The Boy’s World

(A short story)

 

Translated from Tamil by the author

Asutosh was sitting at the foot of the stairs with a book before him. But he could not concentrate on it. His eyes wandered and rested from time to time on his mother lying almost unconscious on a low wooden bench in a corner.

She had been in a bad state of health for the past few weeks. Even at the best of times she had been of a weak constitution. Hard work and under-nourishment had completely broken her down. Things would not have come to such a pass, had she taken a little more care of herself. But she had to work for a living and could not afford to rest. An easier way out would have been to solicit help from her husband’s former students and disciples. She was however a woman with self-respect and would rather die than accept charity from others. It irked her even to be an object of sympathy. She had deliberately concealed her real state of health from the people at whose houses she worked.

She had been bed-ridden now for three days. She had nobody to attend on her except the ten-year-old Asutosh. The people of the house in which they were residing were out of town. Asutosh did his best to nurse his mother. He went to the Corporation Free Hospital and brought her medicine. He had only one anna with him. With that he purchased barley and made gruel for her.

Now there was no longer any gruel left nor was there any money. Asutosh was in a fix. If he went to any of the houses where his mother worked he could get a meal for himself and some money also for buying more barley. But he did not like the idea. It was as good as begging and he was quite sure that his mother would not approve. The son of Pasupathi Bhattacharya to go abegging!….

Pasupathi Bhattacharya was a name to conjure with in Bengal in those days. He was proficient in all the fields of ancient learning–Vedas, Vedangas, Shastras etc. He was a Pandits’ Pandit. He was universally respected. Learned men from all over Bengal used to go to him to get their doubts cleared on knotty points in the scriptures, ‘Kavya Ratna’ ‘Vidya Vinoda,’ ‘Shastra Parangata’ were some of the titles with which he was honoured. The street where he lived was named after him by the Corporation of Calcutta.

Pasupathi Bhattacharya amassed fame but not wealth. He could have become rich if he had wanted to. But he was a saintly type and never cared for money. He earned a modest livelihood from the school he conducted and it was sufficient for his small family. There was of course no possibility of saving anything and he never worried about the future. So when he died suddenly his widow and son were left in the lurch.

After his death his former students, many of whom were quite rich, came forward to help the bereaved family, but Asutosh’s mother firmly declined their offers. Her husband had taught her self-respect and self-confidence. She could not wrong the memory of her illustrious husband by accepting charity. She decided to work in a few houses as domestic help and earn her living. The mother and son lived in the dark space below the staircase in a house in the very street that was named after Pasupathi Bhattacharya.

All the hopes of the poor widow were centred in the young Asutosh. It was her ambition to bring him up as an ideal man who would uphold the traditions of his father. She spared no pains or expense in bringing him up properly. He was never made to feel the want of a father. She bestowed on him a mother’s affection and at the same time handled him with a father’s firmness.

She used to say to him frequently, “Do not forget that you are the son of Pasupathi Bhattacharya. Don’t do anything that may dishonour his name. Never tell a lie or steal. Remember that honour is more valuable than money, and death is preferable to dishonour.”

Asutosh was a precocious boy. He realised how much his mother was doing for him. He was grateful to her and loved her very much. Even at that age he tried his best to be of assistance to her. He used to tell her, “Be patient for a few years more, mother. I shall start earning as soon as I complete my studies and our troubles will be over.” His mother would shed tears of joy at these brave words………

The country was passing through terrible days at that time. The Second World War was on. Vast numbers had revolted against the British Raj and were behind the bars. Thousands of able-bodied men were inveigled into joining the army. The villages were thus denuded of the youth who used to work on the fields and only women, old men and children were left behind. Agricultural production touched a new low, and the little that was produced was requisitioned for the use of the army. The army got the best of everything–food, clothes and luxuries. Even their carnal needs were taken good care of. They were treated as the salt of the earth.

Those times brought out the worst in man. Blackmarketing and corruption were the order of the day. Famine stalked the land of Bengal. People who had no inhibitions of human sympathy and considerations of justice could not resist the temptations offered by the combination of famine and war. They became rich, causing untold suffering to their fellowmen.

Those in the villages had nothing to eat. They started trekking towards Calcutta in search of food. They had somehow got it into their heads that they would get food in Calcutta. Many of them did not at all reach the city. The long march and hunger claimed their lives on the way. Those who managed to reach the city were doomed to the shock of disillusion. They found that food was not available there, even for those who had money to buy it. One had to sleep in front of the ration shops the whole night to be able to get a few ‘chattaks’ of rice the next day. The poor innocent people from the villages were left to die uncared for on the pavements of the city streets, their stomachs bloated due to starvation. The people of the city were too much engrossed in their struggle for survival to pay any attention to this dying multitude. Their sense of humanity had long been benumbed and familiarity with misery and suffering had made them callous.

Since morning Asutosh’s mother had been lying speechless with eyes closed. Asutosh was afraid. He called to her gently but there was no response. He decided that he should somehow get some money to buy barley for mother. He came out into the street and started walking.

He did not know how long he had been walking. It was only when he became exhausted that he stopped and noticed that he was in the Esplanade, the city’s main shopping centre.

The boy found this quite a different world. Looking at those shops one could not imagine that the whole country was in the grip of a famine and that only a few furlongs away people were dying of hunger on the pavements. The show-cases in front of the shops were a riot of colour. In them were displayed dazzling dresses, costly articles of luxury that the young Asutosh had never seen before.

As he stood looking at the richly stocked shops and the crowds of the neo-rich who had collected there, his thoughts went to the wasted features of his mother who was dying and tears welled up in his eyes………

“What are you crying about, my boy?”

Asutosh looked up. It was the prosperous-looking owner of the shop that had accosted him.

The young boy felt like sharing his grief with somebody. He told the shopkeeper his story.

“Poor boy! So your mother is ill and you do not have the money to buy barley for her?”

Asutosh nodded.

“Don’t worry. You can easily earn eight annas if you follow my advice.”

“Eight annas!” Asutosh could not believe his ears. Eight annas were a fortune! Hope stirred in him. “I shall do anything you suggest, sir,” said he.

“See that big red building. It is the cloth rationing office. They give permits for cloth in emergencies. If you act according to my instructions you can get a permit. I shall give you eight annas in exchange for it.”

Asutosh’s heart sank. “How can I get a permit?” he asked.

“It is easy. Just go and tell them that your mother has died. They will issue a permit for three yards of cloth.”

Asutosh was shocked. “Why do you say like that? My mother is alive. I cannot bear to say that she is dead.”

“My dear boy, where is the harm if you tell a little lie? After all, you should have some money for nursing your mother to health. Don’t you love your mother?... All right, you need not say anything about your mother. Your father is no more and there is no harm in saying that your father has died just now.”

“It is nevertheless a lie,” the boy demurred.

The shopkeeper was a little annoyed. “You are too simple for this world, my boy. Well, I only wanted to help you. If you don’t like my advice, well…..” he shrugged.

Asutosh stood hesitating for a few minutes. Then he walked towards the rationing office.

In those days, coarse cloth was scarce and was rationed. There was no dearth of costlier varieties but the poor and middle class people could not afford them. Each family was allowed a few yards of cloth. In addition special permits were given for special occasions. In the case of a death, a permit was issued for three yards of cloth to cover the corpse. The cloth could be sold for a good price in the black market.

Asutosh went inside the rationing office and told the officer in charge, “My father is dead. Will you kindly issue me a permit cloth?”

The officer was moved at the sight of the boy. “Poor boy, are there no elders in your family?” he asked.

“None, except my mother and she is ill,” sobbed the boy.

The officer wrote out the permit without further enquiry. “Can you read and write?…All right, just sign here….Here is the permit.”

The shopkeeper was very pleased. He slapped the boy’s affectionately, took the permit from him and gave him eight annas. The permit would fetch the shopkeeper a few rupees.

Asutosh purchased two-annas-worth of barley and sugar and hurried home. It was hours since he had left home. He was worried about his mother.

Even as he turned into his street, he found that a crowd had collected in front of his house. There was also standing the van of the ‘Hindu Satkar Samiti,’ an organisation to perform the funeral rites of the destitute dead.

Asutosh rushed in. Many of the former students of his father and some neighbours had gathered beside his mother’s bed.

One of them was saying, “She was a noble woman, worthy to be the wife of Pasupathi Bhattacharya. She maintained her dignity till her death.”

Asutosh stared at his mother’s body, incredulous. Was she really dead? He could not believe it. Had she not told him, when his father died, that she would never leave him? Why had she left him now? Surely she was angry with him! She had somehow come to know that Asutosh had told a lie against her advice. She was angry with him, and so she had left him and gone to join his father!

The boy’s tender heart could not bear to endure the thought. He hugged her body and burst into sobs. “I shall never again tell a lie, mother! Kindly excuse me this time and come , mother!”

The onlookers murmured, “Poor boy, the shock seems to have affected his brain. This is indeed heart-rending.”……..