Stars twinkled in the sky. Rows of lamps glowed in the pitch darkness. It was as though the night smiled flashing pearly teeth. On that Deepavali late evening, nightlights were lit in the porticoes. Series of lights were in place on the male papaya plants in various courtyards. The sight reminisced a dream where lamps were virtually hung from the sky. Lights were lit in homes and temples alike. With the display of colorful fireworks all around, it was light raining during that festival of lights.
But, it was no Deepavali for the low-caste boy.
Right through the morning, he just ogled at the wondrous fireworks for sale in the exclusive bazaar. His hair was unkempt. His body glistened in a blue color that was mixed with red chalk. But for him, it appeared everyone possessed in hand his or her due share of fireworks.
Even after waiting until the evening, not a single kindhearted soul turned up to put some or other firework in his empty hands, be it one humble one made of palm leaf or a flowerpot that spewed out a fountain of sparkles or even the cheapest kind that made a hissing sound instead of a blast. The sahib at the shop counter who sold hundreds of thousands of fireworks that day was still yelling at the passing shoppers, “Hey, these fireworks work well, They issue so much sound that equals the sound from cannonballs of Germany. You grab 500 of them all for yourself.” in his foreign accent, he could sell or show off his wares to prospective customers. Yet the shopkeeper did not allow our young boy to pick at least one firework that was abandoned on the shop floor, although it would make a hissing sound instead of a blast.
Yet the boy did not go home to eat. His parents were cursing, “Wherever this naïve fellow has gone, he was not home to have his portion of porridge”. But nobody came there to find him near the shops.
That evening, the boy started wandering in the streets of Bundar town. He finally stopped at a terraced house where the fireworks display was prominent. The cost of fireworks must be about 40 Rupees, whether imported or local. The elders of the house supervised their wards when the kids were playing with the fireworks.
A few chuckles of street kids joined the laughter from the house elders that included the toothless smile of an old woman filled the courtyard. The poor on the street gathered to witness the festivities shamelessly and begged the residents, “ Sir, please give me this, or give me that.” The meek among them satisfied themselves with the already burning fireworks that were thrown off from the terraces out of fear that the owners might burn their fingers. The boy was standing firmly and quietly and just staring at the glorious house. He did not move.
His body was like a ramrod. It was also smooth and shined like a polished steel blade. The light was dancing on his face, a face that had some finer features about the eyes and nose. When light from fireworks fell on his hair, it appeared as though sunlight fell on pieces of loose clouds. There was nothing in the boy’s stomach since that morning.
A widowed lady in the house was closely looking at the boy since the evening. It was from when he first set foot there and standing like a rock in front of the house. She was around 65 years of age. Though she used to be pretty as a maiden with all the beauty in the world, she was loveless now and kept in ascetic misery after her aging husband died long ago. But she was not like the ones who decorated themselves to look pretty even in widowhood those days. She was just an unfortunate soul in search of her life’s meaning from out of the religious books. Widowed Purushotthamma attended prayer recitals, Harikathas (Reading of stories about the Lord) at the temples, lectures by the pundits, and discourses on the subject of enlightenment by the saints. Her sole aim was to know more about the raison d'être that still remained abstract to her. What made her heart flutter and her eyes clouded was when she looked at the motherliness in women folk among her relatives. She rued that no woman denied marital knot or motherhood should live on earth. Often she hurried into the evening shadows to wipe her eyes with her sari end. Using their taunts, threats, or coaxing, the kids in the big household whisked off peppermints, nuts, cookies, and coins she stored in her trunk.
Purushotthamma’s heart used to break whenever a kid cried. If a child ever caught a cold, she would never leave it until his or her running nose had stopped. If ever children got ill severely, there would be no end for her vows and prayers for their speedy recovery. For this purpose, she had some idols of Krishna with morsels of butter in hand, as well as the idol of Kashi Annapurna treasured in her trunk to plead at in her urgent prayers.
She could not take off her gaze from the boy standing in front of the house since the evening. This young boy was illuminated by light and disappeared in darkness alternatively. This was even as he rested himself on one leg for some time and then shifted to his other leg. He stole her heart and mind just like a magnet attracting iron.
Purushotthamma thought she would be handing the boy herself a pack from those 5-Rupee packs of fireworks meant for each of the children in the household. Wishfully she said silently to herself first, ‘My dear boy, please come and take these fireworks and play with them!’
But she chided herself, “Hey, you fool! Wouldn’t anyone laugh at you? Why you entertain such a crazy idea?”
Suddenly the boy fell to the ground like her hope was floored. During the celebration of lights, there was no need for the others to take notice of a little nondescript boy collapsing. But Purushotthamma was watching him. From the terrace, she climbed down the stairs in one go. Like mother Yashoda gathering her little Krishna after the latter had killed Trinavarta (whirlwind demon), Purushotthamma lifted the boy into her arms. She made him lie on a bench in the portico and rushed to the interior of the big house. She fetched a sliver vessel and poured some milk into it. Then she put some hot rice in the milk and mixed them into a mixture of a loose paste. She brought this to the boy’s mouth.
First, she began putting milk into his mouth little by little. The rest of the house watched this and never spoke a word. Once the essence of food entered his system, the boy started to stir. He finally came around. Then her household started talking loudly.
An old man: “Why on earth this woman brought home this boy and laid him on the bench? It’s sacrilege!”
A lady: “How come this boy is here?”
A young girl added: “Aunt brought him inside when he fell down in front of our house.”
Another lady: “Is it proper on her part to touch every rascal while still draped in a sacred Brahmin sari? Wouldn’t our workers feed him for her if she had asked?”
Old man: “How audacious this widow could become!”
Purushotthamma was not listening to this. She was relieved seeing the boy opening his eyes. Joy, like a cool wind, touched her whole person. “Boy! Eat all of this.” She put the vessel in his hand. Then a volley of queries followed:
“Well, that is enough. Now you send him away.”
“What is your name, rascal, whose son are you?”
“We are from a low-caste, Sir. My name is Chittigaadu.
The master of the house was coming out of the dining room and stopped by. He said, “Hand him two copper coins and drive him away. If someone sees this kind of thing at our home, we get a bad reputation.”
**************
Eventually, a year passed. Deepavali came once again. Purushotthamma remembered taking Chittigaadu to her room that night and handing him two rupees secretly along with four pieces of fireworks. Her eyes got watery. She started looking out for someone while lighting one lamp after another on the terrace in time for a Deepavali night of celebrations. Her 3-year-old niece came running to her to plead with her that she was lifted into her arms because she was afraid of an elder sibling who began playing with fireworks.
“Why not, dear? I will hold you safe in my arms.” She collected the child into her arms and kissed her lovingly.
The world around is getting decorated with colored lights. Fireworks are being lighted. Crackers started exploding. Rockets are shooting up as if they are putting the stars back in the sky. Now, from nowhere Chittigaadu came to her and placed a ‘Deepavali Pouch’ on the floor near her.
‘Deepavali Pouch’ is a poor man’s version of pencil-firework, sparklers, crackers, and bombs- all put together. It is a pouch containing coals from half-burnt male palm tree shells. This will be smeared with dung and duly wrapped by four veins of palm leaf. Then the pouch will be lighted with the help of burning cinders. Once it is aglow, the packet will swirl around playfully to let the cracking sparkles come out of the pouch. The poor people get overwhelmed with joy looking at this.
Purushotthamma looked at the gift of Deepavali Pouch. It was when she saw Chittigaadu. Chittigaadu looked back at her with a warm smile.
Purushotthamma’s heart pounded. Her three-year-old niece clapped at this and chortled. Purushotthamma swiftly ran to her room and retrieved a fireworks packet from under the cot where she had kept it as a secret from other kids. She covered it with her sari end while bringing it to him.
Her lips quivered and her eyes watered. A sweet feeling rose in her bosom and that made her chest heave.
“Come, take this away and play at home. Go!” She put that fireworks pack in his hands. The face of Chittigaadu lit. A smile spread from his eyes to lips like the rays of dawn.
Suddenly the master of the house appeared before them. He rushed to Chittigaadu and snatched the packet before slapping him hard with such a force that almost broke the boy’s teeth.
“Who gave this authority to the widow? Wherefrom this firework packet came to you? If fireworks are given away like this to the whole town, can anyone stop the drain on our wealth?”
After saying this, the master of the house shouted at the boy. So, you finally returned to this place like a curse” The master of the house kicked Chittigaadu very hard.
“Oh God, He is killing the boy!” Without caring for her sacred sari, Purushotthamma lifted the boy from the ground and took him in her arms.
“Shame on you, you dirty woman!” cursed the master of the house. He seized Chittigaadu from out of Purushotthamma’s hands. He held him by his arm loosely as though touching the young boy’s body would be a sin. He flung the boy right on to the street. All this happened in a second.
Chittigaadu’s head reeled as if the world became topsy-turvy. His head broke after hitting a stone. Blood started oozing. Looking at this, Purushotthamma gave out a scream and collapsed on the ground.
The master of the house grew wilder and bared his teeth like a dog. He clenched his fist intending to give two more kicks to the boy. He dashed at the boy once again. Chittigaadu fled from there after looking at the demon-like master of the house coming on to him once again. Purushotthamma returned to her senses. Now she turned into a woman possessed.
“I don’t live in this demon’s house anymore. I can’t live here”, with grief she was shouting.
“Dear Chittigaadu! ” Calling after the boy, she ambled in the general direction of where Chittigaadu left for, from under Deepavali lights along the darker alleys.
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