Barhababu( The Big Brother)

By Biren Sasmal

The news spread like wildfire. 

The marriage ceremony of Hiramoni’s elder son Paltu, may be the grandest—with the sacrifice of the much-vaunted ‘barhababu’ (big brother), a giant carp, weighing twenty kilos, in the bridal feast.

“Delicious!”, chuckled the village elders.

The mouth-watering news rejuvenated the languishing youngsters. The spinsters and ladies in the muhalla (locality) got a spicy talk show to continue for days.

“Aha! One piece of the maachh (the fish) will bring heaven to the earth,” raved the middle-aged enthusiasts.

Hiramoni, the octogenarian mother of Paltu did not join the bandwagon. She was determined, not to yield to any pressure. ‘Barhababu’ belonged to her well-protected pond. He had been her ‘son’ and would remain the same. None woul;d be able to dethrone him from her heart.

But the days of ‘wait’ are coming to an end, increasing the anxiety of Hiramoni. “The appointed day of the ceremony is drawing near. How to prevent this carnage?” She talks to none. Yet she talks. It’s winter. Of severe cold. The biting north wind cuts deep into the bones. 

“The world is asleep. But I’m to stay awake,” Hiramony whispers in the dark, slips out of her bed, and, with great labour, clambers down to the last stony step reaching the water of her pond. The water is as cold as ice.

“Uhh!”, she exclaims, “tonight the stars seem to have buried themselves into slumber. The curse of God may have befallen on us. Such a pitchy darkness! May God save us!”

She sends her ears to listen to the living sound of her fishes. No. It’s OK. “Heh! They call me ‘mother goddess’, the ‘fish mother’. I know, they jeer at me! How can they read the lines of sorrow written in my heart? She pins her eyes as if into the wall of darkness. Noting could be seen yet Hiramony tries to transport her eyes to the other end of the pond.

“Who knows when the burglars will break into? My pond, is staffed by a variety of fishers. I don’t want my ‘yakher dhan (the wealth of King Midas) to be looted.”

“Do I hear any commotion? Any intruding sound from the other end?”

“Noh! My eyes are too old to penetrate.”

She seats herself, by the water, tho’ she shivers from a killing north wind. 

“I sit here, guarding the treasures of seven kings—see, you, the gods!

Eighty years of poverty, hunger and helplessness! I lost my husband on such a wintry night, the wind was howling as this of today. I remember it, vividly.”

Some uneasy feelings keep her perturbed.

“Is there a sound, of flinging any heavy object down into the water?”

Her ears sense an unusual sound. She now takes her five-cell torch and focuses towards the other end of the pond, “Tho’s it’s fenced. Is there any otter? I don’t believe them. Treacherous intruders. Within an hour they’ll leave my pond fishless. No. No, it can’t be. I am here, Hiramoni Behera. People call me ‘Pathar’ (the stone-minded). Let ’em.

But where is the sound come from? The pond is tightly netted, not a fly will dare sneak into. Then?”

“She is scared. Is it a ghost? Some creatures of the other world? Or any burglar trying to hoodwink me?”

She feels the touch of a fishy wind and gets a shivering cold knifing through her saree and wrapper. She sniffs like a dog.

The sound is gone and she settles on the concrete slab at the last step. She mutters to herself. 

“My pond is my pond. Even the last devastating flood couldn’t flood out and break the bond of my happy family. Fifteen-feet net struggled against the floodwater. Violent waves could n’t tear the net off. Yes, the younglings were mad and weren jumping up with the rushing rainwater.” Hiramoni is not ungrateful. She made mounds of ordinary fish (kala maachh) go away through her ‘charhua’ (the crossed bamboo stick net) but, mounds from other ponds, canals, nullahs and riverines came rushing in. My family grew bigger, with huge-sized carps, rohus, climbing fish, catfish, trout, barbell fish, flat fish even lobsters rushing in. Just at this moment I closed the door of the crossed bamboo stick channel. But I was cautious about boal or trouts. They were immediately netted for family consumption. Otherwise they could have devoured all other species.”

But she was very conservative about her carp family. She would never allow the growing carps to be netted and consumed by her family.

She strongly prevented his elder son willing to have a good catch of the younger carps.

“My son, the rohu and the catla grow up to two kilograms in a year in my pond. Take ‘charapona’ (younglings), mrigals but don’t disturb the carp family. You may take one or two when they are of three kilograms but not regularly. Let them grow bigger. “Have you not seen the pageantry when the fog covers the water?” 

There’s a soft rustling sound behind her.

“Who is this?”

“It’s Paltu, your elder son.”

Hiramoni was frozen in silence.

“Maa, do you want to die before your daughter-in-law comes home?”

The words thudded in her skull.

“Why have you ventured out in this cold and foggy night? What ails you?”

Hiramoni’s words ran short.

“Whether my marriage has drawn your sleep dry? Do you think your ‘bouma’ (daughter-in-law) will usurp your wealth—your son?”

“Na baba (No, my boy) I’m bitten by some other thoughts.”

“Shall I cancel my marriage ’coz you don’t approve of it?”

“My son—please don’t misunderstand me. I’m worried about my other family—the happy family of my fishes. Who will feed them, who’ll take care of? My ‘barhababu’ will die of hunger!”

“You’re really crazy, my mother.”

“Years I have struggled and got my fish family.”

“Again that silly thought. Maa, human beings are born and they die. The entire animal world is born, eaten by their predators or die their natural death. This is the Law of Nature. Fishes are born, they are consumed—may be, the rare species is conserved for a time and then they die!”

“You’ll never feel my son—my ‘barhababu’ is my another son, he is not a fish to be consumed!”

“Then he’ll be showcased for tourists to excite their wonder?”

“Don’t be so cruel as to hit me with your caustic remark. These are god-gifted creatures. Haven’t you noticed—when I give my barhababu a ball of rice, how he jumps up to devour like a monster? When I get down into water he’ll surely come swimming and butt me with his head—his fins touching me softly and floating up to the surface, with his lips open and upturned, he, breathing like a monster and me, dropping rice-husk-mixed balls into his widened jaws, he, making a sound of divine pleasure! Haven’t you enjoyed his relishing the earthworms, wasps and spawns?”

Paltu smiles approvingly and asks her to get into the warmth of the bedroom.

“My fishes will suffer in this thick fog, Paltu?”

“What can you do mom? Will you stand there covering a net? 

“This is really a madness.”

“Barhababu will run short of oxygen—my handsome third son… how can I sleep tonight?”

“So you want to feed ‘barhababu’ till his death? What will he be worth of—at his old age? He’ll decay within three four years. You can’t keep him alive forever. He will be reduced to skeletons. This is true. If you tend a goat, you rear it, you have to sell it for human consumption. The same is for cock and hen…I respect your feeling, your emotions, but, pray, don’t get mad after your barhababu. He must be consumed before he decays. His flesh has become tougher, the next day he will be thrown useless…!

Day before the bridal feast.

“Granny, this time we’ll have a grand “menu” at our plate, at Paltuda’s bridal feast,” two or three unmarried girls from the muhalla, screamed in a pyrrhic joy. At last, after long persuasion, the 20 kg giant will be at our plate. Ummm! One piece of … means a journey to Nandan Kanan (Garden of Paradise).”

Grany shook her head sadly. She had a marky dull feeling prompting her to cry. Her throat thickened. A gloom overcame her.

Came a bevy of ladies with a wave of happiness washed over them. The warmth of their gaze seemed to penetrate granny’s skin.

“Owuu. Granny, Granny, thank u. At last we will have our long awaited dish! Aha! The savour, the taste.” A glint of satisfaction was seen in their big-eyed faces. A helpless anger simmered again in Hiramoni.

She replied ruefully, “It’s long since barhababu came one day, little hatchling with a head, bigger than his body. Since then Hiramoni had seen him grow-up, day by day. How? It’s Hiramoni’s affection that hastened his growth. She would measure his growth twice a year. He became a good lad, a bit impulsive at times. He was overly eager for its age. He was like a dauntless young man. He had a wider belly like that of a really giant catla, elegant, with bluish green healthy fins, eyes bigger, as clear as glass and jaws stronger, heavier to swallow the big-sized catfish. 

He would hunt small, flat fish, prawns and small fishes—His back dotted with blue patches—aha! What a handsome young man! Now, even at this middle age, he looks younger than any other young catla.”

“Oh granny, whatever be your objection, we want the delicious harvest of your pond. This is a historical day. Barhababu is for us. Hurrah!”

Newly wed Paltu’s brother-in-law joins the milee, “Oh auntee, at least ten villages around yours know about the giant barha-babu, everyone expecting to taste a piece of meat…People have not tasted such a huge delicious fish for years!

On the scheduled day of the bridal feast, Hiramony declared a war.

“My son, send our people to the haat (weekly market) to buy the fish required. Don’t break the harmony of the pond.”

Paltu stood silent. Anger flared across his face but he showed a calm demeanour. 

“When we have our own pond staffed with fish, why should we go to the haat? Besides this, our guests are waiting avidly to taste… who likes frozen fish when his own pond has a shoal of bigger carps?”

“Stop, you’re a killer.” And all of you are lying in wait to hunt my ‘barhababu’.

Paltu retorts curtly, “What will this barhababu he worth of—after one year, mom? He will die and rot.”

His friends joined and laughed gregariously. They declared loudly, “we have been invited to taste a rare delicacy, not those rotten fishes from Andhra Pradesh or Bilaspur.”

*

The netters arrived in time.

They had a good catch—of golden-coloured rohus weighing four to five kilos and the big one—the much-advertised barhababu (big brother) catla that invited a sharply edged euphoria—whoa!

Hiramoni watched with an excited shock.

The irate crowd went into a cruel clapping.

Giant cutters for the giant fish. Hiramoni frantically stopped the cutters. “Wait for a moment. Let me caress him the last time.”

She gently put her hand on her ‘barhababu’. It seemed barhababu’s eyes were searching her for the last time. Being out of water, the giant carp was seen struggling for breath, his strong jaws and fat lips got upturned, as if he was praying for a little air, his eyes showed he was crying in exasperation…

The first cut of the large knife (‘banti’ set with a wooden plank), ended his struggle and his body was placed on the ground, half-cut. Still he was trying to breathe like a monster…

And this time Hiramoni collapsed and fell flat on the ground and all of a sudden her body rolled down onto thoe concrete slab. There she slept, trying to breathe desperately, her lips turned upside down…

She was, like her ‘barhababu’, praying for a little air.

The ‘sehenai’ (clarinet/a reeded woodwind instrument for bridal merriment) was heard banging with a music of Bismillah Khan, The ‘Basant Bahar’.

By Biren Sasmal