The Fly in the Jaggery - Aishwarya Patekar

Of worldly snares, O mind, beware, For Time, the devourer, is drawing near. When Time makes its leap, a fearsome sight, neither mother nor father can aid your flight. The king of the land, the village chief, nor kith and kin can bring relief. Says Tuka, no one can set you free, save for the one who holds the cosmic key. I never got entangled in the world's web. Why would I lie? The god above is watching! He keeps a record of everything. It was the world itself that wrapped its coils around me so tight that I could never break free. I, too, have a story, one that I’ve sunk deep into the well of my heart. Buried it at the very bottom, you could say. You can try to fathom its depths if you wish! But who would bother? Who has even a moment to spare for anyone else in this world? I have descended ninety-five steps of age. Another five, and I would have touched a hundred. But what’s the use? Not a single soul from my time remains. How have I alone lived this long, as if bearing some curse? Now, it’s only a matter of a few breaths before I am released from this all. The flame of the lamp is sputtering. Now it will go out; no, now! For eight days, this has been the game. Death has come and sat at my doorstep, but he won’t budge, won’t even touch me. Is he, too, testing my endurance? That is why I am speaking to you. You are neither my kin nor my clan, yet you listen. Otherwise, this bundle of memories would have been burnt to ashes along with me. Perhaps there is some final account to be settled, and this is how it’s being collected. He will not grant me release from this chaos without settling that last score, it seems clear. When the sun beats down, a person instinctively seeks shade. But what happens when the shade itself turns against you? It wounds the heart deeply. Tell me, would it remain silent then? It is bound to find a voice… So, what was I saying? My story! Yes, without telling it, my soul will not move from this spot. I have winnowed my life like grain in a winnowing basket. For my husband, for my sons, I cast aside the chaff of sorrow. I placed before them only the finest flour of my life. An eggplant has thorns, does it not? Yet it tastes delicious, doesn’t it? I took the thorns as my share and served them the savory curry of my life. They licked their portions clean! No, that is not what I mean to say. When the stitches of a quilt come undone, the cotton inside is bound to spill out; such is my story. I thought it best not to speak of it, to let it rust away. I have lived my life in silence. Even now, I felt I shouldn’t speak, but my heart refuses to listen. Who can reason with it? If a flatbread is burnt, can its smell remain hidden? In the same way, my story can no longer be concealed. If I do not tell it, my spirit will find no liberation. I wasn't even a full eleven years old when I was married. Why must a daughter be such a burden that my parents married me off so young? Still, I remained at my parents’ home for another two or four years. When my sixteenth year arrived, they said I had come of age and sent me to my in-laws. On the very first night, before I was to enter my husband’s room, my mother-in-law, my husband’s paternal aunt, and my sister-in-law sat me down and explained so many things. I understood none of it. Why were they telling me all this? I simply nodded my head, listening to everything. I was that pliant and submissive. They said… “Do as he says. Go with his flow. Don’t be afraid, he is not a tiger that will eat you.” “Don’t say no to him. Don’t act in a way that would hurt his feelings.” “If it pains your body, bear it. Don’t cry out unnecessarily.” “Make him happy. If he is happy, you are happy.” My mother, too, had said, “A husband is a god. Do not step beyond his word. Do as he commands. Find your happiness in his.” After schooling me with all this, they pushed me into my husband’s room on my first night, a metal pot and a small tumbler in my hands. I was so bewildered. My hands and feet were trembling. My husband was sitting on the bed. He stood up. I thought he was going to take the pot and tumbler from my hands. I extended my arm. But he bolted the door. Oh, dear Lord! Am I to sleep here now? How shameful that would be. I had only brought water. What is all this? But I was not to question him. I stood there like a mute statue. My husband said, “Sit here.” I sat down awkwardly. Just like that, he began to take off his clothes. I was consumed by shame. Why is he doing this? My father, my uncles, and my brothers only remove their clothes when they bathe. Is he going to bathe now? As if taking off his own clothes wasn't enough, he started removing mine. What was I to think! Were we going to bathe together? I felt so strange. Was this the time for a bath? But I was to say nothing. The elders had already instructed me. But they never told me that would happen. What a fix I was in. He cast off all his shame, and mine too. Through it all, my lips remained sealed, as if stitched shut. How could I unpick those stitches? I felt like a helpless animal caught in a hunter’s trap in the wilderness. My heart began to flutter wildly. He began to handle me clumsily. I will not say what happened next, but I indeed learned of a different kind of bath that night. Whether it was wicked or good, how was I to decide? It is not taught in any school in the world. I folded myself, petal by petal, into his world. And for the rest of his life, he never let me bloom. He kept me pressed down tightly. I forgot that I, too, wanted to blossom. That bath was not a simple one either. It was a bath that would impose upon me eleven childbirths. Of them, two daughters and three sons survived. My husband would go to school to teach children, and I would stay home to manage this entire brood. I grew to despise my husband’s nightly, brazen bath. But there was no escape from it. It only stopped when he died. Hunger, of any kind, is a terrible thing. But as long as there is a soul in the body, its addiction never leaves. I made a mattress of my life for my husband. To ensure his existence was never sullied, I laid down the carpets of my heart beneath his feet. I never hurt him with a word. He, in turn, never asked if I was hurting. Not that I ever showed him. My name is Suman, by the way. He never uttered it either. What meaning does a name hold, anyway? I’m telling you because you’re here. I was this foolish, plain-looking thing. Relatives would taunt me, saying I didn’t suit my husband. I don’t deny it. My husband was a handsome man. But I, too, had a small part in his good looks! I never let a single stain touch his clothes. I kept everything he needed ready for him. I never let him suffer the slightest neglect. I hid my own aches and pains but never faltered in my duties towards him. He was a god, wasn't he? Why would I sin by disrespecting him? I’m telling you, my husband didn't bring children into the world through me. He brought houses into the world. Yes! I mean it, houses. What you heard is not wrong! You might wonder, how can a man give birth to houses? He can only have children. You are not wrong in your thinking, and I am telling you the truth. I, too, had three sons. As long as they were little, they were my children. Not a leaf stirred without me. But when they grew wings, they no longer needed me. Eventually, they were married. They settled down, and my sons automatically became houses. The eldest house. The middle house. And the youngest house. The eldest house was Revji’s. The middle house was Murli’s. And the youngest was Uttam’s. Do you understand the meaning of my words now? Without consulting me or my husband, they divided everything amongst themselves. Three separate hearths. As long as my husband was alive, there was a fourth hearth—his and mine. The sons moved away. My husband didn't say a word to them. How could he? Had I died before him, perhaps he would have taken them to task. Who knows? I was there, his slave, to serve his every need. His needs were simple: good, tasty food and a wife in his bed at night. Beyond this, he never saw the world, nor did he show it to me. He passed away, the fourth hearth was extinguished, and I was divided among the three houses. Four months at the eldest son’s, four months at the middle son’s, four months at the youngest son’s—that was the arrangement. It was unacceptable to me, but what could I say? I did not want to be partitioned. It hurt my soul deeply. But one good thing happened. My youngest brother-in-law and two sensible men from the village came over. They sat my three sons down and, speaking as elders, said, “Look, does it look right to divide your mother like this in her old age? Does it sit well with your conscience? You are the Master’s sons. Your father’s name is respected in four villages.” “What are you trying to say, Bhaskar-tatya?” asked Revji, the eldest. “Your mother should spend her remaining days in one place. This will not disgrace you in the world. Can you silence every tongue? People will say, ‘Look, the Master taught the world’s children but couldn’t teach his own.’ What reputation will be left? You tell me.” “If that is the case, I will take care of Mother,” said Murli, the middle one. “No, brother, I will take care of her!” said Uttam, the youngest. My heart swelled with emotion. I had been foolishly thinking my sons were selfish. They loved me so much. But it was they who shattered this thought and left a gaping wound in my heart, a wound that could never be stitched closed. “So you mean you’ll be the one to eat her pension alone, is that it?” the middle one, Murli, snapped at him. “Then why should I let you eat it alone? Don’t I have a right to it?” retorted the youngest, Uttam. Branding irons on my heart. Were these my sons or butchers? They didn't want their mother; they wanted her pension. It was a good thing I was receiving my husband’s pension; otherwise, these stone-hearted sons would have carried me to the river and abandoned me while I was still alive. My brother-in-law Bhaskar fell silent. For a moment, he too was at a loss for words. Finally, he declared, “Your mother will stay with the eldest, Revji,” and left. Many years have passed since that day. This is the story I want to tell you. My husband was a schoolmaster. You’ve gathered that much. I never went against his word. I never let his command fall to the ground. I folded up my world and put it away. I tended to his every need, his likes and dislikes, with great love. He, in turn, never raised his hand to me. You might say, What more happiness does one need? I haven’t sat down to calculate my joys and sorrows, but my husband never once asked, “What do you want?” I dissolved into him, just as salt dissolves in water. I never built a separate existence for myself. I never showed that I had dreams of my own, that I, too, had desires and fancies. My husband must have taught a great deal in school, but he never taught me how to bloom. I just kept wilting. I burned like a lamp in the Master’s home. My wish was for the Master to buy a house in Nashik, or at least build four rooms for tenants. It would have been a provision for our old age. But I never voiced it. He just kept buying agricultural land. He had no love for farming. I lived by killing my own desires, the poor wretch… So, what was I saying? My time is near, it seems, but I am not done telling my story. Only a quarter of it is told; three-quarters remain. Yes, I crossed the threshold of this house as the Master’s wife. Back then, just as a legislator’s wife was a legislator, a master’s wife was a . Even if she had never stepped inside a school. So I was a , but the sickle never left my hands. This toiled as a labourer in fields near and far, and my husband, the Master, was never ashamed of it. This was a time before the Seventh Pay Commission. A master’s salary was meagre then. Things weren’t like they are today. That’s why I worked for daily wages in people’s fields. Two daughters and three sons—such a large brood. How could we manage on just a master’s salary? The Master’s mind must have worked well in school; that’s why he became a master. But the Master’s offspring were dull-witted. Not a single one of them excelled in school. Being a master, he knew his own children well. He knew they couldn’t hold down jobs. That’s why he bought land and made provisions for all three. The land, too, gives a good yield, but it demands hard work. In that respect, my sons were lazy. The one good thing was that the Master had no vices, not even for a penny. But he needed good, savory food, and his cleanliness… don’t even ask. Not a single stain was acceptable on his clothes. I was an expert cook. Does one need to go to school for that? While I wasn't particular about my own appearance, I loved keeping the house spotless. In that, no one could match me. I would make the house shine like a mirror. Onlookers would be left staring. My only sorrow is that the Master taught multiplication tables to the children in school, but never tried to understand my story. He must have solved countless problems on the blackboard, but he never solved the problem of my life… So what was I saying? This is what happens. I forget things in the middle. I mean to say one thing and end up saying another. Ah, I remember now. I forgot to tell you about my pension. So, based on the decision made by my brother-in-law Bhaskar, the eldest house sheltered me. The middle and youngest houses then gave me a piece of their mind. The middle house would bring up the topic from time to time, filling my ears with poison, but I had learned my lesson. I would listen in silence. Who else could I tell? The youngest house would also have its outbursts. “You know, Mother, don’t live under the illusion that the eldest house loves you. You are too naive. You receive a pension. Would that taste bitter to anyone? If you didn’t have a pension, would he have taken care of you? Ask your own heart! You think your Revji is a good man, that he is providing for you, but his affection is all for show.” “What they say is absolutely true, Aunt. But you have become blind! They have one set of teeth for eating and another for showing.” “I told you to stay with me! But you never listen. You have a soft spot only for him. It’s still not too late. Open your eyes.” “Oh, let it be. The food from our house will never taste sweet to Aunt!” The youngest house was no different. I kept wondering how such bitter fruit could be born from the seed of the Master, my husband. I said nothing to anyone. I never pleaded, “Please, children, do not divide me.” They made their decisions, and I quietly accepted them. Even a small, crying child is asked what it wants. But no one ever asked me anything. Each one was lost in the chaos of their own household. I, too, never interfered in anyone’s affairs. My husband, the Master, had trained this body to be that way. When he said sit, I sat. When he said Get up, I got up. I never laughed, nor did I cry. Tell me, even an ant, barely visible, has an existence, doesn’t it? If you step on it, it bites back, doesn’t it? Even an ant asserts its existence; I never did. Does a vegetable, laid out to be chopped, say, ‘Chop me lengthwise or crosswise’? The one who chops does it as they please. Such is my story. Nothing different. I kept offering my neck to these butchers. And they, in their own ways, slaughtered my feelings. I am not here to settle the accounts of my ninety-five years. What I really wanted to tell you is what has happened in the last eight days, but all this came spilling out. Can you build a dam on a flowing river? The water will flow. That is what happened. Last Sunday, I was confined to this mattress. Am I an orphan? I have three daughters-in-law, five granddaughters-in-law, and three grown-up granddaughters! Yet, a message was urgently sent to call both my daughters. Everyone assumed that Mother would not live. My daughters, too, came running. They are now masters of their own homes, with sons and daughters-in-law. They wanted to see their mother one last time. I also thought my soul would finally depart, but where does it go? Everyone has been left waiting. All their work has been held up because of me. I feel terrible about this. But it is also true that when my eyes could see, I saw nothing. When my limbs were strong, I heard nothing. My voice was never really there, so how can I say it is gone now? But one thing has happened. Though my eyes won't open, I can see everything clearly. My sight pierces through walls and roams everywhere. And I can hear things I don’t want to hear. Is this the final reckoning? If only I couldn’t hear, how much better it would have been. I would not have known what I shouldn’t have known. My soul would have been at peace. My daughters, who have been here for eight days, are tired of waiting for my death. It’s not their fault, I suppose. They have their own households to manage. How long can they wait? When I was up and about, I longed for them to visit for a few days, but they never had the time. Now that they are here, I am not conscious. My daughters were sitting in the middle of the son’s house. “The day I came, I thought Mother wouldn’t see the next sunrise. But it’s been eight days now; she has made us wait for too long! She should just let go now…” The eldest daughter’s heartfelt concern. When I carried her in my womb for nine months, I never grew tired. “So much of my work is pending, sister. Without me, nothing moves in the house. My daughters-in-law are just for show. Not one of them is good at work. The children keep calling. The sowing season is passing by, and you are sitting here! We told them the old woman isn’t dying anytime soon.” “What else can I say? My situation at home is no different,” said the other. “She wanted to eat ! You have some, too, sister! I have work to do in the fields. I’ll just put two spoonfuls in Aunt’s mouth as well,” said the middle son’s wife, urging both my daughters. When I could eat and drink, no one asked if I wanted anything. Now that my body accepts nothing, they have started this great drama! I am not even a little conscious. How can I indulge the whims of this body now? And I cannot bear their false affection. In the youngest son’s house, something else was going on. I was hearing what I should not have heard, seeing what I should not have seen. What kind of revenge is God taking? I do not know. Tell Death to strike now. Why does he keep me waiting? “Looks like Mother will be gone by today or tomorrow.” “Yes, this morning I poured two spoons of water past her lips, but she took nothing just now. It all dribbled out. We should tell the old woman to hold on until this evening. It’s Sanju’s son’s birthday today,” said the youngest’s wife. She was expressing a major concern. She was right, in her own way. If one branch of a tree withers, do the other green branches stop swaying? How can the rituals of life be stopped? “Of course! The boy was born after so many prayers. If this old woman dies in the middle of it, all the joy will be ruined,” said the youngest son. Just then, my husband’s sister’s grandson, Sukdev, arrived. “Here, Sukdev, give this tea.” “Grandmother is probably going. The water just dribbled out.” “She ate two spoonfuls of the I made, you know!” my youngest son was boasting. The very same son to whom I had said, maybe a month ago, “Son, tell your wife to make four taro leaf rolls. There is no taste in my mouth. I feel a great craving for them.” “You give your pension to the eldest. Tell his wife, then. Is my wife sitting idle? Get your remaining wishes fulfilled by her. They get to eat the cream, and we are supposed to do the hard work. Is this fair?” “Then you take the pension.” “I don’t want your pension, and I don’t want your headache either!” “Son, will your wife’s hands wear out if she makes four rolls? Will you become a beggar? Your father earned plenty of land for you.” This, too, I said only in my mind. And I wouldn't have told you this either, but his two spoonfuls of forced me to. “Have some tea.” “Aunt, why did you give so much?” “Drink it. Oh, did you hear? A funny thing happened the other day. The eldest’s wife had made kheer, but the old woman didn’t take a single grain of rice. Her lips were sealed shut. I took some moong dal water, and the old woman gulped down a whole bowl. The eldest’s wife was left staring! It served her right, let me tell you!” the youngest’s wife said with a swagger. “Aunt, the old woman was very fond of you.” “Don’t talk nonsense. She never threw a single penny of her pension our way. All of Aunt’s love was for the eldest house,” the middle one retorted sharply. How can people lie so easily? I gave money for both of her daughters’ weddings. How does everything come down to money? What a show she is making over a bowl of dal water. I have never seen a woman so greedy and deceitful. How does her conscience even allow her to speak like this? When guests came to our home, I had to sit with them in their house out of propriety. She would offer them a cup of tea, but not me. It’s not that I wanted the tea, but I felt so humiliated in front of the guests. And I would wonder, did she see me as a mother, or was her mother the pension? They were that cold-hearted. You might think this old woman is complaining about her children. It brings me no joy to say this. But it has come up, so I am telling you. A few men from the clan gathered at the youngest’s house. “Uttam, the old woman has only a few hours left.” “What have you decided about the next steps?” “What is there to see? We’ll have to give her last rites, arrange for the tenth-day ceremony.” “What is there to arrange? The eldest ate her pension. He will see to her rites and the tenth-day ceremony. What does it have to do with us?” “How can you say that? At least pay for the flowers. It is a virtuous deed.” “I have accumulated plenty of virtue. There is no more room for it.” “Son, why are you talking such nonsense? We were just making a suggestion.” “It seems the eldest sent you!” “Revji said no such thing. We suggested it on our own. The rest is up to you.” “He’s right. What Uttam says is true. The one who ate the cream has the duty. He should not back down now,” said the middle one, washing his hands of the matter. The men from the clan understood what they needed to understand. A forest of thorns grew over my heart. And it began to torment me. Should the cost of my own death be a burden to the children I gave birth to? Was my husband a master or a butcher? That his seed should turn out to be so bitter? Now, at death’s door, this doubt gnaws at my mind. The lamp sputters, but it does not go out. I folded my hands to Death, who sat at my door, but he remained stubborn… The eldest’s house was full of guests. His face was heavy with grief. The eldest did have some affection for me. But he, too, was like the Master. He gave me two meals a day, gave me medicine when I was sick—is that the extent of one's duty? I wished he would talk to me, ask me things… But he, poor man, was completely entangled in his own world of sons and grandsons. I just curled myself up into a ball and remained in his household. In the Master’s world, too, I was just a curled-up ball, wasn't I? The lamp began to flicker violently now. Soon, I will be released. Death has shifted his position. He has come and sat at my feet. A rattling has begun in my heart. The death gurgle has started. Now, release will be swift. Before Death strikes his final blow, let me tell you one last thing. Otherwise, a nagging regret will remain. You know, Master, you never took me to see a film or to a fair. But once, you took me to a . That memory has taken root in my heart and grown into a tree. The preacher had chosen a very difficult for his discourse. But sometimes, the difficult is simpler than the simple, and the simple, the most difficult of all. ‘The fly, entangled in jaggery, is caught in a trap.’ I had no great desires, but then, where was the renunciation either? What it all truly meant, I still don't know. But this much I have understood: the fly gets stuck in the jaggery and dies right there. Is my state any different from hers? If this is not jaggery, what is it? - Aishwarya Patekar Yuva Sahitya Akademi Award-Winning Author 9822295672 (This article is the translated version of the original rural story लिगाडाची माशीwritten by Mr. Aishwarya Patekar published in the Sahitya Chaprak Diwali Ank 2025 )   https://youtu.be/IeR9nRZZCnQ