The Mistake and Other Stories

The Mistake

and Other Stories

Discover other titles by Dr Bhabendra Nath Saikia at Smashwords.com:

Title 1 – The Cavern and Other Stories

A Nirvana Sutra Publication

www.nirvanasutra.com

Published for Smashwords

Copyright © Nirvana Sutra, Publisher

Copyright of the Original work © Mrs Preeti Saikia

Translation copyright © Mrs Gayatri Bhattacharyya

Cover done by Chandan Chutia

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the copyright owner, the publisher of this book and the holder of the translation copyright.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, media, incidents are either the product of author's imagination or are used fictitiously.

This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Dedication

This book is dedicated to all the readers who love Dr Bhabendra Nath Saikia and understand the beauty and greatness of the works of the legend.

PREFACE

When I was first asked to translate some of late Dr. Bhabendra Nath Saikia’s short stories, I was unsure as to whether I would be able to do justice to the atmosphere and environment that are so essential a part of his writings. I approached Dr. Saikia, told him of the assignment, and asked him what he thought about it, and also about which of his numerous stories I should attempt. He gave me a free hand, his only requirement being that I should try to make the selection as representative of the various periods of his writing as possible. Unfortunately, by the time I had completed my work, he was no more, and I did not have the opportunity to know his opinion. However, when I approached his wife, Mrs. Preeti Saikia, she said that she knew about the assignment, and gave instant approval.

As is well known, Dr. Bhabendra Nath Saikia was one of the most versatile geniuses in the cultural field of Assam. Although his academic career was most impressive, his vast range of interests would not allow him to rest satisfied in the classroom alone, and he branched out into various cultural fields including film making. Dr. Bhabendra Nath Saikia is recognized as one of the top ranking writers of Assam, and much of his work has already been translated into many languages both in India and abroad. In the span of more than half a century of writing, he has produced a large number of valuable literary works including short stories, novels, articles, children’s literature and drama. But it is probably through the medium of his short stories that he has contributed most to Assamese literature. The subjects of these stories are almost always about the lower middle class of Assam, and although one might say that this would limit the scope of his work, such is his skill and so diverse his outlook, that within this self imposed limit, Dr. Saikia projects a very deep and all embracing picture of humankind in general. This is the result of a deep insight and human sympathy, together with his keen observation of the ordinary day to day life of typical Assamese life and society.

The language he uses is essentially the actual spoken language of the men and women who fill the pages of his short stories, and so is not alien. The range of subjects is vast, from a simple village youth going to ‘see’ his bride-to-be’s home and meet her parents, to the consequences of as simple a thing as a name, to the mental state of an unmarried woman and what happens when a hapless and idealistic man marries her against all advise. One of the remarkable things about the stories is that, without the readers’ being aware of it, Dr. Saikia brings out the ridiculous, the humorous, the essentially tragic, and in many cases, the emptiness, of some of the aspects of contemporary society.

I can only hope that I have been able to bring out the essence of late Dr. Bhabendra Nath Saikia’s genius as projected through his short stories. If the readers find that they enjoy reading my humble efforts to translate some of his stories, that will be reward enough for me.

Gayatri Bhattacharyya

Table of Contents

Last Rites (Satkaar)

The Verandah (Baranda)

Dear Friends (Param Priya Bandhu)

Wings (Deuka)

A Bad Name (Durnam)

Soot (Elandhu)

The Art of the Modern Handloom Industry (Adhunik Taatbaati Silpa)

The Mistake (Kaksha Bhraanti)

Stained Walls of the Well (Barnana)

The Need (Laaj Lage)

Last Rites

(Satkaar)

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Most people in this are dress, while at home, as though they were preparing to go to a funeral. They wrap and tie just one side of the dhoti around their waists, and leave the other end free to wrap around their bare bodies when and if, necessary. If they feel like it, they sometimes wear a vest, too. They move about their courtyards aimlessly, always carrying an axe or a dao, a long heavy knife, doing odd jobs here and there. We did not have much to do with these folks. Sometimes one would come asking my father to read and explain the reply, written in English, to his application to the Government, praying for funds to buy a sewing machine, or some such things. Such people would stand hesitantly and humbly, near the big pillar of our front verandah. Father would go out and solve their problems. Sometimes, when they come asking for change for a ten rupee note, he would give nine one rupee notes and the rest in small change; he would explain patiently, and in detail, about the reply to the application for a monetary grant, or whatever it may be. Sometimes, late in the evening, if two families happened to be arguing and quarrelling loudly, it was enough for father to go out and switch on the verandah light— the arguments would stop at once. The two main persons from each family would come and complain to father, and he would hear them out and solve their differences to the satisfaction of both parties. Then he would come inside laughing, and tell us the reasons for their petty quarrels; for example, one family had held a Satya Narayan puja, a religious function, and had borrowed some utensils from the other family. When these utensils were returned, it was found that they had not been washed properly? Suppose one day, a big truck came to our house bringing a large cupboard for us. A number of people were needed to unload it. But father had to call just one person—and the entire neighbourhood would turn up to help. Father only had to point out where to put the cupboard, and they would do the rest. While unloading it, one would call out, 'Be careful. You must not break even one bit of glass.' Another would say, 'How will lit know how to handle such a piece of furniture? Do you think any of his ancestors had ever seen, let alone touched, such fine glass?'

Now these same people were crowding our house, moving freely and carelessly wherever they wanted. They now appeared more like charitable gods of death, rather than neighbours ready for a funeral. They could carry father away to the cremation ground immediately, if they thought it was time. My mother and I would not be able to utter one word in protest.

Besides these neighbours, our house has been lull of people for the last seven days or so. I had seen and knew only a few among them; they were from our village home, father's relatives. Besides these few, I do not remember having ever seen the others. At first, I had made it a point to talk to all the people who had come to inquire after father and I had made an effort to make their acquaintance; I realised they were our relations. I still had some patience then; father could still talk. In fact, often, he himself introduced them to me, in his broken, weak voice, for example, ‘This is my uncle’s brother's son. Do you recognise him?’ When I would say nothing, father would understand that I did not recognise the person, and he would say sadly, as if talking to himself, 'How will you know him? When I left the village, I thought that I would go back often for a visit. But that did not happen. None of you ever came to visit us either. So, now our children do not even know one another, even now when we elders are still alive.’ Then lather would sigh deeply like a very tired person, and say in an altered voice, 'All right, go inside. Go, my child, and give them something to eat.'

For the first few days, I looked after these people, cooked for them, and arranged their beds etc., borrowing spare mosquito nets from neighbours, and tying bits and pieces of string to fit these mosquito nets to respective beds. But after some rime, I found I could no longer cater to them, or cope with them. My mother used to sit beside father, feeding him with a spoon. But when the food started trickling out from the corners of his almost lifeless lips, she could no longer bear it. So I had to take her place, and she took refuge in the verandah of our prayer house, from where she hardly ever moved. Besides, there was such a stream of people constantly coming and going, asking after father, that it became almost meaningless to try to keep track of them, or to look after their needs. It was like a public exhibition, where people come and go as they like, and no one bothers to look after their welfare!

It's true—people flocked as though to an exhibition! Kunjalata baideo, Hemoprabha baideo, and many other ladies came straight from a conference of the Women’s Welfare Committee. They glanced into father's room, then went to the adjoining room and sat for a time praising his goodness etc., and then went quickly to console mother in her prayer room verandah! It being Sunday, almost the entire staff of father’s office, from the lowest to the highest, came and sat with him for some time. The peons and chaprasis spent almost the entire day, sitting around here and there. Whole crowds of bhakats—holy men, devotees of God—bare-bodied and with shoulder-length hair, came from distant villages, by train, by bus, and some even on foot. Some elderly and conservative female relatives-aunts and grandaunts-came, who would not eat food cooked in our common kitchen. So we had to arrange temporary cooking sheds in our kitchen verandah, partitioning it with bedcovers. We had to clean and purify and layer with wet clay, the large vessels in which we normally stored rice and lentils. These old ladies would lie down anywhere and anytime, and immediately go off to sleep— just like in a house crowded with exhausted relatives the day after a wedding, after the bride has left, and there is nothing to do. I would sit upright, through the whole night, near my father's bed, giving him the numerous medicines according to the times prescribed by the doctor. Sometimes out of sheer fatigue, I would drop off to sleep leaning against the bed’s headboard. And the next morning these people who had slept right through the night, would tell me that father had been taken seriously ill when I was sleeping! A couple of these women, indeed, said that he had almost died, and that they had barely managed to keep him alive with great trouble, with their untiring ministrations! And they claimed that I had slept right through all this.

All these people, who had just lolled around the last few days, suddenly sat up with a start. They all looked up and stared at Milan dada. He was standing in the backyard, quiet and despondent. I looked towards him with veiled eyes. When he moved, I immediately looked the other way. I knew that all my self control would break down, that I would not be able to bear it, if he once looked at me on his way out. My strength of mind would fail me, and his look would render me helpless. The tears that I had held back so long would pour out uncontrollably. I looked the other side, bit my lips hard and shut my eyes tight. I prayed that I would not hear a word of what mother was saying to him. My heart ached with an extraordinary anguish. I did not know whether he looked towards me, but at one time, when I opened my eyes and looked up, I saw him walking out, even as all the inquisitive people sitting