A lady in the west

Sometimes, memories of childhood silently trespass my perforated mind, without invitation or permission: With a catapult in my hand I would wander about the village in quest of birds; play marbles with my best mates Birey and Dalsingh; get into nasty fights with them at times; watch ants working without any rest, then destroy their mound by peeing over; steal oranges from neighbours’ garden and eat them all till the body reacted vehemently with fever or diarrhoea the day after. And yet, I was a good boy- my mother always told me so, though my short-tempered father never really believed it.
I studied in Shivagram junior High School. It was about five kms from my house. Not really far if you have a car and a good road, but those days we had to make use of whatever little we have-two feet. On way to school, there were trees, a few canals and endless strech of tea bushes reaching as far as our eyes travelled.There was only one small hut made of straw and bamboo, cemented and dyed with rato mato (red soil), as a meagre sign of inhabitance. There lived an old, ugly looking woman. She lived alone and scarcely talked to anyone. Some people believed that her husband had been killed in a forward post during Second World War, others speculated he had eloped with a ‘other’ woman. Like everyone else even she was unaware of the truth. Her husband never came back home after the war, that was all she knew. The story about the man being in army was not totally unbelievable as I had once seen a khukuri and a tattered army uniform hanging from the muddy wall of the house. She already looked ugly with two big eyes, a blunt nose, and her ever aging skin made her look worse. All my friends were too frightened to talk to her for anything. Whenever we felt thirsty, on way to school, we would stop in front of her hut as it was the only one around. Somehow, it was always me who asked for water. I don’t know why but I never found her terrifying; for whenever I asked her for anything, generosity and kindness would shine in her eyes. Moreover, she never harmed us as her looks suggested. Looks can be deceiving at times!
One wintry afternoon, with catapult in hand, I crept out of my home with Birey and Dalsingh to chase birds. As we passed through her hut, I saw oranges in her small courtyard, where she would be often seen with shovel. Falling for them, I dared to ask the old lady for an orange.
She first looked at me, and said,
“Do not eat them. They are not ripe enough to eat yet, you will fall sick”
Those were the only words I heard from her ever since we first met.
Taking advantage of our friendship that had grown strong over months; I stubbornly began pleading for the orange. As I was about to cry (but would not have cried), she relented, “But…..only one”. Soon I was up on the tree amidst unripe oranges. I plucked as many as I could on the pretext that I would share with my friends waiting for me below the tree. We crossed the garden in three leaps even forgetting to thank her in a haste to relish the fruit. I ate most of them sharing only some with others.
The day was very cold. My lungs already fell congested, and the unripe oranges did the rest, I could not eat anything and slept early. I woke up shivering in that murky night. My father- a worried man-went to get a witch doctor that lived in another village, as the Hospital was too far. My mother, confused and frantic, kept vigil by my bedside while my condition worsened during the night. Eventually around three in the morning he arrived with a janda witchdoctor, who held my hand in his and started murmuring mantras with frightening attention. He threw rice grain in between verses of the incantation all around the semi dark room lit by a kerosene lamp. Later, after consuming a full bottle of local toddy, as a part of his fees, he told my anxious father that I had become victim of some powerful witchcraft and gave whereabouts of the witch. He declared, “The witch lives in the west!” Next day, having completely fallen in views of the top witchdoctor of the village my father inquired with all my friends and learnt about our encounter with the old lady that lived in segregation. Coincidentally, the muddy hut was in the ‘west’. He jumped at a conclusion that poor lady had done witchcraft on me. He thanked janda witch doctor who claimed to have freed me from her spell. Like an airborne disease the rumours spread around in no time. All the people developed an impression that the old lady was a witch. I was too afraid to tell the truth about the unripe orange to him as he could kick my back anytime. I could not protect an innocent old lady being defamed as I had to protect myself from my father’s wrath.
With every new day, rumours took different forms. Some people claimed to have seen her in disguise of a black cat while others saw her dancing at dead of the night. Whenever children, cows and goat fell sick all blames were put on her without explanation. Children were not allowed to go near her house as a result we had to change the route to go to school.
One afternoon, sometimes in the month of June, dark sky promised the rain as thunders rumbled in the distance. A small boy died in the village of an unknown disease. Unfortunately, the janda witchdoctor had suspected the same lady who lived in the ‘west’ for boy’s deteriorating condition, just a week before his demise.
All the bereaved relatives of the dead boy accompanied by young men of the village, in a fit of anger, promptly rushed to the old lady’s hut and started hurling stones at it. The poor lady did not understand what was happening. She tried to defend herself from the projectiles, but some of them hit her on the head and others on the back. Painfully hurt, she lost consciousness and shank to the ground.
That night, there was a storm with blinding sheets of rain, blowing away roofs of many houses and uprooting plum trees of our backyard. When a day dawned I could see an awful destruction the storm had wrought. Much to my curiosity, latter in the evening I heard someone telling my father about the witch breathing her last in that stormy night. All the people in the village heaved a shy of relief in a witch’s death. They cremated her body in presence of many janda witch doctors in Gatte Khola(small river)."The village is free from witch now", some one in the gathering was heard saying.Nobody cried for her. Somewhere, however, deep inside my heart, I felt a profound sense of guilt. I could do nothing except burrying by head in the hands.It took me many weeks to forget her face that blinked before my eyes during the night. It’s been years since, but I still remember her words of caution: “Do not eat them. They are not ripe enough to eat yet, you’ll fall sick”

LANGUAGE OF HEART
I am just one month old city-dweller in this wonderful place surrounded by Alps, but I have not really been lost as yet. Most of the people would not speak English, but still they would answer your queries somehow with genuine politeness-which I call language of heart. It’s wonderful gesture. Some times my fickle mind tends to compare these people with my own people back home, and arrive at sad conclusions. He would know the language you speak, he would no the answers you are looking for, but he would never care to help you.
A few days back, I went to supermarket to buy some foodstuff in the evening. As the days are long in summer here (it is not dark till 9:30 pm), I didn’t realise it was already 8:30 PM. When I came out of the shop, though it was not dark, the public transport system was already closed for the day. I tried to walk a bit, recollecting the road I had traced while coming by a bus, but it didn’t seem to be a very good idea as my place was far from the supermarket. I asked an old lady in English if she could tell me how to go back to my flat. Apparently she didn’t understand anything and replied saying something politely in French, which I didn’t understand. After, more than five minutes’ effort I could make her understand that I was looking for a bus to go to Rue Fournet (name of the place where I live) and subsequently she could tell me that it was too late for bus. But, what was impressive was she didn’t leave like that. First she gave me her mobile phone to call somebody I know, which I politely declined as I had not carried anybody’s contact no. As I was wondering what I would do next, she signed me with her hand that she would drive me home and she did. I reached home safely in her car around 10 pm. It was an exceptional display of humanity, which is sadly ever-dwindling in my own country. Besides national and international languages, it would be wonderful to learn another language-the language of heart.