प्रथम मैथिली पाक्षिक ई पत्रिका

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)

1

Lotus Root (Bisandh)

For the last four years of drought, the village had lost all its colour. The once green land, filled with trees and crops, ponds brimmving with water, and fields alive with hundreds of birds, insects, cattle, and goats, now lay lifeless. It looked like a silent cremation ground. Everyone carried the same thought in their hearts that the village could no longer survive. And even if it did, it would remain nothing but dry earth. For what could the people of a land live on if no grain grew to eat and no water remained to drink? Would they survive on air alone?

The same sacred soil whose glory people had sung for generations now lay bent and defeated under the weight of four years of scorching drought. Yet, amid the breaking of hope, tiny new buds of faith continued to sprout. And why would they not? After all, this was the kingdom of Janak, Mithila. The same land where twelve years of famine had once yielded the fruit called Sita. In such a kingdom, perhaps, such a miracle might happen again. On one side, the drought carried its deadly arrows; on the other, the arrows of hope kept returning with greater radiance.

Even in such despair, the husband and wife, Doman and Sugiya, kept their hope of life alive as if it were an ordinary season. With a spade resting on his shoulder, Doman walked ahead, while Sugiya followed behind with a bamboo basket balanced on her head, filled with singhi fish and freshly dug bisandh, the tender lotus roots found deep in the mud. Talking about the small things of life, they returned home from the large pond toward their courtyard. Wiping the sweat from her cheek with her right hand, Sugiya smiled and said, “Why will those persons who know how to work for their food and drink ever worry? ''

Hearing her, Doman turned to look at his wife’s face but said nothing. He lowered his eyes and kept walking forward. His worry was not about food, but about water.

Doman owned no land of his own, yet both husband and wife were so hardworking that even with nothing they managed to live with dignity. Though skilled in all the tasks of a household, Doman had never been bound by one. Still, whenever work came, in good times or bad, he never refused it. He had no fields, so he could not farm on his own, but every year he cultivated ten kathas of madua (finger millet) on a sharecropper’s basis. From that he usually brought home five maunds of grain.

Raising a madua crop required hard labour. Every day the seedbed had to be watered and levelled. At the start of the Rohain (the name of a constellation) month, Doman would sow his seeds along the edge of the big pond. With water close by, irrigation was easy. The soil there was deep and fertile, so the crop sprouted well. Within fifteen days, the seedlings were ready for transplanting. When the rains arrived around Mirgisra (a constellation), Doman would always be among the first to plant his madua, but this year it did not happen. Without rain, the seeds withered in the dry soil. Not a single patch of madua grew in the village.

Nor had anyone yet plowed the paddy seedbeds or soaked rice seeds. The signs of drought had begun to appear in everyone’s mind, yet no one wanted to believe it. People kept hoping because the propitious constellations were still delayed, and perhaps the rain would come late.

But just as Rohain and Mirgisra constellations had passed in vain, so too did Adra constellation. The season itself seemed to be slipping away. By ten in the morning, people returned home from the fields because of the fear of the burning wind. Without the madua crop, worry crept into the hearts of Doman and Sugiya.

The next day, the two returned from the big pond with bundles of old leaves on their heads. On the way home, Sugiya said, “This year not even a handful of madua has grown. In other years, even on sharecrop we had enough to last the whole year. This time even our daily meal will have to be bought.”

The bundle of old leaves on their heads dripped with water, soaking Doman and Sugiya halfway down their bodies. Wiping the sweat and water from his nose, Doman replied, “It is not only we who have lost our crop; no one in the village has any either. If others had succeeded and we had failed, that would have been painful. But when no one has anything, why should I grieve alone? What happens to the rest will happen to us too. At least we still have the work of collecting old leaves for fuel, and what about those who do not even have that?”

Hearing her husband’s calm answer, Sugiya smiled faintly and said, “Yes, that is true. But thunder may strike anywhere; who can lift a hand to stop it? This drought is the stick of God Himself. What power do people have?”

Until then no one had dared to call it a drought. Everyone believed it was simply God’s play. Some years the rain came early, some years late. Some years too much, some too little, and sometimes not at all. When the rain came early, the fields flourished and the households prospered. When it came too late, the crops were half-grown, stunted, and weak.

When even the Hathiya constellation passed without rain, everyone began to accept that this year would be a drought. From the unplowed and unseeded fields, clouds of dust rose into the sky. There was no trace of grass or greenery anywhere. Yet could people simply give up? Never. The villagers of Mithila had long learned to live with their chests out and backs unbent; they would not show defeat.

Perhaps, they thought, Lord Indra was saddened by something and had turned away in anger. He must be appeased. Once His heart softened, everything would flourish again. With this belief, some began offering food to the hungry, others organized kirtans, ashtayams, and navahas. Some performed Chandi yajnas, others Vishnu yajnas or worship of Lord Mahadev. Many kinds of offerings and rituals began throughout the region.

Even the women class started offering goats and kids to the goddesses, Kamla and Kosi. If their mercy were awakened, they believed, there would be floods instead of drought. The ponds, lakes, meadows and hollows would be filled again. The drought would vanish, and even the half-starved fields would yield grain once more.

Seeing the stubborn dry season continue, Nengra Kaka stopped money-lending. He understood that this drought would cause starvation the next year. But Bouki Kaki, his clever neighbour, lent her rice at twenty percent interest. Her stock was small to begin with, only enough for a few months, yet it always lasted until the festival season. Bouki Kaki’s lending business usually began around Matr-Navami and Pitri-Paksha and grew busy through the months of Durga Puja, Kojagara, Diwali, Govardhan Puja, Bhardutiya, Chhath, and Sama. By the time Sama arrived, her earnings were plentiful, for she would not only offer newly beaten rice to the goddess but also share it with others. By then, the new paddy would be ripe in the fields.

But this time Bouki Kaki failed to realize that a true drought had arrived. She kept nothing for herself to eat. Like the poor farmers who had no harvest, Bouki Kaki, the moneylender, was also left with nothing.

By the time the month of Aghan came, worry spread through every household, what they would eat and what they would feed their cattle. Usually by the end of Kartik, people had already arranged food and fodder both for themselves and their livestock. But this year, except for Nengra Kaka, everyone’s supplies had been spoiled. At last even the rice seeds stored for planting were pounded, cleaned, and eaten.

There was no hope of growing rice that year. Even if it rained now, sowing or transplanting would be impossible. Suddenly everyone realized the truth, and fear began to settle deep in their hearts. As time passed, anxiety spread like weeds. Hearths went cold. Time stood before them like a gaping demon, mouth wide open.

Worry turned into illness. Every morning, sounds of quarrels and crying children echoed through the village. Women began calling their husbands lazy and unlucky; men called their wives witches. Their fights rose with the cries of the children until the whole village seemed to dance in misery.

Yet, even in such a time, Doman and Sugiya remained untouched by fear. They had already begun their trade in puranik leaves (a water plant) used as food plants since Judeshital (a Mithila festival) and that small business was going well. The big pond covered fifty-two bighas of land, full of puranik plants. The market too was good, buyers came from Nirmali, Ghoghardiha, and even old and new bazaars of Jhanjharpur.

Sugiya worked alone, yet she sold plenty. People who bought the dried leaves ranged from sweet-makers and snack-sellers to those arranging feasts and ceremonies. Because of this, they managed to make a living every eight days.

All day long Doman gathered leaves, tearing them off and piling them up. Sugiya would tie the bundles neatly the next day, and on the third morning she would take them to the market by cart. The leftover leaves were left by Doman to dry, because even dried leaves fetched a price.

Returning from Nirmali after selling her load, Sugiya said to her husband, “This drought has turned in our favour.”

Hearing that, Doman smiled and asked, “How is that?”

“All the traders have bought up their stock,” she said. “The ponds in every village have dried up, and people have stopped collecting leaves. Only our bundles are reaching the market now. As soon as I unloaded the cart today, the shopkeepers crowded around. Everything was sold in a flash.”

Doman replied, “You should have raised the price. You could have doubled what you earned.”

Sugiya said, “I’ll do that next time. Anyway, now the barries too are getting ripe, aren’t they?”

Doman nodded and said, “A few of them have ripened. Let’s wait another five days before picking them, as we will have to pick and so choose among them.”

By the third year, only one large pond and five wells in the entire village still held a little water; the rest had gone dry. The big pond at Andaha was sacred, for it had been dug by divine hands. No one else could have made it. That was why every family took their sons there to bathe before weddings, and why, during Chhath, people offered prayers there with raised hands.

The very earth of this region is strange, solid clay, like a buried hill. Five hundred feet down there is neither a spring nor a trickle of water. Just dense soil. That is why no hand pump or tube well works in the village. People must go to neighbouring villages to fetch water.

The livestock had perished. Some people sold their cattle, others watched them die for lack of water. More than half the trees had withered away. Birds and insects had vanished. The very people who once held seven weddings in a season to the sound of brass bands were now either dead or missing. Half the village had fallen ill. Yet the stubborn few still refused to leave. The men had gone away to earn a living in distant towns, but women, children, and the lower communities remained behind, clinging to the empty village.

When the ponds and wells began to dry, people started digging new wells around the large pond, each family making its own. There was still a little water, though not enough to meet everyone’s need. The three years of drought had left the whole region exhausted, yet for Doman and Sugiya it was still their only way to live. Their work remained the same as before, but the income had fallen to less than half.

As land prices dropped across the village, Doman managed to buy a small piece of land. Sugiya, however, was not pleased. She feared the drought would continue, leaving the fields barren. “What is the use of buying land,” she thought, “when there will be no grass for the cattle and no water for the crops?”

But Doman held onto hope. He believed that just as a barren woman can one day give birth, the dry fields too would revive when the rains returned. After all, this was Mithila, the land of sages and seekers, where people had long believed in sacrifice for the welfare of all living beings. The elders had known well that rain alone could not be trusted; that was why they had built eighteen large ponds, twenty-seven wells, and countless irrigation pits across the plains. They had ensured their own supply of water for the worst of times.

For three years Doman and Sugiya lived in fragile peace, but by the fourth year unease returned. Every pond and well in the village had already gone dry. Only the great pond still held a little water, and even that had shrunk to a corner. Around its edges the earth had cracked, and in the middle only a few patches of lotus remained, surrounded by thick, thigh-deep sludge. It was dangerous to step into; one sank immediately.

Helpless and weary, Doman began to lose heart. He thought, “If everyone else has left, perhaps I should go too. There is no sense dying slowly here. Life must be saved first; when the time changes, I can always return. And if not, then let fate take me wherever it will.” The village had emptied, the people were scattered, and Doman, standing in the silence, began to prepare himself to leave as well.

Seeing her husband troubled, Sugiya asked softly, “Is something wrong? Why do you look so downhearted?”

Doman lifted his eyes toward her but quickly lowered them again. Sugiya repeated, “Are you feeling unwell? Is it your body, or your mind?”

Raising his head again, Doman said, “My body is fine, but my heart feels heavy. The hopes that kept me going till now are all gone. I see no sign of anything ahead. What can I do now?”

Sugiya replied, “Nothing happens by our will. The same God who gave us life and speech will also give us food. Why worry so much?”

Doman said, “Everything is gone. This beautiful village is dying. Only dry soil remains. Shall we dig the earth and eat it? How long can one live without food or water?”

“Stop worrying,” said Sugiya. “Whatever is written will happen. For now we still have food and water. As long as this earth holds grain and water meant for us, we will find it. When our time ends, who can stop it? So why trouble your heart?”

Saying this, Sugiya turned toward the hearth and began to prepare the meal.

Listening to her, Doman thought to himself, “I fear death, but she does not. She seems ready even for that.” Then another thought rose in him: life and death have always wrestled with each other; to retreat from that struggle is cowardice.The man who is coward should not live in the world in the hope of better life. Looking at himself, Doman felt as if he had lost the very path of living. That was why the weight of worry pressed so hard on his heart.

He took a pinch of tobacco, mixed it with lime, and placed it in his mouth. As the taste spread, his thoughts galloped like a horse through memories of his parents and ancestors. His mind wandered far, then circled back to his mother. He remembered the life he had spent with her, and her words about a drought when he was ten years old.

The memory of that old drought brought before his eyes the image of the big pond, the lotus roots glistening in the mud, and the fish hiding in its dark water. For a moment he sat still, lost in the quiet pull of those memories.

He remembered then that in the same old pond’s bed, lotus roots still grew beneath the mud. Just like the yam that lies buried under the soil, bisandh, the root of puranik plants lies buried under the pond bed. Words escaped his mouth before he knew it.

“By God! In that fifty-two bigha pond, how many lotus roots there must be! And there will be fish too, singhi and mangur hiding in the pits.”

Two gains in one plan. As the thought brightened his mind, Doman called out to his wife, “God is truly great. Just as He created countless creatures, He also arranged their food.”

Hearing this, Sugiya was startled. She could not make sense of his sudden excitement and stood staring at him, her mouth half-open. Doman looked at her and said, “Put out the fire. We’ll go out and eat after we return.”

His enthusiasm made Sugiya uneasy. She thought, “Has he lost his senses? A moment ago he looked half-dead, and now he is so alive.” Unsure what to say, she stood silently.

Doman spoke again. “Didn’t you hear me? First put out the fire, bolt the door, and take a basket. Come behind me. ''

“Where?” she asked.

“To the big pond.”

“For what?”

“Food lies buried there, waiting for us in this drought. Come, we’ll dig it out.”

Without more questions, Sugiya covered the hearth, bolted the door, took the basket, and stood ready. Doman lifted his spade, and the two set out, he walking ahead, she following behind.

When they reached the pond embankment, Doman pointed toward the dried basin and said, “All that dried belly of the pond is full of food. There will be no shortage to eat or to drink. As the water goes down, we’ll dig deeper wells. Where the old lotus stalks have dried, there beneath them the bisandh will be growing thick as ropes.”

Stepping into the pond bed, Doman measured three paces south to north and three east to west, marking the ground with his spade. It covered roughly one dhur. At the northern and eastern corners he struck the earth. The soil was so hard that the spade barely entered. He struck again with more force, but still it did not sink. Looking ahead, Doman guessed that the earth farther on might be softer and easier to dig. His heart leapt with hope. Moving forward, he said cheerfully, “Hey, look here, woman, am I not a man? See, even the soil refuses to yield to me. You are my better half, try striking it a few times yourself.”

Sugiya laughed. “First wear my bangles and sari and give me your dhoti. Then I’ll show you how to dig.”

Smiling, the two moved ahead together. A few steps later, the soil indeed felt softer. Doman struck with the spade again; the ground yielded. Measuring another dhur, he began to dig. On the sixth stroke the tip of a lotus root appeared.

Seeing it, Doman shouted with joy, “Look! This is the bisandh!”

Sugiya replied, “Just from that tip you cannot tell. Dig the whole thing and show me first.”

Her words made Doman cautious. He feared that if he cut too deep, he might slice the root in half. Holding the tip gently, he bent down and began loosening it with his hands. It did not budge. Shifting a little aside, he struck again with the spade. The next stroke revealed one full root, then another, and then a third.

Together they dug all three out, staring in wonder at what they had found, white and shining, round and smooth like polished bamboo, thick and long as an elephant’s tusk, each about a hand’s length or more, weighing nearly half a seer.

When Doman looked toward his wife, he seemed to see his life of fifty years spread before him. When Sugiya looked back at her husband, she saw the red glow of vermilion in her parting and the soft music of her bangles.

Carrying a basket full of fresh bisandh and four seers of singhi fish, the two of them—Doman and Sugiya—walked home together, their faces lit with quiet joy.

2

The Parched Seeds of Lily Fruits (Bhentak Lava)

The memory of the last flood still makes the body tremble. Every hair stands on end. The terrifying sight of that deluge begins to dance before the eyes. Water raced faster than a horse. The flood was no minor one, not a young but an old one, an ancient and fierce spirit dancing in wild rhythm. There was no longer any sense of what was a big stream and what was small; each merged into one vast sea, erasing familiar boundaries.

Wherever the eye turned, muddy, swirling water spread endlessly, flowing southward with unstoppable force. Many villages and houses disappeared, leaving people homeless. Wells, ponds, borings, and hand pumps all sank under the flood. The sight was so dreadful that people, trembling with fear, grew thirsty but found no water fit to drink. Life and death stood face to face, mocking one another. Houses collapsed, granaries crumbled, and the stored grain was ruined. Along with the falling homes perished cattle, trees, and crops alike.

Tying together the few clothes and utensils left, Musna bundled everything into a sack, set it on his head, and fastened two strings of straw around his own waist and his son’s. Holding his little daughter Dukhni close to his chest, he and his wife Jeebchi walked toward the high mound beside the pond.

That mound had once been a wild patch of weeds, thorns, and a public latrine area where snakes and insects made their nests. Now the flood had turned it into their refuge.

As shadow never leaves a man in sunlight, so the rain refused to leave the flood. Below, the water surged with full strength; above, heavy drops kept falling. By the time Musna reached the mound, twenty or twenty-five families had already arrived there with their children, belongings, and livestock.

Finding a sloped spot near the edge for convenience, Musna placed his bundle down. He broke branches from a nearby tree to make a frame and began to tie them together. He tested the structure once, felt unsure, and then rebuilt it carefully, smoothing it with his hand until it felt right. Pleased with the solid spot they had found, Musna and Jeebchi unpacked one sack, drove four bamboo poles into the ground, and tied them with straw ropes to form a shelter. On the other sack they spread a mat, settled the children, and placed their few belongings safely around them.

When worry dried their faces, both of them fell silent. On one side they kept watching the two children, on the other they stared at the roaring flood. With hands pressed to their foreheads, Jeebchi and Musna muttered prayers to the river goddesses, Kosi and Kamla in their hearts and begged for their lives. The children sometimes laughed at the flood and sometimes shivered with cold. At the speed of the water a house loosened and began to slide; Musna grabbed a bamboo pole and a clump of brush and ran with them. The current threw up splinters and for a moment it was hard to tell which way the house would tilt. With utmost care he fixed five poles in the ground hurriedly. Slowly the house came and wedged itself on the poles; seeing the house lodged there, he called out and ordered his wife, “Bring a sickle quickly. Carry the household things as they are and go.”

A dog had also been carried away on the roof of the house. Hearing people mutter, the dog leapt and climbed up to the mound. Where Musna had planted the pole for the shelter, a snake suddenly lunged and bit him on the hand. The leg stuck into the mud could not bear the home’s weight. All five legs sank into the water. The house collapsed. Musna wailed loudly, shouting and calling for help, “People, run! Run, someone, the snake has bitten me.”

Hearing Musna’s cry, Jeebchi also started to convulse with tremors. As the convulsions began, he cried out, “Oh Dukhni’s mother, the snake has bitten me. The poison has spread across my chest. Only a little remains to touch the throat. Show me the children for a moment. Now I will not survive.”

Jeebchi shouted and seized the arm of her husband dragging himupward. They reached the mound’s slope, and when they tried to step up, both of them slipped back and tumbled down to the lower edge. Both were soaked through and more drenched, yet still they scrambled upward. Once on the mound, Jeebchi pulled a scrap of cloth from somewhere and pressed it against the wound. There was not a single person in the village who could draw out snake poison. But Roudiya had learned how to suck poison during the autumn festival. Everyone began to search for Roudiya.

Roudiya had gone to the embankment to catch fish with his net. Someone called him. Roudiya set the net aside, washed his hands and feet by the bank, and came to Musna saying, “Brother, my sucking is not perfected yet because I have not bathed in the Ganges even now. Still, I will try to draw the poison.”

Roudiya brushed the ground clean before Musna and pressed his lips to the spot to draw the poison. Everyone watched him. But nothing happened. The sucking did not work. Because of the flood, it was impossible to summon a healer or a poison-sucker from another village. People grew hopeless. Beating her chest, Jeebchi wept and called upon the gods and goddesses, making vows of offerings. Yet since the snake that had bitten Musna was a blind snake, the poison had not spread.

Meanwhile the villagers began to move about. The old and the young, men and women, gathered at the edge of the pond, carrying small earthen lamps filled with raw clay and mustard oil. They offered them to the goddess Kamla, singing evening hymns. The children shouted in chorus. Among them Lukhia promised an offering to Kamla Maharani, one seer of sweet pudding. By the next evening everyone had finished the songs and returned home.

The flood raged for five straight days. But as dawn broke on the sixth day, the water began to fall. Floodwater comes with a roar and goes the same way.

By dusk the water drained from the courtyards and fields, though puddles and silt remained. From the seventh day onward people started rebuilding their homes. As soon as the flood receded, many set out again toward the cities in search of work. Not a grain of paddy was left in the village, and the fields could not be replanted. The haystacks and stores of straw had been swept away without a trace. The husks of wheat rotted into dung in the mud. Cattle suffered even more than humans. People cut down leaves of mango, bamboo, and other trees to feed them. From other villages they bought and carried bundles of fodder and husk. Yet the livestock died helplessly. Those that survived grew thin like dry sticks. Then, as if to deepen the misery, diseases of every kind spread among them, some had hoof disease, some dysentery. A few families gave their remaining cattle to relatives in other villages for safekeeping.

After four days the local official arrived. Srikant, exhausted like a half-dead man, sat on the veranda drinking tea after smoking bhang mixed with tobacco. He brooded bitterly: the moneylender has left, but how will we ourselves survive the year? All the paddy was eaten up. A great mistake it was not to save even one basketful. Yet what difference would one basket make? Who would help whom? People are right when they say everyone must live on his own strength. Even the neighbour’s stored grain has sprouted and spoiled. If someone comes to the door, I will show it. But I too am in need, where will I find more? The rice in the granary is all that remains. Not a single handful of paddy is left to give hope for the winter crop. Cultivation will not restart now; the next harvest can only be hoped for in the coming season. Those who buy and sell daily will manage, but what will people like us do?

While sipping tea, Srikant felt a lump in his throat. He remembered, “Father used to say, if someone comes to the door asking for two seers or two handfuls, do not turn them away. That is how Lakshmi visits.”

Seeing Jeebchi approach, Srikant called out to her. All year long she had ground grain for others and earned her keep that way. In the village she was the most skilled at pounding rice and chura.

Jeebchi smiled and said, “Why are you so gloomy, uncle, even if you have so much? Will I die when I have nothing? ''

Hearing Jeebchi, Srikant replied in a rough voice, “If everything had been swept away by the flood and we ourselves had perished, that would have been better. Now when we have survived, we have to suffer the misery. ''

Jeebchi, smiling, said, “Why worry so much in a single flood, uncle? Whether it is better or worse, the days will pass.”

Musna sat on the embankment smoking his pipe. He ground his teeth and thought to himself: the months of Aghan and Pus used to pass with bare hardship. We would save ten seers and manage somehow. Those savings are gone. Not a single sack of paddy remained anywhere in the village, nor a single rat to be found.

Then another thought struck him as he drew on his pipe and exhaled smoke: if only he could get a bowl of rat and the grey rice porridge in the cold months, what better comfort could there be? Such food would be enough to satisfy even the poorest. Oh God, you have taken the poor man’s happiness away.

Musna’s first name was Makshoodan. But people began to call him Musna for his love for a rat and rat's alley.

Jeebchi was cooking flatbreads on the courtyard stove. Musna returned from the well with a pot of water for the cooking and sat down to watch the fire.

Jeebchi took a piece of bread and salt from the tin box and placed it before her husband. Noticing the children’s hunger in the yard, Musna made a loud, urgent noise.

Hearing his father’s call, Dukhba came running, washing his hands and feet as he entered, and sat down to eat. Father and son began their meal together. From beside the hearth, Jeebchi smiled and said, “Everyone talks, but only those with skill will live. Just look around here, every house has its own tale of loss. Everyone cries and complains.”

Chewing his bread quickly, Musna looked at her and said, “So many fish have floated in with the flood that the pits and ditches are full and splashing. If only the water goes down a little, as soon as it settles we will start fishing. We will eat some and sell some. At least a few coins will reach our hands.”

Thinking of her own natal village, Jeebchi began to speak. “In my father’s village the Gandak comes from the west and the Kosi from the east. Every year the floods come, but the stream between them keeps turning and twisting. The whole village used to shine with water like a lake in the month of Sawan. Only one patch of fallow land stayed dry like an island. On that patch everyone built huts for the rainy season. By the time Kartik came, the fields would begin to dry, and afterward people would start cultivation. In the deep low fields and marshes, the lily fruit (bhent) plants would sprout and grow thick. By the month of Aghan they were ready for harvest. We would pluck the bhent pods, take out the grains, dry them, and roast them into lava. There would be enough to eat and to sell. Tomorrow I will go to Girhat uncle (landlord) and ask him to give us the bhent that has sprouted in the corner field.”

Until now Musna and Jeebchi had earned their living by pounding rice and flattening chura with the hand-pestle, because there was not a single small machine or mill in the village. Most families kept their own mortar and pestle. Musna too had his for pounding rice. Everyone agreed that Jeebchi made the finest, cleanest rice. This time the rice mill would not work, but in the flood so much bhent had drifted in from other villages that the whole field was covered with its creepers. Jeebchi kept her thoughts to herself, not revealing her plan to anyone. Every day during her bath she went to the field to look at the bhent. The broad leaves had covered the land. Within a few days buds appeared and began to bloom. Seeing the flowers, Jeebchi wondered whether such a garden might belong to Lord Indra himself.

Within five days the entire field burst into bloom. Soon the petals began to fall and the lotus pods hidden beneath began to appear, round, green, and shining. Watching them, Jeebchi could almost see her future taking shape. Sitting quietly at the edge of the field she dreamed that this year she would buy a fine buffalo. If the lotus harvest did not yield enough for a buffalo, she would buy two cows instead. That would be their own wealth. She would graze them well and care for them tenderly, and from them their livelihood would grow.

All her life she had earned her living by pounding grain, but this year she felt that Kamla Maharani and Kosi Maharani had finally blessed her with compassion.

Quietly, in her heart Jeebchi touched the feet of Kosi and Kamla. As soon as she touched them, thoughts rose in her mind: if I had my own wealth and worked hard on it, no poor fortune would steal my happiness. I would build a strong house, arrange my children’s marriages. I would have grandchildren, and as long as I live I would be less dependent on others. Now everyone is helpless. If you do something, everything is possible; without doing anything, nothing will happen.

Seeing the ghangar tree, Jeebchi thought that if she uprooted some of the trees between the rows, the vines would crawl over and the pods would become plump; even with the scattered trees left, the pods would be plentiful and good. Income could start right away.

Filled with hope, Jeebchi began to clear the bhent plants. But the effort of pulling up the vines tired her so much that her back began to hurt and she stopped. Before long the pods began to redden. Flowers followed, then pods- tender, clean, round, and green. Seeing the healthy pods Jeebchi knew they were ready to be harvested. From the next day she planned in her heart to begin picking the pods.

At dawn the next morning Jeebchi baked flatbreads for the children and the two elders. They finished eating, picked up a plastic sack, and set out to collect the pods. Then a thought struck her: we can put the pods in the sack, but how will we dry them if they are wet? Where will we put the pods once we pick them from the water? Good sacks are not our own. What should we do?

Quickly Jeebchi tore an old saree and stitched two small sacks. She put the sacks into one bigger bag and left the courtyard with both children and the two elders, heading toward the field.

The colour and shape of the pods delighted Jeebchi. But ignorant of the work’s realities, Musna argued and hesitated. When they reached the edge of the field, which had dried up, they placed the children, the bags, and the food at the higher strip and, wading into the shallow water, the couple began to pick the pods.

As she stood in the water, Jeebchi’s sight was drawn to the pods dancing on the surface like coins found by chance. Her heart leapt with joy. Without a pause, she began to pluck the pods eagerly with both hands. Seeing the plump pods, Jeebchi told her husband, “Break off the pods near the roots; leave the flimsy ones for now. We will pick them later.”

As soon as the sacks were full, Jeebchi climbed up and placed them in the larger bag. Musna did the same. When both bags were full, Jeebchi said to her husband, “Rest a little tomorrow. Bending in the water must have hurt your back. You stay here; I will go and bring what I left in the yard.”

Jeebchi picked up one bag and left for the courtyard. The load was heavy from the water and the wet things, yet she hardly felt the weight. After all, this was the beginning of their assets. She put the bag down on the raised platform and went back toward the field. Then she told her husband, “I will carry the bag. You look after the two children and the bucket.”

Carrying the bucket in one hand Musna walked ahead along with the children and Jeebchi followed with the bag on her head. After moving a short distance, Jeebchi said to her husband, “God has taken our sorrow away.”

But Musna did not feel the same joy hearing his wife say that. Back in the yard, Jeebchi set the first bag down and placed the second beside it, then began to arrange for cooking food. On the fourth day, while they were harvesting the first load of bhent, Musna felt a sharp pricking in his arm. At first he did not understand. When the prick turned into a swelling and began to bleed, he noticed what it was. Seeing the leech (blood-sucking worm) Musna’s heart sank. He began to tremble. He cried out loudly to his wife, “Oh my God! It has drawn all the blood from the body. What sin have we committed that we fall into this misfortune? First the flood destroyed us putting us on the verge of starvation. Now the leech has sucked all my blood. If this continues I will fall into the water.”

Jeebchi, gnoring her husband’s words, kept picking the pods while thinking to herself, “He pretends to cry as if a cobra has bitten him. How will he run the family?”

When the two sacks were full, Jeebchi came to Musna, took the bug in ber hand and tied it in a weed. But blood kept trickling out from where the bug had sucked blood.  Jeebchi pressed it with her right thumb. After a little while the bleeding slowed and clotted. She returned to the water to continue picking pods while Musna sat down. After some time Jeebchi said, “Come now, nothing more will happen.”

Hearing Jeebchi, Musna said, wiping his eyes, “This woman is trying to kill me. She wants me to die. If I die, she will marry another person.”

Looking at the two children, Musna added, “But what will become of these kids? Will they not die of hunger?”

Jeebchi smiled at her husband and said, “If you will not break the pods, then do not. Sit there and watch the children play.”

After filling both sacks, Jeebchi carried them to the courtyard. Musna followed, bringing everyone along safely. Once home, Jeebchi lit the fire and cooked a meal. The two children and the couple ate together. After eating, she began to split open the bhent pods with a sickle and take out the seeds-red, round, and full. Musna also joined her. The two children sat nearby, rolling two pods and playing.

Jeebchi piled the seeds carefully on a mat. After a while, Musna felt like smoking his pipe. He went to the hearth, lit a fire, and began to smoke. Seeing the growing heap of seeds, Jeebchi wondered where they would store them. As she thought, a memory of her mother’s home came to her mind, and she smiled.

Seeing her smile, Musna asked cheerfully, “Hey woman, what treasure have you found that makes you smile like that?”

Jeebchi changed the subject and said, “It is already dark now. Tomorrow morning I will dig a pit near the yard and spread a mat over it. We will keep them there.”

The next morning Musna dug a round pit like a lidless pot. Jeebchi cleaned and dried it. Into that they placed the bhent seeds to dry. Musna covered it from above with a mat.

After a month of work, Jeebchi’s courtyard was full of bhent seeds. Since it was an unknown grain, there was no fear of theft. Seeing the courtyard filled, Jeebchi’s heart leapt with joy like the waves of the sea. Her eyes glistened as she smiled toward Musna. Seeing his wife smile, Musna frowned and said, “You laugh at me. Laugh as much as you can while you live. When God finishes His work and you die, then your laughter will amuse the city folk.”

But Jeebchi paid no attention. Her mind was overflowing with happiness. She began planning how to roast the seeds into lava. For roasting, she would need a large pan, and a big bowl for keeping sand.She would make the frying sticks herself out of bamboo and bring the sand from the riverbank. When she went to the potters’ place, she would look for a heavy slab to make the pan. For heating the bowl, an ordinary earthen stove would do. She would also need a small ladle because the sand could not be handled by hand alone. For that a wooden holder would have to be fixed in it too. She would manage all that. Turning to Musna she said, “For roasting the lava, we will also have to arrange some fuel.”

The word 'lava 'filled Musna’s heart with pleasure. Smiling, he said, “I will go now and bring some dry branches from Girhat uncle’s orchard. I will collect both dry and half-dry wood by evening.”

All day long Jeebchi and Musna arranged everything they had gathered. As soon as dusk fell, Jeebchi began roasting the bhent seeds into lava. She had lit two hearths, one held the pan and the other the bowl. In the pan the bhent grains roasted, and in the bowl the sand was heated. After roasting the first batch, Jeebchi sprinkled a pinch of it on the fire as an offering and started the second batch. The new lava puffed perfectly, and the sight filled her with excitement. She placed the first batch in a tray and offered it to the children and her husband.

Seeing the bright white grains, Musna thought silently, “This woman is truly skilled. May God give such a wife to everyone? I realize now that what I never understood, I am tasting today. To feed one’s children is no small thing. Through women like her, even society can change.” The fragrance of the roasted lava spread through the eastern breeze and filled the whole village with its aroma. Women from nearby houses came one by one to buy some lava. But Jeebchi gave the same answer to all, “First I will feed Girhat uncle, then anyone else.”

All afternoon Jeebchi kept roasting lava. Two baskets were ready. She stored both inside the house and covered one with a saree. Then she told Musna, “I am going to Girhat uncle. You stay here in the yard.”

Balancing the basket on her head, Jeebchi set out for Srikant’s house. Seeing the basket, Srikant smiled and teased, “You look happy, Lakshmi Maharani. What treasure are you carrying there? Let me see.”

Ignoring the question, Jeebchi smiled and went to the courtyard where Girhat’s wife sat. Placing the basket before her, she said, “Aunt, make a little sweet from this later, but for now mix some salt, pepper, and oil and fry it. I will take it to uncle.”

Taking the bowl of roasted lava, Jeebchi went to the doorway and placed it before Srikant. The lava shone white like pearls. He looked at it carefully. Jeebchi said, “Uncle, do not just look. Take a handful and taste it. It is bhent lava.”

Srikant took a handful and tasted it. The softness and flavour delighted him. He called to his wife in excitement, “We had never known such a wonderful thing. Blessed is this woman from Kamalpur, whose skill and wisdom have brought such a lost treasure to light. She is a true goddess of the poor. Go, bring a set of saree and blouse from the chest. We will dress Jeebchi before she leaves. She is the goddess of the humble.”

From that day on, Jeebchi kept roasting lava daily, and people came to her courtyard to buy it. In fifteen days she had gathered all the coins she had earned and counted them carefully before Musna.

Seeing the money, Musna’s heart leapt. Laughter burst from his mouth. He looked straight at Jeebchi and began to count the bright coins with trembling fingers.

 

English Tranalation: Dr. Ram Ashish Singh

Dr. Ram Ashish Singh is the former principal and head of English department, H.P.S. College, Nirmali, a constituent unit of B.N. Mandal University, Madhepura (Bihar). Born on 5th June, 1950 at Biraul (Darbhanga) and obtaining his M.A (English) and Ph.D. degrees from L.N. Mithila University, Darbhanga he joined Nirmali College, Nirmali (now H.P.S College, Nirmali) as a lecturer in English in 1973 and retired from the service as the principal of the college in 2015. He got his Ph.D. degree in 1992 on his thesis “The Central Ethos of R.K. Narayan’s Major Novels.” Later he guided and supervised Sri Ram Sudin Yadav’s research work “Contributions of Wilfred Owen to Modern Poetry: A Critical Re-assessment” and Sri Virendra Prasad Yadav’s thesis named “A Comprehensive Critical Study of Voice of Feminism in the American Women Poets During 20th Century.” He has to his credit the publication of a number of articles in reputed magazines and research papers in journals. He is blessed with keen writing aptitude. His books 'The Crippled' English translation of original Maithili novel 'Pangu' and 'Pangu: A Brief Critical Review' have received widespread acclaim from readers. He has written prefaces to a number of books of literature authored by other writers. Being a good orator, he takes active participation in educational, cultural and literary activities.

Original Maithili: Jagdish Prasad Mandal

Shri Jagdish Prasad Mandal is an inhabitant of Berma village of Madhubani district in the state of Bihar. He was born on 5th July, 1947. After obtaining his M.A. degrees in two subjects he opted to adopt agricultural work (vegetable farming) for his livelihood and live a social life. The stereotyped and feudal behaviour prevalent in society infuriated him and he started a struggle against it. Most of his time was spent in dozens of police cases and journey to jail. His life remained dedicated to social service for about 35 years. After 2000 A.D. he took to literary writing. He is unparalleled in his constant literary contributions to Maithili literature. He remains a charismatic writer with his swift penning of about 130 books. Many genres of Maithili literature have been enriched with his realistic pictorial description of the village life. He stands as an emblem of renown and vitality in the sphere of Maithili writing. He is the only litterateur to be adorned with the honour of so many awards such as Tagore Literature Award, Sahitya Akademi Award, Videha Samman etc.

 

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