Short Story: Jeet by Shikhandin

This short story by Shikhandin is a part of Kitaab Quarterly Vol 1.

It’s midnight on May Day when Raju gets a missed call on his second-hand mobile phone. Asha snores softly. An earthquake couldn’t wake her now. Raju calls the number back. A man’s agitated voice erupts from the phone and abruptly vanishes. Before he can react, Mai’s voice burrows into his ear. There are crackling sounds in the background, like splitting timber.

“How are you, beta? How is Asha? Is she still vomiting? What does she want to eat these days? I wish I could see you now…” Her voice spills emotion, like oil from an overstuffed pickle jar.

“Mai, we are coming home. Don’t worry,” Raju says as soon as he can get a word in.

The noise in the background is like a lusty fire riding a gusty wind. It drowns out the sound of her sobs. The line goes dead. Raju calls the number, but it doesn’t go through. He tries a few more times. He sighs and returns to the mattress, curving his body against Asha’s. The scent of tender green mangoes wafts into the room. Raju falls asleep dreaming of Mai sunning spiced and salted green mango slices in her courtyard.

Sukhdev Singh, the foreman Raju and others like him report to, has arranged for their transport. He charged a good sum. Most of the money Raju had saved, has been used up to secure space for them in Sukhdev’s lorry.

Asha has packed last night’s leftover rotis and some gur. She has filled two plastic bottles full of their municipality water. Raju lifts the bedding tied with rope and slings two cloth bags from his shoulders. Asha takes another sling bag, a plastic bag containing the bric-a-brac of their life in Delhi and the food potli.

They arrive at the crowded bus depot, where Sukhdev is supposed to meet them. Asha holds Raju’s elbow for balance and security. Sukhdev is nowhere to be seen. An angry cluster among the agitated clusters grabs Raju’s attention. He sees a familiar face and drags Asha along. But the face disappears, and they are caught in the melee.

Two hours pass. Still no sign of Sukhdev. The crowds of hopefuls for the busses, tempos, trucks, and taxis wax and wane around them. Raju and Asha take small sips from one of their precious bottles. After another hour, Raju leads Asha to a Gul Mohur tree, which offers a bit of respite from the sun. It’s right next to the public urinal.

“Wait here, while I check.” He says, setting down their luggage.

Asha wrinkles her nose but obeys. When Raju returns, he has two men with him. She has never seen them before.

“Madhow bhai and Umesh bhai are from Mai’s village,” says Raju with a bright smile. “They knew Nanaji and Nani.”

“We attended your Bapuji’s wedding!” Says the one with a squint in his left eye.

The taller of the two laughs. “Arre! As if we remember. We were only this high then.” He bends to indicate his right knee. The palm of his hand faces the ground.

Raju looks at Asha reassuringly. “It’s better to travel together.”

‘Did you find Sukhdev?” says Asha.

Before Raju can reply, the squint-eyed man snorts. “That swindler?! Saala, chor!”

The sky spins above Asha. Raju quickly throws his arm around her waist. “Arre Madhow bhai, she’s with child. Can’t you be a bit tactful?”

Madhow looks at her belly and mumbles an apology. Umesh steps forward. “Give, bitiya,” he says, taking her bags from her. Asha holds on to the food potli.

Asha knows they will walk. There is barely enough cash between the two of them. She has kept her money safe in a small cloth purse inside her bra. Some loose change tied into a little knot in a corner of her sari pallu. Raju has some hundred-rupee notes and some smaller denominations. She is wary of the two men, but Raju seems to trust them completely. Her brows furrow with worry.

The sun ascends. Asha feels the heat through the thin soles of her rubber flip-flops. Umesh stops. “Asha bitiya needs to rest.”

“Umesh is right,” says Madhow. He looks around for a suitable spot. They’ve reached the highway. It’s like a river of tar flowing forward and backward. No bus stop, no tree, no broken-down vehicle offering hot shade, and a rusty seat. They keep walking, slower than before. Raju stays close to Asha.

“O bhai! Going somewhere?”

They stare at the tempo driver mutely. The driver’s assistant, a scruffy boy, gestures towards the tempo’s deck.

“We don’t have any money,” says Madhow.

“Who asked? If you can climb in, I’ll drop you off at a suitable point,” says the driver, his kohl-rimmed eyes crinkling into a smile. A laminated card with some verses written in Urdu hangs from the rear-view mirror of his tempo.

They scan each other’s faces. Either the man is a genuine angel or a true devil in disguise. Asha leans against Raju. They’ll have to take a chance with it. The three men help her climb up. They toss in the bedding and bags and climb in. The deck smells of goats and cattle, and there are bits of hay and dry dung scattered all over the floor. Asha rests her back against the partition between them and the tempo driver. Raju sits down next to her. The scent of tender green mangoes tickles his nostrils. But there is not even a dead tree trunk in sight, let alone a live tree. Madhow and Umesh sit at the rear end, with their backs to the couple. They dangle their legs from the deck. Umesh raps on the side to indicate they are set to go.

Their weary bones, the heat, and the tempo’s rhythmic rattle lull them into sleep. Raju is the first to wake up, and he does so with a jerk. The tempo is stationary. He looks at the sky. Its velvety indigo colour has seeped into the surroundings. Nothing is clear, except for night’s stealthy advance. He cannot see Madhow and Umesh. His heart thudding, and he wakes Asha up. The tempo is too quiet. There are no buildings around them. Just a three-foot high white wall skirting what looks like paddocks. Cows low and goats bleat from the shadows.

“Madhow bhai? Umesh bhai?” Raju whispers hoarsely.

“We are here,” they reply in unison. But so softly their voices sound like the rustling of leaves.

Raju’s eyes adjust to the gloaming, and he can see them at last. First their heads, side by side, and then their entire bodies, dark as shadows. He sees Madhow go over to the tempo’s engine and come back running.

“No one there,” says Madhow.

Panic constricts Asha’s throat.

“Something’s wrong,” says Umesh.

Raju exhales sharply.

In silent accord, they get off with their belongings. They stand huddled near the wall, not knowing where to go. The scent of burning assails them. Asha starts to cough.

“That’s the smell of burning flesh,” whispers Umesh. “I know that smell!”

In the distance, they hear a boy cry out. And the shouts of men chasing their quarry.

“Not good. Not good!” says Madhow. “Let’s go. Now!”

Go where? They are in the middle of nowhere. They follow the wall, away from the voices. The mud road rolls before them.

Asha has to relieve herself, so Umesh and Madhow keep walking. Raju stands guard as she squats near a clump of tallish grass.

Lights wink far ahead. The distant sound of a train pierces the stillness of the night. Relief shivers through Raju’s body. With some luck, they can board slow-moving goods train. He urges everyone to quicken their pace. They reach the level crossing just as the signalman is waving his red lantern. Like a miracle, the shape of a goods train looms before them. The air feels sweet all of a sudden, redolent of tender mangoes. Madhow runs ahead to see if there is any unlocked wagon or an open one. They follow him as fast as Asha’s legs allow.

The train slows and halts. Madhow shouts at them to hurry up. He has found a suitable wagon. They hoist Asha up, throw the luggage after her, and scramble on board. The train screeches into movement as soon as the signalman shows his green lantern. They lie flat on the open-to-the-sky wagon, which is like an iron tray on iron wheels, sticking to the center. Their hands try to grasp the flat surface for added support. Raju turns towards Umesh and Madhow who are lying next to him. Cool misty breath rises from them. In the dark, they look skeletal, like men who have starved for the longest time.

The ride is too precarious for a fitful sleep. At last, a rim of silver reveals the horizon. With daylight comes the reassuring sight of paddy fields, vegetable patches, and ponds surrounded by coconut trees. The terrain appears familiar. The three men start a cheerful discussion, trying to guess where they are. The train slows and screeches to a halt. The flint chips layering the railway tracks glint in the sunlight. No bird flies overhead. Save for some vultures circling miles above. The quiet is ominous, like the lull before a storm. They get off the train, anyway, wherever they are now, at least it’s closer home. They take care taking care, like before, of Asha and their belongings.

They cross the tracks quickly to reach the fields beyond. They scan the sky for signs of cooking fire or smoke. They see a pond, and Asha and Raju remember their water is finished. Mango and coconut trees circle the pond. The water is cool. Coconuts are lying on the ground. Umesh and Madhow look for a suitable stone. And just like that it is a picnic. Cool water, chunks of coconut flesh, and half-ripe mangoes complement their remaining rotis which are papad-dry by now. Raju and Asha are ravenous.

A deafening thud followed by the clash of metal against metal rends earth and sky. They spring to their feet, the ground shaking beneath them. Asha and Raju stare at the carnage in the distance. Wagons of the goods train (their train!) and the bogeys of a passenger train lie overlapped and scattered. The passenger train is a mangle of iron and blood, muscle and bone. A minute’s silence yawns from the accident site before the cries and shouts begin. The cacophony is awful. And then, seemingly out of thin air, the countryside bursts open with people.

The day groans under the weight of loss and lament. The passenger train was carrying migrant workers, like them. Those who were lucky, those who could be saved, are now being fed and cared for by the villagers from nearby. Raju and Asha are pulled into the crowds of survivors. They gratefully accept the warm lentils and rice.

A few days pass before the tracks can be cleared of debris. The government has announced compensation. And Raju and Asha join the queue of hopefuls. Whether the money will ultimately reach their hands or not, the promise gives them a sense of belonging and self-worth. A few more days pass, and then some more. Finally, a special train arrives. The migrant workers are loaded in it. All through this time, Raju and Asha have seen neither Madhow nor Umesh. The refugee camp-like atmosphere, the daily queues for meals, and the constant search for a quiet place for bowel movement have kept them occupied. Raju hopes the two men are alright. He hopes to find them again on thein the train.

The train will take them to Patna, which is further away from their destination. Raju chats with his co-passengers to find out about the itinerary. They will pass Mughal-Sarai in a few hours. But their train won’t stop there. They will pass small stations before reaching Ara junction. But the train won’t stop there either. The emergency chains have been disabled as well. Everyone will have to get off at Patna and get tested. Then they will have to go through the mandatory quarantine period. Raju digests the information with dismay. He looks at Asha. She’s asleep. Beads of sweat glisten on her forehead. He lightly touches her neck. It feels cool. He wonders when they will reach home, if at all.

It’s at night when he feels the train slowing down. Someone is shaking his arm.

“Raju, Raju! Wake up!”

Raju blinks. In the dim light, he sees Madhow bending over him. Before he can react, Madhow has grabbed their bedding from under the seat.

Umesh’s lanky frame looms above them. “Hurry. Get up bitiya!”

Their co-passengers stir. Someone asks what’s wrong, what’s happening.

“We are travelling together, bhai-saab,” says Madhow confidently. “Taking them to our compartment.”

Umesh and Madhow bundle Asha and Raju toward the exit. Men and women are crowding the compartment’s door. The train slows and slows, screeching like a great beast in pain. Before he can gather his wits about him, Raju finds himself being pushed out.

Umesh’s urgent whisper pours like icy air into his ear. “Hurry Raju, I’ll get Asha bitiya!”

In a daze, Raju sees their luggage tumble down the tracks. He jumps. Madhow is almost instantly beside him. Raju sees Asha, or rather a bundle that has Asha’s head sticking out from it, being passed to Madhow. Umesh follows right after. Together they run across the tracks, with Asha slung between them. Raju picks up the luggage and follows. They reach the dark edge of the escarpment and almost slither down. Umesh sets Asha down, and Madhow relieves Raju of the bedding. They hear shouts and cries. Other passengers have followed their example. The train lurches forward. There is a shriek. Followed by screams and shouts. Asha and Raju turn to see.

“Don’t look!” hisses Umesh. “Go, go!”

The two men urge the couple deeper into the shadows. In a daze, Raju and Asha, cower among low trees and bushes. They hear the train screech and gather speed. Single file, they walk a long walk, along the narrow ridges between water-bogged paddy fields. Fireflies flit about and hundreds of frogs sing in the inky dark.

A sickle moon dipping westwards tells them that daybreak is close. They walk on, but after a while, when the sky has lightened a bit, they stop. Asha has begun to stumble. Her throat is parched. In their hurry to leave, they forgot the bag with the water bottles.

Umesh peers about him. “Wait here,” he says, pulling free the gamchha tied around his waist. He returns with the gamchha dripping wet. “Wet your lips Asha bitiya. Then we will walk to the well.”

Asha wrings out water into her throat and passes the gamchha to Raju who does the same. They slowly make their way to the place where the well is. The place smells strange. The few hutments look abandoned. Asha looks fearfully at Raju.

“Madhow bhai,” says Raju timidly. “Where are we?”

“Close to your home,” says Madhow, before adding wistfully. “We used to know this place.”

They fill their bellies with well water, which tastes old and leafy. But at least they can drink it. The prospect of arriving home soon gives Asha all the energy she needs. They walk through fields and clumps of trees, and the occasional pond, before reaching the goat tracks that lead them to a narrow, tarred road. They walk in silence, but Raju’s gait is jubilant. He recognises the place.

He points to a distant tree. “That’s the bus stop.”

“Yes,” says Madhow quietly.

“We have reached our destination,” says Umesh with a catch in his voice.

Madhow sets the bedding down at the base of the tall old Toona tree. Umesh hands over the sling bags to Raju.

“Wait here,” says Umesh. “A bus will come along by and by.”

“You should be able to reach your village before dusk,” says Madhow. He raises a hand as if to bless Asha.

“Aren’t you coming?” says Raju. “Mai would love to see you.”

They smile at him kindly, their eyes brimming with sorrow. Madhow shakes his head, “Our way is on the other side,” he says. “You’ll be alright from here.”

“I think a bus is coming now,” says Umesh. “Take care.”

Asha adjusts her sari. She smiles uncertainly. Raju looks at them but doesn’t know what to say. They watch Umesh and Madhow as they walk down the fields, dotted with Sal and Toona trees. A rustle above them claims their attention. It’s a pair of rose-ringed parakeets among the foliage. When they look again, it’s just the fields interspersed with trees to the horizon.

A bus arrives as Umesh had predicted. Asha finds a seat. She holds the bedding between her knees. Raju pays twenty rupees to fare to the conductor. They are exhausted, thirsty, and famished by the time the bus reaches the main road of their village. But they are home.

Tears and snot roll down Bapuji’s stubbly face. Raju’s elder brothers, their wives, and their children surround the young couple. Waving protocol aside, they make Asha sit down on the khatiya, near Bapuji. They thrust tumblers of bel sherbet at them. In the initial joy and excitement, Raju and Asha don’t comprehend the tragedy that has preceded their homecoming.

“Balraj-ki-Mai was looking forward to this day. So much,” says Bapuji, wiping his face.

“What happened?” says Raju hoarsely. “Did Mai fall sick?”

“Nahi re. It was a snakebite,” says Balraj, his eldest brother. “Cobra.”

“Cobra?” Raju looks at him uncomprehendingly. “When? How?”

“Early morning when she went to the field to relieve herself. But in these times any death is suspicious. The amount of running around we had to do to get the death certificate. That scoundrel government doctor wanted a bribe for issuing one. Was insisting on reporting it as a covid case!”

“When?” cries Raju, beating his fists against his thighs. “How come no one told me?”

“We tried calling you,” said Balraj. “The phone wouldn’t connect. Once it did, but I couldn’t hear anything. And then it went dead.”

“Raju,” says Bapuji. “I even tried calling you from the burning ghaat. I got the connection for a minute but couldn’t hear you. It was midnight by the time we got her body back from the hospital. Midnight, you know. Still, I called. One last try, I thought.”

The firmament spirals down towards Raju. He reaches for Asha’s hand. It feels clammy. The whites of her eyes aglow in the dark.

“Madhow bhai and Umesh bhai?” whispers Asha.

“Bapuji,” and Raju leans towards his father. “Bapuji, did you know Madhow and Umesh from Mai’s village? They said they attended your wedding as small boys.”

Bapuji frowns, “The names are familiar.” He shakes his head. “No, you’re making a mistake. Can’t be them. It happened so long ago…” He grows silent.

“What happened Bapuji?” urges Raju.

“It was a lit bidi or maybe firecrackers that set the thatch roof on fire. Can’t exactly remember,” Bapuji pauses. “Balraj-ki-Mai was inconsolable,” he says at last. “She knew them since they were born.” He draws a long breath. “Take care of chhoti bahu,” he says to Balraj’s wife. “Jeetendra should not have trouble entering the world.”

Bapuji’s last pronouncement lightens the mood immediately. There are titters and giggles all around. Bapuji’s favourite Bollywood star is a family joke.

“Bapuji,” says Balraj, twirling his moustache. “How do you know it’ll be a boy?”

“Jeetendra,” says Bapuji with finality. “My latest grandson.”

“Jeetika,” counters his eldest daughter-in-law courageously and giggles. Bapuji dismisses her with a wave of his hand. But his eyes twinkle.

The other daughters-in-law titter and nudge each other. The children take up the chorus. And it continues through dinner. “Jeetendra, Jeetika, Jeetendra, Jeetika.” Even the stars seem to twinkle with the rhythm of their chorus.

Raju bites into the tender mango pickle made by Mai. He closes his eyes to hold back the tears and waits for a long moment before swallowing.

Late at night, on their khatiya beneath the stars, Asha whispers, “Jeetendra or Jeetika. We’ll call our baby Jeet at home.”

Raju places his hand on her belly. “Yes, of course. Jeet,” he says. “Our Jeet. Mai’s Jeet.”

“And Madhow bhai and Umesh bhai’s Jeet,” says Asha. She lifts her folded palms skywards and brings them down to touch her forehead. Raju does the same.

The scent of tender green mangoes from the grove billows over them like misty breath. The breeze blowing from the trees is like Mai’s hand, passing through Raju’s hair, caressing Asha’s belly, gently, ever so gently. And, the night is like a shower of blessings cascading down on them, from the souls of the departed.

Author’s Bio

Shikhandin is the pen name of an Indian writer who writes for adults and children. Her published books, as Shikhandin, include “After Grief – Poems” (Red River, India), “Impetuous Women” (Penguin-Random House India), “Immoderate Men” (Speaking Tiger), and “Vibhuti Cat” (Duckbill-Penguin-Random House India).

Before that, a novel and a short story collection were published. Shikhandin’s honours include runner George Floyd Short Story Contest 2020 (UK), Pushcart nominee by Aeolian Harp (USA) 2019, Pushcart nominee by Cha: An Asian Literary Journal (Hong Kong) 2011, Winner 2017 Children First Contest curated by Duckbill in association with Parag an initiative of Tata Trust, First prize Brilliant Flash Fiction Contest 2019 (USA), Runner up Erbacce Poetry Prize (UK), Winner 35th Moon Prize (Writing in a Woman’s Voice: USA), First Runner up The DNA-OoP Short Story Contest 2016 (India), Second Prize India Currents Katha Short Story Contest 2016 (USA), First prize Anam Cara Short Fiction Competition 2012 (Ireland), Long list Bridport Poetry Prize 2006 (UK), Finalist Aesthetica Poetry Contest 2010 (UK). Shikhandin’s poetry and prose have been very widely published worldwide, online and in print.