An extract from 'The King's Harvest' by Chetan Raj Shresta

31 December 2002

All-time Favourite Song

~

There was no escape from the dust; on the worst patches, the taxijerked through opaque storms. The plump youth beside Straun

apologized for the state of the roads, but assured him that they werebetter in Sikkim. At Melli, the border between Sikkim and West Bengal,Straun registered himself as a visiting foreigner at the checkpost. Whenhe returned, there was an extra passenger, a thin woman in a blue jacket,waiting for him to climb in so that she could occupy his window seat.There were now nine people in the jeep: two, besides the driver, in thefront seat; four in the second—Straun, the plump youth, a bespectacledman and the woman; and an old man and his grandson in the last. It wasa tight fit on the second seat and the four passengers swayed andbounced in cushioned unity on a road which was as uneven here as theone in Bengal.

A kilometre out of Melli, Straun disturbed the seat’s compactness. Hereached between his feet and fished out an audio cassette from his bag.He tapped the driver on his shoulder with it and said, ‘Nepali song.Please put.’

There is a protocol that governs public travel in taxis, and such animposition can be considered rude. A recent hit from a Hindi film wasplaying and it was clearly a favourite of the driver’s. Straun’s co-passengersin the taxi had observed his foreignness: he was European anddistinguishable by height, colour and gait. His move caused a ripple ofsmug expectation; they waited for the driver’s irritation and possiblerebuke. But the driver agreed, and the passengers disguised theirdisappointment.

Straun waited for ‘Resham Firiri’, the song that had captivated him.Its melody had occupied his mind so completely that it was now a

3

4 / Chetan Raj Shrestha

malaise. He had first encountered it two weeks earlier in a music shop inan alley in Thamel, Kathmandu, his previous stop. The shopkeeper hadshouted out as Straun walked by.

‘Hello, Sir! Good Morning! Latest CD! English, Nepali, Spanish,everybody music here!’

Straun shrugged but paused with some sadness, for his CD player hadbeen pilfered from his hotel room the day before. The shopkeeperpounced on his pause. ‘Bon Jovi, U2, Norah Jones, Sepultura, BobDylan, Bob Marley, AC/DC, Prodigy, Eminem, hip-hop.’ He stoppedfor breath. He saw that Straun was unmoved. ‘Trance?’ he asked hopefully.

Straun wanted something else. He asked, ‘You have Nepali music?’The shopkeeper recovered his breath and said, ‘Yes, Sir. What you

want? Instrumental, rock, rap, folk, Spanish influence, pop influence,heavy metal influence.’

‘Folk?’‘This CD, Sir. Best CD,’ he said and held out a disc which Straun

studied warily. The cover said ‘Best of Himalayan Folk Songs’ and itdepicted three girls in chaubandi cholos with their dancing arms frozenagainst a mountainous backdrop. The CD had been manufactured andmarketed by Digi Himal Music who also assured that its sleeve was madefrom recycled paper.

‘How much?’‘Three hundred rupees. But I give you for two-fifty.’ To counter any

retraction by Straun, the young shopkeeper tore the CD’s plastic packing.‘Friend,’ he said as he bent over the audio system, ‘you listen first to myand everybody’s all time favourite song. Resham Firiri.’

Resham Firiri, Resham FiririOorera jaunki, danra ra bhanjyang, Resham Firiri

Among those who endure the ceremonies of great and momentousaffairs, there is a minority for whom the first encounter is of littleconsequence. There isn’t any sudden transformation from innocence tolove; it is a stealthy journey. Straun remained unmoved by Resham Firirias it played on the shop’s speakers for half a minute, the time it took forthe shopkeeper to judge the CD as ‘best export quality’. But he paid thetwo hundred and fifty anyway, only to reward the shopkeeper’s sunnyenthusiasm.

An Open-and-Shut Case / 5

Later, Straun asked the receptionist in the hotel’s lobby to play theCD. That was when it happened. Perhaps it was the anticipation,because he recognized the song the instant it began. And then he foundthat he could hum along. So began an adoration of ‘Resham Firiri’ thatwould follow him out of his stay in Nepal and into Sikkim, his next stop.He wanted to hear the song in all the recesses of its founding environment.He wanted to hear it as its creators carried on their daily dealings. Heasked restaurants and tea stalls to abandon the pop numbers they playedto accommodate his taste. Some obliged but others protested smilinglythat they only had cassette players. Straun shopped successfully for acassette version and these demurrals grew less frequent. In his hotelroom, Straun found the song playing on a TV channel, attempted todance to it and felt graceless.

Straun was mystified by his infatuation with the song. He pridedhimself on his reason, acquired so diligently from sombre beardedprofessors in his East European university. He dissected his symptoms.His obsession, which was like a calm fever, had nothing to do with thesong’s lyrical content, for its meaning would always elude him. Theinstruments, too, were common; he knew their Western variations andhad no great attachment to any of them. The only cause of the malady,then, could be the tune, which haunted him. It brimmed with longing.It spoke of the mountains to him. It was sad and sweet and mysterious.

By the time he crossed over from Nepal into India at Kakribhitta, hecould predict the opening strains of each song and knew that ‘ReshamFiriri’ was his favourite. The driver of the night bus from Kathmanduhad played it readily. Some passengers closed their eyes and hummed. Afather clamped his hand over his child’s bawling mouth. Twelve hourslater, the bus let him off at Kakribhitta, Nepal’s border town with India.From here he caught a taxi to Siliguri, the city in West Bengal closest toSikkim. The taxi’s driver was gracious enough to play the CD for him.He reached Siliguri, and obeying his guidebook which warned him notto spend a minute more than necessary in that town of ‘traders andtouts’, he quickly found a taxi bound for Pelling, a hill town in WestSikkim. From Pelling he was to trek to Zongri, at the base of theKanchenjunga range, in the first week of January, reportedly a mostunsuitable time.

Straun looked forward to solitude in Sikkim, which he knew to be less


peopled than Nepal. His outward appearance was stern but he wished tobe remembered, when he left, as someone who did more than merelycontribute to the local economy. It was this side of him that the songappealed to, and it seemed perfect to ask the driver to play it, here, on adusty road beside a calm, green river.

~

Now, in the taxi between Melli and Jorethang, the driver reached backand took Straun’s cassette. In a practiced move he inserted it into theplayer fastened to the cabin’s metal ceiling.

A guitar strummed gently and it was followed by a flute lilt. In themoments preceding the first words Straun savoured the anticipationunique to music—a torment sweetened by the knowledge of immediatefulfilment.

Resham Firiri, Resham FiririOorera jaunki, danra ma bhanjyang, Resham Firiri

The mood in the jeep turned convivial. The plump youth said, ‘You likethe song? I have not heard this song since childhood. We also speakNepali here.’ His English was fluent. Straun had travelled enough in theEast to know that a conversation loomed.

‘Yes. I know. Lot of Nepali people in Sikkim,’ he replied. He did notusually respond to attempts at conversation when travelling in the East.His English was halting; he had learnt it for the same reason some peoplelearn driving, to get by in the world. And his patriot’s pride sufferedwhen he was addressed in it. But now, he suspended these reservations,for something needed clarity.

Straun turned to the lady beside him, and asked her to translate thesong. He wanted the song to be unravelled by a woman’s voice. But shestrained her pursed lips into an unconvincing smile and shook her head.

She looked at the youth and said to him in Nepali, ‘Bhai, pleasetranslate the song for the tourist. You look like a college graduate. He’llunderstand you better.’

The compliment and his own eagerness made the plump young manan ideal candidate. He leaned forward, tapped the eavesdropping driveron his shoulder and told him in Nepali, ‘He wants to know the meaningof the song. We should play it again.’


The driver agreed. He was anxious to cut off the man seated next tohim, an acquaintance who held a clerkship in Gangtok, a post whoseimportance grew with each kilometre, until he was indispensable to thestate. He had proclaimed at the beginning, ‘Bhai, what do we knowabout party-politics?’ and then proceeded to talk of politics with apassion that did not endure any interference. He had been talking of theChief Minister’s poetic anguish at the slow pace of public works whenStraun made his unusual request.

The driver, his eyes on the road, stopped the music, rewound thecassette and they heard the opening strains of ‘Resham Firiri’ again. Thedriver said to the youth, ‘Bhai, you will have to translate. My English isas good as his father’s Nepali.’

Resham Firiri, Resham Firiri,Oorera jaunki, danra ma bhanjyang, Resham Firiri

The cassette was ejected with a click. ‘Silk,’ the youth said to Straun.‘Fluttering. Yes, silky fluttering. Should I fly over the mountains andvalleys? Silky Fluttering.’

‘“Resham Firiri” means silky fluttering?’‘Yes.’The song continued,

Ek nale bandook, dui nale bandook, mirga lai take koMirga lai maile take ko haina, may alai take ko.

Now the driver volunteered to translate. He slowed the taxi and asked,‘Bhai, mirga ko English meaning ke ho?’

‘Deer,’ the plump youth told him.The driver then began, ‘Single-barrel gun, double-barrel gun, aiming

deer,’ and brought up his hand and held it pistol-like at his furrowedbrow. Then he corrected himself: ‘No, no. Not deer. Aiming love.’

There was laughter, the loudest from the old man and his grandson atthe back of the jeep. Straun turned to the plump youth who frownedand said, ‘True.’

The driver turned his unshaven face around and said, ‘My nameLakpa Driver.’

‘Eyes on the road,’ Straun said and pointed ahead.The song resumed.


Kukhura lai kuti ma kuti, Biralo lai suriTimro hamro maya preeti, do bato ma kuri.

The passengers seemed to have turned against Straun. When the youthrecovered from his giggles, he said, ‘Tickle the chicken and give the catchicken shit. Your love and my love came up in mid-way.’

The next verse came quickly:

Sano ma sano, gaai ko bachho, bheeriama Ram RamChodera jana sakina maile, baru maya sanghai jau.

This was broadcast as, ‘Small, small calf on the edge of hill. Jesus Christ.I cannot leave you, let us go together.’

The party-politics man inquired if Ram Ram could be fairly interpretedas Jesus Christ. The youth defended the necessity of a closer culturalreference to ease the foreigner’s bewilderment.

Straun did not understand what his considerate translator had said,but he wouldn’t have appreciated the youth’s concern even if he had. Histraveller’s insecurity made him assume that the laughter was directed athim. He leaned close to the party-politics man’s ear and asked about thetranslation’s veracity. ‘Yes, yes,’ the man said, ‘this song is like our“Twinkle twinkle little star”.’ Straun winced. Absurdity was supplantingmystique and this appalled him.

It was time for the final stanza.

Himalchooli pallo patti dumsi lukne doolo,Suna chaandi bhannu matra, maya raicha thulo.

This one took a while. When the youth was ready he said, ‘On themountain, opposite side, porcupine hiding in a hole. But love is greaterthan gold or silver.’

He smiled at Straun, who was beyond amusement. He was furious atthe Nepalis for inventing such a melody only to subvert it with badpoetry and worse logic. His earlier innocence was now irretrievable. Hecould never again hear the song without feeling ridiculed.

‘So you still like song?’ the woman next to him asked. Straun feltconfused and foolish.

‘Resham Firiri’ passed and another song began. They offered atranslation. Straun declined and asked for his cassette back. Lakpa


Driver said, ‘Let it play. Too many Hindi songs make you giddy.’ Theyouth translated this and Straun agreed. The music and the drive werefar more important than the ridicule of these half-wits.

‘So, where are you from?’ the youth asked Straun. He was ignored.Straun withdrew from their talk and looked outside. The Rangeet

kept the road company. It was diminished by the dry winter and flowedwith reptilian sloth. The road passed through largely uninhabited foothillsbut the scenery, which might have enchanted in the morning or at dusk,was colourless under the weak sun.

The conversation in the jeep flourished; the incident seemed to havelifted everyone’s spirits, except Straun’s. The party-politics man, initiallyirate at his removal from the centre, welcomed the anecdote to hisrepertoire. The youth, who had thought himself incapable of provokinglaughter, was pleased. The driver remembered a similar situation withanother Nepali folk song and laughed. The old man at the back leanedover, whispered something to the youth and motioned him to translate.The youth said, ‘He’s saying the song was sad before. His mother andaunty used to sing it at weddings and gatherings. He’s also saying thesong is incomplete.’

‘There is more?’ Straun asked.‘Yes, anybody could add anything.’‘For sure they did,’ Straun said and returned his gaze to the river.The youth recollected other Nepali songs where the first line described

a landscape or a situation and the second line a sentiment. The womanstopped him mid flow: ‘Let it be, Bhai. We’ve already broken his heart.’He thought it best not to translate this for Straun.

The song was soon forgotten. The passengers exchanged plans forNew Year’s Eve. The party-politics man was organizing a culturalprogramme in Maanpur, his village. The driver was going to watch TV.The plump youth had a party in Geyzing with his friends. They felt sorryfor Straun who was so far away from home on such an important daywith only untranslatable songs for company.

The party-politics man asked to be let off at Maanpur, roughly half-way between Melli and Jorethang. He had announced repeatedly that hehad ‘urgent business’ there but Maanpur’s surroundings seemed at oddswith any idea of urgency. It was not a roadside settlement. A rough,unpitched road led downwards and curved away from view towards the


unseen village. At the mouth of the road there was a pavilion of roughplanks where a few people waited in the ochreous dust. They saw theparty-politics man walk down, handkerchief over his mouth and nose,briefcase in his left hand.

The jeep drove through red dust. After a few kilometres, Lakpa Driverswore under his breath when he saw a tall and broad-shouldered constableon the roadside waving his arm. A policeman on a highway is a creaturein panic, for he is often passed by taxis whose drivers wave but do notstop. But there was no escape for Lakpa Driver, this non-paying constablerecognized him, and his jeep, and the seat vacated by the party-politicsman was clearly visible. The taxi stopped. The constable took the frontseat. He wore sunglasses and had a moustache. He carried a duffel bagwhich had Reebok logos on its sides and an Adidas logo in its centre, heheld this securely in his lap. And over it, he placed a packaged cake.

‘Where’s this jeep going?’ he asked Lakpa Driver.‘Geyzing. And then Pelling to drop the white rooster,’ said Lakpa

Driver, gesturing towards Straun. ‘Your posting is in Gangtok. So howcome you’re going this way?’

‘I’m not allowed to go home? It’s New Year. Got a cake fromGlenary’s restaurant in here.’

‘Cake?’‘Yes, cake. Let the wife also taste some. It might sweeten her tongue.’Lakpa Driver laughed in apparent sympathy. Puran Constable

continued, ‘But I haven’t come all the way just to feed my family cake.There’s also work. I have to report to Jorethang thana tomorrow.’

‘Is that Daman OC case still on?’ Lakpa Driver asked.They pressed him with their expectant silence. Everyone knew about

the case. There were policemen involved, and there had been rumours ofrape, forced incest and suicide. It had anchored all recent talk in Jorethang.

‘Not that,’ Puran said and spat out of the window, ‘that one’s over.Would I be here otherwise? That OC almost dragged down the entireforce with him.’ The bag in his lap wobbled. He settled it delicately andadded, ‘It’s something else. A development in the Soreng rape case.’

He turned around, to gauge his audience in the back seat, and said,‘You won’t believe . . . Stop. Stop the jeep!’

The taxi driver complied. Puran jumped out, went over to the doornext to which the woman was seated and said, ‘Madum, what are you


doing in the back seat among all these people? You have to sit in thefront, no no, I insist,’ and then to Lakpa Driver, ‘You fool. Can’t see?This is Dechen Madum, our OC from Nayabazaar thana.’

Dechen OC, the Officer-in-Charge of the Nayabazaar police station,who had taken up her post a month ago and was also investigating theSoreng rape case, thought at first of ordering the constable back to hisseat. But now that everyone knew her identity, refusing a privilege wouldbe pointless, even foolish. She relented and moved to the front seat, andPuran took her place beside Straun. The journey resumed, and there wasa long, awkward silence before Dechen OC said, ‘This foreigner. We justtranslated a song for him. Good fun!’

‘Resham Firiri’ was rewound and played. The translations were repeatedfor Puran who leered at Straun and asked, ‘You like song?’

‘No.’Straun looked out of the window again. He saw the manicured slopes

of the hills across the river, their smoothness a contrast to the jungleselsewhere. He asked the plump youth, ‘What is that?’

‘Tea gardens. Darjeeling tea. It’s world famous, no? That side WestBengal, this side Sikkim, Rangeet river is the border.’

Soon, they reached the 16 Mile stretch and after the curve at its end,Jorethang came into view, set in a valley surrounded by low hills andbisected by the Rangeet. Constrained by the size of the valley, and withits regulation-sized buildings, Jorethang has the appearance of a midgetcity. It is famously hot during the summer, but it was winter now, andthe valley offered a refuge from the icy hills.

The plump youth said, ‘Reached.’They were soon in the new taxi stand, a large enclosure ringed with

concrete buildings and packed with jeeps. There were old jeeps whichhad seen years of service and new ones whose loan repayments were yetto begin, surrounded by drivers and their assistants, passengers withshopping bags and children, groups of idle youth, hawkers of peanutsand puffed rice, conversations and arguments.

~

The jeep stopped to let Puran, Dechen OC and the old man and hisgrandson out, and waited for new passengers headed towards Geyzing orPelling. Lakpa Driver’s fears proved unfounded as Dechen OC paid forherself and the constable.


‘Madum, the file,’ Puran said.‘It’s late. I have the night duty today. It’s not an urgent case anyway.

Come tomorrow and brief us.’‘Madum, if you want I can give you the file here,’ he said, bending to

put the cake on the ground.‘Tomorrow,’ she said, her voice a command, and then added, ‘I may

misplace it.’He saluted. She nodded and walked away from the jeep, her blue

jacket puffy around her upper half and her dark jeans tight around herlegs, down to her heeled boots. Puran watched her behind. He foundLakpa Driver doing the same and asked him, ‘Would you do it with herif you got the chance?’

Lakpa Driver played it safe. ‘Would you?’Puran said, ‘Of course! Face not so great, but body, what a body she

has.’The driver and the constable stared at her departing figure until she

took a turn. Puran then looked around predator-like for another taxithat would take him towards Zoom, his village, just above Jorethang. Heraised his gaze and in the background beyond the concrete buildingssurrounding the taxi stand, the Zoom hill loomed. There were scatteredspecks of colour against the dull green cover, these were Zoom’s houses,and one amongst them was his.

He spotted a familiar taxi with some passengers waiting in it. Heshouted to the driver, ‘Ay Padam, are you going towards Zoom?’

‘Arrey! It’s Puran Daju. I’m going to Soreng.’‘So isn’t Zoom on the way? Why don’t you thieves ever give a straight

answer?’Padam Driver was young and of a small build. His jumper read ‘Never

say never again’. He suppressed a straight answer to the constable’squestion. It was against the taxi drivers’ code to argue with a policeman,and besides there was something familiar about this one, an associationwith a scandal that he could not place. He frowned and said, ‘Sit downDaju, it’s your taxi after all.’

There was a man seated in the front by the window. Puran motionedhim to go further along the seat. The man resisted. Puran shoved his armand snapped, ‘I’m getting off in fifteen minutes. Stop acting like awoman and move in.’ The man winced and shuffled along the seat.


Padam Driver sat in his seat and hollered for passengers. Puran sawhim preparing khaini and asked for some. The driver offered a pinchwhen it was ready and Puran tucked it into his lower gum. The manbetween them coughed.

The taxi filled up quickly and was soon on its way. It exited Jorethang,crossed the Rangeet and went from South Sikkim into West Sikkim, twoof the state’s cardinally named four districts. The taxi began its climbtowards Soreng through Zoom on a road that wound abruptly aroundridges and spurs. The jeep moved in the first gear. There could be noconversations, no music against the engine’s groaning hum. They hadonly the scenery for distraction.

The denuded forest amplified the beams of late afternoon sunlightthat broke through it. A light breeze swayed the weaker branches, brokethe beams and made the forest a seamless, changing haze. Its floor was agilded carpet of fallen leaves, while the leaves that remained on the treeswere crisp and brown. The taxi gained altitude and they saw Jorethangand Rangeet become map-like below them. A mother in the second seattook her sick child’s hand and pointed out the building where he hadbeen treated for measles. It grew chillier.

Zoom arrived without notice. The village did not have a bazaar andconsisted entirely of houses set in large plots of cultivated land. It wasuncertain where one arrived or left and good humoured contests existedbetween houses which claimed these honours. Puran said, ‘Here,’ at anuninhabited stretch. The constable’s house was below the road, its roofjust visible from the jeep.

Puran’s homecoming softened him and he offered Padam Driversome money, a third of the normal fare. The driver ritually declined andthen ritually accepted the payment. Puran said, ‘Our journeys separatefrom here. Go slowly, and Happy New Year.’ They wished him back,and he turned to walk down the path, whistling Resham Firiri as hedisappeared from their view.

~

Kamala waited in the dust for her husband. When she heard a vehiclepause on the road that ran above the house, she knew it was him. He hadsaid he would come home on Saturday when she had called him theprevious week from the Panchayat office.


Puran and Kamala’s house was a small cottage with two rooms. It hada wattle-and-daub façade and a tin-sheeted roof, the style of the localpoor. A kitchen, made of concrete, had been a later addition. Across themud courtyard were a toilet and a bath, both makeshift, ramshacklestructures. Maya and Thooli were spinning around in the courtyard,shrieking with dizziness. Their play stirred up the dust their motherwaited in.

The girls slowed down, stood still, staggered, and fell down dramatically.It was a new game and Maya was learning from Thooli, her elder sister.Thooli stood up and swayed drunkenly, her sister copied her. Then witha shout she abandoned the game, for she had seen her father walk downthe twisted declivity that led to their house.

As her father neared, Maya hid behind her mother and sucked in thesnot coursing down to her upper lip. Thooli went up to him and bowed.Puran did not expect his wife to do the same—their last exchange on thephone had been rancorous—but she surprised him by bending down totouch his feet, exposing a now defenceless Maya. The girl heard herfather say her name softly; she ran and hugged his leg, shouting, ‘Appa!Appa!’ Thooli laid claim to the bag in Puran’s hand.

‘Be careful with it,’ he said, as he let it go.Thooli ran into the house with the package and Maya followed her.‘What is it?’ Kamala asked.‘Don’t you know, woman? Today is the last day of the year. From

tomorrow it’s another year. I’ve got a cake.’‘Only you seem to know such things. I’ve lost all my memories,’

Kamala said. She had grown up in Yuksom, a town three hours fromNayabazaar, where her father had a tailoring shop, and where she hadmet Puran.

‘And such sweet memories you had,’ Puran said. He was amused. Hehadn’t expected the barb to come so early. These exchanges did notbother him too much, they gave him something to do in this wilderness,and often they worked as a form of arousal, culminating in sex. And thearguments that threatened to go nowhere, he deflected into beatings.What else could one do with a short-tempered wife who insisted onbeing flogged?

‘Your transfer?’ she asked.Five years ago, they had met in Yuksom, where Puran was posted as a


constable, and eloped. Within a month, Puran had inveigled a transferto Nayabazaar thana, just below Zoom, where Kamala’s parents owned apatch of land and an old, abandoned house. They had set up home there,and soon the quarrels had started. Six months later, another transferorder had arrived: Puran was to be posted to Gangtok. She had not beenable to find out if it was a routine transfer, the result of a bureaucraticlottery or if he had arranged it. For Puran, the posting was almost areward; it had taken him to the city, and away from the stupor of Zoomand from his new wife, who had begun to sniff his clothes daily for theremains of other women.

‘Is that all you’ve been thinking of?’ he said now. ‘Won’t you even giveme water?’

‘Doesn’t even want to talk about it,’ she said.Every time he came home, he said that he was trying to wrest back the

posting to Nayabazaar. Then the Daman OC scandal had erupted andall transfers to the Nayabazaar thana were put on hold. He had told herthis, relieved that he now had a legitimate reason to stay in Gangtok, butshe was not convinced.

He said, ‘At least stop nagging today, woman! In every shop and hotelin Gangtok they are asking people to celebrate this night. The newspapershave advertisements for dance parties. There must be a reason, no?Tonight, we have to forget our grumblings.’

Kamala looked around; the children had disappeared into the house torummage through the contents of Puran’s bag. She said, ‘Maybe. I’veheard it’s another life there. We used to burn tyres in Yuksom and singaround them.’

‘I work hard there so that you have food to eat and clothes to wear. Begrateful,’ he said. ‘And I’m not here just to enjoy myself. I have to reportto the thana tomorrow with some documents regarding a rape case.’

‘Did you commit it?’Puran laughed, and thought of saying something to provoke her

further but restrained himself. It had been a long journey from Gangtokand his feet hurt inside his kanpurey boots. He wanted to sit down andenjoy his drink. He did not want the New Year to begin with theaftermath of a quarrel. It was a common truth that the year streamedwhatever mood it received on its first day. He turned to cajoling. ‘Itdoesn’t matter, woman. There has to be a party. We’ll try.’ He put ahand on her shoulder, she let it remain there.


The children pattered out of the house. Maya asked Thooli, ‘Whatdoes party mean?’

‘It’s like a Happy Birthday,’ Thooli said.‘Whose Happy Birthday?’‘It’s the Happy Birthday of the next year,’ Puran said, as he walked

into the house, and the girl was satisfied with the explanation.Night arrived. The world was all sound. The insects in the forest

emitted an unceasing buzz. Jackals howled and the village dogs barked inretaliation. Over all these rose the distant roar of the Rangeet. Puran satin the living room on the second-hand sofa with a bottle of rum, a fullglass and a jug of water on the table by his side. Maya ran in. Hestraightened up on the sofa and curved his feet into a seat, which Mayastraddled. He caught her hands, see-sawed her and sang:

Resham Firiri. Resham Firiri.Oorera jaunki, danra ma bhanjyang,

Kamala had slaughtered a hen in the evening and Thooli had pluckedand cleaned it. Puran liked a dish of fried gizzard and intestines with hisdrink. When Kamala came into the living room to serve him, he said,‘We must teach our children traditional songs.’

‘I don’t know any. You can stay here and teach them and I’ll go toGangtok and work.’

He ignored her and repeated the verses of the song until Maya couldsing along. She climbed up on to his chest and was soon asleep. This,too, was a ritual, and Kamala took the sleeping child to her bed and leftPuran to his drinking.

The house was silent as Thooli helped her mother in the kitchen.Puran counted the minutes. He looked at the clock. It was 8.30. Helooked around the room in the dim light of the single bulb: the fadedcushion covers, the twenty-year-old posters, the centre table with thechipped edges, on which the cake waited for the New Year. He looked atthe clock again at 8.35 and back at the cake. Its presence was now areproach to the smallness of his life.

‘Budi. Ay Budi! Bring me some more snacks.’ He called her ‘budi’—wife—as a provocation.

‘The food’s ready, Maya ko Bau. I’ll wake the child up and then wecan eat.’ She called him Maya ko Bau—Maya’s father—when he irritatedher.


‘Why did you let her sleep? It’s a party, the girls should stay awake,’ hesaid.

Kamala came to the doorway of the living room and shouted, ‘Howwill they enjoy the party? By looking at your face? There is no television,not even a black-and-white one. No radio. They wake up at four in themorning. Thooli spends her morning with the cows. She failed this year.Did you know that? Why should they stay awake? What is there to havea party for? You were drinking, the children are frightened by what youdo after you drink. Or did you expect them to talk to the night insects?’

Puran straightened up and snarled, ‘What did you say? Say it again!Tell me! Is someone plugging your hole while I’m away?’

Vulgarity is often a woman’s weapon in a fight; its power lies in itsability to shame. A man has rage, the strength to hurt; if he adds filth tohis arsenal as well, he cannot be defeated. Silence, then, is the bestdefence. Kamala held her tongue. She glanced at the clock on the wall; itwas only 8.40. They would fight tonight, there was no doubt about it,she had quite a few things to say. But the earlier they fought, the longerwould be the beating she would have to endure.

‘No,’ she said simply. ‘Let’s eat. I’ll wake the children.’It was a confluence of two occasions—the homecoming and the New

Year—so they would eat in the living room. Kamala returned to thekitchen. It was a spare concrete room, with uneven walls and an earthenstove which had firewood stacked above it. There were some low stoolslying around. Thooli had fallen asleep watching the chicken cook.Kamala let her sleep while she took the chicken off the stove and put therice on it. When she ushered the children into the living room, she wassurprised to see that the wall clock showed it was a quarter to twelve. Shelooked at Puran. He caught her eye and made a winding movement withhis hands.

‘Apuee! It’s about to ring twelve,’ Thooli said.Kamala improvised: ‘Ho ta chhori. We’ve stayed awake like the bazaar

people!’At Maya’s request, her father sang Resham Firiri again and she

danced. Thooli came in from the kitchen and sang a recent hit. At thechildren’s urging their father joined the dancing. Kamala left the roomto check on the rice. The New Year could come without her.

Thooli called, ‘Aama, come in. It’s about to be Happy New Year.’


Kamala stood in the doorway. Thooli was bent over the cake andstaring at it intently, it was still a foreign indulgence. Puran was standingwith Maya on his shoulders. They made an unsteady tower and Maya’shead almost touched the low ceiling. Puran swayed and Kamala hurriedto bring her daughter down. A whistle went off from the pressure cookerin the kitchen, Kamala tried to leave but her husband caught her wristand shouted, ‘Happy New Year!’ The children yelled after him, andKamala found herself joining in.

Soon Puran and his daughters shouted out their greetings. After theyhad finished the cake, Kamala led the children to their beds. When shereturned to the living room she saw that her husband had wound backthe clock to 9:30, its true time. She bent over to clear the table for thefood. Puran tapped the seat beside him on the old sofa and she sat down.Their knees touched. Puran’s expression softened. Kamala smelledturmeric on her hands and felt unlovely.

‘You will be staying for a few days?’ she asked.‘Should I stay, then?’‘Your wish. You are our honoured guest.’‘Meaning?’ He was glaring now.‘We rarely see you. We three women are fine with each other. I seldom

remember you at night. And the days pass without any beatings. Iwould . . .’

‘I’ll get posted here soon. And then we’ll be in the same house. I’llteach the children in the evenings. But tonight, let’s be happy.’

He wanted it to be a peaceable end to a year of battles. They hadfought every time he came home. They had fought when she found outabout the girl in Gangtok. He had gripped her thin wrists with his lefthand and whipped her legs with a belt, as he did servants accused ofstealing at the thana. He had beaten her when he came to give hisstatement in the Daman OC case and she asked him thrice over dinnerabout his transfer. She had spat in his face and accused him of beinginvolved in the incident and raping the mother and daughter. He hadshown her then what rape actually meant. He did not want that now.The drink had made him mellow. He wanted to sleep naked with hiswife tonight, just like he did with the girl in Gangtok. He wanted todream without bitterness and to wake up in the New Year to facewhatever it would bring.


‘Please,’ he said in English, and called her ‘baby’. He took his jacketoff. He caressed her shoulders and fumbled with the hooks of her blouse.

She brushed his hand away and stood up and moved across to theplastic chair opposite the sofa.

‘That girl in Gangtok.’‘She’s gone. It was a small thing.’‘She’s not gone, I know,’ Kamala said. ‘You can go back to her. I’ll

find a man here, for a small thing.’‘You whore!’ Puran shouted. The children twisted in their shallow

sleep. He made a wild lunge towards Kamala, caught his foot in the loosecover of the sofa, fell clumsily and hit his head on the armrest ofKamala’s chair. An intruder at that moment would have mistaken thescene for one of private contrition.

‘You whore. You whore. You whore,’ Puran shouted as he pulledhimself up. His wife remained seated. He slapped her, then slapped heragain. He grabbed one of her braids and pulled her up to her feet with ajerk. With his foot he pushed the centre table away, giving himself moreroom to manoeuvre. He swung a leg and kicked her hard. Once. Twice.In the groin, in the stomach. The kicks drew the first cries of pain fromher. She twisted and turned to avoid his feet. Soon enough, some of hisblows began to miss her, and the ones that landed on her were softenedby the alcohol. The abuse devolved into grunts but the beating continued.An open-faced slap, a back-handed slap, a fist to the face that tore herlips, some more kicks. Kamala, at a defining moment, slumped to theground. It was an admission of defeat and a cue for him to stop.

‘Appa!’Puran turned towards Thooli’s voice. She stood in the doorway, her

teeth clamped around the door’s wooden frame. He paused, his bodywarm from his exertions. He realized he had an erection, and sat downon the sofa with one leg over the other to hide it. Saliva dribbled from hismouth. He sucked it in. He abused Kamala again with words that hisdaughter would repeat calmly in the police station the next morning.

Kamala was on all fours. Her posture aroused him. It reminded him ofearlier fights, when Thooli was Maya’s age, and the fights, more violentthan this, were treated as foreplay. Then, hazily, he remembered anothernight when she had crawled up to him and bitten his shin. He drew hislegs in.


Kamala uncoiled, leapt up and straddled her sitting husband. She toreat his hair, scratched his face and bit his nose, which began to bleed.Puran realized it was an invitation to a second round. He threw her offand stood up. Kamala turned to escape. Puran put an arm out to restrainher, but only managed to tear her sweater and a piece of her blouse,exposing her right breast. She passed her screaming child as she dartedinto the kitchen.

‘Enough of your madness,’ Puran shouted as he chased her.He wiped his bloodied nose and entered the kitchen. He locked the

door and looked around for a weapon. There was a bamphok, a cleaver,lying on the ledge, still marked with the hen’s blood. He wanted thecleaver, but Kamala crouched next to it like a wounded animal. Akhukuri was closer to him. He looked at it and said, ‘Now what do I do?’

‘Hit me, eunuch,’ she hissed.She pulled up a half burnt piece of wood from the hearth, its top half

still smouldering, and charged at him. He tried to dodge but it caughthis face and he screamed. She retreated to the hearth. With one handover his singed face, he felt around for the khukuri with the other, foundit and advanced towards her. In a sweeping movement he brought hisweapon down on his wife and missed. The sting in his eyes, his drunkenstate, and his inexperience with the khukuri worked against him; he hadused the weapon clumsily, like an axe. He recovered and cornered her.He brought the khukuri down again. She raised her hand and arrestedthe downward slash of his arm between her thumb and forefinger. Thenshe let go, slipped out from under his arm and bent to grab thebamphok. She twisted around as she stood up, and at the end of hertwirl, struck him in the face. She slashed his cheek, his nose, and his lefteye. She saw the white flash of bone.

Both had used their weapons ineptly. The khukuri should be swung atan angle, preferably an ascending one, and the bamphok brought downwith a rigid, vertical swipe. But she had struck flesh, and bone.

He wailed and doubled over. She slashed at the base of his neck. Hishand left his face, reached for his neck, returned to his face, and went tohis neck again. He waved the other hand at her, like a distant man tryingto get noticed. She struck the waving arm, the bamphok made contact atthe elbow; she heard it crack. He screamed and struggled towards thedoor. He collapsed after a step and grunted as he went face down on thefloor.


She knelt over her husband and hacked at him with the bamphok. Hisbody twitched with each cut. He emitted a soft groan and moved briefly,like a sleeping man resisting a summons, and the twitching ceased. Shecontinued to hack at him when he was beyond pain and had gone still.Then she sat on the ground with her knees bunched up and, resting herhead on them, she slept.

~

She started when she heard Thooli knock.‘Where is Maya?’ she shouted.‘Sleeping.’She opened the door and said, ‘It’s done now.’ Thooli looked in,

retched and struggled in Kamala’s arms. Kamala dragged her out to thescullery and washed her face. Then she cleaned her own bloodied skin bythe light of the single tungsten bulb.

‘How long did I sleep?’ Kamala asked.‘One, two hours,’ her daughter said.‘We have to go to the thana,’ Kamala said and snapped, ‘Stop crying.

Your tears are useless.’Thooli looked at her and said, ‘Aama. Blouse.’Kamala looked at her exposed breast that drooped shapelessly and

giggled. She went into the house and emerged wearing a fresh blouse.Then she felt cold. She went into the living room and put on herhusband’s jacket. As she left the compound her hunger returned. Therewas food in the kitchen and it would go to waste. She went in, avoidingthe corpse of her husband, and brought out the vessels and plates. Sheate the cold dinner and forced some on her daughters.

She went into her room, found her torch and strapped the sleepingMaya to her back with a sheet. On her way out she entered the kitchenand picked up the bamphok. She emerged from the house in herhusband’s jacket, large on her, a sleeping child on her back, the bamphokin one hand and a torch light in another.

In the final hour of the year, the three women followed the dancingcircle of the torch’s light towards the valley. They followed the slope ofthe road and at points known to Thooli, who walked this road on herway to school, they took shortcuts that laddered the tarmac surfaces. Onone descent the torch slipped out of Kamala’s hand, rolled down and

broke against a rock. After that, they stuck to the road with its navigablegradient, though this lengthened their journey.

When they were close to Nayabazaar, they looked across the rivertowards Jorethang and saw the light from bonfires and suddenly, therewere some muffled claps from fireworks; a rocket bomb darted above thetown, exploded and its red flares spread out like an umbrella overJorethang. The New Year had arrived. Isolated voices cried out theirgreetings into the night and some people hooted at them from a passingcar as they neared the police station, situated on the peninsula formedwhen a downhill road took a wide turn. Before she entered the policestation, Kamala instructed Thooli not to open her mouth before thepolice. Then she walked in and presented Dechen OC with her first caseof the year.

An extract from 'The King's Harvest' by Chetan Raj Shresta

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Transcript of An extract from 'The King's Harvest' by Chetan Raj Shresta