The Clear Sky(firdouz) Firdouz Hameed, India
Firdouz.hameed@yahoo.com


THE CLEAR SKY

Somewhere in a village in India lived our poor farmer and his family… a family of three. Their hut made of dried straws, almost going to catch on fire under the blazing demon up in the day sky. His two year old son, looking skyward, was lying on his mother’s lap. He looked upon the roof which let in the light from the above pierce in it here and there. Too exhausted to move, he stretched out his little arm trying to catch this luminous guest.

“We will sell our land. We will move northwards,” said the farmer’s wife.

“Who could buy it other than the zameendar (land lord), Kalki?” replied the farmer. His wife looked at him with anguish. But his was a face who admitted to fate.

“Then we will run away somewhere. Far away from all this and start a new life with some more luck,” said Kalki to her husband, Lala.

He smiled, “They will catch us before we pack,” he said. “Look… Kalki, if it was only a matter of we both then I would have at least poisoned us to escape to our own world. But there is a little life lying in your lap. He needs his chance to live… to succeed.” She heard each and every word he said, thinking how.

“Kalki… what I am going to tell you will not please you. But you must obey it as it is the only way for our son to have a better life,” said Lala. “The zameendar has expressed his will to marry you and raise our son as his own.”

“What?” shouted Kalki. “Are you not ashamed?” she asked. “You want to sell your wife and son to pay your debts? You are even a lesser man than I thought.”

“What else can we do?” He said crying aloud. “You are all I have. I love you more than the sky. But how can I let you suffer in this misery? I can’t see my son and my love die with hunger,” said Lala, pouring his tears.

Kalki stood there with her son lying on the ground. She looked at her husband weep in his torn clothes in their hut which could not withstand a strong breeze. She walked towards him slowly. She said, “I am sure it will rain soon. Our fields will see harvest. We will get enough to pay the lenders and eat twice a day. We just have to survive one more test of time.”

“It has been two years, Kalki. This entire village is cursed,” said Lala with tremendous pain in his voice. “At least the Zameendar showed some dignity by offering to marry you. Unlike those who violate the poor man’s wife for a day’s fun after a meal with stomach full,” said Lala, like a helpless man who despised the rich. What he said was the story of many farmers.

Kalki heard every word he said. She felt her body grow weak, not able to react to her mind. All these days of starvation didn’t make her feel like this. She didn’t feel a need to speak. It seemed like her loving husband had decided her and her child’s fate. The family sat there in the hut with no one having anything to say. Even the infant hardly cried. Maybe the hunger had got to him too much. His mother would occasionally get up to take a sip of the little drinking water they had in the house. She needed something in her body to feed her child.

“He will come tomorrow morning,” said Lala.

“Isn’t there a need for some ritual for a couple to get separated before a woman can be married?” asks Kalki, who had never thought the need of learning the formalities of such things.

“Rituals are for the poor. God couldn’t know we exist. So then how can he be concerned with what we do?” That was the last thing anyone said that night.

The next morning, they all waited for the arrival. The Zameendar arrived with his helper Champak. Champak called out his name, standing a few feet away from the hut with the Zameendar beside him. He doesn’t speak directly to the natives much. Champak speaks on his behalf.

Lala opened the door slowly and stepped out, bowing in front of the Zameendar. Champak comes towards Lala.

“Don’t make sahib wait for too long. Be quick,” says Champak in a low voice but stern.

Lala looks at the Zameendar and then slowly goes inside the house. “Kalki…” he calls her with pain in his voice. She walks slowly towards him carrying the child and a small wrapped baggage. She touches his feet and walks out. She turns around one last time. Her facial expression seems dead cold. Lala rushes towards her and takes the child and kisses him several times… hugging her with the other hand.

“Lala…” calls Champak from outside.

Kalki takes the child from his hands and walks out of the house. She slowly vanishes from his sight. He almost falls on the ground, heartbroken, in a hut where all of a sudden not even a ghost’s whisper can be heard.

“Lala…” Champak calls him again. Lala gets up and goes out. His ex-wife and child, nor even the Zameendar, is not to be seen. They must have gotten in his bullock cart to start a new journey. “You are a lucky man, Lala” says Champak. “All your debt has been paid, just as sahib has promised. He also asked me to give you this,” says Champak, lending forward a fifty rupees note.

“I don’t need it,” said Lala.

“Come on now,” said Champak, forcefully putting it in his hand. “This is just a token of appreciation. These are people who will have to help you when in need. Don’t upset them,” he says and walks away after patting Lala’s shoulder.

Lala watches him go and climb up the cart and drive it into the distance. The passengers on the back couldn’t be seen as a curtain was put at the entrance on the back of the cart.


***


Twenty five years have passed by. Not much has changed in the village in the eyes of Lala. One significant change is that most people can somehow afford to have meals twice a day. There are also a few more shops at the market. Lala likes to go and sit in the market. A lot of people come and go each day. He hopes to see a familiar face every now and then. Sometimes he sleeps there at night. He has become too old to walk back home always. Going back was tough for him at times. It wouldn’t have mattered much where he rested at night, either.

“Chacha (calling elders with respect)…" Called a man from the tea shop. “Come have an early morning tea and a small bite,” he said. Lala responded with glee.

“Become a charitable person, have you?” mocked a man who was eating there.

“Keep quiet, you,” said the owner who invited. “The man is my lucky charm. Every time I give him something, that day my hotel sees good business.

Lala sits down on a bench and drinks the tea and eats the snack served for him with delight. The torn woolen cloth that he was wearing wasn’t enough to keep him warm in this early morning cold. A hot tea did the trick. He was listening to the conversations that people were having while eating. The best way to know any news around the world is paying attention to the conversations at a tea shop.

“Haven’t you all heard?” said someone. “Our Zameendar’s son is going to be the next district collector.”

“What to say? Zameendar himself is like a collector. What is it for us no matter what his son becomes? Like father… Like son...” says another man, who was a small political worker.

“No, No… younger sahib is not like that,” says the hotel owner. “Everyone in the town is saying he chose this district by pressuring people at high government posts just to develop our village.”

“What rubbish,” says the political worker. “What can a collector do nowadays? Our country is ruled by corrupted politicians. This village has nothing to attain their interest.”

“That all I don’t know, but sahib has called all farmers for lunch today in his house for an open discussion on what can be done,” said the man who came in with the news.

“Then the matter should be serious,” said the hotel owner. “But why is he so keen on this village’s welfare?”

“This is where his mother died, right?” said the gossip man. “I have heard it was sort of her last wish. Her father was also a farmer in some village, they say. Zameendar saw her working in the fields and was attracted the moment he saw her. He married her the very next day they say. Lucky woman,” he commented. “But, unfortunately her luck was short lived. She died of some chronic disease after few years. Our sahib never married again.”

Lala was not really paying attention to all these conversations. He was thinking about going for lunch at the Zameendar’s house. Time was not a luxury he would be having. He would want to see his son one last time before he closed his eyes. He set afoot straight away. It would take him a long time to walk the miles. He didn’t want to miss this for life.

As he neared the house, he wanted to walk away. He wasn’t sure if he should go there. But an old man’s heart is too weak to resist from seeing his own flesh and blood. Besides, no one would recognize him. His aged skin left little for others to recognize him after so many years.

There was a big shed built in front of the house. All the invitees were sitting in a spread mattress inside the shed, waiting for a delicious meal. Looks like Lala was right on time. He also picked a spot. Lala tried to look inside the house from there. He saw someone sitting in a rocking chair through a window at the first floor. Not clear who it was. Someone else was also there fanning him. That must be the Zameendar. But the other person can’t be Champak. He looked younger than what Champak would be by now.

Lunch was served to all. It was hearty meal with many courses… many varieties and color. New tastes for some taste buds. Lala ate more than he ever did. Then he ate some more.

After the lunch, everyone sat together on the mattress. A tall lean framed young man wearing specs and long rich white clothes came in front of them and addressed all with a Namaste. Lala could recognize his and Kalki’s son no matter where he saw him… no matter how much he has changed.

Lala couldn’t understand most of the things the man said. But all the people seem to be impressed and clapping to his opinions and promises. They talked good about him amongst each other. Lala tried to hear him, but was too lost in happiness to hear anything. He tried harder to listen. The man was explaining how machines could be used to water the fields even if there is no rain. Lala clapped to that. He looked left and right with excitement. He saw someone looking at him from his left… a woman who covered her face with the tip of her sari.

“Kalki…” whispered, Lala. A tear rolled on to her cheek. Lala stared at her for long. He was lost in his own world but appeared to be smiling.

The meeting seemed to be over. People were on their feet. Those who went personally to meet him there were greeted with a handshake. Lala also wanted to shake his hand before he would go. It would be his victory of life. He would feel he succeeded in life through his son. Lala slowly approached him. He shook Lala’s hand and thanked him for coming. All Lala could do was smile. He started to walk away but then turned around.

“What is your name, son?” he asked.

“Devarag Lala.”

THE END

---