The Story of a Tulsi Plant

THE STORY OF A TULSI PLANT
(A short-story)

SYED WALIULLAH
(Translated from the original in Bengali
by BASUDHA CHAKRAVARTY)

[The following story, the original of which created a stir when it was first published in 1949, illustrates the humanist trend which ran through literature in East Bengal even while that country was under Pakistani domination, and which has now been consummated in the secular democracy of Bangladesh.

Syed Waliullah, author of a number of popular novels and short-stories, was in the Pakistan Foreign Service before he joined the UNESCO. He died prematurely in Paris in the autumn of 1971.]

The wide bridge made of brick and cement looked bent like a bow. A hundred yards beyond it stood the house. It was a two-storeyed house, big, standing up straight, high from the road. Footpaths are unknown in this region; so the house was not called upon to leave any space in front. Yet there was much space behind it. Space even excepting the open, neat corner between the bathroom, kitchen and privy, A nearly impenetrable jungle of mango, black-berry and jack-fruit trees filled that space; the wet earth laden with thick grass emitted a dour smell, and even while it was fierce sunlight around, gloomy darkness of sunset appeared to hover over that space.

There being so much space what would have been the harm if some of it was left out and made into a sort of garden? So thought they–the inhabitants of the house. It wouldn’t have mattered that there was no garden, thought Matin: had there been a little space in front they would have made a garden of it, would have with due care planted therein season-flowers, Gandharaj, Bakul, Hasnubana and also a few Roses. Then in the evenings on returning from office they could have sat there. Matin would have procured for the occasion a light chair made of cane or an easychair made of canvas. Amjad had a habit of smoking on the hookah. To preserve the dignity of the garden he might have purchased a suitable good-looking pipe and made his evenings restful and luxurious with it. There was also Kader, a good story-teller. While there was a soft mild breeze his voice would have become full of a story would have grown sweet with the smell of Hasnuhana. Or what would it have mattered if in the moonlight they had not talked at all? Could not they have looked straight at the full moon facing them and just sat quiet? So they all pondered as on returning from office they ascended the steps which went up almost straight from the road.

They had occupied the house. Not of course that they had had to fight for it or that their might had been appreciated and allowed to have its way. They had come to this town amidst the turmoil of partition and had ever since been going about from sunrise to sunset in search of some sort of a place to live in. One of those days they chanced upon this house–this big house deserted and gaping at desertion, as it were. Their first feelings were of surprise. Then they came in a crowd, broke the lock and, while entering the house, raised an outcry like the wild joy of boys gathering unripe mangoes at the dawn of summer. It never occurred to them that they were doing something akin to committing dacoity in daylight. Any sense of guilt that might have possibly tried to creep over their minds was swept away by sharp laughter.

Towards afternoon the news spread in the town and other people began to come and were not welcomed. They began to come in batches in hopes of a roof over their heads. But the first occupants resisted. Did the newcomers intend to get room by force? Still, the first occupants kept their heads cool as far as possible and told the newcomers that there was no space–all the rooms had been occupied. They pointed out, “Just see, Sahib, even this small dark room has had to accommodate four beds. Uptill now only the beds are here: if four bed-steads six feet long and three feet wide or chairs and tables about six in number are brought in there will be nothing like ‘vacant space’ left here.” With some they even sympathized: “We can appreciate your difficulty. Have we not suffered similar difficulty these days? But then, my friend, you have bad luck. Had you come only four hours earlier some space could have been managed. Not to speak of four hours, only two hours ago a fattish man working at the Accounts Office came and occupied the corner room on the ground floor. The room is just on the main road, yet not so bad. The public lamp-stand is just near the window. In case of failure of light within, that street light will do well for the room.”

But then though the whole country had suffered the turmoil of a big change, it was not that anarchic conditions had been established anywhere. That was why the police came subsequently to enquire into these illegal proceedings.

Not that the owner of the house who had fled the country had moved the authorities for recovery of his house. It is doubtful if he could have so moved even if he knew of the illegal occupation. It would have been too much to expect that of a gentleman who had removed his big family overnight for fear of his and their lives. The police had been informed by those who, because they had been looking for opportunities of similar occupation in other parts of the town, had not succeeded in reaching here four–even two hours ago. It had been sheer bad luck. But they argued: Why should not luck be equally bad for those who had come early and occupied the house? But even meek people could grow militant in defence of dispensation of luck. Those here whom luck had favoured had not to strike in favour or their luck but were prepared to do so. And they explained the whole position to the police in such manner that the sub-inspector raised no objection and went with his party. In the usual course however he had to submit a report. But he framed the report in such confused terms that his superiors thought it fit to file it up rather than try to find out what it meant to convey. There was no hurry either. There was no question of sympathy for those who had left the country and if the absentee-owner of the house did not come and move about it, there was no use bothering. Moreover the occupants of the house, though they were mere clerks, were sons of gentlemen and had not, though they were in possession of the house, broken any of the doors or windows or sold any of the ceiling beams in the black market.

So the house became lively overnight. Many of those who had found shelter here had had to live in Calcutta either with the sailors at Blochman Street, with the book-binders at Baithakkhana, the tobacco merchants of Syed Sally Lane or amidst the unspeakable filth and dirt of Chamru Khansama Lane. They could not describe how much, after that, they liked the big rooms of this house, the big windows built in the fashion of the legendary Blue Palace, the open yard at the of the house and the jungle-like garden of mango, black-berry and jack-fruit trees. Of course none of them had got a whole room for himself like rich people had, but they were all the same mighty glad at the flow of open air and light through the big rooms. They thought that they were saved at last: living care-free like this and taking in light and air their blood-cells would now amass fresh, virile blood; their faces would brighten up like those of thousand or two thousand rupees-salaried people; their bodies would be rid of malarial and black-fever parasites.

For example Yunus had lived in Calcutta at Macleod Street. That street bore a European name, yet every part of it had the appearance of a dustbin in the morning. In that street he used to live with hide merchants from Cutch on the upper floor of a ramshackle wooden house. Somebody had told him the smell of hide was good for health, it destroyed tubercular germs. Moreover even the rotten, drab odour from the drain used to go under that smell. There was no knowing of even a dead mouse or a cat that might have been rotting at the corner for ten days or so. It was just as well, Yunus thought. At least there was the promised destruction of tubercular germs–it had caught his imagination most. For his health was none too good. He was lean and thin and weak. Now as he lies by the window of the big room to the south and sees the golden rays of the sun, he shudders to recollect his den at Macleod Street. For all he knew he might have already come to harm. Had he the money he would have had his chest examined by a doctor. It was always good to be careful.

Within the yard to the left of the kitchen stood a Tulsi plant on a brick-made pedestal half a cubit high. One morning Modabber was brushing his teeth when his eyes caught sight of the Tulsi plant. Modabber was a fuss, sort of fellow; no sooner something happened than he raised an uproar and people got panicky. All the others hurried out. Something must have happened though perhaps nothing so serious as the uproar suggested.

“You see here this Tulsi plant,” said Modabber. “It has to be rooted out. Now that we are here nothing smacking of Hinduism can be allowed to stay.”

All of them looked at the plant. Its thick green leaves looked yellowish and appeared to have lost lustre. None had tended it those recent days and around it grass had grown. Surprisingly it had evaded notice and seemed to have hidden itself.

But suddenly they became silent. The house that had appeared so empty, had, despite certain names written in a raw hand on the wall of the room over the staircase, seemed to be without an owner, suddenly appeared in a new light. The Tulsi plant seemed suddenly to speak volumes.

Seeing them silent Modabber shouted again, “What are you thinking of? Nothing to cogitate about, just uproot it.”

They did not know much about Hindu customs. Still they had heard that in every Hindu home at the day’s end the mistress of the household puts on a light at the base of the Tulsi plant and with the edge of her cloth coiled round her neck does her obeisance there. Somebody then had been used to put in a light every evening, at the base of this Tulsi plant too, now overgrown with grass and looking deserted. Just when the evening star glowed in the sky in its bold solitude a mild, peaceful light used to be lit up there amidst the thickening shadow with the silent blood-red touch of vermilion from the bowed-down forehead. So perhaps the light had been lit every day, year after year. Stormy, dark days had come into the house; perhaps some day the light of life of somebody in the family had been extinguished. Yet never even for a day had the ceremony of lighting up the Tulsi plant failed to be performed.

Where was now the mistress of the household who had lit up a light at this Tulsi plant year after year? Why had she gone away? Matin had at one time been employed as a railway official. She had gone, Matin thought, to Calcutta, Asansol, or to some relative’s place at Badyabati or Howrah. Or she might have gone to Lilooah; there was no reason why she could not have gone there. There from the roof of a black, two-storeyed house beside the big railway yard a red-bordered saree was perhaps hanging down. Possibly it belonged to the mistress of this abandoned house. But wherever she might be perhaps her eyes became dim with tears as she remembered this Tulsi corner under the shadows of the evening sky.

Yunus had caught a little cold since yesterday. He was the first to speak and said, “Let it rather stay. We are certainly not expected to worship it. The extract of its leave is curative for cold and cough.”

Modabber looked this way and that. All seemed to be of the same opinion. Among them Enayet was a sort of Moulvi. He had beard, said “namaz” five times a day and was said to recite the Quoran in the morning. Even he did not demur. Could it be that he too thought of the eyes of the mistress of the house dim with tears? The Tulsi plant continued its existence intact. The atmosphere of the house was good. It seemed the dozing gloom, atmosphere they had had in Calcutta had dispersed. So there was good table-talk too; fierce argumentation started every instant. There was discussion on all subjects–social, political and economic. The topic of communalism also cropped up.

“They are at the root of all this evil,” said Shabir.

“Because of their meanness and fanaticism this country has been partitioned,” he added.

Then he gave plenty of instances of injustice and oppression committed by Hindus. The blood of them all began to boil. Among them however there was Maksud Mia known as a leftist and he sometimes protested. He said the Hindus were not so much guilty after all. Even if they were so guilty were we any the less, he asked. At that Modabber ground his teeth. The mental pendulum of the so-called leftist began to move. Giving himself up he thought, “We can swear and say the fault is theirs, so they can also swear and say the fault is ours. The matter is very complicated and difficult to understand.” He thought on, “Perhaps we are right; why should we be mistaken! Don’t we know ourselves?”

The mental pendulum swayed left and right in doubt, then moved to the right and stood still. Sometimes it missed its way and swung to the left: hence his ill repute of being a leftist.

The Tulsi plant caught one’s eye by the side of the kitchen on the way to the privy. Somebody had cleared the weed. The leaves had been drying up into yellow but now looked fresh in their natural colour. Somebody has been watering the plant. Of course, he had not been doing it openly in the sight of others. One gets shy of doing such things in society.

Now Yunus thought he would never have to return to the dirty den of hide merchants at Macleod Street, that he was saved for life amidst the light and wind here. But he was wrong to think like that. Not only Yunus but all of them–those who had thought that they would stay in comfort in this light and air and enjoy the rare spice of life, even if they could not in these days of high prices get to eat well or could not send sufficient money to their homes. It proved a boon that there was no vacant land in front of the house. Had there been any they would have made a garden of it and at least the marigold flowers would have bloomed by now. And that would have been a dire mistake.

One day Modabber came in a fuss and announced that the police had come. But why? Perhaps some miserable thief had fled from the road and entered this house. But to think like that was but to imitate the hare. Finding no way of escape from the huntsman, the hare suddenly sits down and closing its eyes imagines that nobody can see it. For here they themselves were thieves. They were not hiding but all the same closing their eyes.

The police sub-inspector had his old-fashioned mat under his armpit and was rubbing the sweat off his seamy forehead. He had an innocent look. Behind him two constables with guns in their hands were looking more innocent in spite of their big moustaches. They were silently counting the beams on the roof. A pair of pigeons had built a nest in the ventilator above. One of the pair was white, the other yellow. The constables were possibly looking at the pigeons. For they had guns in their hands.

Matin asked politely, “please, whom do you want?”

“I want you all”, replied the sub-inspector, “You have illegally occupied this house. You will have to vacate it within twenty-four hours.” And he showed the order.

The owner of the house then must have come . Leaving the train he must have come here and seeing how matters stood gone straight to the police-station. Afzal stretched his neck to see if the landlord was with the party. He was nowhere to be seen. Only the two constables with moustaches and guns in their hands stood behind.

“Why this order?” they then asked. “Has the owner of the house lodged a complaint?”

“No, the Government have requisitioned the house,” was the reply.

Then they were silent for a long while. Then Matin said: “But we also are Government servants.”

Talk like that sometimes made one aghast. Even the constables brought their eyes down from the beams and looked at them: their looks were significant, they seemed suddenly to become eloquent.

Then a shadow descended over the house. There was no end of cogitation. It was all about where they could go. Some of them grew angry and said, “We are not going anywhere but shall stay on here. Let us see who can remove us. Anybody crossing the threshold of the house will have to do so over our dead bodies. (For they had heard that students somewhere had been occupying a house like that. Even the highest authorities had tried to get them removed but had had to beat a retreat. That was what they remembered. At last the blood grew hot in their veins. They wouldn’t leave the house, they declared. Whoever might come should know that he would have to come over their dead bodies.

For some days the hot blood stirred in their veins. They had no heart in their work, they had no taste for their food. They could only talk; their words were fierce, bitter. But gradually words began to fail. And in persons like them when words failed the blood did not take long to cool down.

For they were not students. They had told the police with it an air of pride what they were. On being told of the requisitioning of the house they had kept silent for a while and then said “But we too are Government servants.”

One day they left in a body. They had come like a storm and left likewise. They left newspaper bits, a miserable portion of a rope to hang clothes by, burnt ends of biris and cigarettes or the heel of a torn shoe spread all over the rooms. The doors and windows built in the fashion of the legendary Blue House stood gaping. But they were not to remain so for more than a few days. Curtains of many a colour would soon be hanging over them.

The Tulsi Plant besides the kitchen in the of the house had somewhat dried up. Its leaves had again grown to be yellow. No one had watered the plant since the day when the
Police had come and ordered them to leave the house. They had then forgotten the plant, but had they also forgotten the far off eyes of the mistress of the house dim with tears?

Only the Tulsi plant knows why they had forgotten it all: for it is a plant that man can save if he would and can destroy in a moment if he so wills–a plant which has no strength of its own to live or prosper by.
21st December, 1973