, and that cannot be done in haste.”
The sincerity of her tone touched Mangal deeply. He looked at her, and
in her eyes he saw a hunger for knowledge. He thought, I wrote this for
others. When it is published, it will reach thousands of hands. For now,
it will reach one reader. That is enough.
Just then, Sunayana said softly, “If I take the copy with me, I promise
to return it after reading. There is no chance of it being lost. I only
wish to read it peacefully, but I must return home before sunset.”
Mangal’s heart melted with affection. He said, “Very well, I will give
you the book. The rest is in your hands.”
The moment the book touched her palms, joy lit her face. She glanced at
its pages, then looked up at Mangal and smiled. For a brief moment,
Mangal read her heart as she read his.
Smiling, Sunayana took her leave and walked away.
Sunayana completed her M.A. with distinction. Her father, Advocate Sahab,
was a strong supporter of women’s rights, yet his thoughts often drifted
to one realization: women are bound not by one or two chains but by the
entire structure of life itself. Breaking those chains would demand
struggle, sometimes intellectual, sometimes physical.
Lost in such reflections, Advocate Sahab sat in his chair one evening.
His wife entered with a cup of tea, placed it on the table, and sat
beside him.
“It is good that Sunayana was born into an educated family like ours,”
she said.”Had she been born in a farmer’s house, people would never have
let her live so freely.”
Taking a slow sip of tea, Advocate Sahab said, “Please speak clearly.
What do you mean to say?”
“I mean you should get Sunayana married. Manoj will stay with us; he is
the son, the support. But arranging a son’s and a daughter’s marriage is
every parent’s duty.”
“I have a new idea,” he replied after a pause.”What if we ask Sunayana’s
opinion too?”
His wife flared up immediately.”What will people say? Have you ever seen
any parent asking their son or daughter before fixing a marriage?”
Hearing her words, Advocate Sahab thought silently. It struck him that
not only men but women too often conspire, knowingly or unknowingly, to
keep women bound. What a strange trap this is, woven by both hands.
He kept his thoughts to himself and called, “Sunayana!”
She came out from her room and sat on the chair before them. Her eyes
went to her mother first; her mother looked sharply toward her husband.
Advocate Sahab spoke in a calm, measured tone.”Daughter, you have now
completed your M.A. It is every parent’s responsibility to see their
children settled in marriage. I too wish to fulfill that duty. Do you
have anything to say about it?”
Hearing her father’s words, a tremor ran through Sunayana’s body. Yet
beneath that tremor, a quiet strength stirred. Speaking softly but with
conviction, she said, “Father, marriage is indeed a necessary process
for both man and woman. It sustains the cycle of creation itself. But
the question is- what kind of marriage? What we see around us today,
ninety or ninety-five percent of it, is mismatched. Some are arranged
for wealth, some for dowry, some for caste or lineage, and some for mere
convenience. In my view, marriage should be based on the union of minds.
Only then will it be lasting and joyful.”
Before she could finish, her mother burst in, visibly agitated.
“Daughter, in Mithila our tradition has always been that such matters
are decided by parents, not by sons or daughters. If children start
deciding their own marriages, society will collapse.”
Sunayana replied calmly, “That is a fine thing to say, Mother. But along
with preserving tradition, we must also see the flaws it hides.”
Advocate Sahab sat silently, his hand covering his mouth, listening to
both sides. Sunayana’s reasoning began to unsettle her mother, yet she
refused to yield.
Seeking balance, Advocate Sahab said gently, “All right, daughter, tell
me your view clearly.”
Sunayana asked, “Father, how much do you plan to spend on my marriage?”
The question startled him. But regaining composure, he replied in a low
voice, “You already know my means, child. But whatever is within them, I
will not be miserly. The little we have belongs to both you and your
brother.”
Hearing her father, Sunayana spoke with quiet determination, her voice
steady yet full of warmth.
“Father, greatness does not come from wealth or the body. A person
becomes great through knowledge and duty. Every woman wishes for a life
partner who is wise and hardworking. I am not giving you a final
decision today, but I will say this much, there is a man named Mangal in
Sonepur who runs a small tea stall. He has no one of his own. Yet his
work and intellect will one day make him known to the world as a great
writer. Poverty has trapped him deeply, but if someone helps him rise
above it, he will shine in the sky like the rising sun.”
Advocate Sahab listened quietly, then said, “Daughter, if your heart
truly feels for him, I have no objection. But think carefully while
there’s still time.”
Sunayana replied, “There may be many differences between us, but our
souls are equal. I too wish to write about the condition of women,
because the injustice done to them from ages past still shakes my heart.
Even the most beautiful things in the world seem dull before that pain.”
Advocate Sahab nodded slowly.
“Very well, I accept your thought. Go and see for yourself how much help
Mangal needs to stand on his feet. I will provide whatever support is
required.”
Hearing her father’s words, Sunayana smiled and quietly returned to her
room. Advocate Sahab sat deep in thought, reflecting on his daughter’s
conviction, while his wife’s anger kept growing stronger.
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