Abhagi's Heaven

-- Sarat Chandra Chatterjee 

I  

THAKURDAS Mukherjee's* ageing wife died of fever after seven days' illness. Old Mukhopadhyaya had amassed a vast fortune by trading in paddy. He had four sons and three daughters, who also had their own children. Then there were the sons-in-law, neighbours, servants and maids—it all felt like a carnival. The whole village came crowding in to watch the funeral procession, now taking place with great pomp and ceremony. The weeping women smeared their mother's feet with a deep coat of alta [red dye] and her head with sindur [vermilion], while the daughters-in-law anointed the forehead of their mother-in-law with sandalwood paste and, wiping the last trace of dust off her feet with the loose ends of their saris, draped her body.in rich, costly clothes. Flowers and leaves, fragrance and garlands, and the din made one think that this was not so much an occasion for mourning as one for a new home-coming, after half a century, of the mistress of the big house to her husband's home. Old Mukhopadhyaya calmly bade a last good-bye to his life's companion, and secretly drying a tear or two, tried to console his grieving daughters and daughters-in-law. Shaking the morning sky with loud cries of 'Hari', the whole village was simultaneously on the move. And the one other person, who joined in the procession at a distance, was Kangali's mother. Picking a few brinjals from the yard of her hut, she was on her way to the market along the public highway, but noticing the excitement, she could scarcely take another step. Forgotten was her market-going and her brinjals, tied up in a corner of her sari. Wiping her tears, she followed everybody until she arrived at the cremation-ground on the bank of the Garud, the stream flowing past the village. Stacks of wood, pieces of sandalwood, ghee [clarified butter] and honey, incense and other materials had been collected before noon, but being of a low caste—a daughter of the dulés— Kangali's mother, not daring to come any closer, stood apart on a mound, and went on watching with curious, eager eyes the funeral rites from beginning to end. When the corpse was laid on the wide and ample pyre, her eyes were soothed by the sight of the two red feet, and she felt like rushing up to collect a drop of the alta for her head. When at last, amid the many-throated cry of 'Hari,' the sanctified fire was applied by the son's hand, she burst into tears, and went on repeating to herself: 'You are a lucky mother, you are going to heaven, bless me, so that I, too, may receive the sacrament, in a like manner, at my Kangali's hands. To receive this from one's son's hand cannot be a small thing, can it?' Surrounded by husband, sons and daughters, relatives and servants and maids— this, indeed, was real heaven-going, brightening up the world around! At the sight of this, her breast heaved with emotion, she scarcely knew how to assess the extent of this good fortune. Casting a blue haze, masses of smoke curled up towards heaven from the newly-lighted pyre. Kangali's mother seemed even to see the faint outline of a chariot among them, with innumerable pictures painted on its sides and what a collection of leaves and creepers wound round its crest! And it looked as though someone was sitting inside it, too, although the face was blurred and could not be recognized. But there was no mistaking the vermilion on the parting of her hair, nor the two red-painted feet. As Kangali's mother kept gazing upwards with tears in her eyes, a young boy tugged at her sari and exclaimed, ‘There you are standing, Mother, won't you cook rice for me?'

* The surname is given here in a full and better-known form instead of Mukhujjé, as in the text.

‘Of course, dear, presently,' she answered, turning round with a start. Then suddenly pointing her finger sky-ward, she added in a tremulous voice, 'Look, child, the Brahmin-mother is riding to heaven in a chariot!'

‘Where?' the boy asked, raising his head with astonishment. 'You must be mad, it's only smoke,' he finally said, after watching a while, 'it's already midday, I'm hungry.' 'In any case, the Brahmin lady is dead, why go on crying your heart out, Mother?' he gently added when he saw tears in his mother’s eyes.

Kangali's mother came to her senses at last. She felt abashed for thus shedding tears in the cremation-ground for someone not her own, and being afraid of bringing misfortune to her own son, she quickly dried her tears and even tried to smile. 'Why should I cry, my child, it's nothing but smoke in my eyes.'

'It's only smoke! You were crying.'

The mother made no further protest. Taking her son by the hand, she went down the steps to have a dip in the stream, and making her son do likewise, returned home, foregoing the good fortune of watching the last of the funeral rites.  

II  

At christening, Providence is not always content merely to smile from above at the foolishness of parents, but complains bitterly against them for the names that they sometimes give their children.* Thus, the lives of the latter often seem to go on grimacing at the very incongruity of their names to the bitter end. The life-story of Kangali's mother was brief, but her short, unhappy life was at least spared the odium of inviting ridicule from on high. When her mother died after giving birth to her, her father named her Abhagi, the luckless one, in anger. In the absence of her mother, her father, regardless of the time of day or night, went about catching fish in the river. It was, in fact, a matter of surprise, how little Abhagi remained alive to become one day the mother of Kangali. The surname of the man she had married was Bagh [meaning tiger]. This bagh had another baghini (tigress), so he had moved with her, his other wife, to another village, while Abhagi stayed in her own village with her unfortunate baby son—Kangali.

* The reference is to Bengali proper names which, whether of classical origin or merely poetic, may sometimes be a matter of considerable embarrassment to those who bear them for their obvious in appropriateness.

That Kangali of hers had grown up in the meantime and stepped into his fifteenth year. He had just started learning cane-work; Abhagi was now hopeful that if he could manage to struggle on with his adverse fate for another year or so, her sorrows would at last come to an end. Nobody but He who had given them would ever know what they were.

Rinsing his mouth in the pond, the boy came back to find his mother putting away the remains of his meal in an earthenware bowl; 'why haven't you eaten anything, Mother?' he asked in surprise.

‘It's late, my child, I don't feel hungry.'

‘Not hungry, indeed. Let me have a look at your bowl,' said the boy without conviction.

Kangali had many times been taken in by this pretence, but now he insisted on examining the bowl. It did contain enough rice for another person. So he cheered up, and came over to sit on his mother's lap. It is not usual for a boy of his age to do so, but since he had been an ailing child and had had no opportunity of staying away from his mother to mix with other boys, he had been obliged to satisfy all his craving for fun by sitting here. Putting his arms round her and touching her lips, Kangali exclaimed in alarm, 'You have a temperature, Mother, why did you have to watch the cremation in the sun? And why, again, did you have to have a dip in the stream? Was it necessary for you to watch the burning of the dead—.'

‘No, my child, you mustn't say "burning of the dead body", it’s inauspicious to say so. The virtuous, gentle lady has gone to heaven in a chariot,' she said, quickly pressing her hand over her son’s mouth.

‘It’s all your imagination, Mother, as though anybody can go to heaven in a chariot,' the boy rejoined doubtfully. 'Yes, Kangali, I saw with my own eyes the Brahmin-mother sitting in the chariot. Everybody saw her two red feet with wide-open eyes, I tell you,' the mother insisted.

'Everybody saw?'

'Yes, everybody.'

Leaning against his mother, Kangali fell into a brown study. It was his habit to trust his mother, he had trained himself to do so from his childhood, and when that mother had told him that everybody had witnessed this unprecedented phenomenon with wide-open eyes, then there was nothing more to be said about it. 'Then you, too, will go to heaven, Mother?' he said, haltingly, after a pause. 'The other day,’ he went on, 'Bindi’s mother was telling Rakhal's aunt that in the dulé quarter of the village, there was none to equal Kangali's mother for virtue and gentleness.'

Kangali's mother remained silent, but Kangali continued haltingly as before. 'When father left you,' he said, 'how many people urged you to remarry. But you said, "No. If Kangali survives, my misfortunes will come to an end, why should I remarry?" Tell me, mother, if you had remarried, where would I have stayed? Perhaps, I would have been dead long ago for want of anything to eat.'

The mother hugged her son in both her arms. Indeed, there were not a few in those days who gave her that advice and when she would not agree under any circumstances, what incredible cruelty and violence she had undergone! Recalling those things, Abhagi began to weep. Wiping her tears with his hand, the boy asked, 'Shall I spread the coverlet for you, Mother, won't you lie down?'

The mother did not say another word. Kangali spread the mat, placed the coverlet over it, and taking down the pillows from the shelf, as he was dragging his mother by the hand she said, 'Kangali, there's no need for you to go to work today.' Kangali liked the idea very much. 'But then,' he said,

'they won't give me the couple of coppers for refreshment either.' ‘No matter, I shall tell you a fairy tale instead.'

He needed no further encouragement. 'Then tell me one,’ said Kangali, sitting close to his mother.

Abhagi began her story with the prince, the police chief's son and the magic steed. These stories he had heard so often from others, and the stories had been told so many times. But her prince and the police chiefs son disappeared presently, nobody knew where—now, she began telling a story she had learnt from nobody—it was her own creation. As the fever rose, and the more rapidly the current of the heated blood began coursing into her brain, the more readily did she seem to go on weaving the magic web of ever-new tales, unceasingly and without interruption. Kangali's body bristled again and again. In terror and amazement and with a thrill in his heart, he clung tightly to his mother's hand, wanting, as it were, to lose himself in his mother's breast.

Outside, the day was ending, the sun went down, the pale shadow of the evening, growing more opaque, spread out everywhere, but no light was lit inside the hut, nobody rose after the household duties were done; only the dense darkness seemed to go on pouring the nectar of the stricken mother's unbroken intoning into the ears of her silent son. That cremation-ground, the tale of the funeral procession—that chariot, those two red feet and the tale of heaven-going. How her grief- stricken husband, giving the last 'foot-dust', had bidden her good-bye with tears in his eyes, how her sons carried her away with cries of 'Hari', followed by the son's 'ignition' ceremony. 'But that was not merely fire, my child, it was Hari himself! And that smoke overspreading the sky was no mere fire, child, it was truly a chariot, Kangali Charan, my son, my little father!' she said.

‘Why, Mother?'

‘If I receive the sacrament of fire at your hands, my child, perhaps, I, too, shall go to heaven like the Brahmin-mother.'

‘Go on, you mustn't say that!' protested Kangali, half articulately.

Perhaps, the mother could not even hear him, but she went on, heaving a heavy sigh. ‘Nobody will then be able to despise me for my low caste—nobody will be able to stop me, because I'm poor. Fancy receiving the fire at the hands of one's own son!—the chariot must come,' she continued.

Putting his lips to his mother's cheek, the boy pleaded in a broken voice, 'Don't say that, please mother, don't, I'm terribly frightened.'

'Look, Kangali,' the mother resumed, 'will you go and fetch your father, let him, too, bid me good-bye and allow me to carry his "foot-dust" on my head. And the same red on the sole of my feet, and the vermilion on my head, but shall I be as fortunate? Who will give them, really? Won't you, Kangali dear? You are my son, my daughter, you are everything to me.' As she spoke she hugged him the tighter.  

III  

The last Act of Abhagi's life was about to come to a close. Her memory was scarcely affected, just a little, perhaps. Not even thirty years had yet passed and the end came as insignificantly as her life had begun. There was no kaviraj (physician) in the village, he lived in a different one. Kangali went off to expostulate with him, to fall at his feet, and finally offer him a rupee for his fee by pawning the utensils. He did not bother to come, only gave him a few pills. And what a to-do to make them up— the stone mortar and honey, the essence of ginger, the juice of tulsi leaves and what not! Kangali's mother was annoyed with her son. 'Why did you have to pawn the utensils, my child, without asking me?' she said. Stretching her arms, she took the pills, touched them on her head and flung them into the oven. 'If I must get well, this will do, nobody in a dulé household has ever been cured by taking medicine!' she said.

Two or three days passed somehow. The news of her illness had brought neighbours to see her. Whoever, among them, knew of any quack remedy suggested such infallible specifics as ground deer-horn dipped in water, burnt cowrie shell boiled in honey for licking, and so on, and went away, each back to his own work. When young Kangali grew restless, his mother drew him to her to say, 'If the pills given by the kaviraj have been of no use, my child, how do you expect that these other medicines will fare any better? I shall get better on my own.'

'But, Mother, you haven't even taken the pills,' protested Kangali with a sob, 'you flung them into the oven, how can anybody get better just so?'

'Don't worry, darling, I shall be cured all the same. Do be a dear, and boil up instead a handful of rice and some vegetables, let me see you eat.'

Kangali now set about ineptly cooking rice for the first time. He could neither drain nor serve it properly. The oven would not light at first, for dripping water had set it smoking. In pouring it out, the rice had spilled all over the place; his mother's eyes filled with tears. She even tried once to raise herself, but unable to steady her head had fallen back on to her bed. When the meal was over, she drew her son to her, and in attempting to prepare him for the future with suitable advice, her feeble voice suddenly gave out, only her tears went on running down her face.

The village barber Iswar knew how to feel the pulse. Examining her the next morning, he put on a grave face, and heaving a deep sigh even in front of her, shrugged and went out. Kangali's mother knew the signs, but was not frightened. When everybody had left, she said to her son, 'Won't you now call him, little father?'

‘Whom, Mother?'

‘The one who has moved into the other village, you know.'

‘Father?' said Kangali with comprehension.

Abhagi remained silent.

‘Why should he come, Mother?' Kangali said.

Abhagi was not quite so sure herself, but all the same said slowly, 'Go and tell him that your mother only wishes to have his “foot-dust”.’

As he was getting ready to set out at once, she caught him by the hand, saying, 'Don't fail to make much of your grief, my child, and to tell him that your mother is about to go.’

'On your way back, Kangali,' she went on after a pause, 'call on the "barber"-sister-in-law [i.e. the barber's wife) and beg her in my name for a drop of alta. She is very fond of me.’

Many people, in fact, were fond of her. Ever since she had gone down with fever, he had heard a few things so many times and in so many ways from his mother that by the time he had set out, he was already sobbing.  

IV  

Next day, when Rasik arrived betimes, Abhagi was hardly conscious. The shadow of death had fallen on her face and her eyesight, having accomplished its earthly duties, seemed to have wandered off to some unknown country. 'Oh, Mother!’ he called with a sob, 'Father has come, it is time for you to receive his "foot-dust".'

Perhaps, the mother had heard him, perhaps not, or perhaps her deep, accumulated desires, even as her superstitions, struck a blow at her drowsy consciousness. Stretching her helpless arm across the bed, this traveller on the road to death spread out her palm.

Rasik remained standing as one bewildered. That anybody should want his 'foot-dust', might even ask for it, was something beyond the bounds of his comprehension. 'Give it to her, my boy,' said aunt Bindi, 'give her a little dust off your feet.'

Rasik came forward. He, who, never in his life, had given his wife any love, or supported her, or even enquired after her, now broke down in giving her on her deathbed only a little dust. 'Why had such a virtuous, gentle woman to be born in our dulé family and not in a brahmin or kayastha family?' said Rakhal's mother, 'come to the rescue of this poor woman, my boy, she has literally given her life, pining for the last sacrament of fire at Kangali's hands!'

What the invisible god of Abhagi's misfortunes was thinking we do not know, but this remark seemed to pierce Kangali's heart like an arrow.

The daylight hours passed somehow and the night, too, went by, but Kangali's mother could wait no longer for the morning. One does not know whether or not chariots are provided in heaven for such lowly people also, or perhaps, they must set out in the dark on foot. In any case, it became evident that she had already departed this earth before the night was out.

There stood a bel tree in front of the hut. Borrowing an axe; no sooner had Rasik struck it than the zemindar’s factotum came rushing out of nowhere to deal a resounding slap on Rasik's cheek. 'Is this your father's property, you rogue, that you have started cutting down the tree?' he said, snatching the axe from him.

While Rasik was nursing his cheek, Kangali said tearfully, ‘Please, darwanji, the tree was planted by my mother, why did you have to strike father for nothing?'

The up-country darwan [the door- or gate-keeper], pouring filthy abuse on him, was on the point of striking him, too, but desisted from laying hands on him for fear of contamination—the boy had, perhaps, been sitting close to his dead mother. Hearing the uproar, a crowd had gathered. Nobody denied that it was wrong of him to want to cut down the tree without prior consent, but they also persisted in begging the darwan, on hands and knees, for his kind consent, for all those who had come to see Kangali's mother during her illness had been told, in all earnestness, of her last wishes.

But the darwan was not one to be fobbed off so easily. He made it quite clear by gesticulations that he would not be taken in by all these blandishments.

The landlord was not a local man; he had an office in the village, in charge of an agent—Adhar Ray. In the meantime, while the crowd was fruitlessly expostulating with the upcountry man, Kangali ran breathlessly up to the landlord's office. He had heard rumours that bailiffs were wont to take bribes, and was therefore convinced that if he could only bring the story of such gross injustice to the notice of the master, there was bound to be a remedy. What inexperience alas! He had, obviously, no knowledge of the Bengali zemindar and his agent. Having lost his mother, the boy, in his grief and distraction, went straight upstairs. Adhar Ray had said his prayers, and having partaken some light refreshment, had just come out.

'Who is there?’ he asked with surprise and irritation.

‘I’m Kangali, darwanji has beaten up my father.'

'Rightly served. Why, hasn't the scoundrel paid his rent?’

'No, sir, father was cutting down the tree—my mother is dead,' he answered with a sob.

Adhar became annoyed at this crying and wailing so early in the morning. The boy had been in contact with the dead, one never knew what he might have touched here! 'If your mother is dead, go downstairs, and stand outside,' he said sharply. 'I say, is anybody there? Come quickly, and sprinkle a little "cow-dung"* water! What caste are you, boy?' 'We are of the dulé caste,' replied Kangali, and hastened downstairs in fright.

* Cowdung is considered by orthodox Hindus, in Bengal at any rate, to have magical qualities of purification, in this case purification from contact with the dead.

‘Dulé! What do you want the wood for, may I ask?'

'My mother asked me to cremate her,' said Kangali, 'you can ask anybody you like, sir, she told everybody, everybody has heard it.' As he was speaking of his mother, and reminded of her constant requests and entreaties, his throat seemed to choke with tears.

'If you want to cremate your mother, go and fetch five rupees for the tree. Can you do that?' asked Adhar.

Kangali knew that it was impossible to do so. In order to buy his mourning drape, he had been to aunt Bindi to pawn his brass eating bowl for a rupee, he had seen everything with his own eyes. 'No, I can't,' he answered, shaking his head.

'If you can't, go and bury her in the sand-flat of the stream. How dare your father touch someone else's tree with an axe, you rascal, good-for-nothing!' Adhar answered with a grimace.

'But the tree belongs to our yard, sir, my mother planted it herself,' Kangali persisted.

'Planted it herself, indeed! I say Pandé, throw out this fellow by the scruff of his neck!'

Pandé obligingly did what he was told, and in the process uttered such words as only a landlord's minion is capable of doing.

Shaking the dust off his clothes, Kangali got up, and slowly went away. Why he was beaten and what his fault was, the boy could hardly explain to himself.

All this, however, left not even a trace on the indifferent heart of the landlord's agent. If it had, he could never have secured his present employment! 'Paresh,' he called, 'just find out whether or not this fellow owes his rent. If he does, seize his fishing net or something, the scoundrel might run away,' he said.

The Mukhujjé household was on the eve of the sradh ceremony (i.e. of obsequial rites)—only a day remained. Preparations befitting the departed mistress were afoot. Old Thakurdas himself was going round supervising them. Approaching him, Kangali said, 'Sir, my mother is dead.'

‘Who are you? What do you want?'

‘I’m Kangali. Mother asked me to cremate her.'

‘Then, why don't you?'

Meanwhile, the news of the affair at the landlord's office had spread from mouth to mouth, so someone said, 'He probably wants a tree.' He then explained what had happened.

‘Listen to his absurd request! I myself need so much wood—the ceremony is only day after tomorrow. Go away, run along, there is nothing doing here, nothing at all,' he said with surprise and annoyance, and disappeared.

Sitting not far away, the priest Bhattacharya was busy drawing up a list. ‘Whoever has heard of anybody of your caste ever cremating,' he said, 'go and bury her in the sands of the river, merely touching her mouth with a bunch of flaming straw.'

Mukhopadhyaya's eldest son was hurrying along somewhere; he pricked up his ears to listen for a while. ‘Just fancy, sir, all these fellows now wanting to become Brahmins or Kayasthas!' he chipped in, addressing Bhattacharya, and rushed off.

Kangali now gave up begging. The experience of the last couple of hours seemed to have left him utterly old. In silence, he walked back slowly to his dead mother.

They dug a hole in the sands of the stream, and Abhagi was laid out. Rakhal’s mother gave Kangali a lighted bunch of straw, and guiding him by the hand, touched his mother's mouth, and threw it aside. Then, everybody together, throwing earth over Kangali's mother, effaced for ever the last trace of her.

Everybody was busy with his own affairs—only a wisp of smoke went on curling up to the sky. With upraised, unblinking eyes, Kangali gazed at it in silence.