by DR. SAROJINI SAHOO
(The original story is included in author’s Odia anthology DUKHA APRAMIT (ISBN: 978- 81-7411-483-1) under the title ‘CHHI’ and is translated by Arita Bhowmik and Dinesh Kumar Mali in Bengali and Hindi respectively with same title and have been included in author’s short story collection Dukha Aparimit (ISBN 978 984 404 243-8), published from Bangladesh by Anupam Prakashani, Dhaka and Rape Tatha Anya Kahaniyan (ISBN: 978-81-7028-921-0) published by Rajpal & Sons, Delhi.)
Part I
No one had the capability to put her curly hair under control. Her hair was swinging like flowers over the eyes, ears and nose. When Granny came home, she used to get castor oil along with other tidbits. She sat on the rope stool and put the sticky castor oil and combed her hair with the comb made from a horn. She felt she would die from pain. But Granny would pat her back and repeat the saying, “castor oil sets the fur of the ships well.” She had seen one or two sheep amidst the herd of goats in Muslim’s lane. They were not like the sheep found in Australia or in the Himalayas; they were the sheep from the coastal regions of Orissa. The one-and-a-half-inch knotted fur looked real ugly on the dirty yellowish colour of the sheep. She felt sad thinking of her hair; because she could understand the meaning of her Granny’s words. Of course the hair got stuck together with the castor oil.
In the class, their teacher told them that they all must have heard stories about Dhruv, Prahalad and Shravan kumar from their grannies. This was not true in her case, though. First of all, Granny never told old stories. Secondly, not while she was going to sleep but while Granny sat down to comb her hair, and those stories made a mark on her innocent mind. Two of the stories she has never been able to forget. The first one was like this:
When marhattas invaded the Odisha, they came and plundered the whole place entering every house stealing and raping. Granny remained silent for a while. After a few seconds she would start, I was in the backyard. Someone shouted, “The marhattas are coming towards the village.” Within a few seconds the whole village was deserted. Everyone fled up to whatever place and hill they found. The cattle were still bound to their sheds. Rice and paddy, dal such as moong and black dal, money, and everything else was left unattended. Even the seventy-year-old Naliamma climbed up the mountain with a stick. The only person who could not go was the daughter-in-law of the sweet maker household. How could she go? She had completed nine months. As soon as she heard about the marhatta invasion her pain started. Her parents-in-law, her husband, and his brothers and sisters all left her to save their lives. No one cared for anyone or bothered to listen to anyone at that time. She had no time to cry; the child inside her was restless. She said, “Go. Why should you all give your life for me? When the marhattas come they will be satisfied with me.” In spite of saying such words, she gave birth to the child when she heard the tapping of the horses at the corner of the village. Tears were dripping down. Pregnant for the first time she cut the cord with a shell. As she wiped the child and put him in her lap and was trying to sleep, hordes of soldiers rushed into the village. The whole village was deserted. They banged the dishes in some houses and they pulled the thatch from others. Within a few seconds, they were all around the daughter-in-law of the sweet maker household.
Eight to ten heavily-built young men came and asked her, “Tell us where everyone has gone?” She was not able to utter a single word. Her whole body was shivering. She looked at them with wide open eyes. The leader of the group said, “What are you staring at? Put the fire on; we are hungry. Put oil in the pan. Fry the baby in your lap and feed us.”
Dr. Sahoo’s blog Scent of Own Ink for more