Revenge

By Papree Rahman

Translated from Bengali by Masrufa Ayesha Nusrat

I.

Mohor Ali stood still, as though he had been possessed by some evil spirit. The pond in front of him was almost dried up. Water hyacinth clustered like black clouds, making it hard to tell if there was any water remaining. Only recently, Efu had happily splashed in this about-to-dry-out puddle! She had cast an angry look at him and walked straight down into the deep water, and Mohor Ali had not been able to prevent her. Even if he had, would Efu ever listen to him?

It was the end of the wet month of Magh, hence the poor condition of the ponds and rivers. The water was shrunken to its foot. What mattered if the ponds were parched like this! There was no chance of a fish or snake, of course, but one could not deny the existence of leeches.

When Efu walked into the water, leeches had greedily crept up for her soft thighs and wedged in to suck her blood, Mohor Ali assumed. He had no faith in Efu’s talisman against snake bites. No matter how Efu made others believe in it, Mohor Ali knew this water land better than anyone. He was completely convinced that Efu deceived everyone about the leeches.

Mohor Ali was so puzzled that day by Efu’s crazy behaviour. He tried to stop her after a brief exchange of words. How violent she turned out to be!

She was married to him for five long years and yet she dared to pay him no attention! She took no notice of Mohor Ali, avoided looking sideways, and dashed into the deep water. Was there any other option for Mohor Ali but to stand still like he was possessed by an evil spirit?

Mohor Ali often longed to see Efu, no matter how annoyed he was with her activities. He felt empty if he did not. His craving for her enveloped him like an old blanket, covering day and night. He panted for breath like a freshly caught catfish on land. Just as she rushed by him into the water, she appeared reproachful like a warrior or goddess— Kali who would pierce him through and through. Mohor Ali was indeed very frightened. Her rebelliousness was unfamiliar to him. Efu had always been very quiet, inert, self-absorbed. But everything changed when he married Hasna. As if blown away by a tornado, Efu had whirled out of the house for good. Until then, she had devoted all her time to home-making. What an expert home-maker she had been when she was newly married to Mohor Ali! Their married life was so precise and organized. Not only was she an expert at keeping the expenditure of her grocery shopping, she was also highly skilled in needlework.

 Counting cockatoos on the custard apple tree

Only good wives can make a happy family.

Treasured memories of those colourful bygone days still charmed Mohor Ali. Efu made delicious payesh, rice pudding; moyamurki, rice balls with molasses; and rosher pitha, rice cake dipped in syrup. He still felt the coolness of the taler-pakha, the handmade palm-leaf fan that she fanned him with in the hot month of Chaitra. Efu used to make her hair into kola-beni, braided coils with crimson-coloured  jaba flower ribbons, or artfully wrapped herself into a paddy green or saffron sari. Her slim body quickly gained muscle within the stripes of her sari. Mohor Ali remembered those days with amazement. Could anyone match this rebellious Efu dashing into the shriveled pond with the other coy Efu resembling the cockatoo on a custard apple tree?

The more Mohor Ali watched her, the more disorientated he became. The Efu who used to braid her hair into kola-beni had infested lice in her unkempt rough hair now. The golden threads in the border of her sari had long lost their shine. Yet she wore that frayed sari every day! Mohor Ali remembered that he gave it to Hasna soon after their marriage. Efu almost grabbed it from her, and wore it frequently. Mohor Ali could not understand why she would look after her satin’s, co-wife’s, sari so well. He did not find a clear answer to this. How could he? It was only because of Efu his thoughts had become so tarnished.

Efu turned hardheartedly indifferent after her firstborn died in the atur ghor, the labour room. Her eyes talked of a world beyond this. Her absent-mindedness and exhaustion were profound.  At the beginning, Mohor Ali had been very worried by Efu’s strangeness. Probably there was a thin chance of hope — or was it just his imagination? Maybe Efu was all right, and he tried to console himself by thinking she would soon recover from the bereavement of her child’s death. But nothing changed. Tahiron dai, the midwife, said, “Mohor miya, your wife is to blame for the death of your golden son.”

Mohor Ali was a meager man — how was he to know about childbirth complications?  Although he felt very shy, he gathered some courage and asked, “How did it happen?”

“Your wife is not conscious. She didn’t listen to me at all. I tried to make her understand well.” Tahrin dai walked away saying only this much. She did not want to waste any more time at the house of a dead child. Mohor Ali lacked courage to ask her anything else, and so he never learnt what actually happened in the labour room.

Mohor Ali saw Efu’s dry eyes; tranquility prevailed in her black pupils. Efu did not shed a single tear in spite of her son’s death. She held him and remained tearless. She repeatedly checked his chest and back for the faintest heartbeat, longing to hear a sudden heartbeat, but nothing happened and the dead child did not stir slightly in the warmth of her lap.

When Mohor Ali went to bury his son, in rushing tears, Efu remained listless. As if the summer sun of the month of Chaitra had scorched her eyes and dried her tears. Her eyes were turbulent, two tornadoes in the summer dust. Mohor Ali waited for the future. Of course it took time to overcome the grief of the first born’s death.

Efu was pregnant again the following year and the same tragic incident was repeated. The lifeless child looked like a doll. With an aquiline nose, stretched eyebrows, a fair complexion and a head full of black locks, the child was such a beauty. Efu’s heart burnt in emptiness as she watched him for long hours. How Mohor Ali wished the baby would cry out and stir just once. His wish never came true. He shook Efu with tears rolling from his eyes, but she looked blank with the dusty summer wind of Chaitra storming up at her.

Mohor Ali stopped being blind about Efu after what Tahirin dai had told him about her. It was incredible to him that a mother could kill her own child. He could not control his agitation; on the contrary, he grew impatient with Efu’s insanity.

II.

In the last few months, Hasna looked slick as she padded out her slim body. Her face turned oval-shaped, like a duck egg. How a woman could change so drastically just by gaining a little muscle and fat beneath her skin was beyond Mohor Ali’s imagination. Hasna glowed and looked so youthful with her extra weight. She appeared so different, so unknown. Sometimes Mohor Ali was puzzled. Was she the one he had married? That little girl was now able to do everything from collecting twigs and dry leaves for cooking to catching fish from the stagnant pond. Whenever she got free time she would sit with her fishing rod. Until Mohor Ali came home, she was never tired of working. Still, she felt constantly empty and had no peace of mind. It was not that Mohor Ali upset her. Her heart was not at rest and she knew tranquility was more vital than happiness in marriage.

The reason behind her unease was Mohor Ali’s first wife. Mohor Ali had not yet divorced Efu, and so she would often come to their house. Efu scrutinized her with a faint smile. It was hard to tell if that smile bore sarcasm or contempt or loathing. No matter how uncomfortable she was about Efu, she reserved her feelings. She took good care of her satin. She served her with whatever leftover green vegetables she had in the kitchen and addressed her as her elder sister, “Boro afa, please eat some.” “No, no, I’m not here to eat at your place!” “This isn’t my home only. It doesn’t matter if I live in it or not. It is your home too. I am only taking care of it and doing the chores. If I don’t cook he will starve, you see.” Efu listened and burst out laughing, laughter which bounced her body in a wave. She narrowed her eyes, thinking of something serious, “Starved? Is he ever starved? He is never hungry! It’s me who is always starving!”

“Boro afa, then eat something.” Efu sat to eat like a pampered child but did not eat a single morsel and scattered all the rice on the veranda. The fragrance of the rice attracted the ducks and chickens immediately. The shalik and the sparrow swooped down from the bamboo bushes. Feeding the birds made Efu calm. It was only then that her arid eyes would become overcast and dense with moist clouds. The moment the birds were fed, Efu would leave immediately. Like a bird, Efu wanted to fly. Not being able to do that, she fluttered her sari in the air and plunged into the muddy pond. Hasna watched her satin in amazement. She was also scared that Efu might jump on her when she was alone. Anything was possible for a madwoman who killed her own children in the labour room, thought Hasna. And so she did not want to agitate Efu in any way, despite her annoyance with Efu’s habits. She could not possibly read her mind. Efu never stayed during the evening; if she did, Hasna had no idea what she would do. Efu was incredible! It was hard to predict her mischief. She had already caused a lot of trouble. One hot summer afternoon while Hasna was resting peacefully on the veranda, Efu suddenly appeared out of the blue and set free four of the ducks that Mohor Ali had recently bought. Efu blurted it out herself, “You know what? I set the ducks free near the swamp. They only had rice to peck in the house. Let them feed on the snails and shellfish out there!” She paused a little and said, “Water is the life of ducks. Don’t you think it is a sin to keep them on land away from the water? So I let them loose into the pond.”

Hasna did not know what to say when she heard of the duck incident. Another day, she created more mischief. Hasna had just finished cooking lunch and was fishing with her fishing rod in the rotten pond. Efu spilled all the freshly cooked curry from the kitchen to the stray dogs. When Mohor Ali came home and discovered this, he yelled at Efu for her waywardness. Efu was unmoved, and did the same thing the following week.

Sometimes Mohor Ali suspected that Efu most likely did everything on purpose. From the way she talked, it was impossible for anyone to believe she could be guilty of such misconduct. Mohor Ali was often at a loss when he heard how logically Efu spoke. Even Hasna was amazed by her rationality on one hand, and her daily misbehavior on the other.

Hasna also noticed how often Efu would keenly observe Mohor Ali’s bed. She circled his cot time and again and muttered things to herself. Hasna could not hold her curiosity and had often asked, “What are you saying, boro afa?”  Efu kept on mumbling things as if she overheard Hasna. Hasna would repeat, “Are you speaking to me, boro afa?” “No, what is there to say to you?”

Even though Efu avoided her, Hasna tried to fathom what was in her mind. Mohor Ali was still Efu’s husband, her swoami. She used to take care of this house. This bed was laid for her and no one told her to leave the house when Mohor Ali got married for the second time. When Hasna came to this house after her marriage to Mohor Ali, Efu left the house on her own. But she came back once in a while. Hasna did not know for certain why Efu came back. Was it because she had a particular reason, or was it merely to quench her curiosity?

 III.

Out of season rainy days always seemed bleak to Hasna. It had been raining torrentially for days. It rained relentlessly. Even if there had been a brief pause, the sky was glum to the core. The clouds, on the other hand, were at play, ready for all kinds of pranks. At times the trees seemed to hang together on one tree, be it a coconut, betel-nut, or a banyan tree. Another time they blew back, pouring down brisk puddles. If one had to leave, why leave like a whimpering girl? Untimely whining always caused a muddle. Hasna always suffered in this kind of inclement weather. The firewood she used for cooking became wet and damp. Her kitchen floor, simply made from half a sheet of corrugated tin, became very muddy. During the rainy days the fire in the oven flickered regardless of how hard she blew with a fukni to kindle it brighter.

Hasna was habitually prone to catching cold. She could not endure the wet climate. If she were not careful, she could easily catch fever. There was no way she could indulge in sluggishness; she had no helping hand and there was no way she could confine herself to bed. Mohor Ali also became very ill-tempered in this weather. He would turn the house upside down if the meal was not cooked on time. He incessantly abused her verbally, out of terrible hunger. That was his only bad habit. Even if it was a drizzling cold morning, there was no way to remain inactive. She had to carry out her daily chores. On the other hand, Efu was habitually visiting them, even if she was drenched to her skin on the journey. Hasna was slightly jealous of her. She wondered how this lady managed to get soaked day and night without succumbing to cold. Hasna grumbled in suppressed anger at her satin’s sound health. What a constitution she had! Safe from all kinds of diseases, she rambled in the rain all day long.

Hasna could not predict what Efu would do next. Even stranger was her husband! Why had he not divorced her yet? He still wept for his slain sons at night.

Hasna, meanwhile, was infertile. Mohor Ali had lost all hope after waiting for months. Hasna regularly menstruated. Nothing remained in her uterus to form a new life. Mohor Ali did not know what to do. How ill-fated he was! At least Efu saved him from the defamation of impotency. These days Efu’s presence confused him. She seemed to see the depth of everything. He felt her watchful eyes could read hidden truths in him.

Efu did not tell him anything about marrying Hasna. She quietly distanced herself from him. She did not even allow him to speak to her seriously about this matter. He tried befriending Efu in various ways, but she seemed to be consciously avoiding him. Mohor Ali assumed that Efu was perhaps feigning her insanity. Was Efu intentionally confusing people with her madness? He had many questions stirring inside for which he could find no answers. Efu paid no attention to what he said. So Mohor Ali tried to forget her and tried to reassure himself that everything was due to her madness. Once in a while, he presumed she was disgusted with him. This made him feel very dejected. At times he would become furious with her. What intense self-esteem this woman had in her lost eyes, speculated Mohor Ali. Efu could not be insane! He secretly planned that one day he would get hold of her and reveal her craziness for what it really was.

…

The showers at the end of winter destroyed everything. As a result, winter seemed to linger, with no sign of bidding farewell. The chill of the rain was so biting that it penetrated through skin, flesh and bone.

It had been raining so heavily that Mohor Ali could not go out that day. Yes, Efu was here again in the rain. She was completely soaked from head to toe. Water was dripping from the wet strands of her hair. The moment he saw Efu, Mohor Ali had a faint heartache. Ah! Was it her, who was responsible for the death of his sons?

Hasna was uneasy once more when she saw Efu and Mohor Ali having close eye contact, but she was tactful and took care not to express her feelings. Even that day she offered a dry sari to her, “Boro afa, change your wet clothes.” “No, I don’t need to. I’m leaving now.” “Go if you will, but change your clothes first.” “No, it’s all right. I’ll be leaving soon.”

Although she said she would leave right away, she did not seem to leave any earlier! Meanwhile, Hasna studied Mohor Ali. Did he also want her to spend the night with them? Amongst this disarray the rain grew heavier. Efu prepared to leave a number of times but showed no sign of finally going. While it rained heavily none of the three noticed how night fell outside, through the curtain.

It rained still more incessantly. Hasna got the dinner ready — rice and curry — in the perplexing shadowy light. Mohor Ali ate hungrily but Efu remained immobile. Neither hunger nor thirst could restrain her. She showed no interest in eating and yawned wide, “Why do I feel so sleepy?”

“Afa, be off to sleep if you feel like it.”

“I’m getting you in trouble. Where would I sleep?”

“Not a problem at all! You get on the cot. I’ll lie down on the floor.”

Efu climbed on the bed and dozed off immediately. No one could assume that this sleeping lady was a madwoman! Her manner demonstrated her right to this house and bed!

Now there arose the question of where Mohor Ali would sleep. Since they were not divorced yet, Hasna pushed him to sleep with Efu. Hasna remained wide awake in the cold night curiously waiting to see what would happen next.

After a while Mohor Ali came down to Hasna under her quilt and grumbled, “That bitch has so much arrogance. She can’t stand my touch.” But Hasna showed no interest in listening to him. Mohor Ali tossed to the other side and fell asleep.

The next day Mohor Ali woke before sunrise. The doors were wide open. Efu was not in bed. She left before anyone woke up! Mohor Ali stood up near the cot and was utterly nauseated by a stench. Looking at the wet bed, Mohor Ali immediately understood what monkey business Efu had been after. Efu had left before dawn, having urinated on Mohor Ali’s bed.

About the author:

Papree Rahman (b. 1965) has been writing since her childhood. Her creative work has been published in almost all the leading dailies of Bangladesh. As a representative of Bangladesh, she participated in the SARRC Writers’ Festival three times. She received an award from Mohila Porishod in 2010 for her contribution to literature, and the best editor’s award in Dhaka division in 2011 for editing the literary magazine Dhulichitra. She has published four novels – Poranadir Shawpnopuran, Boyon, Mohua Pakhir Palok (a children’s novel) and Palatia, and five collections of short stories – Lakhhindarer Adristo Jatra, Holud Meyer Shimanto, Ostorombha and Dhulichitro.

 

About the translator:

Masrufa Ayesha Nusrat (b. 1976) studied at the University of Dhaka, Bangladesh and the University of Nottingham, UK. She is Assistant Professor of English at East West University in Dhaka. Her entry on “Bangladeshi Writing in English” was included in South Asian Literature in English: An Encyclopedia, published by the Greenwood Press, USA (2004). Her English translations of Bengali short stories have been anthologized in Under the Krishnachura Tree: Fifty Years of Bangladeshi Writing (Dhaka: UPL, 2003), Writing Across Borders (Dhaka: writers.ink, 2008) and Contemporary Short Stories from Bangladesh (Dhaka: UPL 2010). She is also a connoisseur of fine arts and music and a mother of a one-year-old son, Sargam. Currently, she is working on a compilation of translated short stories with Papree Rahman. 

Featured artwork is “Rossie” by Ahsan Masood.