The Money Stealer

That chilly morning my mother’s shaky voice woke me up a little early after a night of tight sleep. A noise appeared like a susurrus of an agitated rabble was slowly becoming audible and increased in intensity while I walked out of my room. The fog covered the morning imparting an abnormal mystical sense to the surroundings. My intuition clearly indicated some kind possible misfortune. I saw mom with some of our neighbour aunties, talking in a panic-stricken voice. After rubbing my eyes while I tried to make a sense of what they are talking on, a fear suddenly overtook my senses. Before I could utter anything, mom declared

‘Your Bimala auntie is no more. She was found dead in her bed a while ago.’

People were rushing to see the corpse. It was an abandoned house, next to us, in our village, where Bimala auntie used to live in. The owner of the land Shivram got settled in a nearby town along with his family few years back, but he never thought to sell the land which probably he wanted to keep as the only association of his life with the village.  The big house was nothing but the remnants of brick walls which left scattered here and there with weeds and shrubs covered one side of the land entirely, and at other corner of that house, there was a small shack built from bamboo stick and tin shed, Bimala auntie would reside there.

***

I never saw her family. Mom once told me Bimala auntie lost her husband after few years of her marriage and shifted to her parent’s house. Her brother once accused her stealing money and forced her to leave the house after their father’s death. From then on, she came in our village, and Shivram was kind enough to offer her a job, not in terms of money but in the cost of her two time’s food. When Shivram left the village, she took few jobs in some of the affluent families of our village to meet her daily needs.

Mom said she was happy about that. She never complained or criticized her brother about the accusation. Probably very few people knew about that secret of Bimala auntie. Even though my mom was a little younger than her, Bimala auntie never hesitated to reveal her those little secrets to my mother, who was patient enough to listen her carefully while cooking our dinner. Sitting a little away from them with my evening study, I concentrated much on their conversation with a sheer exhilaration.

Bimala auntie would start the conversation with some of the recent updates of our village, and finally she ended up talking about her own life inadvertently, which she only wanted to share with my mother, probably her only patient listener. She spoke how the family members of the houses she were working with, didn’t allow her to enter inside the house, how they humiliated her for small mistakes, and above all, how they deliberately tagged her as a symbol of misfortune. Sometimes few moments would pass in silence, I observed her face glowed in the fire of burning woods, and the intermittent noise of cooking only sustained breaking the silence of our existence.

I never saw mom to express her compassion to Bimala auntie, and Bimala auntie probably never demanded that. Most likely she accepted the sufferings as an inevitable part of her life. Then it was mom, who always spoke breaking the awkward silence between them. Mom always spoke about me, about my small little achievements. She spoke the every detail how I came first in a drawing competition, how all the school teachers praised me, and told surely I am going to be a famous painter one day. Meanwhile I would interrupt, claiming that it was nothing but an exaggeration. It would make Bimala auntie a bit sceptical, her bemused expression revealed how a person could be famous by drawing few trees with birds and houses on a white paper. But it never stopped her to feel proud about me. While she would stand up to leave after finishing her daily talk session with mom, she slowly walked to me and kept her palm on my head, rubbed it few times and spoke in a tender voice

‘I know Pritam Baba will be a big man one day.’

I always used to feel a bit diffident while Bimala auntie added ‘Baba (father)’ after my name to call me. How could I be her father? But later what I realised it was her immense love for me, like a mother, probably she never cherished the happiness of having a children. Whenever she cooked something special, she carried it for me filling a full bowl, but she never waited to see me having her cooked item, probably she was afraid of if I don’t like the taste, or sometimes I wondered she might came to know that mom will never allow me to have the foods prepared by her. The following day, mom deliberately acted how I liked her cooking the most and finished all my rice with that, while returning her bowl back. A smile would lighten up her face.

‘I knew Pritam Baba will like it.’

Her innocence sometimes would make me feel bad, and later while I told mom about that, she only smiled saying she could not take the risk of her son’s health. It would make my doubt strong about her aversion towards Bimala auntie. Slowly I finished my schooling and started my college life in a big city far away from my home to pursue a career in literature which I always admired, and I was forced to take a hostel there. As a part of my agreement with my mother, once in a month I had to visit my village to meet her.

Last Saturday of every month was my usual schedule of visit. When I would  reach home after a four hours long journey in a crowded train, it already would be dark outside, and after having my dinner early I used to fall asleep. Following day waking up a little late, I had to follow a day long schedule from a visit to an old temple to a lunch to one of my relative’s house, which mom already planned throughout the whole month, and a visit to Bimala auntie never got a place in that packed schedule.

After obeying mom the whole day, again I had to catch a train at 7.30 to return back my hostel breaking all my connection with the village. Few months back, once I asked mom about Bimala auntie, and I came to know about her frequent illness, but I became so engrossed in my work I almost forgot about her. Yesterday was also one of such Saturday night. When I reached home, it already crossed 10p.m because of the unexpected train delay of three hours. I was already exhausted, and after having my dinner, I hardly waited to speak with mom, I fell asleep.

***

A big crowd gathered at the surroundings of the shack; I and mom cleared our way through the crowd to reach where the corpse was laid. It was little dark inside that small room. A thin worn blanket, probably, too thin to combat with the biting cold, covered Bimla auntie revealing a little of her both the legs. A little wrinkled skin on her face clearly outlined the shape of her skull, she appeared too old than her age. An acrid smell of something, which got mixed with the dampness of the room, made the air heavy inside the room. People were shedding tears and spoke how Bimala auntie struggled with the poverty and illness in a compassionate voice. I saw mom to wipe out her tears with the corner of her sari. Somehow I didn’t cry; rather a strange emptiness left me alone even in the crowd, we left the place. Still mom was wiping her tears out. When we reached home making our way out through the visitors, mom uttered

“I want you to know the truth”.

“Truth? What kind of truth are you talking about mom?”, I muttered.

“Your Bimala auntie actually stole the money, it was not an accusation”, she still wept on, and I felt a strange feeling of extreme guilt that intensified inside my mind. For a moment it appeared I was so stupid, whom I gave all my love and respect like a mother, was nothing but a money stealer. Bimala auntie actually cheated everyone to earn their sympathy hiding the actual truth.

“Let me explain everything. Once after her husband’s death…….” mom talked on.

Mom described the every detail, while staying in her parent’s house, how Bimala auntie fell in love with a guy, a little younger than her, who came to work as a labour  in her father’s farm, how her brother and father didn’t accept the relation and finally she planned to run away with that guy stealing enough money and jewellery. Unfortunately the guy betrayed her taking all her money and never came back. After this, her brother and sister-in-law started torturing her to get rid of the extra burden of their family. When their father died, the torture crossed all the limits and it forced her to leave the house.

The words left me speechless. Even though I didn’t fall in love, but I was grown up enough to realize what the love is. I knew how difficult for a girl who loses her husband, to manage her stay in her parent’s house.

“Mom did that guy ever come back later?”

“Yes he did, but it was too late, after diagnosed with cancer. In his death bed he urged to see her once to make an apology for his deeds.”

“Did she go there?”

“Yeah, she went there and forgave him.”

This time I took a little time to control myself, and I felt a little pain in my throat. The noise of the visitors had reduced by then, the sound of a sacred song asking for the peace of her soul drifted from that shack. The sound of the song carried a strange silence, but appeared fresh and serene like never before, probably I never tried to feel it in that way. It was the same song that will also be performed while her brother will die and probably the same song was played while the guy who cheated Bimala auntie died. It is quite true what people says that the death only makes people to forget the earlier sins, it makes people liberal.

“Beta (son) will you do a favour for me?” Mom tried to look confident wiping her tears.  

“Of course mom”

“Once you have to go to her brother’s house to return all the money she stole.”

“But mom how did you manage that money?”

“Few days back while I went to meet your Bimala auntie to inquire about her health, she handed over all her savings to me, that she earned all her life by working hard. She requested me to repay her brother’s loss, and rest of the money to invest in your higher study. Probably she realized her days of life are soon coming to an end.”

I struggled hard to control my tears. Both of us stayed silent for some time.

“Don’t you want to know who that guy is, who cheated your Bimala auntie?”

“Who?”

“He was your father.”

I just could not catch up what mom talked on after that, her voice seemed coming from far away and struggled to pierce into a world where I had been thrown, and slowly got separated from the outside world. Now I realized why mom never spoke about my father, she always used to appear cautious while I asked her about him. She always changed the topic saying that he died from an illness when I was merely a kid. Everything in front of me were getting blurred, while tears filled my both the eyes. It was not an anger for my father’s deed, it was not a hurt feelings on my mother for suppressing the truth for so long, but it was my esteem for Bimala auntie, that brought tears in my eyes. Now it was my turn to feel proud about her.

***

-Narayan Roy