Chapter 1	Sarkar's Short Stories Part 1

Once there was a mother-in-law and a daughter-in-law who used to quarrel fifty-eight times every day. One day they were working together in the kitchen. The mother-in-law was rolling rotis⁽¹⁾ and the daughter-in-law was cooking them. The mother-in-law yawned sleepily and said,

“What a nuisance this yawn is. I’ve got a feeling
It portends the death of my daughter-in-law’s brother.”

The daughter-in-law shook with indignation from head to toe. She also yawned, and said,

“This yawn is such a nuisance. I’ve got a feeling
It portends the death of my father-in-law’s brother-in-law.”

The mother-in-law was outraged by this remark, but had to keep her feelings to herself. It was definitely a case of “tit for tat.” The mother-in-law had overlooked one of the basic principles of life – always think of the consequences before abusing others – and had to pay for it.

“This calls for a change in tactics,” thought the mother-inlaw. “I’d better be a little more cunning.” The next day she announced, “We’re going to make seven hundred varieties of cake today.” So the mother-in-law and the daughter-in-law went off to the kitchen together to make cakes. They made so many cakes: steamed cake, steamed rice cake, fried cake, juicy-cake, condensed-milk cake, banana cake, cake-to-win-over-your-sister-in-law, cake-to-win-over-your-mother-in-law, and cake whose aroma fills the whole neighbourhood. The crows were standing nearby, waiting hopefully; the kites were looking on greedily from afar; the neighborhood’s small children were anxiously waiting; and the old folk of the locality were thinking, “If one or two bowls happen to be thrown in this direction, it won’t be such a bad thing.”

There was still enough time to eat before the evening prayer so the mother-in-law served everybody with bowls full of cakes. But not even once did she say, “Daughter-in-law, would you like to taste one or two cakes?” The daughter-in-law realized that the mother-in-law was getting her revenge. Suddenly the mother-in-law left the kitchen. The daughter-in-law seized her opportunity and greedily stuffed four hot fried cakes into her mouth. Unfortunately the mother-in-law returned as suddenly as she had left, putting the daughter-in-law in a most difficult situation. She couldn’t swallow the cakes, nor could she spit them out, nor could she chew them, nor even could she speak. She was really in quite a fix!

The mother-in-law asked, “Daughter-in-law, why aren’t you speaking?” “Mmmm… mmmm… mmmm… mmmm,” said the daughter-in-law.

The mother-in-law asked, “Daughter-in-law, why isn’t your mouth moving?”

“Mmmm… mmmm… mmmm… mmmm,” said the daughter-in-law.

The mother-in-law asked, “Daughter-in-law, why are your cheeks so swollen?”

“Mmmm… mmmm… mmmm… mmmmm,” said the daughter-in-law.

The perplexed mother-in-law called an assortment of doctors – homoeopaths, allopaths and ayurvedic physicians – but none of them could do anything for her daughter-in-law. A famous pathologist carried out an extensive examination, but was unable to diagnose the disease. X-rays were also taken, but didn’t help the physicians make a clear diagnosis either.

The mother-in-law stretched out her legs, hit herself on her forehead, and burst into uncontrollable sobs. “Oh, what’s happened to my daughter-in-law?” she wailed. “She’s caught a disease that even Shiva can’t cure. Oh, poor daughter-in-law! She can’t speak any more. Oh, poor daughter-in-law! Her cheeks look like two footballs. Oh, won’t anybody come and save my daughter-in-law?”

An elderly ayurvedic doctor heard the mother-in-law’s laments and felt sorry for her. “I’ll try to cure your daughter-in-law,” he said. “You won’t have to pay me anything.”

The mother-in-law retorted, “What, I won’t have to pay you anything. What a humiliating proposal! If you cure my daughter-in-law, I’ll give you as many juicy cakes as your stomach can hold.”

The ayurvedic doctor went up to the daughter-in-law, and softly whispered,

“Either spit out the cakes or swallow them down
Let the trouble go away and the doctor have his pay.”

The daughter-in-law had put up with the discomfort of a mouth stuffed with cake for so long that she wasn’t prepared to spit them out. So she swallowed the four cakes – gulp… gulp… gulp… gulp. The daughter-in-law’s swollen cheeks deflated, her lips started to move, and she could speak again. Seeing this, the mother-in-law was overcome with joy. “This is what I call real talent!” she exclaimed. “What a good doctor he is! He has brought our daughter-in-law back from the grave.” After a short pause she continued, “Oh, reputable doctor! Oh, reputable doctor! Come and eat a giant bowl of cakes.” “Cakes!” exclaimed the doctor gleefully. “But why only one giant bowlful? I wouldn’t have any objection to eating four. I read in the scriptures that these cakes cure three diseases and increase the appetite.”

That same day the mother-in-law and daughter-in-law made a vow to never eat cakes again for the rest of their lives. The mother-in-law thought, “By now it must be common knowledge that I didn’t give my daughter-in-law a single cake to eat. Dear, dear, dear. What must people think of me? I hereby vow that I will never eat another cake for the rest of my life.”

The daughter-in-law thought, “By now it must be common knowledge that I ate cakes secretly. Dear, dear, dear. I hereby vow that I will never eat another cake for the rest of my life.” From that day onwards the mother-in-law and daughter-in-law never ate cakes again. They both died a timely death and became fisheating ghosts because they were very greedy. They are now the closest of friends. The daughter-in-law rolls lucis⁽²⁾ and the mother-in-law cooks them.

“You are in the prime of youth,” says the mother-in-law. “Please eat first.” “How could I do that, dear mother,” the daughter-in-law replies, “You have become aged, and therefore you should eat first.” Then the mother-in-law says, “Daughter-in-law, you are so young, and yet work the whole day and night. It’ll do you good to have a stroll in the park.” And the daughter-in-law replies, “Dear respected mother, even though you have become quite elderly, you continue to stand beside the kitchen stove the whole day. I think it better that you go and get a breath of fresh air in the park.”

And so the ghost in-laws go to the park together every day for a breath of fresh air. The respected ayurvedic doctor, a good man, went to heaven where he now eats bowlful after bowlful of condensed milk cakes.

Footnotes

(1) A type of unleavened bread. –Trans.

(2) A type of unleavened bread fried in oil. –Trans.

Chapter 2	Sarkar's Short Stories Part 1

One day a brahmin received a gift of thirty-two anabas fish from one of his disciples. In the evening, the overjoyed brahmin set off with his fish. Just as he was passing under the coconut tree, Jungle Ghost looked down from her perch. She was unable to control her greed and asked in her peculiar nasal voice, “Brahmin, what are you going to do with all those fish?” The brahmin was so terrified that his soul almost left his body. Without thinking, he ran for his life. He rushed into his yard like a mad man gasping desperately for air, stumbled, fell flat on his face near the gutter and, clenched his teeth, and became senseless. When he regained consciousness he immediately reached into his bag to check the contents and exclaimed, “I don’t be lieve it! It can’t be possible! Before there were thirty two fish, and now there are only sixteen. Jungle Ghost must have taken the rest.”

The brahmin went inside his house and said to his wife, “My dear, it’s been such a long time since we ate anabas fish. Why don’t you make a nice curry out of these?”

His wife started to drool as soon as she saw the fish. She could hardly speak because every time she opened her mouth saliva would pour out and soak her sari. She quickly pulled herself together said, “My dear, we need some rice. Please go and get some from your disciple’s house. In the meantime I’ll cook the fish.”

Night had already fallen when the brahmin set off with his bag. Jungle Ghost spotted him from her coconut tree and felt sorry for him. She knew there was a large jar full of rice in the brahmin’s house. His wife had tricked him into leaving as part of her evil plan to eat all the fish secretly. Jungle Ghost was actually very kind.

“Brahmin, are you going to get some rice?” asked Jungle Ghost. The brahmin stood dumbfounded under the coconut tree. “Fool, why is your mouth open?” said Jungle Ghost. “Open up your bag!”

Jungle Ghost poured ten thousand kilos of the best Nunia rice from her bamboo tray into the brahmin’s bag. The brahmin returned home. He tried to open his front door, but it was locked. So he knocked: knock… knock… knock.

At that moment his wife had just finished frying the fish and was about to eat them. When she heard her husband knocking at the door, she became greatly irritated. She stuffed fifteen anabas fish into her mouth as quickly as she could, and swallowed them whole. Unfortunately there wasn’t time to eat the last fish; she didn’t want her husband to become suspicious.

The brahmin entered and said, “Take this my dear, the best Nunia rice of Siliguri. Let me see how much of it you can eat. Such good food is rarely eaten by V.I.P.’s, let alone people like us. The queen mother, Phultushi,1 called this rice the food of Indra.”

A little later, the brahmin’s wife served her husband rice and anabas fish curry. “My dear,” he inquired as he started his meal, “I gave you sixteen fish, yet you’ve only put one on my plate. What happened?”

“I suppose I’d better tell you the whole story.” said his wife. “When I was cutting the fish four of them slithered out of my hand, dug a hole and escaped underground. Then the cat ran off with four more in its mouth. Another four of them slipped out of my hand, jumped into the drain, and swam jubilantly to freedom. I had prepared the other four and just as I put them into the frying pan three of them leapt up and, in a single jump, landed on top of that palm tree. They’re up there now doing gymnastics. Only one fish was left in the pan. Now, since you are the man of the house, tell me, how could I possibly eat it instead of you? What does it matter if this unfortunate tongue of mine doesn’t get to taste the fish?” The brahmin listened in astonishment. What else could he do? His wife continued,

“If I am the daughter of honest parents,
Then I have given you the full account of the sixteen fish.
If you are the son of honest parents,
Then eat the head and tail and leave me the rest.”

The brahmin had no alternative. He left the fish’s torso on the plate and got up.

1. Queen Phultushi was the wife and general of the king of North Bengal, Shyamal Barman. She bravely resisted an invasion and thus protected the liberty of the North Bengal people. The place where she crushed the enemy soldiers is now known as Phalakata. That motherly and liberal-natured lady attempted to remove the differences between subject and king, and drew everyone near her by the touch of her affection. She proclaimed, “The subjects are my children. Therefore they are all of royal birth.” She also introduced the sweet form of address which is still in vogue today, “Baba he”. She was the daughter of King Karneshwar Roy who ruled over the feudal kingdom of Konkaná (it’s present name is Kakina).

Chapter 3	Sarkar's Short Stories Part 1

Once upon a time there was a famous and respected king called Kulabanta Singh. His personality was so awesome that in his kingdom cows and tigers would drink from the same pond. Six-foot tall gate-keepers, dressed in glamorous uniforms and sporting giant moustaches, stood on guard at the palace gates. The head gatekeeper was called Kushabanta Singh. One day while keeping guard at the main gate, a gun propped against his shoulder, Kushabanta Singh spotted the palace laundryman, Chabbyulal Rajak. He was pushing a hand-cart full of bundles of clothes and, surprisingly, had shaved his head. Kushabanta Singh thought,

“What’s happened, what’s going on?
Maybe someone’s dead.
Why has the laundryman
Completely shaved his head?”

“Hey Brother Chabbyulal, why have you shaved your head?” he asked. Chabbyulal burst into tears. “Haven’t you heard?” he sobbed. “In my neighbourhood everyone’s weeping; tears are pouring from their eyes. The news must certainly be in the papers: Gandharba Singh is no longer in this earthly world. Gandharba Singh is dead.”

Kushabanta Singh had no idea who Gandharba Singh was; he had not even heard the name before. But from what he had just been told, he guessed he was not an ordinary person. “There can’t have been a braver man than he,” he thought.

“Haven’t you heard anything about this important event?” asked Chabbyulal.

“Well, I’ve been busy here since early morning doing my duty,” replied Kushabanta Singh, trying his best to hide his shameful ignorance, “so even though I heard about it, I really couldn’t do much at all.” And he thought, “There’s only one way out of this embarrassing situation.” He immediately called a barber and had his head shaved.

Gunabanta Singh, the rent-collector, was hurrying towards the palace. The water was not running in the early morning so he could not have his bath at the usual time. As a result he was now late for work. When he arrived at the palace gates he noticed that the gatekeeper had shaved his head, and thought,

“What’s happened, what’s going on?
Maybe someone’s dead.
Why has the gate-keeper
Completely shaved his head?

“Brother Kushabanta Singh,” he asked, “what’s happened Why have you shaved your head?”

“I suppose you didn’t have time to read the papers this morning,” he replied. “The country’s most beloved leader, Gandharba Singh, is no longer with us. What more could I do for such a noble person? By shaving my head I’ve paid my last respects.” Tears welled in his eyes.

The rent-collector decided he would not go to the royal court just yet. First he would have his head shaved; then he would go.

The manager, Balabanta Singh, was in a fuming rage: the rent collector was late… again. “I’ve had enough,” he thought. “I’m going to deal with Gunabanta Singh once and for all. Only then will he stop his habit of coming late.” But when he saw the bald rent-collector rushing into his office, he thought,

“What’s happened, what’s going on?
Maybe someone’s dead.
Why has the rent-collector
Completely shaved his head?”

“Hey rent-collector,” he asked, “what’s happened?”

“The biggest news of the day is the passing away of Gandharba Sirnh,” he replied. “Didn’t you read the papers? Today we’ve been shaken by a terrible catastrophe. As a government employee, you know, I can’t take the liberty of being absent from work. So I’ve paid my last respects in the only way possible – by shaving my head.”

“I’m also a government employee in mourning,” thought the manager. “Unfortunately there’s nothing more I can do either.” He went to a nearby hair-cutting salon and had his hair shaved off.

Work was going on as usual in the royal court when the manager entered the private office of the minister, Hanumanta Singh, with some urgent files.

Seeing Balabanta Singh’s shaven head the minister thought,

“What’s happened, what’s going on?
Maybe someone’s dead.
Why has the manager
Completely shaved his head?”

“Oh manager, has there been some mishap in your family?” he asked.

“Not in my family,” replied the manager, “but in my country.” The minister became attentive. “What’s happened? What’s happened? I haven’t heard anything.”

“Didn’t you listen to the radio this morning?” asked Balabanta Singh. “The biggest news of the day is the demise of the national leader, Gandharba Singh. Being a government official, how else can I pay last respects for the departed soul except by shaving my head?”

“Oh dear, dear, dear,” lamented the minister, “What a terrible thing! What a terrible thing! It’s a tragic loss, an awful catastrophe. I’ll look at your files a little later. First I’ll have my head shaved.” And he went and quickly did just that.

That day all the work in the royal court was a little delayed. Nevertheless, the minister still went to see the king, Kulabanta Singh, although a little later than usual. When the king saw him, he thought,

“What’s happened, what’s going on?
Maybe someone’s dead.
Why has the minister
Completely shaved his head?”

“Minister Hanumanta Singh,” he asked, “tell me what type of unexpected event has happened.” The king’s tone showed that he was quite concerned and deeply sympathetic. He thought that perhaps the minister’s ageing father, who had been suffering from gout for so long, had finally left his body. Or maybe his elderly mother, a long-time sufferer of asthma, had passed away.

“Your Majesty,” replied the minister, “didn’t you watch television this morning? It’s the day’s big news.”

“What’s happened, Hanumanta Singh?” asked the king anxiously. “What’s the news? Tell me quickly, I can’t wait any longer.”

The minister replied, “The country’s most beloved leader, respected by all, Gandharba Singh the Great, is no longer with us. He will no longer be here to stand by our side in times of prosperity or in times of adversity. He has gone to the world of immortality.”

“What a terrible disaster!” lamented the king. “and the public relations department didn’t tell me anything. Anyway, let me do my first duty.” The king’s personal barber, Darbarilal, came and shaved his head. “What else should we do to honour him?” asked the king.

“We could declare a week’s state mourning,” suggested the minister.

“What an excellent idea! What a wonderful proposal!” exclaimed the king. “Before making a public declaration, however,” he continued after a pause, “I’d better go and have a word with the queen in her private chamber. You see, during the period of mourning she won’t be able to wear her red-bordered sari, she’ll have to wear a black-bordered one. It would be prudent to inform her about this before putting my signature on the official declaration.”

The king hurried into the queen’s chamber. Queen Buddhimatii Devii was sitting with her back to the sun rolling lamp wicks and singing to herself,

“Oh my friend Lalita
Hold the [[lamp, oh,]] please
So I can walk along
Safely and with ease.”

Surprised to see the king rush in at an odd hour, and even more surprised by his bald head, Queen Buddhimatii Devii thought,

“What’s happened, what’s going on?
Maybe someone’s dead.
Why has the king
Completely shaved his head?”

“Dear king, what’s happened?” she asked. “Why have you shaved your head?”

“All you seem to care about is rolling your lamp wicks,” said the king. “Haven’t you heard about the greatest disaster to befall our country? What’s the use of having a television set if you never watch it? Not only was he the glory of our country,” he continued, “but Gandharba Singh was the glory of the entire world. Now he’s no longer on the earth. Causing us to weep, immersing us in a sea of grief, he has gone to the divine world.”

“That’s very sad, my dear,” said the queen.

“Yes,” he continued, “that’s why we’ve decided to go into state mourning for a week.”

“What should I do?” asked the queen. “I’ll do whatever is necessary.”

“During the week of mourning,” said the king, “you should wear a black-bordered sari instead of a red-bordered one.”

“Of course,” she agreed. “Of course I will.”

“My dear,” added the king, “it would be even better if you shaved your head like the rest of us.”

The queen affectionately stroked her Albert-style hair-bun. “Will I have to shave my whole head or can I keep my bun?”

“People will praise you more if you shave off both your hair and your bun,” said the king.

The queen apprehended danger. Would such a precious bun really have to be shaved off? “Since the king has given the order,” she said, “I will have to get my bun shaved off. Before that, however, I’d like to hear a brief biography of Gandharba Singh.”

“Gandharba Singh the Great!” exclaimed the king. “Gandharba Singh the most famous! What else is there to know? What more do you want?”

“Dear king, you are a very learned man,” said the queen. “You have an MA in three subjects whereas I only have one MA, in psychology. My shallow knowledge can hardly be compared to your profound learning, so please let me know the biography of Gandharba Singh.”

The king was in a fix. “I… I… I don’t know all the minor details,” he stammered. “I can’t tell you anything. The minister, Hanumanta Singh, told me.”

“Call Hanumanta Singh.”

Hanumanta Singh came in. He was also in a fix. “I… I… I don’t know all the details,” he stammered. “The manager, Balabanta Singh, told me.”

Balabanta Singh came in. He was also in a fix and stammered, “I… I… I don’t know all the details. The rent-collector, Gunabanta Singh, told me.”

Gunabanta Singh came in. He was also in a fix and stammered, “I… I… I don’t know all the details. The gate-keeper, Khushabanta Singh, told me.”

Khushabanta Singh came in. He was also in a fix and stammered, “I… I… I don’t know all the details. The laundryman, Chabbyulal, told me.”

“Bring Chabbyulal here,” ordered the king.

The king’s guards brought Chabbyulal to the palace with hands bound. Chabbyulal stood in front of the king and burst into tears.

“Chabbyulal,” said the king, “Gandharba Singh’s demise is a distressing event not only for the country, but for the whole world. We are overwhelmed with grief. If you know anything about him, please tell us.”

Replied Chabbyulal, “Right now all the people in my neighbourhood are weeping day and night. Due to Gandharba Singh’s untimely death their chests are bursting with grief. We could never have imagined that Gandharba Singh would pass away.”

“I understand,” consoled the king. “We are also grief-stricken. Gandharba Singh has gone leaving us in an ocean of sorrow. Out of grief we have shaved our heads. We are ready to shave them a thousand times if necessary – but I want to know who he was exactly.”

“Your Majesty,” replied Chabbyulal, “it is indeed a great loss. No loss can be greater than this. What else can I tell you about him? Gandharba Singh was the name of my dearest, my most beloved donkey. In his absence I’ve been pulling my laundry cart around myself today.”

Chapter 4	Sarkar's Short Stories Part 1

This little story is taken from the Ramayana. Rama and Ravana were engaged in a fierce battle. Rama was unable to defeat Ravana because he was protected by the blessings of Shiva. So Rama decided to please Shiva by worshipping him. At the end of his worship he addressed Shiva as Rámeshvara in the prańama mantra. “Tvam rámasya iishvarah ityarthe rámeshvarah,” he said. Shiva strongly objected to the use of the term rámeshvarah, saying, “Ramasya iishvarah iti rámeshvarah – I refuse to accept the interpretation that ‘Rama’s lord is Rámeshvarah’. In my opinion the mantra should be interpreted as, Rámah yásya iishvarah svah rámeshvarah; that is, ‘I accept Rama as my lord.’”

“How can I be Shiva’s lord?” Rama protested. “That’s an absurd proposition.”

Unable to resolve their disagreements amicably, the two opponents stood facing each other, preparing for battle. On the one side, Shiva, armed with a mighty trident, on the other side, Rama, drawing his destructive bow. The earth shook with fear, the animals and human beings were petrified. Terror filled the air.

The living beings of the world begged the warring parties to reconsider. “Both of you are great. No one wants to see you at war.”

“We don’t wish to go to war either,” said Rama and Shiva. “Please tell us which of our interpretations is correct. That will solve the problem.”

“We suggest you accept the following interpretation,” said the human beings, “Ramaeva iishvarah iti Rameshvarah; that is, Rama himself is a lord, so he’s Rameshvarah.”

This was acceptable to both Rama and Shiva because it stated that Rama was a lord, but not the lord of Shiva or anyone else. A great crisis had been averted.

Chapter 5	Sarkar's Short Stories Part 1

Once there was a fierce contest between two headmasters from neighbouring villages in Burdwan district. It was also a contest between the villages themselves, for each claimed that its head master was the most learned. The contest took place in a field between the two villages.

One of the headmasters was a just and learned man, the other was a cunning fellow and a master of deceit. It was the latter who first addressed the gathering. “Ladies and gentlemen, being the underdog in this contest I humbly request you to permit me to ask my opponent the first question.”

“Certainly,” said the crowd. “A man of your humility should undoubtedly ask the first question.”

“Could you tell me the meaning of ámi jáni ná?”⁽¹⁾ the cunning headmaster asked his opponent.

“I don’t know,” replied the learned headmaster.

The cunning headmaster cast a triumphant glance around the audience. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he declared, “I asked him a simple question to which he replied, ‘I don’t know’. Just see how ignorant he is.”

“True! True!” shouted his followers, throwing their umbrellas in the air and dancing stick-dances in joyful abandon. The junior village police officer was so elated that he offered to buy everyone sweets.

The cunning headmaster then said, “Let me give him another chance.”

“Certainly! Certainly!” shouted the crowd.

“Sir, what is required to make viváha?”⁽²⁾ asked the cunning headmaster.

“It’s quite simple really,” replied the learned headmaster, “ghaiṋ is required. That is, prefix vi plus vaha plus ghaiṋ is equal to viváha.”

The cunning headmaster glowed with delight. He peered at the crowd and said, “Distinguished ladies and gentlemen, you are experts in the ways of the world – I am a mere child compared to you. Have you ever heard of anything called ghaiṋ being required in a marriage ceremony?”

“No, no, of course not,” shouted his delighted followers. “We’ve never heard of such a strange thing.”

“Let me tell you what is required in a marriage ceremony. Let’s see… a priest, a holy stone, sacred fire, new clothes, towels, baskets, and so on, but nothing like a ghaiṋ. My fourteen [[times]] two – that’s, er, that’s fifty-two – generations [[of ancestors]] have never heard of this peculiar ghaiṋ thing.”

The crowd burst into applause. “Well said! Well said!” they shouted. “You are the most learned headmaster. Congratulations. You’ve won the contest.”

Footnotes

(1) Ámi jáni ná means “I don’t know” in Bengali. –Trans.

(2) Viváha is the Sanskrit word for marriage. –Trans.

Chapter 6	Sarkar's Short Stories Part 1

This story is about Indrajit, the son of Rávana. One day Angada, the son of Báli, went to Rávana’s court to submit his credentials. Before he arrived the nineteen ministers of Rávana’s court had assumed the form of Rávana by using demonic spells. Only Indrajit, Rávana’s son, was in his actual form. These spells require enormous psychic concentration to be maintained. If one is swayed by anger or any other emotion concentration is lost and the spell stops working. In order to find the real Rávana, Angada knew he had to disturb the ministers’ concentration and force them back into their original form. So he addressed Indrajit provokingly,

“Indrajit mitá mora, Indrajit mitá
Vishati Rávan dekhi, vishati ki tor pitá?”

[“Indrajit, my dear friend,
I see twenty Rávanas.
Is every one your father?”]

The story goes that the nineteen ministers were infuriated by Angada’s insinuation, lost their mental concentration and returned to their original form. Angada was able to identify the real Rávana and presented his credentials to him.

Chapter 7	Sarkar's Short Stories Part 1

This is a very short story about a king called Vikramáditya. One day he was travelling to a distant land by palanquin. When the palanquin bearers became tired he instructed them to take the palanquin off their shoulders and put it on the ground. Then the king asked in Sanskrit, “Skandhaḿ vádhati?” – “Are your shoulders hurting?” The Sanskrit root verb bádh should be used in the átmanepadii form and not the parasmaepadii form. Bádhate is the correct verbal form, not bádhati. King Vikramáditya made a mistake by using the parasmaepadii form. The other mistake he made was to incorrectly pronounce bádhati as vádhati.

It is also mentioned in the story that the palanquin bearers said to the king, “Skandhaḿ bádhatena rájan yathá vádhati bádhate” – “Oh, king, your pronunciation of bádhate hurts much more than our aching shoulders.”

Chapter 8	Sarkar's Short Stories Part 1

Have you heard the story about the two women who had a conversation from opposite banks of a pond in Burdwan district? One was the elder sister of the Bose brothers and the other was the elder sister of the Mittir brothers. Both women were slightly deaf.

Mrs. Mittir said, “Hello, Mrs. Bose, how are you? Quite well, I trust?”

“So you’ve heard the news too,” replied Mrs. Bose. “It’s a scandalous story, isn’t it? It’s hardly surprising the news reached you so quickly. I was making puffed rice when the wretched thief came and stole the papaya. Since then I’ve been crying my eyes out.”

“Very good! Very good!” said Mrs. Mittir. “That’s wonderful news. Did you hear the sad news that the second brother of the Chatterjee family passed away last night?”

“Excellent! Excellent!” exclaimed Mrs. Bose. “I’m glad to hear that. I was planning to offer the papaya to Lord Viśńu, but the damned thief has ruined everything. What a wretch!”

“Were you asking whom Mr. Chatterjee left behind?” asked Mrs. Mittir. “Well, he left behind a daughter. His son-in-law rushed from Chandannagar to his house as soon as he heard the news.”

“It’s quite natural for you to feel sad,” said Mrs. Bose. “Had I lost my pearl necklace I could have tolerated the grief, but the loss of the papaya is too much to bear.”

“Do you want to know what the son-in-law does?” asked Mrs. Mittir. “He’s quite a good chap… very well educated. He used to teach at Khandaghose school. Now he’s a professor at Uttarpara college.”

“It’s normal to feel so heartbroken,” consoled Mrs. Bose. “Anyone who heard this story in any part of the world would feel the same. It was such a huge, juicy papaya, and so sweet. It was tastier than Jessore palm and as sweet as a lump of molasses.”

Chapter 9	Sarkar's Short Stories Part 1

Chapter 10	Sarkar's Short Stories Part 1

One day the birds were chirping in the forest. A passing devotee was charmed by their sweet melodies and exclaimed joyfully, “Oh, these birds are so devoted. They’re singing ‘Rama, Sita, Dasarath.’”

Another devotee happened to come along the same path and was equally delighted, saying, “Oh, those birds are great devotees. They’re singing ‘Allah, Mohammed, Hazrat.’”

Close on his heels was a wrestler. On hearing the chirping he exclaimed with joyful exuberance, “I’m not the only one who does physical exercise. The birds also like to keep fit. They’re singing, ‘D́on, baet́hak, kasrat – push-ups, sit-ups, muscle-building.’”

A master cook was walking close behind him. “Ah, the birds have also accepted that cooking is an art form. Just listen to their melodious song. They’re singing, ‘Lahshun, piṋyáj, ádrak – garlic, onion, ginger.’”

Whoever it may be, everyone looks at the world through his or her own spectacles.

Chapter 11	Sarkar's Short Stories Part 1

Perhaps you’ve heard stories about the mythological city, Andherinagari, which was located near Allahabad. Food was extremely cheap there. You could buy a kilo of fried okra for two paisa and a kilo of fried vegetables for one paisa. The king of Andherinagari was called Choapat́.

There lived in Andherinagari a very intelligent man who had an extremely bad habit of hurting people. He was so possessed by this habit that his food only became palatable when he had just hurt someone. He wouldn’t even drink a glass of barley water unless he had recently given pain to others. As you can well imagine, this bad habit made life unbearable for his neighbours.

One fine day the call came for him from the Other World. He summoned the neighbours and said, “Friends, my bad habit has brought great torment to your lives. Today, before my life in this mortal frame comes to an end, I wish to give up this bad habit. But I need your help. Please do me one last favour when I expire. Kindly hang my dead body by its legs from a branch of that banyan tree and throw stones at it. Each stone which hits my dangling corpse will push me one step further towards heaven.”

The neighbours were reluctant. “But you’ll certainly give up your bad habit when you get to the Other World,” they said. “Moreover, we couldn’t possibly throw stones at a dead body. No, we can’t even contemplate doing such a thing.”

“Do you want to deny me the pleasure of eating sweet and savoury polau for eternity in heaven?” he asked. “Do you want to prevent me from having friendly conversations with the angels? Are you trying to stop me from going to heaven?” “No, no, no, of course not,” said the innocent neighbours, “but we don’t like the thought of throwing stones at your dead body. If that alone will bring peace to your departed soul then I suppose we can do it, but with the greatest reluctance.”

Late that afternoon the man passed away and the neighbours unwillingly carried out his last wish. They gently threw one or two stones at his dead body hanging head down from a branch of the banyan tree. Tears swelled in their eyes, for they were doing it for the peace of the departed soul.

Suddenly, the district police superintendent arrived on the spot with a large contingent of police. They encircled the villagers, arrested them and threw them into the back of a red van. The villagers were dumbfounded. One of the police officers broke the silence, “We have just received a letter from the deceased. He writes, ‘The villagers have given me trouble all my life. I heard that even on the eve of my death they were planning to torture me by hanging my corpse from a tree and throwing stones at it. Please come soon to protect my dead body.’ We came immediately and caught you people red-handed.”

Even after death that man refused to give up his bad habit. That’s why it is said, “Black will take no other hue.”

Chapter 12	Sarkar's Short Stories Part 1

Bhajahari was the name of a rich landlord’s newly appointed domestic assistant. One day at noon the landlord told him, “Hey, Bhaja, go and prepare my bath.” After a while Bhajahari returned and declared, “Everything’s ready, sir.” The landlord went to the bathroom and was astonished to see that all Bhajahari had done was to put a few buckets of water on the floor.

“Bhaja, come here,” he shouted. “Listen to me carefully. You must be more methodical when you do something. You must plan ahead, do you understand?”

“Yes sir,” he replied.

“Tell me what you’ve understood,” said the landlord.

“When I do something I must plan ahead and be methodical,” replied Bhajahari.

“That’s right,” said the landlord. “Let me give you an example. Let’s take the case of preparing my bath. First you have to fetch some water. Then you have to decide where I’ll sit. I’ll probably sit on a wooden stool so you’ll have to fetch that too. Next you should think about my soap and oil and place it conveniently by the stool. After the bath I’ll dry myself, so I’ll need a towel. Then I’ll need freshly-pressed clothes, a mirror, comb, and so on. After bathing and dressing I’ll eat, so my wife should be ready with the food. Then I’ll wash my face, so a jug and towel should be kept nearby, and finally I’ll have a smoke, for which tobacco will be required. Do you understand?”

“Yes sir, it’s perfectly clear sir.”

That same day in the afternoon the landlord had a splitting headache. He called Bhajahari to his bedside and said, “Bhaja, I have a terrible headache. Bring me some tablets from the pharmacy.”

Bhajahari left the house on what should have been a quick errand, but he didn’t come back when expected. The day passed, the evening passed, darkness descended upon the world, and still there was no sign of Bhajahari. Finally, early next morning, when the landlord’s head was reeling under the heat of the early rays of the sun, Bhajahari made his appearance. He was accompanied by a crowd of people carrying bamboo sticks, machetes, ropes and wooden logs. Many of them had tied towels around their waists.

“Where have you been?” demanded the irate landlord. “All I asked you to do was bring a few tablets to cure my headache. Did you forget?”

“No sir,” replied Bhajahari, “I didn’t forget. I bought the tablets as you instructed. But then I remembered what you told me about planning ahead. I thought that if the tablets don’t cure my master what will happen? Perhaps my master will pass away. So first I bought some pots from the potter, then I consulted the almanac, then I went to the funeral shop and bought everything needed for a cremation. I bought some ghee, but I wasn’t sure if I had enough, so I bought some oil just to make sure. Then I purchased the wooden logs and had someone cut bamboo sticks from a bamboo grove. Finally I invited many people to join the funeral procession. They said the night was too cold and would only leave their houses in the morning after a hot cup of tea in bed. So here we are sir.”

“Your understanding of planning ahead is quite remarkable,” said the landlord. “But you left out an important event from this long sequence. If your master passes away he won’t be able to employ you any more, will he? Get out of my sight, you idiot. You’re fired!”

Chapter 13	Sarkar's Short Stories Part 1

One day Rama, Lakshmana and Sita were returning to Ayodhya from Sri Lanka on a flying chariot. When they were flying over Kiskindhya, a beautiful land at the foothills of a huge mountain range, they received an invitation from Hanuman, a citizen of Kiskindhya, to make a stopover. They did not require a passport or visa. The pilot told them everything indicated an easy landing: visibility was good, the flying chariot was in excellent condition and the runway was clear. So Rama gave the green signal to land.

According to protocol, some people greeted Sita, others greeted Lakshmana. Hanuman’s mother, Aiṋjaná, accompanied Sita as she disembarked and introduced her to the female monkeys. Although these monkeys were delighted to meet Sita, they found her behaviour rather odd. “How strange,” they thought, “Sita doesn’t say ‘hoop, hoop’ like us but says ‘how, how’.⁽¹⁾ She’s very uncultured.” They were actually quite offended, but were obliged by the rules of protocol to wear a sweet smile on their charcoal-coloured faces.

Aiṋjaná said, “How lucky we are that Sita, the most beautiful woman in the world, has honoured us with her gracious presence today.” The female monkeys offered her fresh leaves and unwashed fruit. Instead of eating them Sita smiled and touched them lightly. This also offended the monkeys but they were bound by protocol to hide their feelings. They merely smiled, displaying fine sets of teeth.

“Dear monkeys,” asked Aiṋjaná, “don’t you agree that Sita is exceedingly beautiful?” “There’s no doubt that Sita is strikingly beautiful,” replied the female monkeys, “But we’ve noticed a slight imperfection in her beauty.”

“You monkeys have the bad habit of finding fault with everything,” said Aiṋjaná. “‘Even in a handsome body, flies find a home in open sores’ – it appears this proverb is talking about you.”

Aiṋjaná continued, “I’ve noticed that human ladies are better than you in many respects. You have three striking defects which overshadow all your qualities. Your first defect is jealousy. You become extremely jealous whenever others are praised. Human ladies are just the opposite they are always eager to praise others. Then you get angry whenever anyone calls you an old monkey, even if you are old. Human ladies are completely different. When they age after carrying out the household chores year after year, they say, ‘Well, youth has abandoned me and death approaches. Nevertheless, I must continue to march in the tread mill of domestic duty.’ What a straightforward acceptance of their domestic life. Your third defect is your constant endeavour to hide your real age. The other day I asked my grandmother, ‘How old are you, granny?’ She uttered her reply though a toothless mouth. ‘You want to know my age? Well, I’m only fourteen years old, although I may be a little younger because one of my aunts said she’s twelve or thirteen and another aunt said she’s even younger.’ I pointed out to granny that this is impossible because her granddaughter’s twenty. Sucking thoughtfully on a lozenge she said, ‘Don’t you know? I was born six years after my granddaughter.’”

“Female monkeys, I strongly advise you to give up this bad habit of hiding your age. The only time I’ve seen you increase your age is when you apply for a government job. Human ladies don’t lie about their age like you.”

“Sister Aiṋjaná,” said the female monkeys, “what you say is true. Even the judges will agree with you. But the fact remains that Sita’s beauty is not perfect.”

“Even after agreeing with me you continue to criticize her,” said Aiṋjaná in disbelief.

“But anyone with two eyes can see that Sita doesn’t have a nice long tail or handsome nose like us,” concluded the monkeys.

Footnotes

(1) As in, “How do you do?” –Trans.

Chapter 14	Sarkar's Short Stories Part 1

Rama, Laksmana and Sita spent fourteen years in the forest in exile. During that period Laksmana was in charge of security. Late one night, when he was on patrol, his eyes became heavy with intense tiredness. With great difficulty he lifted up his bow and aimed an arrow at the goddess of sleep.

“Oh Laksmana,” said the goddess, “many people praise you for your noble qualities, but it seems that praise is misplaced. If you were really noble would you shoot an arrow at an unarmed person, and a lady?”

“But you’re stopping me from doing my duty,” Laksmana protested. “My action is fully justified.”

“Perhaps it is,” said the goddess, “but remember, I have a duty to do too. It’s my duty to sit on people’s eyelids. You have every right to protest if I sit on your eyelids at midday, but this is the dead of night. It’s the time when everyone should be asleep.”

“That may be true,” said Laksmana, “but please don’t sleep on my eyelids for another fourteen years. I suggest you make a note of it in your diary.” Laksmana also recorded the event in his diary and encircled the date on his calendar with red ink when the goddess of sleep would next visit him.

Many days passed. Many tender buds grew into leaves that yellowed and fell softly to the ground. Many children grew up and began their studies at university.

Rama had returned to Ayodhya and was attending his coronation ceremony. Laksmana was standing at his side, fanning him with the royal fan. Suddenly Laksmana felt a heavy drowsiness come upon him and inadvertently dropped the fan. He gripped the throne to prevent himself from falling to the ground. The crowd cried out in surprise. A doctor rushed up and checked his pulse and other symptoms. He declared that Laksmana was suffering from vitamin deficiency and gave him some capsules to swallow and a few tonics to drink. Laksmana soon regained his strength and stood up straight.

“You won’t be able to intimidate me anymore,” said the goddess of sleep. “I’ve come at the proper time. Open your diary and see for yourself. I’m not a minute late.”

“You’re right,” said Laksmana after looking in his diary. “But can’t you see I’m a little busy now? I suggest you come back at a more suitable time.”

Said the goddess, “If it is not improper for a child to fall asleep without eating, or a bride to feel drowsy during her marriage ceremony, or the demon Kumbhakarna to sleep for half a year, then why is it wrong for anyone to doze off while waving the royal fan? I have come today to apply my entire strength on your eyelids.”

“Well, I’m sorry,” said Laksmana, “but I’ve been entrusted with a very important duty here. I will not fall asleep.”

“Then where shall I apply my strength?” asked the goddess.

“From now on,” suggested Laksmana, “whenever you see a lively debate going on in a religious meeting, sit on the eyelids of any sinner who may be participating.”

Laksmana was left to carry out his duty undisturbed. Since that day, if any sinner happens to attend a religious meeting…

Chapter 15	Sarkar's Short Stories Part 1

Rama’s coronation ceremony was drawing to an end. The kings and dignitaries, the friends and relatives, had bid farewell to Rama and were returning to their distant lands. The monkeys also sought Rama’s permission to begin their long journey to Kiskindhyá. Rama whispered in Vashiśt́ha’s ear, “These monkeys have done a lot for us. How can we repay them?”

“Perhaps you could grant them a special boon,” Vashiśt́há suggested.

“I could grant them a boon to be reborn as humans in their next life,” said Rama.

“That’s a generous offer,” mused Vashiśt́ha, “but they have such a deep inferiority complex that I doubt if they’ll accept.”

“Let’s see,” said Rama, turning to address the monkeys. “Brother monkeys, you have served me well. Today I wish to grant you the boon that you be reborn as humans in Kali Yuga.”

The monkeys were hesitant. After a short deliberation they replied, “Your Majesty, we thank you for your generous offer. However, the world of humans is too formal and artificial for us. We would suffer terribly in such an artificial world. Thank you, Your Majesty, but we don’t desire a human form.”

“But as humans you can also lead honest unsophisticated lives. You can easily avoid unnecessary complications,” Rama said.

“We’ve heard humans pretend to be hungry even when their stomachs are full. They say, ‘Oh, we haven’t eaten yet because we weren’t hungry.’ Sometimes they don’t touch water for many days, and say, ‘We just had a bath even though we are suffering from the flu’”.

“But you don’t have to tell lies,” said Rama. “You’ll clearly tell people whether you are hungry or not, or whether you have bathed or not.”

The monkeys continued, “Humans keep filing law suits against each other. We don’t understand the complexities of a court case. What shall we do, Your Majesty? Even after swearing an oath in court humans continue to tell lies. We couldn’t possibly do that.”

“But you’ll only file a case for a just cause,” persisted Rama. “You won’t implicate innocent people, nor will you tell lies after swearing an oath.”

The monkeys fell into deep thought. Rama glanced at Vashiśt́ha, who said, “Didn’t I tell you this would happen, Your Majesty?”

After a while the monkeys asked, “Your Majesty, if we become humans, what will happen to our beloved tail?”

“That’s nothing to be worried about,” said Rama. “In place of your monkey tail we’ll give you a pigtail at the back of your head. The whole world will be enchanted by its beauty as it swings across your necks.”

The monkeys were still hesitant. “See, I told you so,” said Vashiśt́ha.

Finally the monkeys said, “Your Majesty, we like your offer of a pigtail, but there is still a major problem. We really don’t want clean-shaven, handsome faces; we prefer to keep our own charcoal-coloured faces.”

Rama was lost for words. “This is what I meant by inferiority complex, Your Majesty,” whispered Vashiśt́ha.

“Well, what a terrible thing,” said Rama. “Humans must protect themselves from this inferiority complex.”

“I couldn’t agree with you more,” said Vashiśt́ha.

Chapter 16	Sarkar's Short Stories Part 1

Four thieves happened to meet at Kashii during cúŕhámańi yog, one of the many religious festivals in India. Some people say a holy dip in the river Ganges during cúŕhámańi yog brings even more virtue than a holy dip during an eclipse. That’s why sinners eagerly await cúŕhámańi yog, like crows in a place of pilgrimage, to relieve themselves of their heavy burden. Even relatively pious people join the sinners for the holy dip. They hope to acquire enough virtue to neutralize any sins they might commit in the future.

According to the code of conduct of common people, one has to sleep at night and work during the day. This is not the case for thieves: their code of conduct tells them it’s a sin to sleep at night.

The four thieves came from far-flung places: Lahore, Peshwar, Tutikorin, one of the biggest salt producing towns in southern India, and Calcutta. They met in a traveler’s inn and in no time were the best of friends. How true is the proverb, “Birds of a feather flock together.”

One of the thieves suggested, “Friends, we’ve got to stay awake the whole night, so let’s tell some interesting stories. Any one of us can challenge the storyteller about the truth of his story. But if he can’t prove the story’s false, he’ll have to pay 2,000 rupees in cash on the spot.” The other thieves thought it was a great idea.

The Lahore thief told the first story. “Friends, my grandfather had about ten million buffaloes. I say about ten million because they never finished counting them all – it was rather like trying to count the stars in the sky. Each buffalo gave 4,000 litres of milk every day, milk as pure as the gum of a banyan tree. The problem was, though, there weren’t enough people to sell the milk, nor, indeed, were there enough people to drink it. They threw so much milk away that five huge white rivers were formed - the Sattadru, Vipasa, Iravati, Chandrabhaga and Vitasta. The Greeks called them the Sutlej, Beas, Rabi, Chenub and Jhelum respectively. Those magnificent rivers carried their milk to the coast where it mixed with the salt water of the oceans. You can probably guess what happened next. My grandfather became rich, and therefore idle, and gave the responsibility of milking the cows to his servants. This had disastrous results as you would expect. The servants mixed so much water with the milk that it lost its brilliant white colour altogether. If you go to that place now you’ll only find rivers of water – there’s not a single drop of milk left. You’re welcome to go anytime. I guarantee you’ll see I’m telling the truth.”

The Peshawar and Tutikorin thieves chuckled to themselves. They had no intention of challenging the authenticity of this story. It would have been a waste of 2,000 rupees. The Calcutta thief exclaimed, “What a pity! I’m so sorry to hear about the tragic fate of your grandfather. How unfortunate that the grandson of a family whose buffaloes produced enough milk to make five great rivers has been forced into the street to pick pockets with a pair of scissors. What bad luck. This is the irony of fate.” The other thieves thought the Calcutta thief was a complete idiot.

The Peshawar thief told the next story. “There is no historical document to prove the exact number of buffaloes our friend’s grandfather kept. None of the great travellers – Hiuensung, Megasthenes or Fahien and the like – mentioned anything about the buffaloes in their diaries. But they did make a record of the millions of ducks owned by my grandfather. His ducks were considerably larger than the common duck of today. I suppose you’ve heard about the huge ships Titanic and Normandy – people say they were as tall as eight story buildings. Well, our ducks could eat a ship of that size as a snack in the morning and afternoon. They could swallow it in one gulp. Those ducks used to swim in the same five rivers our friend just mentioned. Alexander the Great – you know who he was, don’t you? – marched to India with the intention of conquering the entire country. He succeeded in capturing Magadha, but for some reason didn’t advance much further. Those who only know a little history say he was overawed by the bravery of King Puru (in Greek, Porus). Some say he turned back when he heard tales about the valour of the Bengalees of Rarh (in Greek, Ganga-Ridi). But, my friends, the truth is otherwise. When he noticed those giant ducks floating on the five rivers he made an about-turn. He thought they were warships.

“My grandfather’s biggest problem was finding a place to keep all the eggs. Finally he had them stacked in a long row 2,500 miles long and five miles high. This wall of eggs was called the Dimalaya.⁽¹⁾ A well-known philologist claims that in ancient Tibet da was pronounced as ha. Therefore Dimalaya became Himalaya. Of course, there is considerable debate about this – there is no end to disagreement among scholars. That’s why it’s said there are as many opinions as there are scholars – naekah muniryasya mataḿna bhinnam.

“I heard my grandfather placed giant hens on top on the wall to hatch the eggs. In the Austric language hens are called sima, so some people called that high wall, the Simalaya. Another famous philologist told me that in Sylhet Bengali sa is pronounced as ha. That’s why Simalaya has became Himalaya.

“I’m sure you’ve heard the name, Mahaprabhu Caetanyadeva. Mahaprabhu was well aware that sa was pronounced as ha because his ancestral home was in Dhaka-Daksin village in Haviganja sub-division of Sylhet district (in present Bangladesh). One day, on returning to Navadwip from one of his many trips to Manipur, the people asked him to tell some stories about his ancestral home. ‘It’s a spectacular place,’ said Mahaprabhu. ‘Anyone who wants to experience the charm of the Bengali countryside should go to Sylhet. Its verdant beauty is without parallel. But if ever you go there don’t pay homage to the brahmin scholars.’

“‘Why, Mahaprabhu?’ asked the surprised listeners. ‘If we pay homage to the brahmin scholars our future welfare is guaranteed.’

“‘Well, I suppose you could pay homage,’ said Mahaprabhu, ‘but make sure you don’t seek their blessings.’

“‘But why, Mahaprabhu?’ they asked. ‘The main purpose of paying homage to the brahmin scholars is to seek their blessings. When we are blessed by a noble soul the thorns are removed from our path, and success is assured.’

“Mahaprabhu said, ‘What else can I say? I hate to think what would happen if a brahmin scholar said hatáyurbhava (be dead) instead of shatáyurbhava (live for hundred years) when he blessed you. Remember that in Sylhet Bengali the people pronounce sa as ha.’

“I think it’s clear to you,” said the Peshawar thief, “how Simalaya became Himalaya. When Kublai Khan attacked India, a few eggs of the Dimalaya cracked under the hooves of his Turkish horses. This is how the spectacular Kyber and Bolan mountain passes were made. You know,” he concluded, “those mountain passes are very beautiful at this time of year. Why don’t you take a trip there and verify my story for yourselves?”

The Lahore and Tutikorin thieves had immense trouble suppressing their laughter. The idea of challenging this story didn’t even enter the minds. The Calcutta thief’s reaction was altogether different. “How tragic that the descendent of such enterprising forebears has ended up as a mere street thief. What terrible misfortune! What a strange twist of fate!” he cried. “This man’s a raving lunatic,” thought the other thieves.

Next it was the turn of the Tutikorin thief. “Friends, my grandfather had a small house with a small garden in which there grew an unusual tamarind tree. It was unusual because its tamarinds were golden and produced a sweet scent when they were made into chutney. One day my grandfather made a disastrous error. It suddenly occurred to him that if the tamarinds are golden it means there must be a gold mine under the tree. So he and his relatives grabbed their shovels, axes, and pick axes and dug for a hundred years, a hundred months, a hundred hours, a hundred minutes and a hundred seconds. They dug such a huge hole that the tree was uprooted in one piece.

“The tragedy of this story is that they didn’t find the gold mine. All they found was salty water, gallons of it, which gushed out in an endless torrent. The hole filled up the entire garden - it was small, remember – leaving little space for movement. The hole is still there, and these days is called the Bay of Bengal. If you don’t believe me, I suggest you go and taste the water. You’ll find it very salty.”

The Lahore and Peshawar thieves thought this story was hilarious. They declined the offer, of course. They had no intention of losing 2,000 rupees, and didn’t like the taste of salt water anyway. But the Calcutta thief said, “I’m flabbergasted. How astonishing that the grandchildren of such unique grandfathers - a grandfather whose buffaloes produced five great rivers, a grandfather whose duck eggs made the Himalayas and a grandfather who dug the Bay of Bengal in his garden – how astonishing that these grandchildren have dropped to the lowest rung of the social ladder as street thieves. Oh! the irony of fate. Oh! the cruelty of nature. Oh! the curse of aristocracy.” And he beat himself on the head.

The other thieves concluded that the Calcutta thief was about as intelligent as a donkey. They wondered how such an idiot could be so successful in a city as large as Calcutta. “Hey Calcutta thief,” they said, “It’s your turn to tell a story.”

The Calcutta thief began his story as the night was coming to an end. “When my grandfather was born cotton hadn’t been discovered. Clothes were made with teak leaves joined together with small twigs. The tailors were very talented in those days – they even made suits and shirts for men and mini skirts and maxi skirts for women out of those leaves. My grandfather was the head clerk of a governor general of a province in the then India. Unfortunately I wasn’t born with a silver spoon in my mouth like you. My grandfather’s family was not at all wealthy. We didn’t have buffaloes, ducks or a golden tamarind tree.

“One day the governor general went hunting in the forest. My grandfather followed him, flattering him as he went. They didn’t have guns in those days, but used catapults and bows and arrows instead. Suddenly, the governor general spotted a deer. He quickly loaded a small stone in his catapult and fired. But he was too late, the deer had already fled. Then he spotted an antelope. Unfortunately he didn’t have any stones left and looked around him for alternative ammunition. He picked a black seed from a nearby tree and shot it at the antelope. He missed his target but hit my grandfather who was standing nearby. The seed, which happened to be a black cotton seed, pierced his skull and embedded itself in his brain.

“Everyone knows that Calcuttans have extremely fertile brains. My grandfather’s brain was no exception. The cotton seed thrived in that fertile environment and quickly grew into a huge cotton tree that produced thousands of kilos of cotton.

“‘Banerjee, old chap,’ said the governor general one day, ‘there really is no sense in your working for me any more. Go and get rich by selling all that cotton of yours.’ My grandfather left his job and returned home.

“My grandfather sent his seven sons, including my father of course, to the seven corners of the globe and started an international cotton trading company. They had a complete monopoly as the only productive cotton tree in the world was growing in my grandfather’s head. Demand was so high that the cotton was sold immediately after it was harvested. What happened next reminds me of the Lahore thief’s story of the watery milk. The business was left in the hands of the servants, who were totally incompetent. They sold the cotton on credit and made no attempt to collect payments. Recently, my father and my uncles called their sons to a meeting and said, ‘We’re sending each of you to a different part of the world to recover the money owed.’ I was given the responsibility of Kashii and the surrounding area. It’s fortunate I met you three here as I’ve just noticed the names of your fathers in my notebook. Look, here they are, written in Bengali. Oh, sorry, you can’t read Bengali, can you? Well, it says that the Lahore, Peshawar and Tutikorin thieves are liable to pay 2,000 rupees each against debts incurred by their fathers. Now the question is, are you prepared to clear these debts?”

The three thieves thought, “If we say the story is false – and that will be difficult to prove – we’ll have to pay 2,000 rupees each as a fine, and if we admit that the story is true, we’ll have to pay off the debts.” They decided it was better to clear the debts.

The fourth thief took the money, counted it, had a holy bath in the Ganges, placed a few wood apple flowers on the head of an effigy of Shiva and returned to Calcutta by the first available down train. The remaining three thieves continued their meeting for a while and came to a unanimous decision that the Calcutta thief should be invited to chair the All-India Thief and Dacoit Conference due to be held the following year.

Footnotes

(1) Dim means egg and álaya means stack or house.

Chapter 17	Sarkar's Short Stories Part 1

Have you heard the story about the theft of Phatu’s cucumbers? If you haven’t, read on.

Phatu lived with his mother. He claimed she was an ideal mother - “One of a kind,” he said. Most people are not born of great mothers, he told everyone, but fall out of heaven with a thud. It’s a rather painful experience so they normally cry their hearts out and remain quarrelsome for the rest of their lives. But Phatu was special…

Phatu’s family grew cucumbers. As I have told you before, cucumbers are adored by jackals. Due to poor eyesight, however, jackals can’t see the cucumbers very well. Several opticians have made spectacles for them, but without much success. The spectacles keep falling off as the jackals insist on scrambling in and out of ditches. Undeterred, the opticians are now experimenting with contact lenses.

The clever jackals have developed an effective way of finding cucumbers – they roll on their backs over the cucumber plants. As soon as they feel a cucumber they devour it without even bothering to peel off the skin. Phatu and his mother were fed up with these bothersome jackals.

One early morning, while returning from the cucumber fields, the jackals saw Phatu’s mother leaning against a wooden post on her veranda. Tears were pouring from her eyes. “Dear Phatu,” she sobbed, “where have you gone? I know how deeply you loved the jackals. You used to say, ‘Mum, don’t pick all the cucumbers. Leave half for the jackals. They are such nice fellows. I’ve met few gentlemen as nice as them.’”

Hearing this news, the jackals were beside themselves with joy, but gave the impression of being deeply moved. “Phatu’s mother,” they said softly, “why are you weeping on the verandah so early in the morning?”

“Oh dear, dear, dear,” she wept. “Phatu has left us. Just before he passed away he said, ‘Mother, you must invite the jackals to my memorial ceremony and give them a good feast as prescribed by the scriptures.’ So, dear jackals, I’d like to invite you to tonight’s feast. Can you come?”

“That’s very kind of you,” said the jackals. “We’d love to come.”

Phatu and his mother met at regular intervals throughout the day to discuss their plans. The jackals arrived in the early evening with their friends and relatives. They were wearing dhotis and punjabi shirts and had wrapped scarves around their necks. They were all well-groomed. Phatu’s mother put straw mats on the ground which she had deviously covered with sticky mango paste. Then she invited the jackals to take their seats on the mats. The food she served was delicious.

Perhaps you know that there are three types of feast: excellent, ordinary and horrible. The menu of an excellent feast is mouthwatering: fine, exquisitely scented beaten rice; yogurt made from condensed milk; the best bananas, mangoes and jackfruit; delicious milk sweets; and molasses puffed rice. An excellent feast ends with three rolled betel leaves and one rupee twenty-five paisa as a sacerdotal fee.

The menu of an ordinary feast is as follows: ordinary beaten rice, ordinary yogurt, cheap bananas, local mangoes, bitter jackfruit, ordinary sweets, sugar-cane puffed rice and, to end, two rolled betel leaves and 25% of the sacerdotal fee of the excellent feast.

A horrible feast’s menu leaves much to be desired: raw beaten rice mixed with paddy; sour, watery yogurt; over-ripe black-skinned bananas, sour mangoes, unripe bruised jackfruit; tasteless dry molasses; old sugar-cane puffed rice and, at the end of the feast, one rolled betel leaf and a sacerdotal fee of five paisa.

The jackals were served the excellent feast, which they ate with great relish. While eating the thought kept popping into their minds that Phatu’s mother would appear at the end of the feast, with a shawl neatly draped over her shoulders, to give them three rolled betel leaves and a sacerdotal fee of one rupee and twenty-five paisa. They expected her to say, “Gentlemen, it is a great honour to have served you tonight. Please accept this sacerdotal fee of one rupee and twenty-five paisa in return for the effort you made to attend this feast. I thank you for obliging me in this way.”

Oh, I almost forgot to tell you the most important part of the story. When the jackals sat down on the straw mats Phatu’s mother said, “Dear guests, permit me to count your tails to see how many of you have come. I thought it appropriate to give the sacerdotal fee by tail.” As she counted the tails she tied one to the other with a rope.

Just as the feast was about to end, Phatu emerged from behind the door with a club in each hand. His eyes were red with rage. Before the terrified jackals could understand what was happening, Phatu was upon them, beating them wildly with his clubs. They tried to escape but found themselves glued to the mango paste. Some did manage to leap up and attempt to make a getaway to the north or the south, but as they were all tied together their resultant speed was nil. After the massacre jackals lay everywhere. Some had broken bones, some broken ribs and some had even lost their tails. Most of them had died two or three times and some had even died seven or eight times.

The next day Phatu’s mother was sitting on the verandah [[preparing puffed]] rice. Phatu had told her he wanted to eat [[puffed]] rice and cucumber. The jackals suddenly appeared, marching in military formation and singing:

“We trembled with dread
As the clubs hit our head.
Oh Phatu’s mum, we now know why
You pretended to cry.”

“Who are you?” asked Phatu’s mother. “Didn’t you all die last night?”

“We are jackal ghosts,” they replied.

Phatu’s mother looked a little closer and saw that their toes were pointing backwards – a sure indication that they were ghosts. “Ghosts can’t eat cucumbers,” she said, “so why have you come here?”

“We’d like you to ask Phatu to arrange a pińd́i⁽¹⁾ for us,” they replied.

“Why don’t you ask the priests to do it,” suggested Phatu’s mother.

“We did,” replied the jackals. “But the priests said if they do this for a pack of jackals nobody will ever ask for their services again. So please request Phatu to help us. You’ve already done so much for us. Why not render this last service too?”

“Why are you so eager to go to heaven?” inquired Phatu’s mother.

“Because in heaven we’ll be able to eat cucumbers to our heart’s content,” they replied.

“Can you get cucumbers in heaven?” asked Phatu’s mother, surprised.

“But of course,” said the jackals. “Don’t you know the story? Once a man died after a snake bit him on the nose. His friends and relatives were overjoyed.”

“Why were they happy about that?” asked Phatu’s mother.

“Listen to the story,” insisted the jackals. “The dead man’s brother presided over the memorial ceremony. One of the guests asked him, ‘Whose memorial ceremony is this – yours or your brother’s?’ ‘My brother’s, of course,’ he replied. ‘Well can’t we meet him then?’ asked the guest. ‘After all, it is his memorial ceremony we are attending.’ ‘But he’s dead,’ said the exasperated host. ‘When did he die?’ asked the guest. ‘Ten days ago.’ ‘What an unlucky fellow!’ exclaimed the guest. ‘Such bad luck! If he had died ten days later he would have enjoyed today’s feast. It’s strange, isn’t it. We see the child during its christening ceremony, we see the bride and groom during the marriage ceremony, but we never get a chance to see a dead man during his memorial ceremony. By the way, how did he die?’ ‘He was bitten by a snake,’ replied the host. ‘Really? On which part of his body?’ ‘On his nose.’ ‘That was a stroke of good luck,’ said the guest. ‘At least his eyes were saved.’ ‘What on earth can a dead person do with a pair of eyes?’ asked the host. ‘Watch what you say,’ cautioned the guest. ‘Eyes are precious jewels that are needed to see the way, even to heaven.’”

“So, Phatu’s mother, we’re going to heaven to eat cucumbers to our heart’s content.”

Phatu’s mother continued to [[prepare the puffed]] rice as the jackals sang,

“We trembled with dread
As the clubs hit our head.
Oh Phatu’s mum, we now know why
You pretended to cry.

To this day the classical tune of the jackals drifts across the dark night into our ears: “Aaoooooo… Aaoooooo.”

Footnotes

(1) Food offered in memory of a departed soul. –Trans.

Chapter 18	Sarkar's Short Stories Part 1

This popular story is about a Bengali landowner who pretended to be an Urdu-speaking gentleman. He tried his best to convince his fellow villagers that his forebears spoke Urdu. When they migrated to Bengal, he explained, they picked up a little Bengali, but their original language was most definitely Urdu. The villagers were too timid to challenge him directly, but expressed considerable doubt about his story in their private conversations.

The Bengali landowner was having too much trouble convincing the villagers about his Urdu ancestry, so he bought a house in a nearby town. He worked hard persuading his urban neighbours that he came from “up-country” and that Urdu was his mother tongue. Of course, he added, he and his relatives did know a little Bengali. The townspeople believed him.

One day he suffered a great setback. The womenfolk of his house wailed loudly – in Bengali! His aspirations were on the point of being shattered. “If you are really an Urdu gentleman, why are your women wailing in Bengali?” asked the neighbours. “Their Bengali is quite good, isn’t it,” he replied. “The women started to wail in Urdu, but I quickly told them the people here would think they were singing Urdu marriage songs. So I taught them how Bengali people wail after a death. They are doing a good job, aren’t they. I mean, they sound just like Bengali women, don’t they? They wail just like Gaffur’s mother, our maidservant.” His neighbours listened in astonishment. He’s a real Mazantali Sarkar, they thought.

Do you know the story of Mazantali Sarkar? Mazantali Sarkar was a cat whose ambition it was to be king of the forest. One dark night the forest animals were attending a meeting of the Forestry Development Corporation. The main item on the agenda was the improvement of the drinking water supply. The turnout was good – all the tigers, bears, goats and dogs had come. In fact, everyone was there except the president, the lion, who had been a little delayed. While the animals were discussing the water supply problem, Mazantali Sarkar arrived and promptly sat on the vacant chair of the president. He meowed a few times and puffed up his body, a feat which greatly impressed the forest animals. “Who are you, Your Majesty?” they asked.

“I’m Mazantali Sarkar,” replied the cat, “the king of the forest. This tiger in front of me is my nephew. It is written in the scriptures, Naránáḿ matulakramaḿ, that is, males take after their maternal uncles and females take after their paternal aunts. Can’t you see how closely the tiger resembles me. After all, I am his maternal uncle.”

The forest animals agreed that the Royal Bengal tiger did resemble Mazantali Sarkar and promptly accepted him as their king. The lion would just have to be deposed. He was always late, anyway.

The Forestry Development Corporation meeting was conducted smoothly under the chairmanship of Mazantali Sarkar. It was unanimously resolved to plant one hundred million new trees. Unfortunately, ninety million of the trees died the next year. They were replanted by the contractor who provided the Forestry Development Corporation with free drinking water.

One day Mazantali Sarkar said, “I need an errand boy and some servants. You animals are too small to serve me. Bring me some large beasts.”

“The elephant is the largest animal in our forest,” said the animals. “We can bring you a few, if you wish.”

“I’d like to see just how big these animals are,” said Mazantali.

The forest animals beat their drums, causing the elephants to begin a wild stampede. A huge elephant rushed towards Mazantali Sarkar. Mazantali quickly jumped off his throne and looked for a safe place to hide. The last thing he wanted was to be hit on the head by a tree falling under the impact of the elephant’s charge. So he crawled under the root of a giant banyan tree. As ill luck would have it, a huge elephant jumped onto the root. Mazantali Sarkar’s body was crushed by the tremendous weight and his belly burst open. Death was drawing near.

The forest animals were alarmed by the disappearance of their king. After a desperate search they found him gasping his last, under the banyan tree. With tears in their eyes they sobbed, “What happened to you, Your Majesty?”

“Why didn’t you follow my last order?” said Mazantali feebly. “I told you to bring the largest beast of the forest and instead you sent a tiny elephant. When I first saw the elephant I was extremely angry, but later felt so amused that I roared with laughter. Unfortunately I laughed so violently that my stomach burst open.” This is how Mazantali Sarkar ended his mortal life.

Chapter 19	Sarkar's Short Stories Part 1

Once there was a Bengalee landowner who had a nephew by the name of Lota. The landowner was a proud man, and would go to any extent to prove his nobility to the world. One of his favourite techniques was to speak to his nephew in a mixture of Urdu and Bengali. He would often say, “Kháike pánii láike jábi ná”, which means, “Won’t you fetch some water?” Of course, he would only do this when there was someone within earshot.

The landowner had learnt his few Urdu words during a trip to Lucknow, in western India. He also picked up some of the manners and customs of Urdu speakers. Before returning home he extended an invitation to the nawab of Lucknow to visit Bengal, just to be polite. He never thought the nawab would one day honour the invitation.

Imagine his dilemma, then, when some time later he received a message from the nawab that he intended to visit Bengal. He immediately called his nephew. “Lota, my lumbago is really bad these days and I don’t think I’ll be able to go to the station to receive the nawab. Could you go for me?”

“If that’s your wish, uncle,” replied Lota, “I’ll be happy to oblige. But, you know, I don’t speak Urdu so how can I receive him properly?”

“Well, you don’t have to learn the entire Urdu language,” said the landowner. “All you have to do is add a few Urdu words to the end of your Bengali sentences. That’ll sound just like Urdu.”

“But I’m not familiar with the manners and etiquette of Urdu-speaking people. Can you please teach me something now?” asked Lota.

“Whenever you address an Urdu-speaking gentleman,” said the landowner, “be extremely humble and make him feel important. If he asks you how many princes⁽¹⁾ you have you should reply courteously, ‘Your Majesty, your servant has a mere three wretches.’ Do you understand?”

“It’s crystal-clear,” said Lota.

Lota went to the station to receive the nawab, who was called Malek Ulmul Nawab Ush-Shak-Ishakh Bahadur. In a first-class compartment he spotted a gentleman dressed in gorgeous clothes and immediately concluded that he was the nawab. “Are you His Excellency the nawab of Lucknow?” he asked in polite Urdu.

The nawab replied, equally politely, “No sir, I am not His Excellency the nawab.”

“Then may I know who you are?” asked Lota.

The nawab replied, “Myáṋy khák huṋ; myáṋy duniyáká khák huṋ; myáṋy savoṋke kadmoṋká khák huṋ; myáṋy khák, myáṋy khák, merá nám Iishák” [“I am dust. I am the lowest dust in the world. I am the dust of everyone’s feet. I am dust, I am dust, my name is Ishak”].

Lota was overwhelmed by the nawab’s modest yet poetic introduction. It was now his turn to show his mastery of Urdu language and etiquette.

“Who are you, sir?” the nawab asked Lota. “May I conclude you are the nephew of the respected landowner?”

“No, Your Excellency, I’m not the nephew of any landowner,” said Lota, remembering his uncle’s lesson.

“Then who are you, sir?” asked the nawab.

Lota replied, “Myáṋy chot́t́á huṋ. Myáṋy duniyáká chot́t́á huṋ; myáṋy ápká kadmoṋká chot́t́á huṋ. Myáṋy chot́t́á, myáṋy chot́t́á, merá nám Lot́á” [“I’m a cheat. I’m the worst cheat in the world. I’m a cheat at your feet. I’m a cheat, I’m a cheat, and my name is Lota”].⁽²⁾

The nawab had no further doubts about the aristocratic Urdu ancestry of the landowner and his family.

Footnotes

(1) [[Navávjádá – “children of a nawab”. This suggests that an Urdu-speaking gentleman will address any other Urdu-speaking gentleman as a nawab, whether the second one actually has that status or not. –Trans.]]

(2) [[To speak of oneself as dust could be an appropriate expression of humility according to Urdu conventions, but to speak of oneself as a chot́t́á, a cheat, which Lota does because he has understood that he should find a rhyme for “Lota”, is laughable. –Trans.]]

Chapter 20	Sarkar's Short Stories Part 1

I expect you all know the story of King Trishanku. One day he decided it was time to go to heaven. The pleasures and delights of this world, which he had long enjoyed, no longer enticed him. He knew he had enough physical and psychic strength to undertake the journey. What he lacked was virtue – his stock of virtue was exhausted.

The story goes that King Trishanku instructed his guards to tie him to the end of a long arrow with a piece of nylon rope, and then shoot the arrow towards heaven’s gate. The arrow sped through the sky at the speed of a rocket. The gods were alarmed. At the gates the security guards were dripping with perspiration. This had never happened before. “What should we do?” they wondered.

As a rule, heaven’s gate is never closed. However, on this occasion the guards decided to take a risk. They closed the gate. At that instant the giant arrow hit the gate with a tremendous thud, and got stuck. And there it stays till this day with King Trishanku tied to one end with a piece of nylon rope.

Those people who stagnate in life, who neither progress nor regress, suffer a plight similar to that of King Trishanku.

I don’t know whether heaven’s gate was opened later or not. Informed sources tell me that the gods have built a new gate on the other side of heaven. That’s the way in these days.

Chapter 21	Sarkar's Short Stories Part 1

This is the story of Mahamaya, otherwise known as Parvati, the goddess who assumed the form of an old lady.

“Using her powers of illusion
Mahamaya became an old woman
Holding a broken rod in her right hand
And a basket under her left arm.”

Shiva established a city called Kashii from where both saints and sinners could reach Shivaloka, the Abode of Salvation, after death. Of course, there were many more sinners than saints in Kashii – saints, being so virtuous, go to heaven wherever they die. Sinners, however, have no other alternative than to die in Kashii. So, there was a huge crowd of them in Kashii.

The devotees of Lord Viśńu weren’t very happy about this and asked Vyasa to build a special city for them. Vyasa complied with their request and built the city of Vyasa-Kashii opposite Kashii, on the other side of the River Ganges. He then announced that whoever died at Vyasa-Kashii would spend eternity in Vaekuńt́ha, the Abode of Viśńu.

Thousands of people flocked to the new city, resulting in such rapid growth that the city was soon a jumble of housing estates and congested streets. The sanitation system was in total disarray and there were acute shortages of milk, green vegetables and drinking water. Vyasa-Kashii was bursting at the seams.

“What should we do, Parvati?” Shiva asked his wife. “Kashii will soon be totally deserted – everyone’s going to Vyasa-Kashi.”

“Don’t worry, my Lord,” replied Parvati. “I have an excellent plan.” Parvati suddenly assumed the form of a frail old lady.

With filthy hair and matted locks
That’s full of ticks and dust,
With sunken eyes that only blink
And a chin and nose that quickly sink,
With arms and legs completely bent
And a back that’s almost double,
The Goddess of Fortune has become no more
Than a heap of skin and bones.

Parvati stood before Vyasa in her new form. Vyasa assumed that this old woman was also eager to go to Vaekuńt́ha. “What is the benefit of dying here?” asked the old lady.

“One goes to Vaekuńt́ha, my dear,” he replied.

Parvati placed her hands behind her ears and said, “Can you speak a little louder, please. What’s the benefit of dying here?”

“One goes to Vaekuńt́ha,” replied Vyasa a little louder.

“Please excuse me,” said Parvati, “I’m a little hard of hearing. Could you speak a little louder?”

Raising his voice even more, Vyasa said, “People go to Vaekuńt́ha, dear lady, they go to Vaekuńt́ha.”

Parvati again placed her hands behind her ears and said, “I’m terrible sorry, but I couldn’t hear anything at all. Can you please repeat what the benefit is?”

Vyasa lost his patience and shouted at the top of his voice, “Those who die here become donkeys, you old fool.”

Parvati assumed her original form and said, “So be it, let them become donkeys.”

The news was broadcast by television and radio and within a few minutes was common knowledge. As you can imagine, no one wanted to stay in Vyasa-Kashii after that. “Run for your lives,” they shouted as they leapt into boats, rickshaws, carts, and anything else with wheels, and moved back to Shiva’s Kashii. Within a few minutes Vyasa-Kashii was as deserted as a market place at night.

Chapter 22	Sarkar's Short Stories Part 1

When we are faced with the onerous task of counting a large number of things we generally count in multiples such as ten or twelve to make the task a little easier. I knew a certain gentleman who was extremely fond of counting in multiples. This story is about him. I don’t wish to disclose his real name, so for the sake of the story, I’ll call him Khyát́andás.

Khyát́an is an indigenous Bengali word whose Sanskrit equivalent is bhuribhojana (glutton). It is said in the scriptures, Shráddhe ca bhuribhojanam, that is, a sumptuous feast must be given during a memorial ceremony. The bhuribhojana I’m referring to literally means eating so much that one can’t eat another morsel. Khyát́an is even more descriptive. Khyát́an means eating greedily with both hands. It also implies – and herein lies its uniqueness – the act of forgetting to wash ones hands after eating. Everyone likes to eat, and our Khyát́andás liked to eat more than most.

One day Khyát́andás was feeling dejected. He was the only person in his neighbourhood who had not been invited to the memorial ceremony of Etwari Sao’s father. Khyát́andás decided to go and see Etwari, a rice merchant, in his shop, and put one paisa in his pocket. “Please give me one paisa worth of myrobalan,” he requested Etwari. Those were the days when everything was very cheap. With one paisa you could buy twenty myrobalan seeds.

While Etwari Sao was counting the myrobalan seeds, Khyát́andás took out his sacred thread and muttered, “Today, I’ve cleaned my sacred thread with wood apple gum. Oh, how spotlessly clean it is.” He repeated this three or four times but as Etwari was busy counting the myrobalan seeds he didn’t hear a word Khyát́andás said. This disappointed Khyát́andás, but he didn’t lose hope. Showing the sacred thread was not the easiest way to extract an invitation. There were other ways he could try…

Etwari handed Khyát́an a paper bag full of twenty pieces of myrobalan. “Could you please give me one or two more free of charge?” asked Khyát́an. Etwari placed two extra myrobalan seeds in Khyát́an’s open palm. “Oh, I’ve changed my mind,” said Khyát́an as he returned the paper bag. “I don’t need to buy any myrobalan seeds after all. Please give me back my money. The two seeds you gave me free will be enough, thank you.”

“By the way,” he continued, “do you know why I need some myrobalan seeds? I’m surprised you didn’t ask.”

“I’m sorry,” replied Etwari, “please excuse me. What are you going to do with the myrobalan seeds?”

“Perhaps you know that in ayurvedic medicine myrobalan seeds are prescribed as purgatives. They’re completely harmless. That’s why the scriptures say,

Hariitakii manuśyáńáḿ máteva hitakárińii;
Kadácit kupyate mátá nodarasthá hariitakii.

“Myrobalan seeds are as beneficial as a mother. A mother sometimes gets angry with her child, but a myrobalan seed never gets angry with a patient.”

“So you see, Etwari,” Khyát́andás continued, “I need the myrobalan seeds to make a special decoction. There’s a memorial ceremony coming up soon – it’ll be quite a feast, I hear – and I’ll need the myrobalan purgative to enjoy it to my heart’s content.”

Etwari suddenly remembered that he had forgotten to invite Khyát́andás to his father’s memorial ceremony. He humbly folded his hands and said, “Today I’m giving a feast on the occasion of my father’s memorial ceremony. I’m terribly sorry, but I completely forgot to invite you. I owe you an apology. Please honour me by placing your holy feet in my house.” This was the invitation Khyát́andás was eagerly awaiting.

The feast was well under way. From time to time voices saying “give me some more of that please” or “may I serve you more, sir,” surfaced and rose above the general hustle and bustle of the feast. Suddenly there was an uproar. Khyát́andás had flown into a rage. Everyone crowded around him as he shouted, “Such impudence cannot be tolerated. How tragic that even in the twentieth century we are not worthy of the name ‘human being’. This young waiter – can’t be more than nineteen or twenty years old – has been serving luchi like a brute. He’s an ill-mannered fellow who has no idea whatsoever about common courtesy. He doesn’t even know how to speak to a gentleman.”

“What’s all the fuss about?” asked the crowd. The young waiter was terror stricken. He repeatedly wiped the sweat from his brow with a towel covered with vegetable stains. Unrelenting, Khyát́andás continued to scold him. “How dare you insult one of the guests by asking, ‘How many pieces of luchi would you like, sir?’ Is this the way to address a gentleman? Has anyone anywhere in the universe ever heard such a thing? Is there any precedent for this in history?”

The other guests tried to pacify him. “Please don’t get so angry,” they pleaded. “Tell us what’s wrong.”

“It’s an inexcusable offense.” he declared. “Such things cannot be tolerated, no, never.”

I realized that Khyát́andás was deliberately creating an atmosphere of suspense, and I was reminded of a certain Nirmal Ghosh of Ebonkatna, who excelled in the art of suspense. Nirmal Ghosh had two distinguished friends: Harikeshab Ganguli and Phani Mazumder. The former was a devout Vaeśńava, a charitable fellow who was always happy to feed others. Phani Mazumder was a good man, no doubt, and a devotee of the goddess Kali, but was so tight-fisted that even water wouldn’t pass through his fingers. Once Harikeshab Ganguli did a commendable job for which he received a cash reward from the government. Phani Mazumder received a similar amount, although he had got someone else to do the job for him. The moment Harikeshab Ganguli received his money he decided to organize a sumptuous feast.

One day Nirmal Ghosh was visited by his friends and relatives. “Nirmal,” they asked, “Harikeshab Ganguli is going to spend all his money on a feast. Why don’t you ask Phani Mazumder what he’s planning to do with his money.”

Nirmal Ghosh brought up the matter with Phani Mazumder. “I don’t have any right to touch that money,” said Phani Mazumder. “I’d love to invite everyone to a feast – there’s nothing I’d like more – but since I can’t even touch the money there’s nothing I can do except wipe the tears from my eyes with a handkerchief.”

“But you earnt the money without lifting a finger,” Nirmal Ghosh pointed out. “You’re reaping the benefits of someone else’s labour. Is it not ill-gotten money?”

“I agree,” said Phani Mazumder, “not once, but a hundred times. It is ill-gotten money. That’s why goddess Kali keeps reminding me, ‘Phani, don’t touch that ill-gotten money. Don’t bring it into your house.’”

“What!” exclaimed Nirmal Ghosh, “Yesterday I saw you putting the money into your wallet. Don’t tell me you didn’t take it home.”

“Yes, what you saw is correct,” said Phani Mazumder. “I did put the money in my wallet, but instead of going home I went straight to the post office. I put the money in my savings account and returned home empty handed. I didn’t take that ill-gotten money with me.”

A grand feast was arranged at Harikeshab Ganguli’s house. The host requested Nirmal Ghosh, “You are a connoisseur in many walks of life, Nirmal. Please eat with the first group and give us your opinion about the standard of the menu.”

When the first group had been served the last dish, Harikeshab Ganguli asked Nirmal, “Well, Nirmal, did you relish the food?”

“What can I say?” replied Nirmal Ghosh. “Dear, dear, dear, dear, dear, dear, dear, dear. How could anyone do such a thing after inviting guests to his home?” “Nirmal, please don’t create any suspense,” said Harikeshab. “Tell me what’s wrong. If the vegetables are too salty I’ll have them boiled again with a whole betel leaf. If they’re too spicy I’ll have them cooked again with a few jackfruit leaves. If they were burnt on the bottom of the pan I’ll have them cooked again with crushed ginger. I beg you, Nirmal, tell me quickly what needs to be done.”

“What else can I say?” replied Nirmal. “Dear, dear, dear, dear, dear, dear, dear, dear. Is this the way to treat your guests?”

Harikeshab Ganguli was about to burst into tears. “Nirmal, no more suspense, please,” he pleaded. “Please tell me what’s wrong.”

“Harikeshab, what can I say?” said Nirmal Ghosh. “Dear, dear, dear, dear, dear, dear, dear. Is this the way to treat your guests? You served enough food to feed a man for a week. How can I possibly eat all that in a single sitting. I only have a human stomach, you know.” Everyone heaved a sigh of relief.

Khyát́andás was trying to create the same type of suspense. After the young waiter recovered from the initial shock he folded his hands and asked Khyát́andás, “Sir, can you please tell me how I should address you?”

Khyát́andás was delighted. Satisfaction was written all over his face. “Listen young man,” he said. “I think you know that to count people [[saying ‘One person, two persons, three persons’ is very bad manners. Rather one should say, ‘One cow, two cows, three cows,’ and so on. Do you understand?”⁽¹⁾]]

“I understand,” replied the young boy. “Well, in exactly the same way,” continued Khyát́andás, “you should never ask a gentleman how many pieces of luchi he would like to eat. Rather, you should ask how many dozen pieces of luchi he would like.”

“Sir, how many dozen pieces of luchi would you like?” asked the waiter. “Five dozen in the first instalment,” replied Khyát́an, “I’ll let you know how many more I’d like in the next instalment after I’ve had a chance to study the menu.”

I didn’t notice how many dozen luchis Khyát́andás managed to eat during the feast, but I did see that after the feast was over he was having the greatest trouble standing up.

Khyát́andás’s abortive attempts to leave his chair reminded me of the famous writer Sarat Chandra Chatterjee. In those days many of the country’s leaders would wear the finest dhotis, made by the Raleigh Company, no less, whenever they were invited to a feast. However, whenever they attended a political or business meeting they made a point of wearing homespun clothes of simple style and cut, especially half-sleeve or punjabi shirts and kneelength dhotis. That attire was popularly called “meeting clothes”. Once I asked Sarat Chandra, “How come I’ve never seen you wearing meeting clothes?”

“Personally, I don’t mind wearing homespun clothes,” he replied, “but my domestic servants don’t like them at all. They say its easy to dip them in a bucket but extremely difficult to lift them out again as they absorb water like a sponge.”

Khyát́andás faced a similar dilemma. He had no difficulty sitting down at the table, but had to struggle against impossible odds to get up again. It was only with the help of his two sons, Katu and Citu, who lifted him up by the armpits, that he was able to stand on his own two feet again.

Katu and Citu were nicknames. Their actual names were Katraiṋjan and Citraiṋjan. Katu wanted to change his name to Kupakatranjan, which means one who falls down after being hit by an opponent, but Khyát́andás objected because kupa is a foreign word. He was reluctant to give his son a foreign name but had no objection whatsoever to consuming imported foreign food. He could never deprive himself of the pleasure of eating delicious food, whatever its origin.

“Dad, why do you always overeat?” asked Katu and Citu after lifting him to his feet. Khyát́andás replied dispassionately, “I eat whatever lands on my plate to my heart’s content. What I don’t get I can’t eat. Do you understand?” Khyát́andás then gave a short speech in honour of the glutton.

“Respected ladies and gentlemen, there was once a greedy man who ate so much that he was unable to move. ‘Take three or four drops of this homoeopathic medicine,’ advised his doctor. ‘It’ll help you digest everything.’ The greedy man retorted, ‘If I had enough space for a few drops of medicine, I would have already filled it with some more sweetmeats. Why should I use up valuable space with your horrible medicine?’

“I’m not like that fellow,” said Khyát́andás. “No, I follow the same principle as the Moghul emperor of Delhi who, like all Moghul rulers, was extremely fond of the richest Persian dishes from the royal kitchens. That appetizing food was so spicy and cooked with so much ghee that the emperor often suffered from constipation. Whenever his doctors came to administer medicine he said irritably, ‘If your medicine is palatable I’ll take it, otherwise I’ll slit your throats.’

“One day the emperor was suffering from such acute constipation that he was unable to perform his official duties. The courts for both commoners and aristocracy were closed down, and the ministers were instructed to send only the most urgent files to his bedroom. The emperor’s personal physicians were perplexed as no medicine for constipation is palatable. Then one of the physicians had a flash of inspiration. One of the emperor’s favourite dishes was mohanbhog,⁽²⁾ a delicious dessert made of wheat, ghee, sugar, milk, pistachio nuts, almonds, and raisins. The doctors cleverly mixed a laxative with the emperor’s mohanbhog. He ate it unknowingly and was cured of his disease. The physicians had been saved the discomfort of having their throats cut and were well rewarded into the bargain. This mohanbhog mixed with medicine was known as halva.

“Yes, I prefer to follow the example of the Moghul emperor,” said Khyát́andás. “Whenever I get some stomach trouble, I eat halva.”

A certain Mr. Chamru Sao, another rich merchant, was organizing a memorial ceremony for his deceased father. One day he happened to meet a famous Kashmiri pundit whom, it was rumoured, could find a place in heaven for even the worst sinner. Chamru Sao was quick to seize his opportunity. “Panditji,” he said, “my illustrious father violated the moral code of conduct once or twice to make a little more money – times were hard, you know. I was wondering if you have any places left in heaven where he can remain in eternal peace. It would be very unfortunate if he was denied entry to heaven. I’d be put in a very embarrassing position if he returned to earth and checked the business accounts.”

“That service costs fifty asrafis,”⁽³⁾ said the pandit.

“That seems to be a little excessive,” said Chamru Sao. “Won’t forty asrafis be enough, panditji?”

“With forty asrafis,” replied the pandit, “I can construct a palace for your father in heaven using a few mantras, but I can’t provide any servants. He’ll have to cook, wash the dishes, clean the beds and do all the other household chores himself. Won’t that be too difficult for a frail old man?”

“Well panditji,” continued Chamru Sao after a pause, “what will I get for thirty asrafis?”

“For thirty asrafis I can get your father into heaven but I can’t promise a palace,” relied the pundit.

“And if I only give you twenty asrafis?” asked Chamru Sao.

“Well, I’ll probably be able to get him through the gates, but he’ll have to travel to the centre of heaven by his own means.”

“And for ten asrafis?” persisted Chamru Sao. “Your father will have to wait outside the gates just like King Trishanku.”⁽⁴⁾

“Fifty rupees?” asked Chamru Sao.

“Fifty rupees!” exclaimed the pandit. “It’s hardly worth contemplating.”

Khyát́andás had overheard the entire conversation and felt duty-bound to free Chamru Sao from the evil influence of the pandit. “Chamru Sao you don’t need to pay for the services of a pandit while I’m here. I’ll get your father into heaven without asking for a single rupee. I’ll perform your father’s memorial ceremony and prove that it can be done. Be sure to invite the most distinguished guests, though.”

The memorial ceremony was well under way. Chamru Sao was in a jolly mood because his father was going to heaven and would never ask to see the business accounts again. “The auspicious moment has arrived,” declared Khyát́andás. “It’s time for your father to go to heaven. Let me see what the conditions are like in heaven at the present time… My goodness, the place is an arid desert, there’s not a tree in sight. Your father will die in the heat. Moreover there’s nothing to eat. I can’t see a single chocolate tree or cake tree. If he doesn’t die of heat-stroke, starvation will certainly finish him off. Chamru Sao, are your accounts ready for inspection?”

“Isn’t there any other option?” asked Chamru Sao nervously.

“There’s always another option,” said Khyát́andás optimistically. “It shouldn’t be difficult to find. Let me see… Ah, there’s a desert of chickpea sweets about twelve miles north of the place where your father is waiting. If your father crosses the desert – but it won’t be easy – he’ll reach a mountain range of milk sweets as high as the snow-capped Himalayas. If he manages to cross the treacherous mountain pass he’ll see a vast ocean of milk to the west and another monotonous desert of chickpea sweets to the east. There’s another snow-capped mountain range of milk-sweets beyond the desert and a cream lake beyond that. Would you like your father to travel east or west? It’s up to you. But remember, being so old and frail he won’t be able to walk that far. The only other way to travel around heaven is by chartered rocket. A single ticket costs fifty asrafis. I think it’s your only option.”

Chamru Sao could hardly refuse to pay for his father’s comfort in front of so many distinguished ladies and gentlemen. He handed over fifty asrafis to Khyát́andás. “Will your father be able to climb into and out of the rocket himself, or should we send a young man along to assist him?” asked Khyát́andás.

“Yes, we should definitely send along an assistant,” agreed Chamru Sao.

“So, we’ll need another fifty asrafis for his ticket,” said Khyát́andás. Chamru Sao gave him another fifty asrafis.

“Well, we can’t send a ghost to heaven, can we? We’ll have to send someone from earth who will have to return after his mission is over. That’ll be an extra fifty asrafis for his ticket.” Chamru Sao was obliged to hand over another fifty asrafis.

The next scene took place in Amodpur railway station. I was travelling to Daskallgram by narrow-guage railway. An upcountry sweet-seller was standing on the platform with almost one hundred kilos of bonde, a sweet made from chickpeas. Suddenly Khyát́andás appeared on the scene and asked for five kilos of bonde. The unfortunate sweet-seller asked Khyát́andás for payment. “Are you out of your mind,” said Khyát́an. “I’ve given you an excellent opportunity to make a donation at the crack of dawn, and you’re asking for money! Don’t you realize the virtue you’ll acquire is equivalent to hundred holy dips in the River Ganges. Only an idiot would ask me for money.”

The sweet-seller was dumbfounded. Then Khyát́andás approached the tea-boy and asked for a cup of tea. The tea-boy had witnessed the sad plight of the sweet-seller and was reluctant to give Khyát́andás any tea. So Khyát́andás returned to the sweet-seller. “Have you forgotten?” he said. “If you don’t give a sacerdotal fee after a donation you won’t attain all the virtue. It was very nice of you to donate five kilos of bonde to me, but unfortunately you didn’t give me any sacerdotal fee.” The sweet-seller was about to weep and asked, “Well, what should I do?”

“Give me just one paisa as a sacerdotal fee,” said Khyát́andás. The sweet seller threw down a one paisa coin. Khyát́andás eagerly picked it up, bought a cup of tea, and boarded the train. He travelled in the same compartment as I. He was going to Páchundi village.

The ticket collector came to the compartment a number of times but didn’t like to disturb Khyát́andás as he was eating his meal. Finally, near Kirnahar station, Khyát́an finished eating. The ticket collector summoned enough courage and asked him for his ticket. Khyát́andás was infuriated. “You dumb idiot,” he shouted, “don’t you have any common sense. When you noticed me finishing my meal you should have given me a rolled betel leaf. Instead you are demanding a ticket! How rude! Besides, I’m feeling quite miserable. Didn’t you hear about the recent demise of my wife?” The ticket collector was humiliated in front of everyone and quickly left the compartment, fuming within. Soon after the train reached Daskallgram and I got off. I don’t know what Khyát́andás did between Daskallgram and Páchundi. I did notice him speaking with another sweet-seller on the platform at Daskal station but due to the noise of the steam engine I couldn’t catch a word of the conversation.

Footnotes

(1) There is a belief that if people are counted, it will shorten their lives. Hence Khyát́andás makes the unintentionally comic suggestion that one should say “cows”. – Trans.

(2) It was called mohanbhog because Mohan, that is Krishna, loved to eat it. Bhog means religious food. In Punjabi it is called karháprasadá. –Trans.

(3) The asfrafi is a gold coin that was legal tender in India in the nineteenth century. –Trans.

(4) See “The Plight of King Trishanku”. –Trans.

Chapter 23	Sarkar's Short Stories Part 1

Mr. Manoraiṋjan Ghosh-dasdidar was a gentleman who lived in Calcutta. One day he decided to visit his home village, Gabha, in Bakharganj district of Bangladesh. He wrote to his house steward, Gopal Das, asking him to make the necessary preparations for his visit and to meet him at the steamer jetty.

During Mr. Ghosh-dasdidar’s absence from the village many events had taken place in his family about which he was still unaware. After disembarking from the steamer he asked Gopaldas, “Gopal, how’s my family?”

“Everyone’s very well, sir,” he replied, pausing. “Everyone, that is, except the Alsatian.⁽¹⁾ The poor dog passed away.”

Mr. Ghosh-dasdidar was deeply grieved by this sad news. “What was the cause of death?” he said, recovering from the initial shock.

“It’s very unfortunate, sir, very unfortunate indeed.” replied Gopal. “The sight of a tiger’s footprints, the spotting of a snake, birth, marriage and death – they all occur due to divine will. There’s nothing we humans can do to prevent their occurrence. The poor Alsatian died after eating roasted meat.”

“Roasted meat!” exclaimed Mr. Ghosh-dasdidar. “What type of roasted meat, for God’s sake!”

Gopal was a master in the use of tact. “The day your house burned down,” he continued, “your horse was scorched alive in her stable. The Alsatian died after attempting to eat roasted horse meat.”

“What, my spirited Arabic horse is no more!” exclaimed Mr. Ghosh-dasdidar in utter disbelief.

“I told you, sir, that birth, marriage and death are decided by fate. We have no say in the matter whatsoever,” said Gopal.

“When did this terrible mishap occur?” asked Mr. Ghosh-dasdidar.

“Just two days after your grandmother died of cholera,” said Gopaldas.

“What! Grandma is also dead. This is too much to believe,” lamented Mr. Dasdidar.

As tactfully as he could Gopal said, “I’m terribly sorry, sir, but it’s true – your grandmother has breathed her last.”

“When did this happen?” asked Manoraiṋjan. “I didn’t hear anything at all.”

“I don’t recall the exact date, sir,” replied Mr. Das, “but it must have been within a week of the death of your son.”

“My god! My dear son – dead!” said Mr. Ghosh-dasdidar, his voice choking with grief. “A short while ago you said everyone’s well.”

“I was being tactful, sir. I thought it best to break the news slowly.”

Mr. Ghosh-dasdidar burst into tears. “What happened to my little child?” he sobbed.

“Sir, it was very difficult for the child to survive without his mother. When your wife passed away there was no one to take care of him, so it was very difficult to save his life.”

“Oh my dear wife,” he wailed. “Can there be any worse tragedy? She, too, is no more. All my dearest ones have passed away. No one is left to visit. What is the point of going any further?” And he returned to the steamer jetty.

Footnotes

(1) Strictly speaking the Alsatian is more closely related to the wolf group than the dog group. Even then, there are four major differences between wolves and Alsatians. Alsatians have a stronger sense of smell. Wolves are much more aggressive than Alsatians and may kill an animal even when they are not hungry. Wolves eat a lot more than Alsatians – it is said a wolf can eat two and a half times its own body weight in one sitting. After such a feast it normally remains as inert as a corpse for several days. Finally, an Alsatian is more easily tamed than a wolf and is very faithful to its master.
Dogs evolved as a result of cross breeding between wolves and jackals. The evolutionary history of the Alsatian has yet to be determined. Wolves are mentioned in all the ancient languages of the world, and in some languages even have a few synonyms, but there is no mention of Alsatians. The Saḿskrta term for wolf is vrkavyághra. In the Vedic age wolves were killed for their flesh and wolf lungs were quite a delicacy. In both Saḿskrta and Bengali literature references are made to the voracity of wolves. Bhima, the second Pandava brother, was also called Vikodara because he was always as hungry as a wolf. There are a number of amusing stories about Bhima’s insatiable appetite.
You might have read in the Mahábhárata that when the five pandava brothers were in exile they handed over the alms they collected to Kunti, their mother. Kunti divided the food into two: half for Bhima and herself and half for the other four brothers. One day Bhima announced he wanted to fast like his mother and brothers. “If my brothers can fast for a day, so can I,” Bhima told his mother. Kunti advised him, “Don’t try to fast. You’ll find it rather troublesome.” “But mother,” he said, “life is lived to overcome troubles. I, the second Pandava, never hesitate to accept a challenge. Please allow me to fast, mother.” “Well, you can try,” she said, “but I’ll keep your breakfast ready for you just in case.”
Early in the morning of the fasting day Bhima checked the time. “Mother, it’s already six o’clock and I haven’t asked for breakfast.” Fifteen minutes later he said, “It’s 6:15 mother, and I’m still not hungry.” “Well, I’ve prepared your breakfast anyway,” she informed him. “I’ll boil your milk now.” At 6:30 Bhima said, “I feel a little hungry, mother, but I won’t eat anything. I promise I won’t change my mind.” “Shall I serve breakfast?” his mother asked. “No thank you. Let me wait a little more.” Finally, at 6:45 Bhima looked at his wrist watch and said, “I can’t wait any longer, mother. I’m as hungry as a wolf.” “Just wait a few minutes while I bring your milk to the boil,” said his mother. Thereafter, it is said, Bhima ate 300 kilos of puffed rice soaked in warm milk. What a fasting day he had!
That particular day when Bhima made a noble attempt to fast is still remembered as Bhaemii ekádashii (Bhima’s fasting day) to this day.

Chapter 24	Sarkar's Short Stories Part 1

People who fear ghosts warn others never to look at a Siamese rough bush, the favoured haunt of several ghosts and, in particular, never to utter the word “ghost” aloud. Failure to heed this latter piece of advice, they say, will cause great trepidation. They attempt to placate ghosts by calling them demigods.

In general people hesitate to utter the name of anything that frightens them. This applies not only to ghosts, but to snakes and smallpox. Snakes are often called “creepers”, especially at night when they hide under a veil of darkness. And whenever smallpox claims lives it is said, “The divine goddess has shown mercy on us.”

In 1940 there was a severe outbreak of beriberi in Calcutta and its suburbs. At that time, beriberi didn’t have its own goddess, unlike cholera, whose goddess was Olácandi. Perhaps a goddess has since been nominated for that position, but I am not aware of it. Some people were frightened to say “beriberi” because they thought that utterance alone would give them the disease.

I remember during my childhood there was a severe outbreak of beriberi in Monghyr district. Instead of calling it by its real name the common people would refer to it as that disease. They used to touch their forehead with both hands to show their respect for the disease. This, they hoped, would keep that disease away.

Mr. Ganguli lived alone with his wife in our neighbourhood. He, too, trembled in fear whenever anyone said “beriberi”. One day he called the doctor and asked him to do something to prevent the disease from entering his house. Mr. Ganguli sat with the doctor in the living room while Mrs. Ganguli stood behind a screen in the adjoining room. “First ask the doctor what the symptoms of that disease are, my dear,” she shouted at the top of her voice.

“Mr. Ganguli, please ask your wife what she means by that disease,” shouted the doctor, also at the top of his voice.

“Oh, that disease means beriberi,” said Mr. Ganguli inadvertently.

“Have you gone mad?” yelled his wife from behind the screen. “Haven’t I told you at least 700 times not to say that word? At least you should have the sense to modify it a little. Call it ‘rebirebi’.”

“Oh I see,” said the doctor. “Well the symptoms of that disease are a swelling of the legs, poor digestion, weakness, loss of vision, and heart trouble.”

“My dear,” shouted Mrs. Ganguli from behind the screen, “ask the doctor if tobacco contains vitamins. I’ve noticed you’re smoking rather a lot these days. So ask him about the vitamins… and ask him if tobacco’s bad for the health.”

The doctor raised his voice a little more and said, “Yes, tobacco’s rich in vitamins. But you have to inhale the smoke deep into the lungs to absorb them properly. It’s the only way.”

“Well said! Well said!” said Mr. Ganguli. “I read somewhere in the scriptures that tobacco is a precious substance. If one offers tobacco to a deity it brings as much virtue as a horse sacrifice.”

“My dear,” shouted Mrs. Ganguli from behind the screen, “ask the doctor which vegetables contain vitamins. You’d better start eating them tomorrow.”

“Spinach and tomatoes,” replied the doctor. “Spinach is also good for the heart.”

Pálaḿkyá madhurá sváduh shleśmaláhitakárińii,
Viśt́ambhinii madashvásapittaraktabiśápaha.

[Spinach is tasty and sweet. It kills phlegm and has other beneficial effects. It cures constipation and asthma, purifies the blood and bile, and cleanses the blood of poison.]

“I also advise you to eat boiled eggs,” added the doctor.

Unfortunately the doctor forgot to raise his voice. Mrs. Ganguli completely misunderstood what he said and flew into a mad rage. After all, it is a cardinal sin for a Hindu to eat bullocks.

“Bullocks!” screamed Mrs. Ganguli. “Bullocks! Kick this wretch out of the house, dear! He expects you, the son of a Brahman, to eat bullocks. We’ll be ruined forever! Ruined forever! Drive him out of my house. I’ll purify the ground he touches with diluted cow dung.”

That evening the neighbourhood youth organized a special worship of the goddess Rakśákáli to entreat her to protect them from the dreaded beriberi. They also staged a variety show to entertain the worshippers. A few female singers showed up with lips painted with bright vermilion, but the male singers didn’t pay much attention to them. The stage was decorated with graveyard scenes, as befitted the worship of Rakśákáli. Almost everyone from the locality participated out of fear of the disease, including Mr. Ganguli. Some people were advising the participants to eat husked rice, coarse flour and home-pressed oil. They had heard that the disease spreads through oil made in automated mills.

It was time for Mr. Ganguly’s evening meal so he decided to return home. When he was putting on his shoes he suddenly shrieked, “Rebirebi” and fainted. Several worshippers helped him regain consciousness. “Mr. Ganguli, why were you so frightened?” they asked.

“I had an attack of rebirebi,” he stammered.

“How do you know that, grandad?” asked the neighbourhood teenagers who had rushed up to see that the fuss was about.

“When I came here my shoes fit me perfectly, but now they’re too small.” he wailed. “Oh my god! My feet have swollen due to rebirebi.”

A young footballer said jokingly, “If you played football you’d stay slim and the beriberi would never get you.”

“It looks like my next game will be in heaven,” said a terrified Mr. Ganguli. He thought the humour was in extremely bad taste.

Another boy asked, “Let’s see if your shoes fit you now.” A pindrop silence descended on the neighbourhood. “Mr. Ganguli,” said the boy, “it’s quite simple really. You tried to put on Mr. Ghosh’s shoes by mistake.”

Chapter 25	Sarkar's Short Stories Part 1

Once there was a king who had three queens, and they all spoke through their noses. One day, just before the king went hunting, he called his queens and said, “If any king, queen or VIP comes while I’m hunting please receive them with our best hospitality. But don’t speak to them, otherwise they’ll know you all have a speech defect.”

Soon after the king set out for his hunt, a king arrived from a foreign country. The queens welcomed him with the utmost cordiality, but didn’t say a word.

After serving him dinner the eldest queen was perplexed to see that he only ate a tiny portion of rice. Unable to control herself she blurted out, “Your Majesty, permit me to give you a little more rice.”

The second queen glared at her and said, “Sister, you’re not supposed to speak to the king.”

The youngest and cleverest queen placed a finger over her lips and said, “But I didn’t speak to the king. That’s the last thing I intend to do.”

Chapter 26	Sarkar's Short Stories Part 1

This is an old story. Mr. Panchu Dayas of Serampur⁽¹⁾ became a Christian because he was poor. He lived in a period of history when the rice harvests failed in Bengal year after year. One day he was so hungry that he went to the local church out of desperation and asked the padre for something to eat. The padre gave him a huge meal and promptly told the people of Serampur that Panchu had lost his caste. But Panchu disagreed, saying that although he ate the padre’s rice and pulse he didn’t drink a drop of water, so he was still eligible to keep his caste. The Hindu priests didn’t accept his logic. “There’s water in the rice and pulses,” they said, and declared him excommunicated.

Having been driven out of the Hindu society, Panchu had no choice but to become a Christian. He was christened Eric Edward Panchu Dayas with full ceremonial pomp. His new Christian names were more decorative than functional – people still called him Panchu Dayas. Panchu’s wife, Áhladii Dásii, a lady of great virtue, also became a Christian and was renamed Margaret Áhladii Dásii. Áhladii liked her new name, of course, but had great difficulty pronouncing it. So whenever anyone asked her name she would reply, “Áhladii Dásii”.

Dulal Mukherjee was one of Serampur’s drunkards. He was as deficient in intellect as he was advanced in age. One day the local padre found him lying in a gutter, hopelessly drunk. The padre carried him to his church and fed him all the bread, vegetable patties and vegetable cutlets he could eat. This was all Dulal wanted, but the padre wanted more. After the beating of drums the padre announced to the people that Dulal Mukherjee had eaten the forbidden food, and asked for more. The Hindu priests declared during their next meeting that Dulal Mukherjee was too westernized to deserve a place in the Hindu society. He, too, was excommunicated.

Soon after, Dulal was christened Edmond Dulal Mukherjee. Dulal’s father-in-law was horrified and immediately instructed his daughter to return home with her children. He would not permit them to live with a Christian. Dulal tried to get his wife and family back, but was driven away by the heavy stick of his irate father-in-law.

The padre was now faced with the problem of finding Dulal a suitable wife. Dulal boasted to everyone he met that Mother Mary, his saviour of saviours, would certainly grace him with a new wife soon.

Áhladii Dásii quarreled with her husband, Eric Edward Panchu Dayas, at least twice a day. She was angry because even though her daughter had come of age, her husband had not yet arranged her marriage. “What sort of a man are you?” she would shout. “If you don’t take any initiative in this matter I’ll take my daughter and go to my father’s house. I’ll sell my jewelry and organize a traditional marriage myself.” Panchu was in trouble. “Our daughter’s already six years old,” his wife would continue. “She’s grown up. If we don’t arrange her marriage now I hate to think what sort of things the neighbours will whisper behind our backs. This whole affair is becoming an albatross around my neck.”

Panchu asked the padre for help. When the padre heard the story he was beside himself with joy. I must be in heaven, he thought. This is exactly what he was waiting for. “I know someone who’ll make an excellent bridegroom,” he rejoiced. “Edmond Dulal is just the man.”

At the most auspicious moment on the must auspicious day – as suggested by the almanac – Edmond Dulal Mukherjee was married to Panchu’s daughter. It was a perfect ceremony – not a single ritual was omitted. They blew conch shells, walked around the sacred fire seven times, applied vermilion to the parting in the bride’s hair, and so on. The only difference was that the marriage was conducted by a Christian father instead of a Hindu priest.

After the marriage ceremony was over, a relieved Panchu said to his wife, “Áhladii, you’ve been a little unhappy recently, but now everything’s worked out well. It’s very fortunate we became Christians. We found a handsome bridegroom for our daughter. Do you think we would have been so lucky in our previous society? I admit our son-in-law drinks a little, but so does the padre. Even Mr. Bhattacharya, the Hindu priest, drinks bottles of wine on Kálii Pújá night. He says it’s a holy drink. Some people have observed that our son-in-law’s cheeks are a little hollow, but he is still quite young. He’s not even old enough to have one foot in the grave. No, it’s not at all absurd for a six-year-old girl to marry a forty-five year old man whose cheeks still have some life in them. I’ve heard that some high-caste Brahmans marry five-year-old girls when they’re ninety and about to gasp their final breath. The poor girl becomes a widow five minutes after the ceremony. No, there’s nothing to worry about. At least the stigma of having an unmarried daughter has gone. And the purity of caste is maintained, so we won’t become degraded ones. Things are looking very bright, my dear. Let’s prepare a nice Christmas cake for our son-in-law.” “What sort of cake do you have in mind?” asked Áhladii. “I was thinking a sweet molasses cake would be nice,” said Edward Panchu Dayas. Margaret Áhladii Dásii was overjoyed. Sweet molasses cake was her speciality.

Footnotes

(1) In those days Serampur was called Frederick Town. It used to be the capital of the Danish colony and was named after King Frederick of Denmark. The Danes introduced a number of words into the Bengali language, words like panrh (to the limit) and phonta (drop). These words are not pure Danish, but of Iberian origin. Some time ago when I visited Denmark, I noticed that the Danish people have dropped many of the old words from their language and have adopted many English words during the past two hundred years. I didn’t hear anyone use the words panrh or phonta. Perhaps these words are still used in the rural areas. The Bengali word bhaiphonta (brother’s day) is not very old, because phonta was introduced by the Europeans. Other examples of Iberian words are panrh mátál (confirmed alcoholic), panrh peara (ripe guava) and peara (guava). Peara comes from the Iberian word piaro. It has no old Sanskrit equivalent, but is translatedin modern Sanskrit as perukam or biijapúrakam. Even today in the neighbouring provinces of Bengal these words are not used. In northern India brother’s day is called vay-duj (Vhtátrditya in Sanskrit). The actual indigenous Bengali term for phonta is topá (topákul). It is spoken in some parts of rural Bengal. Topáis used widely in Orissa. In Oria dew drops are called káker topá. When the English occupied Frederick Town they renamed it Serampur, which was its original name. Even so it was still colloquially called Frederick Town for some time after.