Early 1970s, a village in East Midnapur.
“Why are you so chirpy, today?”
Sapan and Bablu had been playing all morning, like every other day. Their game of choice always remained the same. Every morning they would run to the cremation grounds, the smasaan, at the outskirts of the village, far from any of the houses, grab a blackened stick each from one of the several burnt out pyres, and pretend they were heroes wielding swords. In case the villagers brought in one of their deceased early in the morning, they would have to resort to making clay toys by the canals. No one appreciated pulling out wood from a pyre. They would especially receive a hard beating back at home, if anyone chose to complain to their parents. They never understood why their parents asked them to stay away from the smasaan or from each other. They weren’t old enough to understand superstitions, be it of the dead or of the living. They just had fun wielding their self-proclaimed swords, marking each other with black sooty ‘wounds’ on their bare bodies.
That day, however, Sapan was especially glee and energetic with his moves, quickly subduing his only opponent ever. Bablu noticed the constant radiance on the face of his friend, and chose to ask. Sapan’s smile broadened as he tried to draw suspense in his answer.
“What’s the day today?” Sapan almost sang the question as he bit his lips, trying hard not to squeal in excitement.
“Okay,” Bablu delved his ‘sword’ deep into the soft soil, as he mulled over the question. “Baba said he will be late today, so it’s a Wednesday, the Market Day. What about it?”
“Yes, today is the Market Day!” Sapan screamed at his loudest, almost like sending the message to the clear skies, as he started jumping around waving his ‘sword’.
Bablu hurriedly grabed his hand and hid behind one the taller pyres from last evening. Sapan realised his folly as his voice echoed back to them from the distance.
“Are you insane?” Bablu smacked Sapan’s arm. “We are forbidden in the smasaan, remember?”
“Okay, sorry! But today is THE Market Day,” Sapan still smiled, rubbing his arm where Bablu smacked him. Bablu opened his mouth wide, as sudden realisation hit him. The smoldering fire inside the pyre crackled lightly, almost like dry leaves crumbling. It is THE Market Day. Sapan’s father took the last batch of crops for sale this morning, which means this evening he would return with meat.
It’s the one day in a year, that Sapan’s family had meat. Of course, chicken was too pricey, so Sapan’s father always brought turtle meat. But even that, he could only afford once a year, after the crops yielded raw cash. It was the one day, Sapan looked forward to every year.
“It is the Market Day.”
“It is the Market Day.”
“It is the Market Day.”
Sapan jumped around with his ‘sword’, his glee knowing no bounds.
That evening when Sapan came home after his usual playing hours, his mother, like always, sent him running to the pond to wash himself up.
Even as he washed his feet, he screamed, “Baba is not back yet, Maa?”
“What?”
“Baba. Is he not back yet?”
“No. Stop screaming and clean yourself.”
Sapan climbed the footholds of the pond carefully after he felt sufficiently clean. Of course, he had to be sure if his father was back or not. Depending on that, he would take time washing himself. Every year, he would be a part of the entire cooking process, to try and lengthen the course of the experience. Once he would sit to eat, he knew it would be over within half an hour, and he would only taste it again a year later. So, he would sit by his mother, watching her cut the pieces appropriately, observing the exact amounts of the different spices to be used, savouring even the smell of the onions hitting hot oil.
As he walked back from the pond, Sapan could almost remember the flavour from last year’s ‘feast’. Stepping onto the porch, he took another look in the distance, hoping to see his father returning with the month’s supplies. He didn’t.
“Why is he so late today?” he asked his mother.
“Must still be at the market. I don’t know.” His mother took a peep through her thatched kitchen window. “Fetch me water from the well.”
Sapan grabbed the pitcher and ran to the well behind the house. Fetching drinking water in the evening belonged in his daily list of chores.
When he returned with the water-filled pitcher, he saw his father by the porch. He had dropped the bag of essentials and was settling on the porch itself, wiping the sweat off his face with the cotton cloth around his neck. Sapan ran to the bag. He plumaged through the bag, excitement evident in his eyes.
He practically emptied the entire bag out on the porch. There was no turtle meat. He pulled out vegetables and pulses and spices and oil. No meat!
“Baba?” Sapan looked up at his father, tears in his confused eyes. The latter didn’t turn to meet his son’s eyes. He knew how much this meant to Sapan. But he wasn’t old enough to be told about crop yields or their market prices.
Sapan’s mother hurried out of the kitchen noticing the mess Sapan had made on the porch. She was about to scold him, but she stopped in her tracks as her husband stood up, shoulders hanging on his tired body. She stood and watched as the clearly dispirited man walked away towards the pond to clean himself.
“Maa?” Sapan turned towards his mother. “We won’t have meat this year, Maa?” He burst into tears as his mother held him in an embrace looking out towards the silhouette of her man by the pond.
Written by: Aninda Kumar Nanda
Suggestions and Proof-reading: Asok K. Nanda
I didn't have to imagine this. It felt like a close scenario. Something my own, something not so very unknown. Happening at a distance right in front of my eyes. It drove me along with the air, the, incidents, the hopefulness, the sorrow, and so much more. Those words carried some magic that definitely did melt something in my heart. 🖤🌻