Between the lines Chapter 12

Singbonga, the Sun God had made its appearance and banished the moon into exile. The earth was pure again, and the woods were sprayed with 'mahua' flowers, their soft scent wafting through the air. The young men and women in the village were ready to tie the nupur(anklet with bells), for the approaching Karma festival. There was joy everywhere. The evil spirit had been put to rest, and the mother earth was pure again. Washed with the blood of the evil spirit, mother earth looked radiant again, like it had looked years ago when Haku was still a child. His beloved land that had showered his family with rice, prosperity, and happiness was finally free from the shackles of misery.

Haku kept shouting at the policeman who tied the rope around his hands. He was in his drunken stupor as usual, but they had arrested him for murder, and they just didn't seem to realize that this was not a crime, it was a sacrifice. It was not brutal, it was purifying. "They deserved it, don't you see that", he shouted at the younger assistant who was holding the rope, he was tied to. The older policeman shook the bamboo stick in his hand, and replied, "If you shout again, I am going to break your head, you bastard. Now keep standing still". Haku murmured something under his breath and started to bend again. He had slashed the neck of two men who had haunted him for money they had loaned him on his land, his beloved land, that they claimed was not his anymore.

He had done nothing wrong. They had been wrong. They had given him small amounts of money for his Hadiya(rice beer). What else could he have done? And Hadiya was the drink of the gods, it was the only respite in life. He did not remember now how much they had loaned him over the years. But it would certainly be much less than the price of his land, that he knew for sure. His woman, Budhan sat beside the door like a stone, and he didn't care about her anymore. She was like the distant mountain, that stood there watching him, every day, silently.

He remembered the day when the village priest had them married. He remembered how his friends had carried him on their shoulders from the village stone, and how they had rejoiced his homecoming. He remembered their first night together, and the sweet fragrance of the Mahua flower from Budhan's hair.  He remembered his carefree childhood. The spirit of the holy woods, calling to him, in the night. He could hear the distant sound of his mother's lullaby, as they tied the rope to his hands.  

The night before had been a long night. Haku had waited patiently since noon, for the night to fall, and Raka, the moneylender, and his family to go to sleep. His land had been written off, but the debt had still to be paid for, and Haku knew of no other way. If he could get rid of these men for eternity, he could perhaps have some peace in life. As the bright full moon slowly replaced the sun, the family ended their chatter in the kitchen, to retire to their sleeping quarters. He could see the lamp in Raka's room, blinking in the silver darkness. And then, finally, it went off.

The night owl hooted sorrowfully from the branches of Basantia, the cotton tree in the street outside. Haku tiptoed into Raka's huge house, sneaking past the night guard in the middle of the night, and entered his bedroom. Raka was snoring on his bed, his huge stomach, making grumbling noises, like that of an elephant. Raka's servent Bihu, slept on the floor, on a mat, still holding the hand fan, that he used to fan his master with before he went to sleep. Raka's wives, he had two, slept in the adjoining rooms. Bihu was not only Raka's servant, he was his muscle man as well.  He was well built, and probably a couple of years younger than Raka. And they always went together, everywhere to collect money, like the tortoise and its shell. 

The bed was large, and even Raka's humungous body seemed small in the enormity of the bed. His sandals lay on the floor, beside the bed, neatly placed in the middle of the two poles of the four poster bed. Haku looked around the room, it smelled of affluence. There was a silver tray on the bedside table, with a box of beetle nut leaves, and lime powder. The wall behind the bed was adorned with Raka's forefathers, framed in gold. But Haku had no time to observe his surroundings. He reminded himself that he needed to be quick. He lifted his knife, it was his forefather's knife, handed over to him by his grandfather. It was sharp and strong, and he had once killed a big fox with it when the fox had attacked him one night.

This night was so similar. It was the peak of summer, and the air was damp and hot. The full moon shined right through the window of the enormous bedroom, and Haku could see his eyes, Raka's large bloodshot eyes, in the shadow of the moonlight. Only they were not bloodshot anymore, they were closed, and he could see the pupils of his eyes bulging out, sometimes stirring for a moment, like the ears of the fox he had killed years ago. 

Bihu coughed on the floor, and Haku panicked. But he reminded himself, what his grandfather had told him once when they had gone out to hunt. If the animal makes a noise, you wait for it patiently, like the tiger behind the bush, who does not let his presence felt, the trick is to blend in with the surroundings. "Breathe silently Haku! Even the leaves should not know your presence", his grandfather had taught him. Once the boar had come near the bush, his grandfather had waved his hand at Haku, directing him to attack. Haku had panicked, and his grandfather had plunged, just in time, to split the wild boar into two halves. Haku had learned hunting skills from his grandfather over his growing up years, and he knew that agility was the primary requirement. You had to be fast, like the deer, and strong like the tiger. Bihu's unrest had reminded him, that he was here to hunt.

Haku decided to blend in with the surroundings and waited patiently. And a few minutes later, he heard the synchronous snoring of Raka and Bihu, one on the bed and the other on the floor. Haku quietly crept closer to the bed and holding his breath, he lifted his knife and plunged it into Raka's neck. Raka's mouth and eyes opened for a split second, but Haku pushed his knife a bit deeper, more in frantic panic than like the confident pounce of a tiger. Blood trickled from Raka's mouth and neck, wetting the sheets, as they flowed. His hands and feet twisted for a while, and then there was no movement. The spirit of the 'khunt' (genealogical family) was now at rest. Haku's sacred land had been freed from the shackles of the tormenter. He could now go back to his 'sasandiri' (burial ground of forefather's) to pay due homage to his clan.

But Haku was paralyzed by the sight of blood, his tormentor's blood. And then he noticed that Bihu had woken up from the floor below, drops of warm blood on his face, his eyes icy cold with terror. He muttered something and started to get up, and then the mutterings became a shout.

Haku lifted the knife from the dead Raka's lifeless body, leaving a spurting fountain of blood across his face and on the pillow. He crossed the other side of the bed in a swift movement. Before Bihu could run outside the room, Haku caught hold of Bihu. This time he leaped like the tiger and brought Bihu to the floor. He grabbed Bihu's neck by one arm, as he maneuvered his next attack. Bihu was strong, but he was growling like a frantic animal now, and Haku knew exactly what to do. Bihu was strong and agile, but he was night blind, and it took Haku, a while before he could inflict enough stab wounds into his body to make him fall down to the floor, and finally he stabbed him in the stomach and neck. The little boy in the room beside, who had heard the commotion had entered the room. He was Gonu, the younger son of Raka from his second wife. He didn't say a word. He just stood there silently observing Haku, wiping the blood from his face and hands, with the edge of his towel. By the time, the rest of the household had arrived, Haku had fled.

Most of the village hated Raka, the money lender, but they hated Haku as well. Haku as in fact a bigger nuisance, and they were happy that by one stroke of luck the village had got rid of their nastiest residents. Haku was the drunkard who never seemed to be of any good to anyone, he was either drunk or fighting with the village boys in the field. He was fast and lean, and the village boys loved his agility. He could climb the tall eucalyptus trees of the village in a few minutes when he was not drunk. But he spent his nights often below the holy pipal tree, singing loudly in his drunken stupor.

The holy 'sal' tree (pipal) was the mother of the village. She was the gathering point for all their festivities and all their mournings. If the rains did not come on time, they prayed to the pipal tree, and the rains would come. If the river Boreya flooded its banks and entered the village, people climbed the raised terrace surrounding the pipal tree, to protect themselves from the rage of the river. The village panchayat, a committee of the elderly in the village, held convocations below the shade of the tree on hot sunny afternoons and on rainy cloudy evenings. They all disliked Haku's audacity of sleeping beside their holy mother. They had punished him several times, but he seemed oblivious to their orders in his drunken stupors.

Budhan, visited the 'sal' tree every Friday, and like all women of the village, worshiped the tree goddess for prosperity and a better life for her kids. The pipal tree, not only gave the villagers shelter from heavy outbursts of rain but also flowered the orange fig fruit and its leaves, a source of medicine for the entire village. If you had a cut, you could wrap the leaf over your wound, and it would magically heal. If you had an ailment, you could make a juice of its boiled leaves, and your ailment would disappear. The beauty and the magnificences of the pipal tree were unsurpassable. 

Haku had lost everything because of his drinking problems. First, he lost his land after taking loans on it bit by bit over several years. Then they had no land to till, and no rice to bring back home, to barter with the village grocer for milk, oil and other groceries. So he gambled his house, left to him by his father, which stood at the edge of his land. He had no money, and Budhan's meager income as a labor in the nearby fields was not enough to feed the family, let alone pay for the debt.

Raka had been coming almost every week to his house, to remind Haku of his dues, and also sometimes near the pipal tree, where Haku often settled with his drink. He blamed Raka for his compulsion and knew that, had it not been for Raka, he would never have loaned his land or his house for the money. He remembered the day, he had met Raka for the first time, lending money to his friend. He had been friendly with Haku, and had persuaded him to loan a portion of his land in return for cash. "You are just letting me use the vacant portion of your land for my business. Think of it like an extra income on the side", he had told Haku. Haku had been blind, he had imprinted his thumbprint on a piece of paper that he did not understand. He had handed over his inheritance to an evil soul, and 'Dhartima' (Goddess earth) had never forgiven him for his offenses.

Haku drank, to forget the pain, the troubles of life, and Budhan's constant nagging. Over the years, she had somehow become more vocal and always complained of his actions. And then suddenly, she had stopped nagging at him after the birth of their third child. She kept to herself, tending to her duties, like the silent fire that burnt the jungle. He was not like other men in the village who hit their wives, but he was not like some who listened to their wives either. And, now he did not have to listen to her at all anymore, she had adorned the garb of silence. 

The holy 'sal' tree was his savior, and now that they would perhaps hang him, he would become one of the many trunks of the tree. He didn't care about anything anymore. The tight ropes tied to his hand and feet, made him feel free once and for all. He felt energetic like he had felt the first time he had gone hunting with his grandfather in the holy woods. He had drunk a concoction of the banyan fig, stale rice, and herbs. But now he had had no concoction, his drink from the night had also started to fade, but he still felt full of life. He was free again. He had given back his land to the 'khunt', and the holy woods had blessed him for his good deeds. He was at peace with himself again.