Mamta Kalia

neighbourhood had gone somewhere else.
Within the batting of an eyelid, the baithak
had filled up. There was stuff lying all
over. The basti people had brought
cooking utensils as well as some other
necessities. Everything else had been
left behind.
A great many people had sought
shelter in the baithak. Our greatest
problem was how to light the chulha.
No one had any fuel. The firewood we
had was completely soaked in the rain.
We had borrowed uplas, cowdung cakes,
from the Tagas to light a fire. Eight
or ten chulhas had been set up in the
baithak. Well, there weren’t any real
chulhas. Three bricks had been put
together as makeshift chulhas. Those who
could not find bricks were making do
with stones. The smoke rising from these
chulhas had completely transformed the
baithak. One couldn’t even breathe in
that smoke. The men had assembled in
the veranda and were smoking the
hookah. The women were battling with
the stoves. The children made such a
racket that you could not hear a thing.
As soon as evening fell, the baithak
had gone absolutely dark. No one had
a lamp or a lantern. The burning dung
cakes in the hearths were making an
unsuccessful attempt to dispel the
darkness. Sitting under one roof people
had forgotten their old grudges. Whatever
they had, they wanted to share with
others.
Ma had boiled gram that night, with
just salt for spice, and that was all we
got to eat that night. The taste of those
salted grams, the feeling of content that
22 :: April-June 2010
they provided has not come my way
again, even in five-star hotel food. That
night no dal or vegetable had been cooked
on any stove. Roti, onion and salt: no
one had anything else besides these three
items.
The next day, afternoon came, and
yet no chulha had been lit. The rain
had brought us to starvation’s door. Life
had come to a standstill. People were
wandering all over the village, hoping
to find some grain so that they could
light the stove and cook it. At such
times one can’t even get a loan. Many
had returned empty-handed after
searching all over. Pitaji had also returned
with empty hands. Hopelessness was writ
large on his face. Sagwa Pradhan had
laid down his condition for giving grain:
indenture a son on an annual lease and
take as much grain as you want.
Pitaji had come back without saying
a word. But mother had managed to
get a few seers of rice from Mamraj
Taga’s house and that tided us over.
After many days, we were going to have
a proper meal. Ma put a big pot on
the hearth to boil the rice. It did not
have too much rice, but it was filled
with water right up to the brim. The
smell of boiling rice permeated the entire
baithak. Little children were looking at
Ma’s chulha with expectant eyes.
The water was drained after the rice
had boiled. Ma divided that water into
two containers. One part was given a
baghar like dal, and all the children were
given a bowl each of rice water from
the other. This mar or rice water was
as good as milk to us. Whenever rice