Chuttak

Saturdays have customarily become a day when we host a guest for a non-vegetarian dinner. This Saturday was a dampener though. M declined the invitation since there’s a chuttak (the ‘t’ is pronounced as in Tamil) in his family.

A chuttak is observed when a member of the family dies. In this case, the death was thankfully not in his family. It was in one of the families at his village. Since M has only recently come from the village and his family has ripe connections with villagers, they observe this tradition, in whatever corner of the world they are.

But foremost, there are two Ws to be answered here. First, why am I doing a post on this age old tradition which I find stupid at times? Second, what is this tradition actually?

Okays, I take the first one first. Actually since the last two posts, the mahaul on my blog had become too depressing. So I decided to do this post. It will recount a few of my observations and also some memories, which I think will balance the gloominess on the blog.

Second, what is a chuttak actually? Okays, it is observed in Bihar and Jharkhand when someone in ones immediate or distant family dies. This normally extends until the sharaddha ceremony, which is after 11 days of death. Here are some dos and don’ts to be observed during the chuttak period.

 Do not eat non-vegetarian food until the shraddha ceremony is over
 Men have to shave off their hair (That’s the reason barbers are not doing very well here. Most men get themselves completely shaven for 8-9 times in a year. The younger generation at least revolts against this part of the custom)
 Obviously, there are more rules for women to follow. The women shall not apply oil to their hair and also not wash their hair. Also plain dressing is prescribed.
 No visit to the temple or worshipping at home
 During the chuttak period, travelling is barred, with some applying conditions

My memories are attached to the last clause.

My grandmother passed away in December. According to her last wishes, we held the shraddha at our village home. Chachaji and father set base a good 15 days ahead of the ceremony. The house was in disuse for long and there were many repairs to be done. It had to be a grand affair so that everyone could see that my grandmother had raised so loving sons. The third generation, that included us, reached here a week before the shraddha.

The ceremony was as splendid as planned. At least, the villagers praised the food, daan, and the hospitality. It was time for the immediate family to move back to work now. Both father and Chachaji had exhausted their leaves. I had my exams. My brothers too had their jobs.

The third day after shraddha was agreed as propitious to make the return journey. A day before, father booked two cars to ferry us back. The night before was hectic. Everything had to be packed since the house would remain closed until the next occasion. The women got a chance to peek into all the treasures that their late mother-in-law had so guarded. Finally, everyone hit the bed thinking that they have to rise early.

Before the alarm clock would have ringed, a loud knock on the main door woke us up. It was from a boy from the village. A certain kaka had died in the wee hours of the morning. He was in his 70s and the cold weather was too much for his budhi haddiyan. It was grandfather who announced that we will have to postpone our travel plans because of the chuttak.

Ooooooooohhhhhhhhh!

This was how everyone reacted. Everything had to be unpacked. The enthusiasm hit a new low. Suddenly everyone found the village to be so unliveable.

“This village is so remote that if something happens, you will die on way to the doctor’s place.”

“For every other thing, you have to rush to the city. God, I will die if your devar insists on staying here after retirement.”

Father devised a solution after talks with some elders from the village. According to them, we could leave after observing one day of chuttak in special conditions. The special conditions here were not as special though. Still the elders were accommodating.

The day finally came. The cars arrived on time. The women insisted on crying on the shoulders of every village women, but father didn’t want to waste any more time.

Barely had an hour passed that father received a call from a certain bhaiya from the village.

“Hello, is it Prakash. Prakash, Damni Bua died immediately after you people left the village. I think you should return for the chuttak…”

“Hello, hello, kaun bol raha hai. Wrong number”, and father cut the phone.

Everyone started laughing and we continued our jouney.

Langdi Lalita

Langdi is how everyone knew Sitaram’s eldest daughter-in-law. It was only through the voter list that I found that she had a good name as well – Lalita.

So, was Lalita handicapped forever?

No! Ma says that she was quite healthy when she came for the first time after marriage. Yes, she would limp in the right leg. It was after that miscarriage. She didn’t leave the bed for a long time. Because of a certain disease, her legs became joined and slowly they became completely useless.

Besides there was the competition from her devrani, Kusum.

“Why shall I do the chores when my husband is earning”, she would say.

Did her husband love her?

Nah… it was he who had her killed.

How?

Kusum had a cousin. Her parents were searching for a match and Kusum got a chance to get even with Lalita.

Lalita’s husband had plans of opening a small shop in the market. There was not much to be expected from his in-laws. Lalita grew up in her uncle’s home and after marriage they didn’t ever come to see her.

Lalita’s condition had deteriorated a lot by then. Her legs had become joined from the thighs. Her back had curved in an abnormal manner. She would sleep for hours in that same curved position unless someone had mercy on her and turned her to the other side. The skin had developed rashes because of constant contact with the bed.

For the first few months, Krishna used to visit her once or twice in a day. Slowly the visits reduced. Lalita was shifted to a small and crampy unused kitchen, close to the urinal. She had to be carried to the urinal. Sometimes, she would shout for hours before anyone came and dragged her to the urinal. Exhausted, she would release herself in the same room.

“Why didn’t you do anything? You could have called the police”, I told Ma.

“Yes, your father tried. But you don’t know the ways here. Next day, the GM warned your father about not interfering in other people’s matter. See, Sitaram was the GM’s personal driver.”

Kusum shared the topic of Krishna’s remarriage with her mother-in-law, a very shrewd woman. The big dowry was what she had her eyes on. Krishna needed money for the shop and he had not much bonding left with Lalita. He quickly gave his consent for the marriage.

But, the second marriage wasn’t possible until Langdi died or agreed for a divorce. Divorce would have been a time consuming process. So death was the only solution.

It was a slow and painful death for Lalita. The neighbours would silently pray for the death of the women. Life held little good for her.

For days, she wasn’t given anything to eat or drink. She would shout from that kitchen. But no one was there to listen to her.

Everyday, someone would check from the window if Langdi was still alive. But as if her body had finally revolted against the in-laws. Her body kept fighting with the small amount of food that was served to her after 4-5 days. This went on for months.

And death came. Finally…

It was more than eight in the morning and not even a sound was heard from the kitchen.

“Isn’t she hungry today”, Kusum asked.

“May be she is dead”, her mother-in-law said with a question on her face.

The realisation suddenly brought an evil smile to their face and they ran for the window.

There she was, lying on her bed, in that same curved position. Sleeping peacefully like an infant in its mother’s womb.

There was no movement.

Kusum picked up a pebble and threw at her. There was still no movement.

It was proved. Langdi Lalita had died at last. The smile turned into a grin and they instantly sent for a sweeper. They also assembled a few women and began hollering. Everyone could see through the crocodile tears.

The funeral was a very plain affair. Her husband had to be present there to ignite the fire. No other family member was present at the funeral. People don’t even know if a shraddha was organised. Krishna didn’t wait for a month to bring the new bahu. Langdi Lalita was quickly forgotten.

The hysterical sister of Kajal

In our ground floor house, it was hardly possible to sleep beyond 6 o’clock in the morning. Neighbours would gang up near our window, children began their games, and women their chatter – making it almost impossible to sleep.

But what’s a Sunday if you are not sleeping until eight. But on that particular Sunday, the commotion was too much for me. Frustrated I woke up and began shouting at mother for disturbing my sleep. Then found that it was not her gang that was shouting – it was an altogether different problem.

“Kajal’s sister has gone mad and is running all around the colony”, Ma explained.

For kids, this was more amusing than the host of programmes Doordarshan aired particularly for their age group. They would run to the end of the block to check her progress. Then when they saw her coming, ran back to their houses, as if a mad dog was after them.

The elders had a new gossip item. She is well past her marriageable year. Maybe her step-mother tortures her a lot. The girl is so afraid of water that she doesn’t take bath for days.

Did Kajal have a sister? I didn’t know of this.

They used to live in another block. Although I used to go to a friend’s house in the same block, I never knew that Kajal had a sister, this big.

“She was hysterical for long”. I heard father telling ma. They used to tie her in a dark room without food and water for days.

Somesh had already seen this girl running. Like his mother, he missed not an event. However, when I told him to accompany me for another view, he agreed readily.

There she was – at the edge of the well and threatening to jump. With hair loose and the kajal all messed up, she appeared as Goddess Kali.

I was too afraid to come near her. I ran when I saw her coming towards us.

Later during supper, I learnt that the girl was caught. Few men overpowered her and brought her home – to her dark room.

As days passed, the matter subsided. Kajal’s sister faded in memory just as she had appeared – only to be wiped out for ever.

One day when I was returning from school, I saw a huge crowd near Kajal’s house. Has she fled again? I was too hungry and tired to go check the actual occurrence.

At supper, mother gave the news. Kajal’s sister had died of burns.

But she was tied in that dark room. How could she have found a stove and a matchstick? Why didn’t any other thing burn in the process?

Everyone knew that the girl was brutally murdered, by her own parents, but no one ever talked about it in the open.

Vomitting

This is from my recent visit to Santhal Pargana.

I comfortably took a seat by one of the front rows of the bus. Since it was a hilly area and the ride would be bumpy, I praised myself for the good decision. It was a window seat and I would be sightseeing all the way, I said to myself. I was carrying a bag, which contained a camera and some cash, apart from some clothes. I slipped it in front of my seat.

The bus would have moved half a kilometre when the occupant of the seat next to me appeared with his son. He was a tribal. Given the location I was in, I couldn’t have expected a better co-passenger.

It would have been impolite to not talk to my fellow passengers. Soon I learnt quite a many things about them. Although they were too shy to ask anything from me except my destination. The son was having an unexplained disease and they were going to Dumka to see a doctor. Their Hindi was poor and this was what I could make out.

Soon the bus was full. The conductor explained that most of them are going to the Kathikund Shivratri Fair. Passengers were struggling to stand straight. Men and women of various shapes and sizes boarded the bus. Women were dressed in bright colours and carried kids on their laps. Since the returning bus was in the evening, they were carrying some eatables along with them. Thankfully goats and sheep were not giving us company this day.

Tired of observing my co-passengers, I looked outside my window seat. There was greenery everywhere. Mango trees in full bloom lined the roads. Palash and Gulmohur coloured the atmosphere with their bright orange and fiery red flowers. Small earthen pots tied atop Palm trees would store the dripping liquid and be consumed by the Santhalis as toddy. People came out of their houses with smaller kids waving at us.

We were meandering through the hills and the plains were nowhere in sight. I was worn-out of my journey here only a day ago and didn’t know when I fell asleep. I woke up with a loud gurgling sound from closeby.

It turned out that the boy sitting next to me had vomited.

Don’t remember how mine smells but this one smelled ghastly. God knows what this kid had been eating.

Rightly said that you are faced with things that you most dislike. Once a drunk friend puked in my room and I made him to sweep the entire floor at that very time. He still remembers me for that incident.

I heaved a sigh of relief to find that not even a drop of the fluid had spilled on me. With my legs on the seat, I asked this man to let me go out. But thanks to his poor Hindi, he wasn’t able to understand.

Two more requests and I was still sitting there. Now I had to show some urgency. Also the contents were fast moving towards my bag. I raised my voice and asked him to make way. The passengers, who until now were quite oblivious of this development, translated my request to this man.

I came out safely. I asked the person sitting in front to drag my bag from the mess. Both of us were safe now. But I had to travel the remaining part of the journey without a seat.

Later, while I was waiting for the local train at Sitarampur, a man asked me all of a sudden.

“Bhaiya, the doctor has asked me to take this medicine, but now I am feeling a vomiting sensation. Shall I vomit”.

Hey Bhagwan, would all of them vomit near me only. I ran from there before this man would have puked.

A visit to Santhal Pargana

A visit to my elder brother took me to the Santhal heartland of Singarsi, some three hours from Dumka (home to Ex-Chief Minister Babul Lal Marandi and second Capital of Jharkhand).

Santhalis, a tribe from who is derived the name of this region, Santhal Pargana, are simple people who live in dire poverty and hard conditions. Despite political parties gaining mileage of claims to improve their lifestyle and Naxalites waging a war against the civilian government for their cause, not much development seems to have trickled to an individual Santhali.

Santhalis live in mud houses with thatched roofs. The leaves of Palm, a tree from which toddy is derived and is a popular drink here, is used to thatch the roof. This keeps the house cool in summers, but doesn’t give much safety from rainfall. The area receives generous amount of rainfall each year. Therefore, the roof has to be repaired more than twice in a year to cope with tough weather conditions.

A majority of the tribals haven’t been to a school in their lifetime. Although with the noble work that Christian Missionaries are doing in this region, more people from this community are getting education now. A large number of houses sport the Christian cross, establishing that they have adopted their new religion. But as in every religion, the house of the Lord is grander than of the worshipper.

Lack of infrastructure is a major hiccup here. Road network is poor. A large number of villages are unreachable by road. The kuccha road becomes immobile during the monsoons. Corrupt contractors collude with politicians to divert funds meant for creating infrastructural facilities. The roads get washed after every monsoon, giving the contractors a fresh opportunity to earn every year. During my trip, a road bridge at Kathikund had given way about a month ago and buses and private vehicles had to take a long detour to reach to the other side of the bridge.

Statues of Siddhu Kanhu embrace every chowk. Santhal Pargana is all praise for these two freedom fighters who gave up their lives fighting the British. I suddenly realise that I haven’t found Hanuman statues ever since I left Dumka.

While other parts of India shine under a Telecom revolution, this area seems untouched. Phone booths are few and far between. Since Santhalis like to work on their fields or in factories close by and very less people migrate to cities, telephones have little use here. Cellphones, a must have accessory in cities and towns, have not yet become affordable for a Santhali, who earns a meagre Rs 1200 every month.

At Amrapara, halfway to Singarsi, is a private coal mine belonging to the son of Ex-Chief Minster of West Bengal, Jyoti Basu. A large number of local tribals are employed here. The advantages of employing these people are many. First, the employers are cushioned from any local uprising. Second, they can be employed at very less wages.

Red flags announce that we have reached the Naxal belt. The Naxalites mix up with common men in the daytime to camouflage their existence. The real activity starts once dusk falls. Police personnel are the principal target. They are always alert to all activity and new people who could be a nuisance.

I see a half burnt truck lying by the road. A Singur like incident happened in this area a few months ago. Tribals rose against a well known metal company and injured many police officers in the process. Finally the metal company had to disband its plan to set up a factory here.

Oblivious to all this, quite a large number of Santhali men, women and children, dressed in their best, and laughing their heart out, are moving towards Kathikund. Today is Shivratri and a fair is held here on this day every year. It is around an hour’s journey and they will make it by foot, most of them without slippers. Although they don’t wear shoes or slippers, their legs show that they are strong enough to make the journey, just like the journey of their life.