Ten

By Basobi Das

“Will you tell me how many exactly we need?” yelled the fat man on the phone. Dharmu was slightly nervous by the yelling. Where he stood and where he worked, he saw all sorts of emotions, but certain features combined with certain attitudes sent shockwaves through his body. The word childhood trauma is not a fancy word applicable to only the rich and the bourgeoise.

“Please talk calmly,” he fearfully muttered. The angry man noticed the trembling lips and immediately stood straight.

“Fine.”

‘Fine’. But this had an impact more than fine. Dharmu was surprised. The burlesque body, the fair complexion, the bloodshot eyes, the huge golden chain around the neck, the shining rings on almost all ten fingers… but this man was not the mukhiya. He always reminded himself to not remember that night when for 500 Rupees, their livestock was burnt alive in the barn. Dharmu cannot forget. The burn marks do not let him forget. He tried but his infant cousin could not be retrieved, who knew whose bones were they checking the next morning. All was charred.

But this man’s ‘fine’ was the softest apology he had heard in his lifetime. From now on, the garland seller would like this new word ‘fine’.

“Everything is God’s will bhaiyyaji,” he said as he handed the man ten marigold garlands. The man knew it but, in his mind, it was a different story.

“My sister died in childbirth and her husband has already asked for my cousin sister’s hand in marriage while the baby does not even know if his mother is suckling him, or my wife, his aunt is. Can God not kill such lustful men and use His will for the right cause?” snarled the man crying aloud.

The bloodshot eyes had tears, something that had held the man’s pain shot through as he murmured “we are nine brothers, she is the tenth child, the only daughter… our love pride, everything we showered. Only if we trusted when she was reluctant about marriage. Only if…”

The man held the packet and sobbed with body shaking. His tears soaked his clothes, his pain, Dharmu could see was soaking the invisible blood soaking the man’s whole being. Men with similar features rushed to his aide, and everyone raised him. But none could wipe the tears. How could they, when theirs were still flowing!

“Ten hours of labour she suffered baapu, ten. We are nine brothers. We could not share her pain baapu. We failed…”

The fading words were so painful.

It was not an easy job to stand at this place, yet he stood. He would often complain to his wife over the phone that he did not like the place or the job, but “you don’t know any other craft and you will never be a servant”, she would always remind. Hearing the same dialogue for these ten years now had made the pain immune. Initially whenever she said it, he used to squirm. Once he even threw away the plate full of rice and left the hut. ‘Now it is not a hut anymore’, he reminded himself. With the money he earns, his sons go to the nearest NDMC school, their aunt gets medicines, his parents get money each month, his wife’s body is decently clad. Most importantly, they eat. And more than that, nobody charrs their livelihood and family.

“Do you have bananas?”, a tall lady stood there asking him. Dharmu was surprised, but his surprise is slowly subsiding with the days and months as they pass. Seeing women is now getting less infrequent at the crematoriums. He had only seen a brave woman lit her skeleton of a husband’s pyre the day before. She did not have any family, so as a human solidarity, he went and stood with her. It barely took ten minutes.

“Nothing was in the body, bitiya”, the old cremation pandit consoled the woman. She was fine with it. Her reply was not.

“Ten years I nursed him, at least he should have taken one hour and given me time to rest.”

Ten years of vegetative state and just ten minutes and she was still standing tall. ‘Such women, they are made of different metal. God uses a different material. God probably handcrafts them,’ he always thought. That day, he again thought the same thing.

“What is the date today, Murali?” he asked his helper boy. The young boy with crew cut hair looked up at his master and softly said “Tenth October”.

“The year is also 2010.”

“Yes.”

“You know…”

“Focus elsewhere.” Murali replied smartly. The helper may be younger by years, but his maturity was beyond his age. Dharmu knew it. He was a little jealous of it also. Little did he know, Murali envied his little remnants of innocence and once even told Mauli, Dharmu’s wife “Didiya, your husband is very innocent. Find a good replacement when I go away.”

Though the couple knew they will never find the right replacement. Murali was unmatched. But his determination had made the parting inevitable. They knew, nothing would deter him, not even their extended hand of family love. Dharmu sometimes remembered the charred younger cousin, if she were alive, he would have married her off to this sturdy, reliable and mature helper.

Mauli always knew how to read his mind and once said it with her enchantingly distant smile, “Fauji sipahi man he will be soon. We would not have afforded the dowry.”

He was not so low to seek dowry. They knew. But some thought was needed to dispel the pains.

The idea was good. Murali’s advice came handy, tall woman asked again bringing him out of thoughts. “Ten garlands and ten bananas, please pack it fast. I don’t want to be late”

She was in a rush and was muttering, “I don’t want them to take away my right. I must cremate my father and nobody else.”

The word “father” shocked Murali. He instantly wanted to take the order and rush with her. Without thinking he did so.

His master knew the switch that had triggered. Nobody will stop this helper of his from literally delivering the girl and her things right outside the hall. Electric crematoriums were now becoming more popular, so he saw the boy drag the girl almost set her flying like a kite and rushing with every needed article, he rushed in. there were customers, else Dharmu would also have joined. Seeing Murali fight for the other’s rights was nothing new, even made the boy popular for his righteousness, but was always a sight to behold. What will he do when this guy goes away after 10 weeks. Ten. This number. Only if it could be removed. But not possible, how will it be. Just that morning his ten-year-old had stretched the palm asking, “Babuji, will you give me ten rupees?”

“Why do you need it?” Mauli shouted. But the grandmother’s eyes kept her in check. The lady might not be mentally strong, but she also taught the boys etiquettes, so nobody could question the boys’ genuineness.

“Babuji, I need a new Math copy. I will not use the money for anything else.” The little trembling lips and the real strength of resolve in the boy’s eyes were too strong for Dharmu to refuse. He agreed to give the money. Yet, traditional Indian parenting cannot be ruled out. He gave the money instead to his aunt. The words between them were always fewer, but they knew what had to be done and what was expected.

He hated the number, so even if he had to add one rupee extra, he always did that. Like that morning, he had given twenty rupees. The extra, he knew, the aunt will buy something for his children or wife or household. He knew. The trust came because she always tried to find menial works to repay for the treatment he was spending on.

In half an hour, he saw a visibly relaxed Murali come back to his post. “Did you have to fight?”

“No. She was strong enough to fight her own battle and stand her ground.”

Dharmu saw something, something different. This young chap had a smile on his face.

‘Did he like her?’

Before he could get jealous or even agitated, Mauli’s words reminded him, Murali was already beyond his league. After all, the boy had earned the money, studied hard and cracked the exam. Of course, such a smart city girl would suit next to him.

“I like her.” Murali confessed. Dharmu nodded. He was getting towards the marriageable age after all. It was possible.

“Who is with her? Where does she live?”

The helper was quiet, lost in thoughts.

“I hope she did not call you bhaiyya,” he joked. Murali’s smile widened. He shook his head. Dharmu felt a pang, but he could not stop the boy. His ailing mother would also like such a befitting daughter-in-law.

“How much younger is she?”

“Just ten months.”

“You asked this also?” surprised master asked.

“No, of course not. I saw it in her Voter ID.”

“Good.” And suddenly by recollection, “It had her address also?”

“Yes. I remember it. I will write to her.”

“But you will be gone for many years.”

“I will speak to her before I go. I know she can wait. She is also studying for Masters’.”

Of course, his cousin be no match for Murali… fate.

Just then a young man, very fair, almost like an American came to his stall. “Can you give me one garland?”

Both master-helper were blank. Do they call him bhaisahab, brother, sir, or sadhuji? What can they call him? The last time they faced this weird situation was almost a year back. Murali suddenly remembered, “I know you!”

The young monk had not expected that. He was taken aback. ‘Did one year of becoming a monk not wipe out his identity!’. He felt a little betrayed.

“Hare Krishna. How do you remember me?”, he asked in a small voice, hoping against the truth that he was really recognised. He did not want to be recognised. He just wanted to come, pray and leave. He did not want to leave any trace except for the little prayers and that one garland he would leave behind.

“One year… Hare Krishna…” Murali fumbled. He did not know which sequence to go first. This was new. The man he had sold articles of cremation one year back, the same day was a different man. Or maybe now he had changed. He was dressed in a linen shirt and khaki shorts with his shoelaces and his hair nothing in their place. But they were in a crematorium. Except for the showy elites coming dressed in crisp whites, they usually saw dishevelled people. What was unique was, this American man was buying articles for a Hindu cremation and for an American girlfriend. Later the man shared with Murali over a mourning smoke, his girlfriend had been in India for three years and had adopted Hinduism, hence the cremation by the rites were befitting. Murali was just a 21-year-old fresh graduate. This story was so new. How can one forget such a story. Now, Dharmu also recollected.

The sparkle of recognition in their eyes was not something the monk could ignore. He had to give up on his resistance and fear.

“I took to Hare Krishna and renounced my previous life,” he admitted.

“The new life is good?” asked Dharmu quite innocently. He was not sure how to ask. His helper silent facepalming also wouldn’t save them, so he just quickly packed the garland and gave it to the monk with a Hare Krishna mumbled.

“You were with me that afternoon. Come with me. I am here to pray for her peace. It’s her death anniversary,” his plea had softened Dharmu. He was indeed with him. After all the rights of a brother he had helped with. But nobody had ever invited him for death anniversary prayers. He was reluctant. His helper showed the resolve. “We will go.”

The master’s fear was not known to him. Soon he realised. They came and stood outside the tenth furnace of Hall number 02.

Ten had again knocked him out.

“This was where we cremated her last year. This day onwards, now I can renounce everything for real,” the monk said with an ascetic silence.

While praying, Dharmu was trembling. The girl was young, the date was potent, and he had played the role of her brother.

Twenty years back, on the night of tenth October, in a small village, it was a shortfall of 500 Rupees that had cost the death of his ten-month old cousin.

“Soot.” “Charred.” “He charred our lives.”

His mumbling was getting out of control, Murali had to hold his shaking body.

In all these years, he had never cried. But today he did.

He screamed, “It is Ten. It’s all about TEN. I HATE TEN!” and collapsed in a pool of tears. The monk was renouncing the world’s last attachment, but here Dharmu was renouncing his hatred, his fears, his memories. But could they really renounce? Could the prayers and tears remove the scars?

The soot had now smeared his wet face, but he was no more the ten-year-old boy trying to find the charred human bones from that of their livestock. It was not just any human; it was the only daughter born in the family after four generations. He was trying to find the remains of his own Muniya.

“Muniya re… why did you crawl away to death?”

Fate. It was fate and TEN that had charred them all for all these years.

The soot from the electric furnace, the soot from that fire. It was one. Just the timelines caused the segregation.

The burlesque man, the young girl, the monk, Murli, everyone was shocked. This cremation material seller’s tears were now louder than theirs, sending waves into their voids.

Dharmu was suddenly representing them, their pains and hatred now united.

Standing there on this day, they unanimously agreed.

They all hated TEN.

By Basobi Das