One Mohur's Worth
By Rakibul Islam
Chapter 1
The lightning struck the coconut tree ahead, and it immediately burst into flames. At the sight of it, the moving group came to a sudden halt. Their faces were pale, etched with an unknown dread. In this unseasonable weather, the lightning felt like an ill omen. They looked up at the sky; a mass of pitch-black clouds swirled together, while lightning flashed like angry eyes from within their depths.
After standing there for a while, the group seemed to regain their senses and started moving again. There were three of them in total. In the dim, flickering light of a lantern held by the person in front, a path—narrow as a hair parting—could be seen stretching between rows of trees that reached for the sky. The rest was swallowed by the dense darkness on either side and the void ahead.
The person in the middle carried a medium-sized sack, its mouth tied shut, over his shoulder. The person at the very back held a polished, oiled wooden staff. The knots on that staff suggested that if it fell into the hands of a trained fighter and struck a head, that skull would shatter into pieces in an instant. Despite being armed, the reason for the group's fearful advance remained a mystery. They weren't just afraid; they were moving with extreme caution and near-perfect silence.
Suddenly, the howling of a pack of jackals echoed in the distance—though it was hard to tell if it was a howl or a cry. After walking for a good while, the group stopped. Where the lantern light faded, a wall of thick bushes stood. The faint, trembling light glinted off the leaves. Beyond that, a dark mound rose up, dotted here and there with sky-piercing trees. Amidst them, a massive mansion rose, matching the height of the trees. Not a single spark of light flickered within the palace; it was drowned in thick, heavy darkness.
The group hid within a thicket, waiting for something. A long time passed. The leader of the group grew restless and stepped out from the bushes. At that exact moment, a streak of light appeared from a southern window of the mansion. The light swayed from right to left—evidently a signal.
The three men moved forward with the sack. The leader had already extinguished his lantern. The light in the mansion window was gone too. Guided only by their own sight, they began to climb the mound. Their pace was still haunted by fear. Suddenly, the thunder rolled like war drums, and lightning struck the tallest banyan tree in the forest behind them. A blinding white light seared the surroundings.
|| 1 ||
"What is this, Ramratan? I see the taxes from Kotulpur haven't been deposited yet. What is the Talukdar doing there?"
Zamindar Krishnadas Dutta looked up from his ledger, pulling twice on the tube of his hookah. Leaning against a velvet bolster, he was scrutinizing the accounts on a small wooden desk. Such a vast estate hadn't been built in a day; it was the result of four generations painstakingly working the red soil of the Rarh region. He couldn't allow it to waste away through negligence. His gaze was sharp. While the general public was growing restless against the British government, he knew better than to pick a fight with a crocodile while living in the water. Thus, he ensured taxes and appropriate "gifts" reached the government on time. Deep down, he harbored a faint hope of earning the title of 'Raibahadur.' Therefore, there was no leniency regarding taxes. Kotulpur's taxes were already three months overdue.
Ramratan stood nearby, wringing his hands. He swallowed hard and said, "Actually, sir, the rains weren't good this year, so the harvest was poor. The tenants petitioned the Talukdar, asking if you could waive this year's tax..."
"What do rains have to do with taxes? Some years will have less rain, some more. Does that mean taxes are waived? Is this their uncle's house? No, tell them to deposit the tax."
"But they said there was no yield at all..." Ramratan tried again.
"What can I do about that? Fine, arrange to dig two ponds there so they have water for farming next time. But I want my tax." Krishnadas returned his focus to the ledger.
At that moment, the heavy brown curtain at the entrance was brushed aside as the gatekeeper stumbled in, followed by a man of massive stature. He wore a short dhoti with a red towel tied around his waist and a red band on his head. A long vermillion mark adorned his forehead, and his thick mustache curled upward. His muscular, dark body was glistening with oil, and the yellow sunlight from the southern window seemed to slide off his skin. He held a staff in his left hand and a rolled-up paper in his right.
He scanned the room. At the sight of him, everyone in the office stood frozen like stone. Their eyes betrayed a lump of terror stuck in their throats. The man stepped forward and handed the paper to Krishnadas.
Krishnadas had stood up the moment the man entered. He took the paper with trembling hands. He knew what might be written there. He managed to unfold it. It read:
"Humble submission,
Sir, this lowly servant is named Shri Nakul Chandra Chand. However, in this Rarh region, I am better known as Naku the Dacoit. With my respects, I am informing you that on the night of the coming thirteenth of Bhadra, during Krishna Chaturdashi, I shall visit your home with my band. It would please me greatly if you leave the main gate open and instruct your guards not to resist us. Otherwise, we shall have to break down your gates, and innocent lives will be lost needlessly—something I find most undesirable. Should you fail to instruct them, you alone shall be responsible for their untimely demise. Do not make the mistake of informing the British police; that will only increase your peril.
Please accept my salutations once more.
Yours humbly,
Nakul Yogesh Chandra Chand
P.S. Naku the Dacoit is a devotee of the Mother. He has no desire to enter the inner quarters where the women reside. If you would kindly gather all their jewelry in the outer hall, this servant shall be most grateful. Otherwise, I shall be forced to enter the inner quarters. In that case, while their honor shall remain intact, I cannot guarantee the safety of their lives. For that too, you shall be held responsible."
His worst fear had come true. There wasn't a soul in the Rarh region who didn't fear Naku the Dacoit. It was said that while he never touched a woman, it took him but a moment to cleave a man in two. The powerful Krishnadas collapsed onto his seat, shivering like a patient struck with yellow fever.
The intruder gave a smirk and walked out of the office.
|| 2 ||
"Eat this little bit, I'm telling you. Don't get up without finishing."
"I told you, Ma, I'm not hungry. Look, my stomach is already bloated. You eat this rice instead," Nilu said, glancing toward the cooking pot.
"I have my rice. You haven't eaten much since morning. Just eat this bit," Mahamaya said, though she knew there wasn't a single grain left in the pot. Some days she couldn't even provide a vegetable to go with the rice. This morning, she had gathered some water spinach from the bank of Shyamal Ghosh's pond to put on Nilu's plate.
Two years ago, things weren't like this. Though not wealthy, Nilu's father earned enough as a priest to keep them comfortable. They had a few acres of land and a granary in the courtyard. But a flood submerged all of Kotulpur, and with it, Nilu's father was swept away. Before being lost to the muddy waters, he had managed to toss the four-year-old Nilu onto a small patch of dry land. Since then, Mahamaya had been struggling to survive with Nilu. The little land they had was seized by Zamindar Krishnadas last year due to unpaid taxes. Now she made a few pennies by spinning sacred thread or helping with ritual preparations in other houses. Being from an aristocratic Brahmin family, no one would hire her for menial labor, fearing they would go to hell for making a Brahmin woman serve them. Her pride wouldn't let her beg. Consequently, the pot often stayed empty. Nowadays, six-year-old Nilu had even started taking on some priesthood duties to fill their bellies. That was how they were limping through their days. Now, the time for taxes was approaching again. If they couldn't pay, they might lose their home. Mahamaya shuddered at the thought.
Returning to reality, she saw Nilu still hadn't taken the last bite. Had the boy realized there was no more food? Putting on a forced smile, she said, "Why haven't you finished?"
Nilu had indeed peeked into the pot and seen it was empty. If he ate this, his mother would go hungry. He stood up. "Ma, I told you I'm full. If I eat more, I'll vomit. You finish it."
Mahamaya had no choice. Stroking her son's head, she began to eat the remaining rice. This daily drama between mother and son was witnessed by no one but God.