Munna Bhai sat cross-legged on the sidewalk in the shade of a street lamp. His lips pressed against two Gold Flake Kings cigarettes, but he had absolutely no intention of sucking it at this time. He put it in a piece of tissue so it wouldn't break. After stretching the tissue over his thigh, he placed the cigarette well on top and then folded each end of the tissue, wrapped it until it was shaped and then tucked it into his shirt pocket while making sure the cigarette would not break due to the crush of his groin. At almost the same time, a boy was waving at him from across the street. At first he was still guessing who the boy was because dozens of passing vehicles blocked his view, especially when the lights from these vehicles dazzled his eyes. However, he immediately knew that it was Mangguli. The man gestured with his thumb while nodding his head. He then got up, however, before approaching the boy he first looked into the tent which was only a few steps from where he had been sitting. Even though it was dim, he could still see that the children were all fast asleep, but, where was Manjula? He looked around, trying to find his wife among the crowd of merchants' carts along the sidewalk but still nothing.
"Where did that girl go?" He snorted while scratching the back of his neck while the boy on the other side of the road shouted again, even using his hand as a loudspeaker so that his voice could be heard competing with the roar of the vehicle. The boy looked impatient. However, not long after that a female figure was seen walking closer from a distance. The lights from the vehicles flashed alternately on his face and back. His eyes were like two white beads that sparkled as if they were going to fight every beam of light that was directed at him. The woman quickened her pace while pulling her wide skirt up. One end of the shawl of her dupatta floated up due to the blow of her own elbow while her face looked wrinkled as if she was annoyed by something. But, it wasn't just him who was upset, Munna Bhai also harbored annoyance, and was now propping up his hips, showing a disapproving look on his wife's face. However, Manjula didn't care at all and even rushed to the back of the tent and sounded like she was disassembling something. A moment later she reappeared carrying a lump of foam, but still ignoring Munna Bhai, strolling in front of her husband just like that. His face was just like an old tomato, Munna Bhai was annoyed, looking at his wife scornfully and sneering at his wife in his heart. When he said that he was going out with the Manguli boy, his wife still did not respond and even acted as if she had fallen asleep with her back to the mouth of the tent. The woman is seen sharing a blanket with her three children while the foam she brought with her is now propping up her head instead of a pillow.
If it was daytime, it would appear that the ceiling of the tent was full of clothes hanging low, adding to the airy impression not to mention the smell that wafted from the drenched clothes. The roof is made of tarpaulin which is torn everywhere. His top has several pieces of clothing that are no less shabby. The owner tied the edge of the tarpaulin with stones wrapped in a squeeze of tarpaulin as ballast so that the wind would not blow it away. From the outside it will be seen that the height of the tarpaulin supports only reaches the chest of an adult. Several blackened bricks were scattered to the left of the tent. Manjula used the bricks as a furnace. Meanwhile, some pieces of wood that they often use as fuel are laid out in the lattice of the collapsed fence near the tent. The area around the tent often changes its function. The kitchen, the playground, Ravikumar, Kovind, and little Laksmi, the rest is the rickshaw parking lot. The old rickshaw has not worked for a long time. Manjula had even stripped down every bit of it bit by bit. The foam seat used as a pillow, the walls of the houses as firewood. He also intends to take it to the junkyard in the next few days. This nomadic Dalit family now lives on an overhang in the Bihar District. Two years ago, Munna Bhai once brought his wife and children to live on the banks of the Dhadhar river, under a bridge connecting the Nardiganj police station with a household goods shop called Maa Gayatri, but not for long. The regional authority judged that pariahs like them would only hinder the progress of development in the area, so he brought his family to move to where they are now. Life under the hood isn't so bad. At least, the tent had witnessed how he and his wife made love under the suburban night sky that had brought their three children into this world. Under the dark shadow of poverty, making love can at least be a solace, right? On other nights, however, he and Manjula had sat for hours enjoying the wheels of a vehicle breaking up puddles after the rain had stopped. At times like that, Munna Bhai had imagined how warm the glare of the streetlights was standing pointing at the sky above the pavement.
So who is this kid? His name is Mangguli, he is ten years old. The small Dalit community in the area know him as a cheerful orphan and even give him another name, namely, billee bachcha or the kitten, because the scar on one cheek is in two long stripes like a cat's whiskers. The wound was caused by a scratch on the wire he got from the scavenger hunt. One day, when his mother, Advika, complained to people that her son had disappeared, the damn boy was apparently tucked away in a television box, sleeping soundly all day among piles of junk like a cold kitten. Since then, the nickname "Kitten" has stuck. Among all the pariahs present in that place, Mangguli was the most familiar with Munna Bhai. Now, they are walking towards a cinema near the market which is located a bit in the middle of the city. The cinema just opened two weeks ago and will be showing the third film. They promoted the film through flyers. Mangguli found one of them stuck to a power pole. In the evening, he showed it to Munna Bhai. "Mr. Munna, take a look," he suggested. There were three male actors, one of whom was Amitabh Bachchan, looking dashing in a red singlet with a yellow border with his hair growing in the middle and waving his fists. Below it is a picture of three women posing like dancing people. If they could read, of course they would know that the title of the film is Naseeb, including the amount of rupees for the price of one audience seat they have to pay.
"How do you know they're showing this movie tomorrow night?" asked Munna Bhai at the time.
"From Mr. Pradesh, chai masala seller at a red light."
"Hey, boy, can the old man really read?"
"I once asked Mr. Pradesh to read the newspaper. He can spell 'Neelam'," replied the boy.
"N E N—"
"N E Lam," he continued.
"Everyone knows it's Neelam too. Even just by looking at the scars on his face." said Munna Bhai.
"Can you read Mr. Munna?" Mangguli teased.
"Yes-"
"You know, son, at least I can write my own name."
In the evening, they had walked several kilometers along Gaya—Mokama road until they came to a crossroads. From that intersection, the two crossed and found a row of shops selling household knick-knacks but only open during the day. An alley as wide as an arm's length divides the row of shophouses. "Are you sure this is the way, son?" Munna Bhai looks doubtful. In the courtyard of one of the shophouses, there were a number of men sitting around a small table playing cards. Their laughter sometimes exploded, breaking the atmosphere as far as the silence that enveloped the number. It was obvious that one of them was very drunk even though he acted as if everything was fine. Even his efforts seem odd. Even his own eyelids were too heavy for him to lift while his tongue curled upwards as he spoke. The man in the hat got up from his seat while walking with difficulty, towards one of the walls of the shophouse and urinated by taking a distance and then twisting his hips so that the traces of his urine were shaped like a circle that was not symmetrical, dotted and random. One of them laughed at his friend's ridiculous behavior. Laughing was a bald man of short stature wearing kurta pajamas and too proud of his thick mustache which had pointed ends bent upwards. As if it was an obligation, intermittently he would twist one end of his mustache until it was pointed like a hook while propping one of his elbows to the edge of the table while the other hand gripped playing cards.
"Ah, why do I always have bad luck," annoyed the man as he slammed the card in his hand on the table while his friend showed a cynical smile containing victory.
"Hey, Virru—" the man who was peeing squeaked while his hands were still trying to fix the zipper of his pants which were a little wet from the splash of his own pee.
"What—?" But he didn't get an answer, "Hey, what? Don't bother me, you just finish your business there," annoyed the man who got the bad card ration because he still didn't get an answer, but suddenly his eyes caught the movement of a grown man and a small child who was about to cross into the aisle not far from them sat down.
"Hey—" he immediately shouted at Munna Bhai and Manguli, who at that time seemed to be walking a little slinky. Hearing this, Munna Bhai, who knew that there would be trouble soon, actually felt a little reluctant to fulfill the man's call, but like it or not, bigger problems would surely occur if he did not fulfill the call.
"Hey, you—" the man shouted again.
"—we'll be there in a minute, Mangguli. Just hold my hand, okay—" said Munna Bhai, gripping Mangguli's hand tightly.
"Where are you going?" asked one of the men sitting down, with his back tucked into the cushions of the chair and his thighs stretched and swayed, showing arrogance. The man who had called earlier now leaned against the front wall of the shophouse, lit a cigarette and then blew the smoke into the balcony ceiling where a lamp hung low. His face seemed to be hidden under the shadow tip of the hat he was wearing, then looked at Munna Bhai and Mangguli from there, then suddenly spat.
"Ho-ho, apparently, there are two Dalits here—" he said.
Hearing the man's words, Munna Bhai took a step back. However, one of the men was now in front of him, handing him a shovel hook and it was only a matter of seconds before Munna Bhai's breath felt like it was holding his breath until the pain shot up his throat. He immediately stood up, pulled Mangguli, retreated a few meters and then immediately turned away from that place as far as possible.
"Are you all right, Mr Munna?" asked Mangguli, when they had walked away from the group and were now sitting on a step on the steps of the sidewalk.
"Why did they punch you Mr Munna?"
"—they're drunk," Munna Bhai reached into his shirt pocket, took out a tissue packet containing cigarettes and macis which he kept in his trouser pocket. He exhaled the cigarette smoke like he was releasing a burden, then looked at the child. Deep, and immersed in an event a few years ago. When he and Paswan, a man celebrating his wife's pregnancy with their first child, were caught up with the crowd following the Dussehra parade one night in Ashvin. People rejoice, good has triumphed over evil. The mob burned the statue of Ravana, a sign that the Demon King had lost. He and Paswan had time to enjoy the mass euphoria until someone pointed at Paswan and the incident happened. All he knew was that people were going crazy. They dragged Paswan's helpless body. A moment later, the charred smell of human flesh wafted through the crowd. They apparently were not satisfied if they only burned the statue of Ravana. Enough of that, now Munna Bhai has woken up from his daydream. He was stunned. The event had only seconds to creep into his head. The Sigarer Gold Flake Kings on his index and middle fingers were still burning. The embers were too red in the dark atmosphere of the place. But, he will not let the embers carry him anywhere. He had to kill the memory like turning off the embers of a cigarette, stepping on it until it was out of shape.
"Let's go home," said Munna Bhai.
After escorting Mangguli, he was now at the mouth of the tent, looking at his wife and three children who were already asleep. It might be two in the morning but he doubted, maybe one. He just wanted to sleep. The pain from the kick was still felt to the crown but his wife couldn't tell. He went into the tent, lay down beside Manjuli in a position to stare at the ceiling of the tent but only briefly and slowly turned around and tucked his arm between Manjuli's armpits. His wife, who had known of her husband's arrival from the start, immediately lifted her body slightly, making room for the furry arms to embrace him. He is now in Munna Bhai's arms.
"You're not angry anymore, are you?" said Munna Bhai, half-whispering into his wife's ear.
"Where did you and the kid go?"
"—I apologize."
"That's only a few hundred rupees left for tomorrow and where are you taking the boy?"
"Sorry—"
"After work I will come to Mr. Sarjan's house, he has not paid me for my work cleaning the dung of his cows a few days ago."
"You haven't answered my question," now Manjula and Munna Bhai's faces stared at each other in the dark.
"I don't know, we are planning to go to the cinema," replied Munna Bhai.
"You already know that's impossible. They won't let you in."
"I know and there's not a single movie they're showing tonight. But, that boy—"
"I'm just doing what he wants. He really wants to see a movie."
"It was a tragedy."
"—what?"
"I mean Paswan. It wasn't your fault?"
"Come on, let's go to sleep."
"Yes, but you still have to go to the Mr. Sarjan's tomorrow or we'll starve."
"Okay, honey," Munna Bhai kissed his wife's hair, but he wasn't in the mood to make love, maybe because he was too tired. At that time, Munna Bhai had time to stare at the shadows of several motorbikes that were still passing by, while at the same time, his mind wandered, capturing other shadows.
Note: This story illustration is basically copyright Leroy_Skaltad, the author has edited it via Logopit Plus.
Poin |
Description |
| Tittle | Under The Dalit Shadows |
| Words Count | 2592 (EN) | 2186 (IN) |
| Author | @mosin-nagant |
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Thank you, truly thank you for this story. Some years ago I met a woman in a writing group who came from Bengal. Largely because of her I became interested in India, the history, the culture of India and the literature of India. Eventually I wrote a small book for children about Rabindranath Tagore. Your story therefore meant more to me than it might to some other Western readers.
I think your use of the prompt is brilliant. You have taken a tiny kernel, and from that have given us a sensitive, insightful, memorable portrait. As hard as it is to accept the life that Munna Bhai must lead, we think about the children.
You are a wonderful writer. I'm very happy you discovered the Ink Well, because that discovery has introduced me to your writing.
Thanks @agmore, I'm actually from Indonesia, which has an interest in sociology because I'm from that faculty, and am currently learning to write short stories. Hearing Gurudev's name, I remember that the greatest writer in modern Indian literature once returned the knighthood bestowed upon him by the British government, as a protest against the massacre of hundreds of demonstrators who protested against colonial laws. Yes, I will continue to learn, because I realize that I am just an amateur who likes to write. Thank you for commenting and providing support.
Welcome to the Ink Well community, @mosin-nagant. This is a most creative use of the prompt. The tale you weave is sophisticated and memorable. We hope to read more of your stories in the future. Please note that one of the community expectations is that each writer will comment on the work of at least two other writers. In this way, the community is strong and writers can gauge how their work affects readers.
Thank you!
Thank you @theinkwell admin, I feel happy to find this community. I think that this place is a comfortable home for someone who is learning to write short-story like me. Thank you for being a community that stands on helpful writing guidelines. I'm sure, there are many lessons that I can learn here.
This story is really well written so much so that I really enjoy reading it. Thanks for sharing the story to the community.
I'm glad you want to read it. I hope I can learn to write and make other people happy with it. Thank you, once again.
I really enjoyed this story, @mosin-nagant. You have a gift for infusing a story with small, delightful details that make the reader feel like they are a part of the experience, and truly immersed in the story. Welcome to The Ink Well. I look forward to reading more of your writing!
By the way, we have some great resources. Be sure to check out our catalog of fiction writing tips and our recent newsletter, which provides an overview of our rules a link to the complete set. Also, be sure to read the work of other writers in our community. Those resources will give you a great orientation to who we are!
@Jayna, thank you for accepting my story in this community It's great to be able to learn so much from a community that is serious about encouraging its members to hone their skills. This is very useful to me, I mean the writing guide you put with the link. I will continue to study.
Greetings, @mosin-nagant !
Thank you for posting this story which, more than a literary account, is a sociological picture of the living conditions of people living under the structural shadow of the Hindu caste system.
Although, fortunately, there is a certain movement in the recognition of the human rights of the outcasts, this inhuman conception continues to produce scenes like the ones you relate in which people, men, women and children are subjected to dehumanising violence that has the character of terrorism. It is an open violence, intimate because it is inconsequential, which is evidence of a form of social disease that reaches people in a normalised way.
The ethnic character of your writing, which usually produces feelings of tenderness, turns your text into a social appeal because of its subject matter.
You have done very well with the prompt of the week. There is no worse shadow and no worse nightmare than the heavy reality that is lived in the flesh. Unfortunately we have seen that shadow so many times in history.
Thank you for the comments that have reminded us that as far as human civilization goes, it turns out that the world still has its own dark side. The structure of modern society continues to develop according to human innovation as an innovator, but sometimes, when some people laugh out loud while telling jokes about their days accompanied by a cup of hot chocolate in a classy cafe, far away, there are marginal communities, trapped in the ghetto system created by humans themselves. The Spiral of Violence seems to continue to be revived, becoming the worst culture of humanity itself.