- Mandakini Bhattacherya
- Aug 2
- 7 min read
Updated: Aug 2
Speckled Spud was really excited. “I can’t wait, I can’t wait! We’ll be out in a few days!” Momma Spud was not so ungrateful- “Well, this was home, a nice home,” she said, looking around at the womb-like granular clods loosely packing them in. “Yes, it is cosy,” conceded Speckled Spud, “but not so airy, wouldn’t you agree?” Coco Spud, so called because of her darker shade, sniffed, “ . . . I wanna breathe . . . dollops and dollops of air!” She smacked her lips, as if the air was actually creamy
fluffy strawberry ice-cream, and she could taste it. Shorty Spud, with a tuft on the head, listened round-eyed and wonderstruck, all the while brushing the sleeve of his brown jacket against his body. They were all in a dress rehearsal . . . brushing and preening and admiring themselves in their brown jackets. Waiting to surface and move about the outside world, however brief that outing might be. Nosy Spud was ecstatic, “What fun to be carried in trucks, to cold storages, then open markets! Roll about in the heat and dust of stalls!” Portly Spud piped in, “Oh yay yay yay, we’re the raresome / We’re the winsome.” Jingle Spud joined the fun, “Hop we on to tables, please we all menus, rule we all curries.” And the chorus of spuds joined in, “For the curry in a hurry / you need potatoes merry / In jackets or packets / we please all palates / Ain’t we dainty, and ain’t we beloved? / Ain’t we beloved / and ain’t we aplenty?”
Who would have thought spuds had names, and families, and emotions! They all seemed the same, in their brown jackets. You looked close, and then you saw that each one had a slightly different shape than the last one . . . mmmmm . . . hmmmm!
It was then that the waters poured in! At first there was just some seepage. Then there was a trickle. Slowly the trickle turned into a deluge. Huddled together in the warmth of the soil, the spuds could not make out the calamity at first. The water levels rose and rose. Rosy Spud, so fair in colour, squealed as her brown jacket was almost peeled away by the rush of water. Soldier Spud and his Lady tried to be brave and remain upright. But eventually, all the spuds were waddling and bobbing in the flood.
Overhead, the dam waters had burst the half-repaired dyke and entered the fields and villages. Mobile phones were ringing shrilly. The sarpanches were a bewildered lot. Egged on by villagers, they made frantic calls to the dam officials, “Sarkaar, maai-baap, do something, our fields are flooded by the dam waters! Please stop the release of waters, or we shall perish with our children, maai-baap! This crop is what we sell to earn our livelihood!” The officials could not care less. “What can we do?” they hollered down their phones, “didn’t you need water for irrigation? That's what we’re giving you, ungrateful wretches.” “B..b..but the dam was full and overflowing with recent rains, Saar! There is too much water, our fields are flooded!” Kishore’s father wailed into the phone. “And the dyke, the embankment . . . ” he sobbed, overcome with the misfortune. Sarpanch Rai took over the phone, “The dyke was only half-repaired, the embankment gave way! Please do something,” the sarpanch begged with folded hands, clutching the phone in his hands, as if the dam official could see him. “Oh that, that is not our problem! You have to talk to the Irrigation Department for that, we don’t do these things,” the official was happy to pass the buck, and twirled his moustache in self-satisfaction. He overflowed with the suggestions, “Call the Zilla Parishad, too. And yes, someone at the State Secretariat should listen to you.” Soon the local politicians of several hues had waded into the potato war, blaming each other for the dykes that gave way.
The distraught farmers knew better than to sit around, waiting for official help to arrive. Tears streaming down their eyes, aai, baba, aaji, ajoba, bhau, mama, mami, mavshi, kaka, kaki, atya, aatoba, taai, mulga, mulgi, the oldest and the youngest, ran into the fields, waded around in knee-deep waters and felt around with their fingers in the flooded soil, pulling out the inundated spuds. Aaji’s gnarled fingers would curl with pain feeling around in the water, ajoba would feel his varicose veins bursting as he stood in knee-deep water for hours, fishing for the spuds. Little Krishna, Jyoti, Parvati, Satya would break out in fun and frolic, splashing in the water ever so often. But the grim glares and helpless stares of the elders would soon make them remember the urgent task at hand, and they would nudge each other into submission. Spud after spud was pulled out and transported in countless plastic packets that were later opened, and the spuds spread out to dry in the sun, in the hope of recovering the crop at least partially.
Scarcely had the bitter potato-generated wars died down, when the Spud Kingdom was engulfed by another scandal. Bigha after bigha produced a potato crop of misshapen tubers! A fair number of the abnormal crops looked like twisted ginger roots. The rest looked like clay dolls, having heads and lumpy hands and feet. The farmers were stunned at their look. Stricken with fear and awe, they felt as if some divine curse had descended on them. As Vitthal cycled down the village road, Raghu hailed him, “Bhau, did you find any buyers at the town?” Vitthal kept his eyes low, shook his head, and cycled on. No one wanted to buy the crops. “Should we be eating them?” the panic-stricken villagers asked each other. The elderly slowly and sadly shook their heads, “Who knows what cursed seed they have come from?” Only, a couple of days later, in the scorching mid-day sun, came the sound “thup thup thup/ thup thup thup.” Unable to let her kids go hungry anymore, Rani had boiled the potatoes and was mashing them with her fist with some oil, salt, green chilly and onion slivers mixed in, to be served up as balls with boiled rice to her famished, wailing kids. In the evening, Suman, Nishi, Durga whirled about in the courtyards: “Let’s play with dolls.” “Let’s pretend they are Khandoba and Yellamma.” “Hey, get those funny spuds, we’ll stick incense sticks in them and pretend it’s the temple of God,” the children laughed merrily, and suited words to action.
The huge Peepul tree in the middle of the village was the regular conference hall of the villagers. Phone calls had been exchanged between the state and central level ministers. Preliminary investigation had found that the farmers had bought the potato seeds from Raval, a local unauthorised seed seller. Raval, in turn, had sourced the seeds from a seed trader in a far away province. “Those are demon seeds, brother,” elderly farmer Naresh wheezed angrily to Raval, “you did us wrong by selling them to us!” For further research, the seeds had been sent to the nearby agricultural university, but the verdict was already known- the devilish seeds had produced those hellish malformed spuds, heaping genetic indignities on the entire Spud Kingdom. Even the spuds pinched themselves and their malformed brethren in disbelief, then slowly rolled away in aversion.
The moment of truth had arrived. Raval was pronounced guilty; the farmers were no less to blame, they should have sourced their seeds from an authorised seller. However, there was a way out. Raval must ask the original seed trader in the far away province to buy the entire crop within one week, failing to do which, the seed trader must pay the cost of the crop as compensation to the farmers. Over 100 bighas had been affected; each bigha produced 50 quintals of potato crop at Rs. 900/- per quintal of wholesale price.
The farmers chattered excitedly, “Of course, there was hope!”
“Look at how the guilty have been punished!”
“Even if we get back two-thirds of the price . . .”
Raval knew. Raval slowly edged out of the crowd, head bowed low. He had to call the trader, inform him about the huge payment he had to make- an ordinary trader like himself, who had procured the seeds, not having a degree in genetics; not anticipating that if the crops failed somehow, those that were in power would force ordinary citizens to pay compensation, wash their hands off the whole affair.
Dainik Andolan had been calling the district SDO’s office the past three days, for an interview on the fate of the potato crop failure and intended civilian-sourced compensation. The SDO was unreachable.
In a far away province, the nagada was pounding hard. Girls sang love-songs in the mustard fields, swinging on improvised swings. Huge bonfires were crackling with nuts and goodies thrown in, to celebrate the onset of Holi. In a small two-storied house, Hansraj breathed a last sigh, remembered his Parmatma, took a deep breath and kicked off the stool . . .
Glossary:
sarpanches: elected heads of Gram Panchayats in India
sarkaar: government; also a term of respect for someone in authority
maai-baap: parents
aai, baba, aaji, ajoba, bhau, mama, mami, mavshi, kaka, kaki, atya, aatoba, taai: Marathi words for various relatives
mulga, mulgi: boy, girl in Marathi
bigha: Indian measurement of land
Khandoba and Yellamma: names of Indian god and goddess
Dainik Andolan: The Daily Agitation
nagada: drum
Parmatma: God
About the Author:
Mandakini Bhattacherya is currently an Associate Professor of English at Fakir Chand College, Diamond Harbour, affiliated with the University of Calcutta in West Bengal, India. She is a multi-lingual poet composing in English, Hindi, Punjabi and Bengali, literary critic and translator. She was awarded the Philosophique Poetica International Achievement Award ‘Master of the Word’ in recognition of her poetry by Philosophique Poetica and Grand Productions Canada at the World Poetry Conference, Bathinda, Punjab, in 2019, and ‘Master of Creative Impulse’ at World Poetry Conference, Chandigarh, 2020. She was invited by Sahitya Akademi, New Delhi and participated in the All India Young Writers’ Meet organised by it in February, 2020. She is Associate Editor of the ‘Muse of Now Paradigm’ anthology (AuthorsPress, 2020). She is content editor for UGC Online Refresher Course, and Joint Secretary of Proyas, a women’s NGO in Kolkata. Her areas of interest include Post-colonialism; Feminism; Dalit Literature; African-American Literature; Film, and Theatre.
- Ketaki Datta
- Jul 25
- 5 min read
Updated: Aug 2
I was coming down the elevator after buying essentials from the supermarket. The sun was really raging across the mid-sky. I thought of leaving all these items inside my fridge in my nearby apartment and going out to paint the town red, as it was my day off. Window-shopping, dropping by a local bookstore or at a relative’s place, or going for a matinee show at a movie hall would not have been a bad idea. But I chose to take the tube rail to Rabindra Sarobar and spend the whole day reading Attia Hosain under the green shade of the trees there. I was so thrilled that I took a notebook along with Attia’s novel, Sunlight on a Broken Column. I had taken a vow to read all the books in my possession, one after another, before I breathed my last. And then, even if Death were to come stand near my head and ask for my hand, I would put my hand in his, asking for a thrilling journey to the Heavens (or Hell?)! Too daring a plan, wasn’t it?
I was engrossed in the book; the flipping of crisp pages did not reach my ears. All of a sudden, someone seemed to call me out from my stone-deaf silence. She sat in the empty space beside me and said, “Can you recognise me, Ma’am?” I narrowed my eyes, concentrated my focus on her face, and the semblance of a familiar countenance lost over numerous years popped up in my memory—but I failed to place her exactly. I fumbled, “Yes, perhaps… your name, please?” Her face broke into a radiant smile, and she looked excited as she went on, “Aren’t you LR Ma’am? Do you remember, you helped me get back my confidence when I had a nervous breakdown in the exam hall? It was probably a Maths test—Maths being my minor—and it was the Final Exam. You were invigilating our room. You gave an instant fillip to my drooping spirits, and I scored fabulous marks, overcoming the initial hiccups and slowdowns. Do you remember?”
How could I? She was a Science student after all! And I was perhaps on invigilation duty in the exam hall, as I could gather from her narration. But drawing a winsome smile on my face, I said reassuringly, “Yes, yes, I do. Wonderful to see you after so many years!”
Indrani went on about her achievements as a Science teacher in a renowned school of the metropolis—her family, her husband, her kids—and I gave a patient hearing to all. She offered me a cup of tea, calling over a tea-seller. I paid, and she promised to catch up with me whenever she came here for a breather.
The other day, she was overjoyed to meet me again, and this time the chance meeting kept us firmly seated on the bench for more than a couple of hours. We stopped our conversation only after exiting the gate, and it was just 7 p.m. by my watch. These days, the lake closes by 7 p.m. Earlier, it used to be 8 p.m., I think.
Anyway, she prattled away, “You know, Ma’am, as my mother-in-law was dunning me for the money she lent for my treatment, I could not but hold her hands and let my tears course down my cheeks silently…”
I was struck by the word “treatment” and asked her, “Treatment? For what?”
She said, “I fall ill quite often—with cold and cough problems, Ma’am!”
I was driven to silence, though doubts assailed me. An expectorant or a cough lozenge wouldn’t make her borrow money from her mother-in-law, I was sure! Her husband held a cushy job in a multinational company, as she had said. Then?
I kept wondering.
But while talking her heart out, she blabbed one day that she had given up her job in a school. But why? She replied, “My kids were just born, in two successive years. Hence, I decided to give up the job, which was really strenuous—I couldn’t breathe properly after taking two classes in tandem.”
Cold and cough problems might have been severe by then, I thought. Or childbirth might have left her debilitated.
Her stories ranged from her bitter experiences at her in-laws’ place, her husband’s stubborn attitude in dealing with her resentment against his mother, her mother-in-law’s grunts and whimpers of grudge when she gave up her job at the school, her constant, irritating rebuttals to her rude remarks in front of her son, her kids’ growing impatience as she began lying down to allay her breathing discomfort—so on, so forth.
I used to empathise, caress her, pat her back to encourage her, and share tales of inspiration to boost her drooping spirits. The soothing afternoon kept yielding to evening silently. The sky would turn from ochre to crimson to black-blue as the diurnal motion hurried the late hours of the afternoon to a close. Birds chirped in unison with her words; a girl and a boy embraced each other as we stayed immersed in our stories. Indrani would get up to leave, and I used to see her off to her car, which waited outside.
When I met her there, the afternoons seemed to have wings! Time flitted by so soon. Coming home, I used to think about her, and the following day I would go to the lake in the hope of seeing her again. She had cast a mesmerising influence on me. A day without meeting her began to seem drab, dull, meaningless.
We met two or three times, and each time my heart danced in joy at the warmth of uninterrupted, heartening, candid talk and the inimitable togetherness!
Last week, Indrani’s husband came with their two grown-up kids to find me and deliver the shocking news that left me half-dead in despair.
Indrani was no more.
She used to come to the lake for a walk on her doctor’s advice.
It was the last stage of lung cancer.
About the Author:
Ketaki Datta (Ph.D.) is an Associate Professor of English at a government college in Kolkata, India. She is a novelist, poet, translator, and book reviewer (Compulsive Reader, USA; Muse India, Hyderabad). Her works include two novels, A Bird Alone and One Year for Mourning, and poetry collections such as Across the Blue Horizon, The Music of Eternity, and Urban Reflections (with Prof. Wilfried Raussert). She has translated three novels, including The Last Salute (Sahitya Akademi), and authored several academic books. She has presented research at the University of Oxford, the University of California (Santa Barbara), and Universidade de Lisboa. Her research work, Oral Stories of the Totos was published by Sahitya Akademi. Her latest book is Unshared Secret and Other Stories.
- Seema Jain
- Jul 25
- 6 min read
Updated: Aug 4
In a small room of the huge haveli, the midwife coaxed and cajoled the would-be mother to push, to hold on for some more time. She consoled her that in some time, everything would be fine. Half an hour later, as the moans of the mother subsided, and a hush descended, the midwife came out and announced the birth of a girl. Seventy years ago, in the year 1955, the birth of a girl was not an occasion to celebrate, and if that girl child happened to be an albino, it was enough to make her arrival doubly unwelcome.
That is how I was born, with my extended family expressing sympathy, concern and consolation to my parents. But my father, an educated and enlightened man put his foot down, and decided that this note of mourning and despondence has to stop. He boldly declared, “Look! This daughter of mine is very dear to me. I will make sure to give her a good education, and mark my words, one day, she will do us all proud.” That punctured the bubble of negativity floating all around, at least for the time being.
I soon became the apple of my parents’ eyes. They showered all their love upon me and nurtured me with abundant care, insulating me like a protective shield from the derogatory comments people often passed behind their backs. Friends, neighbours and relatives often exchanged negative words about me, albeit not to our face. Sometimes, they were not discreet enough, and their callous words inadvertently fell onto our ears, deeply piercing our hearts. Someone would say, “A pigeon may close its eyes, but the cat won't disappear just by doing so.” Another would go further and add, “Mr. Malhotra! You must accept God’s will! The best thing to do would be to marry her off, though God knows it won't be easy.” After all, which normal boy would like to wed an albino girl.
Despite all such tribulations, some of our neighbours loved and welcomed me. Mr. and Mrs. Bhatia were two such people. Their children, Kuku and Meeta were my brothers and besties. I hear that I was a lively child, with a sanguine temperament and a photographic memory. Whether an incident took place ten years ago or seven months ago, I would remember its minutest details even more clearly than those involved in it. Sometimes, it was jovially said, “She can marshal details of even those things that occurred before she was born” and everyone would have a hearty laugh. Someone else would tease me by saying, “Dear Guddi, please help me recall what happened when I had fallen during our trip to Mussoorie” and all would feel cheerfully amused.
I did have to grapple with physical health issues like a very weak eyesight and extreme sensitivity of the skin, especially to the harsh sunlight. But more challenging than these were the social and psychological issues I had to face every day. My relatives and friends, my teachers, as also the unknown people on the road—either looked at me with doubt and derision, or with pity. I overheard one of my cousins saying to another cousin, “Bhai, it is so embarrassing to go out anywhere with her! You know, yesterday as we were going to market, a bunch of kids followed us and jeered at us. They teased and taunted her because of her different appearance. I have decided not to accompany her anywhere from now on.”
But thanks to my parents, who stood with me with rock-firm resilience, and provided every opportunity possible, to hone my skills. My father told me on one occasion, “Always remember my dear child! Life is not a bed of roses for anyone. Every person here has to fight his or her battles. So never complain about the challenges you have to face. Find a solution if you encounter a problem. Where there is a will, there always is a way. Why don’t you take up music as one of your subjects, to deal with the stress of reading, given the problem of your weak eyesight. And I want you to be a confident and independent girl. You have great public speaking and debating skills. I suggest you take to the stage and make the most of your natural abilities.”
Encouraged and boosted in this way, egged on with my parents’ love and guidance, I kept climbing the ladder of success step by step, undeterred by the adverse comments or ridiculing attitude of people. Within this huge world, my parents had created a miniscule world for me, where I felt loved, valued, pampered and encouraged to reach out to the stars.
Soon after completing my post-graduation, I got a job in a college as a lecturer. With financial independence came a great sense of confidence that I had never felt before. It clearly meant that I didn't have to be dependent on anyone from now on. I was on my own, with a secure future beckoning me to a new course.
The proposition of marriage for me was very challenging and tricky. The general feeling was that no normal boy would opt to marry a girl with such a disability. But my heart longed to go through this experience like any other girl. I too craved to have someone in my life who would be my soulmate. Finally, a young boy from a humble background who was still studying and was not financially steady, showed a keen interest in marrying me. My parents readily accepted this proposal, and my dream of a marriage was fulfilled. But this was only the beginning of another set of woes. Soon I realised that I was more of a pay cheque for him and his family. My husband never took me out with him, perhaps due to fear of facing embarrassment. Later, I heard tales of his many sexual adventures. Moreover, after some time, he became financially settled after completing his education. Now, he no longer needed the ladder he had once needed.
With a four-year old son, my lifeboat was stuck in tumultuous waters. Enveloped by a persistent sense of humiliation, and neglect, I tried to put an end to my life, but some kind friends saved me at the last minute. After this incident, it was decided by my parents and well-wishers that I should seek separation from my husband. In my desperation to get rid of him, I made them biggest blunder of my life: I allowed him to have custody of our son. It was a heavy price to pay in life and a big blow to my dignity.
After my divorce, the sense of relief was great, but ironically, it also brought a deep sense of deprivation. I now realized that the pain and trauma of separation from my son was too much to endure. Which mother would be at peace with herself and not writhe like a fish out of water in such a situation? I longed to get a glimpse of my son, but in vain.
Slowly, I became numb to this pain. There was a deep void in my heart. To fill the vacuum in my life, I immersed myself in social work. I wanted to be there for everyone who was in desperation and needed succour and support. Whether it was to spearhead relief-operations in cyclone-hit coastal areas or the earthquake or flood-ravaged parts of the country; providing counselling to women that were victims of marital discord or domestic violence; or giving to society through charitable service-based relief work, my commitment and passion soon earned me name and fame and brought laurels for me in the form of many distinctions and rewards. The day I received an award of commendation from the country’s President in recognition of my long and selfless service to humanity, my father held his head high with pride and tears of joy made
his eyes moist.
Today, when people look up to me as a role model and cite my example as inspiring, I bow down to my parents in gratitude for being the architects of a life of dignity for me. Some dark clouds had temporarily gathered in the sky. But soon after, the sun rose, and piercing through the thick ominous clouds, dispersed its sunshine, bright and radiant, everywhere.
About the Author:
Seema Jain is a bilingual poet, short story writer, translator, editor, critic and reviewer. Ex-Vice Principal, Dean Academics and Head, PG Department of English at KMV Jalandhar, Punjab, India, her published works include five collections of English and Hindi poems, two edited poetry anthologies (featuring the voices of 138 Indian women poets of the 21st century from all over India and overseas one of which titled Vibrant Voices: An Anthology of 21 st Century Indian Women Poets has been published by Sahitya Akademi, New Delhi), two edited books of research articles, three books of translated poems and two novels (one of them published by Sahitya Akademi titled Mohalla and one by Hawakal Prakashana titled The Vanquished Queen: the Diary of Kaikeyi). Her poems are housed in the digital pandemic archives of Stanford University. She has published reviews in The Statesman, Kitaab, Singapore, The Dialog (a Panjab University Journal) and many other platforms.