Thunderstorm

by Ratan Kumar Sambharia, Mridul Bhasin

Genres: Short Stories

Synopsis

In fifteen stories that are at once grim, wryly ironic, humorous and affecting, acclaimed Rajasthani writer Ratan Kumar Sambhria portrays with rare acuity the injustices rampant in a caste-driven society and the triggers that spark rebellion. Poverty and greed degrade blood ties; money plays a dramatic role in changing equations between oppressor and oppressed; livestock and land become precious beyond measure. Yet, love ? between men and women, mother and child, a man and his land, and human beings and the animals they nurture ? underlies such dark overtones, and integrity and honour shine through in the bleakest moments. Remarkable for their craft and rendered here in an authentic translation, these deceptively simple stories are narratives of love and anger, hope and fortitude, and subtly negotiate equality in a society inherently marked by inequity.

Release date: December 10, 2015

Publisher: Hachette India

Print pages: 204

Sample

A Note from the Translator



The process of translating the literature of the Dalits, among India’s most oppressed classes, brings one face-to-face with the bitter realities of our society. With its caste-based divisions calculated to deny its poorer sections even their basic needs of food and shelter, while forcing them to toil in the fields and deal with chores deemed beneath the dignity of their supposed social superiors, generations of Dalit men, women and children had found themselves trapped in a perennial state of subjugation, enslaved by an exploitative social cycle of dire deprivation and demeaning labour.

The situation changed significantly with the advent of printing technology. Books became available to every Indian, irrespective of caste and creed. As a result, a number of important voices began to find a wider audience. While social reformers like Jyoti Ba Phule, Mahatma Gandhi and Dr B.R. Ambedkar brought to the fore the injustices inherent in a social order designed to perpetuate caste-based exploitation, the freedom movement, launched to liberate the country from its British colonial rulers, played a vital role in the social awakening of communities that had, so far, been denigrated as the lower classes. These simultaneous developments would go a long way in contributing to the creation of a specific literary genre that eventually came to be identified as Dalit literature – the literature of the oppressed.

Although no different in feel and intention from early Afro-American literature, Dalit literature suffered from one disadvantage – its language of communication, Hindi, confined it to a limited readership. Translating it into English to make it more widely accessible was, unfortunately, a painfully slow process, thereby compelling it to remain largely marginalized. Despite the odds, however, Dalit literature is slowly but surely beginning to claim a place for itself.

Thunderstorm, a translation of Dalit writer Ratan Kumar Sambharia’s short stories, is an effort in that direction. It aims to increase awareness among readers of the existence of a unique literature of protest. These intimate, touching and starkly honest tales of pain and deprivation are driven by centuries-old memories expressed in a pan-India and pan-world idiom. And although the universality of human experience that emerges through the narratives is underscored by justifiable anger and carries tragic overtones, they resonate, ultimately, with hope.

Sambharia is an established name in the world of regional literature. His work, published in leading Hindi magazines, also finds a place in representative collections of stories in Hindi about the marginalized sections of Indian society. What distinguishes his narratives is the gritty realism he brings to them and although his protagonists come from different regions, they speak the universal language of real people living in abject poverty, defined by a shared rural ethos and socio-historical experience. Their concerns revolve around issues of caste, land and livestock, on the one hand, and of self-respect and integrity, on the other. In that, his stories are as global as they are regional, their protagonists universal even in their individual identities, for they are representative of oppressed humanity anywhere in the world, serving as agents of change and sentinels of human dignity in their struggle for equality.

Sambharia’s use of language is as potent as the tales he narrates, his economy of expression evident in his preference for single words so rich with meaning that the need for complete sentences seems superfluous. His sensibilities are marked by regional and rural inflections that charge them with a kind of raw poetic power and such is the fluid ease of his narratives that one tends to overlook the painstaking care with which they have been crafted.

Sambharia is openly proud of the fact that he has lived the life he delineates in his stories. And rightly so, for the authenticity of his narratives owes as much to his ability to draw on elements from his personal experience as it does to his natural empathy for his fellow men. It is ultimately his gift for translating the personal into the universal that distinguishes him as a writer whose voice needs to be heard, for the truths he lays bare are relevant for us all.

In undertaking the translation of these stories, I discovered what a challenge it was to successfully convey in English the flavour of tales set in a milieu so alien to the Western world. While I did go ahead with certain decisions like using the original Hindi word as the most suitable one to denote items of clothing or articles of everyday use, there were many pauses too, as I sought to find the appropriate words to capture local colour, to suggest the nuances of a phrase peculiar to the local dialect. There were moments of frustration, when I allowed myself to be overcome by a sense of inadequacy in handling such a text. There were even occasions when I did not quite grasp the significance of a social custom or ritual until the writer himself elaborated on it and provided an explanation.

This translation is, therefore, the outcome of a collaborative effort. And while the endeavour has not been without its trying moments, there is nothing quite as fulfilling as reading, interpreting and feeling the strength of a genre that is at once rural, poetic and rich in emotive power.

Phulwa



Since he’d come to the city, Rameshwar, the country bumpkin, had been thrown into confusion.

Back home, the moment clouds formed in the sky, the birds would turn to their nests for shelter, the koels started singing and the peacocks called. The birds began dry-bathing in the sand. Frogs croaked. Agitated, the parched crows cawed. People became rollercoasters, moving restlessly from place to place. The wood stored for chopping, the fuel, the washed garments, the khat-pidhi1 – all of which normally lay strewn about in the courtyard outside the house – were dragged inside. There was no space even to plant your foot.

But the city! The city was boxed in from all sides by houses. The people either stayed sequestered inside them or moved to their terraces to gaze at the clouds. Rameshwar spotted a newly-wed couple walking around on their terrace without a care, hand in hand. He gaped at them, his eyes starting out of his head. Not even the moon was allowed to witness lovers like this in the village. He was reminded of a saying: cities are big, yet remain small; despite being small, villages are big.

As Rameshwar looked at the sky, his heart grew restless. The monsoon wind had subsided. Wandering clouds had gathered in a dense mass, as though a black umbrella had been unfurled over the earth. It would rain. It was as natural for clouds to unburden their moisture as it was for youth to bloom.

Where would he find shelter? No tree seemed big enough to offer him respite from the rain. No house had a covered veranda where he could take refuge. Here, all things stayed secreted within, protected by gates. Just touch the gate and out would run a barking dog; only later would an actual person follow.

Back home, Rameshwar had been someone of consequence. He could have set fire to dry grass with a single exhalation of his breath. But after coming to the city, he had become anonymous, a nobody. The city viewed him as some kind of a joke, as if he was not Rameshwar but an alien.

In Rameshwar’s hand was a slip of paper. He had been scouring the lanes of the colony all afternoon. He had not yet been able to find Pandit Mataprasad’s house. Back home, the whole village revered Pandit Ji. Here he had become so insignificant, so puny that no one even knew of his existence. Enquire about him and they would ask you for the plot number. His residential address was the key to finding him. Nothing was going to happen without it.

The wretched incident that had gripped him by the throat, which had caused him to leave his village, now obsessed him. The single thing that had been gripping his throat tight was now throbbing high in his head. One had to become urbanized to thrive in the city. He sighed. The night will pass, he consoled himself.

Then he remembered: Phulwa, too, lived in this colony. Her son’s address lay somewhere in his pockets. He dug around and finally located the folded scrap deep in his pocket. In front of him, a young man was parking his scooter at a gate. Rameshwar advanced a couple of steps and wordlessly handed him the paper. The young man read it and solemnly scrutinized Rameshwar from head to toe, perhaps in an effort to assess him. Around forty-two or forty-three, he guessed. Of average build, brown complexion, overgrown pepper-salt beard and moustache, heavy gold earrings, a double-fold dhoti wrapped around his legs, a kurta, printed safa wrapped around his head, the ends trailing down his back.

Sensing Rameshwar’s anxiety, the young man asked, ‘Is it Mr Radhamohan’s house that you’re looking for?’

‘Yes, Babu Ji,’ he replied, his voice strained, sad, imploring. He shifted the bag clutched under his armpit to his hand.

‘Are you related to him?’

‘Not really. But I am from his village,’ Rameshwar intoned in a feeble voice.

The young man started his scooter and said, ‘He lives down the fourth lane. The clouds are gathering overhead. Why don’t you sit on the scooter? I will drop you off at his house.’

Rameshwar’s head spun. No one knew Pandit Ji. But everyone knew Phulwa’s son! The young man on the scooter dropped him off in front of an ornate and imposing mansion. Rameshwar was taken by surprise. Was this mansion Phulwa’s? He knocked nervously. An old woman sitting on the veranda came over. Her body was running to fat, but there was a glow on the fair, wrinkled face. She wore glasses and a pristine white saree. Covering her head with her saree, she opened the gate.

It was Phulwa. Neither she nor Rameshwar recognized each other. They both kept staring at each other blankly. Phulwa adjusted her spectacles on her nose, but her brain still did not register his identity.

Rameshwar narrowed his eyes. Recognition had finally dawned. ‘Phulwa?’

The voice alerted her. ‘Who, Rameshwar?’

‘Haan, Bhabi.’

Phulwa smote her forehead. ‘Oh god! You were so young when I left the village!’ she exclaimed. ‘How much you’ve changed in fifteen years! Do come in.’

Phulwa’s joy knew no bounds. The zamindar’s son was visiting her home! Her mind went back to the day that had been a day of unimaginable misfortune. Phulwa’s husband had been trying to restrain and tame an aggressive bullock that belonged to the zamindar. The rope had slipped from his hands momentarily and the bullock, sensing the slack, had gored him in the stomach with its horns. Phulwa’s husband had writhed in agony, flailing around, bleeding to death. Phulwa had become a widow. Their son Radhamohan had been about ten years old then. Phulwa had inherited her husband’s legacy of serfdom and debt, just as moneylenders inherit the business from their forefathers and landowners inherit land. There were two mouths to feed now. She began cutting the grass, filling water and feeding the cattle at the zamindar’s house.

A cane table and some chairs stood on the veranda outside. Phulwa sat down on a cane chair and pointed to another. ‘Do please sit, Rameshwar Ji,’ she said.

Rameshwar sat down. Two long-haired dogs came out and sniffed around him, yipping and growling at his feet. A bundle of nerves, Rameshwar curled in his toes.

Phulwa shouted at the dogs: ‘Pumpi, Meenu, go inside! This is Rameshwar Ji. He is the landowner from our village! He is our guest!’

Both the dogs immediately retreated, retiring inside like two well-mannered children.

Rameshwar’s suspicions were confirmed: Phulwa is not a tenant of the house; she is the owner! Pride in his superior caste overwhelmed him and he began to burn with envy.

Phulwa glanced at Rameshwar and got up. She pushed open the netted door of a room and led him inside. The house was huge, a veritable mansion, with nearly a dozen well-kept rooms. The walls had been distempered. The floors were of marble. Rameshwar was bedazzled. Despite all her scrubbing, his wife couldn’t make his bronze vessels shine like this.

Phulwa’s family consisted of five members: Phulwa, her son, her daughter-in-law, a grandson and a granddaughter.

Phulwa’s wings were spread wide with happiness. She was virtually soaring in the air. She was going to show Rameshwar each and every thing in the house. Such things as would not be there, perhaps, even in the homes of landowners and moneylenders.

She took him into the lounge. An ostentatious dining table set stood imposingly in the middle of a large room. Rameshwar leaned over to admire the white Sunmica-topped table. Another Rameshwar inside the table shone out at him, as in a reflecting mirror.

Phulwa’s gold-framed glasses were loose for her. They kept slipping off her nose. She set them right and said, ‘Rameshwar Ji, we all eat our meals here. Guests also eat here. Today you too will be dining with us.’

It was as if someone had jabbed him with a needle. At home, they simply spread a chatai on the floor for guests.

Phulwa’s excitement was rising like water at high tide. She opened the fridge with a flourish. It was stocked to bursting point with cold-water bottles, cold drinks, mangoes, apples and oranges. The squares of the ice trays were frozen with ice cubes.

Phulwa took out an ice tray and said, ‘These cubes are filled with water. It turns into ice. Sometimes, we freeze kulfi in this tray too.’

A food processor lay on top of a sideboard. As Rameshwar’s curious eyes fell on it, Phulwa explained: ‘This is a mixie, Rameshwar Ji. We use it to extract the juice of mangoes, oranges, grapes, carrots and tomatoes. Even churma2 becomes as finely powdered as surma3 in this.’

She then led him into the kitchen. The marble-tiled kitchen was replete with expensive pots and pans. Rameshwar’s eyes glazed over in awe. There was cooking gas! Phulwa lit the stove with a practised flick of the lighter. Rameshwar’s mouth was agape, like the opening of a weaver bird’s nest. Back home, his wife’s eyes would sting with tears every time she tried to light the earthen hearth. Phulwa’s ‘hearth’ lit in the blink of an eye. Phulwa switched off the gas. There was a water tap. She turned on the tap and water gushed forth. ‘We have round-the-clock water supply in our house,’ Phulwa informed him.

Rameshwar’s mind went back to another incident that had occurred some sixteen years ago. The community that Phulwa belonged to was forbidden to use the landowners’ well. She had to fetch water from a well half a mile away from where she lived.

That particular day, Rameshwar had been bathing at the nearby well. Phulwa, who was in a tearing hurry, had come with her pitcher and called to him from the periphery of the well. She had pressed her palms together in a gesture of entreaty and begged again and again, ‘I have to go to the village today. Please, Rameshwar Ji! Just pour two buckets of water into my pitcher.’

He had been beside himself with anger, outraged at her audacious use of his name. Imagine her, of all people, addressing him as ‘Rameshwar’! He’d leaned forward and spat into her pitcher. Phulwa had flung the earthen pitcher right there and run home in tears.

The corners of Phulwa’s eyes filled with tears as she, too, vividly remembered the incident. It was as if two hands had simultaneously gone into Time’s earthen pot. But Time is a wizard. Rameshwar was still drawing water from the same well, while Phulwa’s kitchen had a water tap in it!

Rameshwar followed Phulwa to a room where her granddaughter was studying. The girl sported a short hairstyle. Staring at the pretty skirt-and-blouse-clad sixteen-year-old, Rameshwar was at a loss for words. There was no one comparable to her in his village. The girl seemed to be picking up height – she is so beautiful! The girl looked up, went through the formality of greeting Rameshwar and then returned to her books. He was angered that she had not even risen to her feet in a show of respect when she saw him. In the next room, Phulwa’s grandson was busy studying too. When he saw a stranger with his granny, he greeted him perfunctorily and then turned his back on them.

Phulwa finally took Rameshwar to her own room. It was a spacious room with two beds, two fans and an air cooler. She switched on the cooler and then abruptly turned it off. ‘I seldom use it,’ she explained. ‘It makes me feel sweaty.’

Rameshwar was boiling with rage. He wanted to scratch her eyes out. How she was showing off – this two-bit woman! In the village, she had slept out among the shrubs in an open field; and today, it seemed that the cooler made her feel sweaty! He almost jumped when Phulwa touched his arm lightly. She led him into the guest room.

The grandeur of the room set every pore of his skin on fire. What a room it was – practically a hall! There were two beautifully inviting beds, so grand that a mere touch could soil them. A colour TV sat in one corner. In the other stood a study table and a couple of chairs. There was an attached bathroom too.

‘You will sleep here tonight. This is a colour TV, Rameshwar Ji. Use it if you like,’ Phulwa said magnanimously.

Phulwa’s mansion had many expensive and unique things. She decided she would not show them all to him today. She would make him stay a day or two. She would take him around the city in the car. Now she was approaching the stairs. She said, ‘Come Rameshwar Ji, I’ll show you the terrace.’

She climbed the stairs, taking one step after another, almost forgetting that she was old and that her calves ached if she walked too much. The four-hundred-square-yard house had a terrace that was just as vast. Rameshwar blinked. It was not a terrace – it was a maidan. It was as big as the courtyard of his own house. He smacked his forehead as he remembered something from the past. It was all a game of fate, he told himself. Once, during the monsoon, a gusty wind had blown off Phulwa’s thatched roof. He had sanctioned her only fifty bundles of thatch to fix it.

Phulwa now came to the drawing room. She did not know the name for it, so she called it the baithak, as they did back in the village. In the village, the baithak was used only for visitors. This drawing room had a sofa set and a granite-topped centre table. A phone was sitting on a stool. The walls were adorned with wooden artefacts and paintings. Three glittering glass-fronted cabinets were filled with eye-catching figurines. A velvety carpet was spread on the floor.

Phulwa said, ‘This is my baithak. Sit, Rameshwar Ji.’ She pointed to the sofa.

When Rameshwar sat down, he sank six inches into the sofa’s softness.

Observing him now, Phulwa was reminded of her past. The old Phulwa had been scorched by misfortune. Today, she was flush with creature comforts. Her kuchcha cottage, standing on a barren stretch of land, had lacked any cover; it had been open to the elements. The hot sun glared down into her home the whole day. The rains drenched everything both outside and inside and her hands would grow bone-weary baling out the water. When winter came, the freezing cold would settle deep into her home. Phulwa pushed her spectacles back and looked around the baithak. Her self-gratification was reflected in her eyes. She rubbed her eyes with her fingers as she asked, ‘How many children do you have, Rameshwar Ji?’

‘Three daughters and two sons. Now the older son has a son too, Phulwa,’ said Rameshwar.

Phulwa decided she would put some toys in Rameshwar’s bag before he left for the village in a day or two. They had toys that moved when you wound them; they made all sorts of sounds too, when the batteries were put in. She imagined the sensation they would create back in the village. Everyone would come running to see them. ‘Phulwa has sent them! Such amazing running, moving, talking toys!’ they would marvel. She remembered they had an old pram lying somewhere in the junk. She would give it to Rameshwar.. . .