(Short story)
SAMIR KANTA GUPTA
Mriganka knew Samaddar Mashai from his early boyhood days. Of medium height and
dark complexion he was rather on the flabby side with grey
hair mercilessly close cropped. He never sported a kurta,
a fatua or even a banian.
His dhoti covered him from the waist upto the knee,
Gandhi style, and was never launderd but homewashed as could be seen from its colour. In the cold
season he just covered his upper body with a nondescript chaddar.
And he never wore a pair of chappals or wooden
sandals. The most striking thing about him was his utter reluctance to talk. He
was farthest away from being garrulous. Nobody ever saw him chatting on the
street or enjoying the luxury of a gossip in a tea stall. He lived in the backyard
of Madhavi Press, a city printing house, where a
couple of thatched huts constituted his haven. His shy wife and a toddling son
lived with him.
Those were the days in the Thirties of the present
century. Freedom movement in those days was distinctly
nonviolent and, as Mriganka witnessed it in his
subdivision in
It fell to Samaddar Mashai to accompany a solitary drum beater and walk along
the roads and winding alleys while distributing to curious onlookers leaflets
written in chaste vernacular, an invitation to whoever might evince interest to
join the evening meeting. On the appointed day he reported early at the maidan, got a few wooden chairs and a table needed for the
occasion. He remembered, of course, to meticulously place a photo of Gandhiji
on the table, and in front of it a few flowers in a
vase. The setting was thoroughly pastoral, with a tinge of absolute
naturalness. Some big persons of the locality who had gone once or twice to
the jail would come to address the crowd of villagers and fanciful youngsters,
while a few ladies also would attend. But all this while, as the drama went an,
Samaddar Mashai waited
silently and unnoticed in the wings. When the meeting at last ended it was his
responsibility to remove the table and chairs and such other indispensable
equipments and return them to their rightful owners.
Mriganka was reminiscing the good old days while he was
returning early in 1943 from his tour in south
When he reached at last his native place in a
remote part of
Mriganka joined the Citizens’ Volunteer Squad which struggled
every morning to serve bailed milk to infants whom their mothers carried in
their arms in that biting cold. A heart· rending scene would soon follow. The famished. mothers would snatch
the cup and drink the child’s share without gaining a thought to its
consequence. The seemingly ageless battle gradually petered off mare in the
course of nature than settled by any human agent.
The Citizens’ Body also ran a gruel kitchen in the
compound of the Hindu hostel where at a very law price Khichuri
and a vegetable were served. Mriganka sat everyday at
the counter punctually at nine in the morning to receive small coins and issue
in return meal tickets. After the children it was now the turn for the adults,
it appeared. It was a stream of hungry men and women.
One day, as usual, a hand reached through the gap in the window bars. The arm was once strong and the hand shapely but at present it was trembling, swollen and yellowish. With an uneasy feeling he raised his head and looked straight into the eyes of the man. But better had he not done so. The face at the counter quickly disappeared. Yet Mriganka eagerly waited far tomorrow and the day after. But the man called Samaddar Mashai never appeared again.