Laxmi, Saraswati and I: A short story

"How is your tuition going on?" demanded Mr. Sharma. He was a prominent figure in the community we lived in. I must have been thirteen then. I am not certain now whether we, my brothers and I, liked Sharma-uncle, as we used to call him, or not. He was senior to my dad in the government service. My dad was posted in a Terai district then. During our winter vacation from school in Kathmandu, it was a routine for us to go and visit dad and mom there. It was kind of bliss for us to be there during the harsh winter months of Kathmandu. With abundant guava to be plucked, variety of sweets to be devoured and sugarcane sticks to munch on throughout the day, all of us children were too occupied to notice anything else. Somehow, this Sharma-uncle always stood out among the social circle that naturally forms in all the district headquarters among civil service officers. For us, he was one of those grown-ups who just never lets go and insists on having a conversation in English so as to test what we have learnt in school in the year past. I have no way of telling now if he spoke well or not. Then, he was the only other person, besides my dad, who seemed to speak in English.

"Jolly good" - that was our standard answer, and we ran off as quickly as possible so that Sharma-uncle didn't have any opportunity to inquire more. All of us savored the coffee flavored toffees that he gave us as a reward for each sentence spoken without error. But, somehow we all dreaded the questions. With strategic calculations, we simply sacrificed that delicious treat in favor of saving ourselves from the humiliations that would come for not being able to answer the questions that were inevitable to follow the "How is your tuition going on?" one. That day, he let us be and called for my dad. "Hakim sa'b...," He hailed and off we ran. I knew of his reason for visit. Saraswati puja was near by and so was the time for another round of festivities. He was here to plan the planning events!

Living in districts outside Kathmandu (Jilla, as everyone calls them) is a life on its own. For the officer's children, like us, visiting for vacation, it was a special treat - a time to play hard and dirty, meet many uncles and aunties who just never seemed to get enough of our naughty tricks, almost no studies besides few hours of home-tuition in the mornings and evenings and vast array of food. Add festivals to it and you got yourself a lot of opportunities for mischief even more. All of us were making the best of it. There were lengthy plans of the upcoming puja day. My dad and all the uncles had elaborate discussions about it during their "Paplu" and "Twenty-nine" games for weeks. Sharma-uncle was, as usual, in the center of all the events and planning. One of his office staffs was a semi-pro idol-maker. No, he was not a sculptor. Shyam dai had been making idols for Dashain, Ramnawami and Saraswati puja for few years before that year. As the norm called it, he was to make ample use of the resources in Sharma-uncle's quarter. Other details were planned too – puja procession was to commence and conclude in the chowk near which most of the officers were quartered, the event was to be open for all, proceeds from the offerings were to go mostly to Shyam dai, and so on.

I was excited at the prospects ahead. Unlike the year before, Shyam Dai offered to make more than twenty statues, of several stances and sizes, and have them displayed in the chowk. That meant I could treat myself with even more hours of un-interrupted statue-making spectacle everyday, for a couple of weeks. Shyam dai secretly admitted to me, with a satisfied grin, that he would make some extra Laxmi by selling some of his statues. I was not sure then why he emphasized Laxmi. I took it as a funny-sounding manner of speaking Nepali like other Maithili or Bhojpuri speakers do. But I was excited all the same. For those couple of weeks, I was the only devoted audience that Shyam dai had. Out of sheer respect and awe to his craft, I sometimes even offered to be his help. Shyam dai was no fool. He didn't want to offend my dad or Sharma-uncle by asking me to do some menial chores. I am sure my dad wouldn't have cared since he used to make us wash our plates after meals and to make our beds in the morning – it was his way of teaching us responsibilities. I had no idea what Sharma-uncle would think, so I simply took Shyam dai's answer of "No" as my guru's command. I was glued to his every move during his idol-building process. He made a support bases out of a flat wooden plank about two inches thick. In the dead center of each support base, he erected a wooden column, each different in height from the others. He nailed and tied some more wooden sticks at about shoulder and hip level of each statue, across the center column. He then wrapped the wooden skeleton with ropes made of straw. He would wrap the ropes snugly and with precision, thus creating bulges of varying curvature and size at different places. To my utter dismay, they already started to look like ghostly headless creatures. I couldn't wait for another morning meal to be served so as to join Shyam dai's rituals. It never failed to amaze me how, in the next step, he would transform a figure that resembled a scarecrow into a human like form.

True to his word, Sharma-uncle provided a room in his quarter for Shyam dai to live during his project. He allowed Shyam dai to dump-store the molding-clay inside the quarter premise and even let him build fires when needed. It was no small sacrifice. Shyam dai confessed to me once that he had never met so lenient "haakim sa'b" in his life! I agreed - after all, he never failed to give us that wonderful candy after answering his questions. On rare occasions, Shyam dai did ask me to fetch a tool or a utensil or something very minute from his room in the quarter. He did it for a reason - once he started plastering the straw-wrapped figures with molded clay, he had to work un-interrupted and fast, otherwise the clay would dry out. There was no time to wash up and go inside the building just to fetch a matchbox for his bidi. I was too happy and eager to help and Shyam dai succumbed to the convenience once in a while. In any case, the chore was not at all so. All I had to do was go inside the house, find someone in house to ask for what Shyam dai needed and fetch it to him. The only problem was finding someone in that house.

Sharma-uncle was a widower, his son off to college somewhere in India. An elderly lady who lived next door did all of his cooking and cleaning. Mai, as we called her, probably didn't like me, for I always seem to irritate her with constant nagging. But, I liked this younger lady who attended to some of Sharma-uncle's finer needs like, ironing his clothes, seeing to the grocery needs, supplying his medications and prepping special foods and the quarter for parties. I simply called her Didi because I didn’t know she had a name. She was often seen in the quarter during the frequent parties, prepping food and serving it. I remember her being kind looking and mild mannered. She walked silently but swiftly and seemed to care for everyone who asked for her service. Didi’s visits were not limited to parties since Sharma-uncle seemed to have plenty of things for her to do. I know Mai was no good; I despised her – that foul-mouthed old hag.

Didi was quite another creature; and besides, she was not just a domestic help. She was one of the staffers in the office as well. She had her own desk and chair and I had seen her read magazines sitting there. I knew she lived near by but I was not sure why she lived alone. I had heard some grown-ups say that her husband had run away with another woman. That is all I can recall of her private affairs. Regardless, I didn’t care as long as it was Didi and not Mai that I ran into. I always made my intentions clear as to whom I preferred to see. As soon as I entered that house I would invariably holler “Didi….”. She was the safest bet – she didn’t make faces like Mai and she didn’t start conversations in English like Sharma-uncle. She usually responded aloud “Wait there, babu. I’ll be there right away.” She would then take a peek from inside a room and would either come out to help me or would call me inside if she were busy. She must have been quite a skillful worker, and a silent one at that for, many times, I had seen Sharma-uncle soundly asleep in the same room while she kept busy dusting the furniture, or ironing his clothes or even cleaning his gun. Nevertheless, she always helped me with my chores and dutifully returned to hers.

Shyam dai’s idols were taking shape and becoming more human-like, albeit without heads. Shyam dai had already completed plastering the straw figures. He had started giving more definition to the anatomy of each figure – adding more clay to some parts, removing excess from other – constantly wetting his hands in water and running his hands over the surface over and over again. I sat there, bewildered, watching this man constantly sucking his bidi and creating amazing shapes out of as trivial things as straw and mud. I knew it had to be his bidi that provided him the skill and the energy to be doing what he was doing. By the way he moved his hands over the idol’s surface, it seemed like he was spreading creamy lotion over a sun-soaking body. In a few days, he declared the figures were complete and needed dressing up and accessorizing. I couldn’t believe it – had this man gone haywire? Must be ! Those things didn’t even have heads on them; sticks and straw ropes were sticking out where goddess Saraswati’s four palms and two feet were supposed to be. Where were the Bina, and the Swan (goddess’ ride) and the Lotus? I had never seen Shyam dai complete the whole idol before; but I sure was not going to take this travesty as a “done” one. Apparently, everything that I saw missing in the idols would be installed during accessorizing – even the head, hands and feet and the tools and so on. Once the idol was plastered and a thin cloth of sort was wrapped over, the figures were ready for a makeover of a different kind.

Significantly different kind of process was involved in the later phases of idol building, which I didn’t care much for. All Shyam dai did was made a dough and cast it in molds, took the formed shapes out and set it out to Sun-dry. He did it over and over with different kinds of molds. I didn’t think much of it. I did take a note when he would twist a finger or bend a foot or align something or the other right after the shapes were taken out of the molds. Other than those modifications, I was not hugely impressed with Shyam dai anymore. Nevertheless, I was watching.

There was a pond in the quarter compound that Sharma-uncle took great pride in. He had built it out of the excess office budget and made sure it was well tended. Sometimes, he would shoot a duck swimming in the pond and send his dog to retrieve it. I had seen him fish in it too. While Shyam dai was busy with his casting, I would wander off towards this pond to see if I could hit any fish with a pebble or two. That day, I came to the ponds to try my luck with some pebbles and the few remaining fish. I threw a couple but did not seem to disturb the fish enough to make them run about. I didn’t see a single one; may be Sharma-uncle had already netted the pond to make it ready for another season. Besides, the water was already too murky owing to low water level in the dry winter months. Then I saw a duck in the other corner of the pond. It was not in the water, but seemed to be trying to hide in a bush near by. I thought to myself “Well, if not the fish, let it be duck.” I aimed and fired the largest pebble I had with me. By God! I hit it! I used to be a lousy “Khoppi” player and this marksmanship was indeed something to be bragged about. Too bad, none of my buddies were there to witness the incident. With hesitation, I moved closer to the duck so as not to scare it off. I held my breath and moved my hand ever so slightly closer to it. When I thought I was near enough, I grabbed the duck with my bare hands! How amazing is that? Another bragging right lost sans witnesses. I was beginning to doubt my luck when I realized the duck was bleeding badly. It had been shot but had not yet died. I thought to myself “What I caught is mine to keep.” Dad would not hear any of it unless I asked Sharma-uncle first. I knew he would agree to it if only I could ask in English. He was usually home few hours earlier than my dad, probably because he was the senior-most officer.

I started to walk towards the house, with the duck in my hands, still bleeding but alive. I was practicing my lines of conversation with Sharma-uncle. I was not sure what I was to do with the duck but I knew what I had to say when Sharma-uncle asked about it. “I want to eat it,” I would answer. Yes, that was very short and a correct sentence too. “Now, if only I could get my starting sentences correct there was nothing to stop me from having this duck,” I thought to myself. I was sure Mai was not there since I had seen her leaving earlier. Good, one less trouble. The moment I was inside the house, I hollered: “Didi.” Oh, yes, I could probably even get away by asking Didi instead of Sharma-uncle. Yes, that was a fine idea. After all, she never said no to what ever I asked of her. “Babu, wait there,” I heard her scream back from inside a room, as usual. She came out a few moments later – her face somewhat red and eyes wide open – excited to see me carrying a bleeding duck, I assumed. She must have been very excited for she dropped the shoulder end (Pallu) of her sari more than once and she was fumbling her hair unusually. I told her I wanted to ask Sharma-uncle if I could keep the dying duck. To my delight, she told me to not bother asking him and that he would not mind. She also asked me to be quite on the way out so as not to disturb Sharma-uncle, who was sleeping inside. I ran off victorious.

Shyam dai finished his idols a few days before the puja. After his mechanized process of casting molds was over, I enjoyed his putting together of pieces once again. He would skillfully place the manufactured limbs and heads at appropriate places and glue them together with clay. He painted the idol when they were dry and wrapped saris of different colors around the idols. With the wigs, crown, ornaments and eyes painted lifelike, it was a scene to behold. I tried my best to find fault in any one of them but failed. To me, they were not idols anymore – they were the goddess Saraswati in her several forms. I could almost hear them wisher wisdom into my ears as I scurried along the farm of idols. I counted them once more, knowing exactly what to expect but somehow doubting it – twenty-four. Shyam dai had indeed spelled some magic when I was not looking. I had learned my lesson not to doubt so skilled a craftsman as Shyam dai, even when he was casting molds. One by one, prospective buyers of these beautiful idols started to come by. I would not sale any of them but he had other ideas. He told me that he would sell all but two a few days before the puja. I was determined to enjoy the company of so many Saraswati goddesses while I still could.

A few days later, my dad brought us back from a tour of an Indian town nearby. I got sweets and toys and my dad bought some tapes of Anup Jalota bhajans. That day, I was less interested in sweets or toys. I was more eager to go and see the idols since I knew it would all be over in a day or two now. I rushed off to Sharma-uncle’s quarter. It was almost dusk but not dark yet. Unlike the days past, Shyam dai was not soaking up the warmth from his dhuni – enjoying the fire and his ever present bidi. I could hear his voice inside the house. I followed it and went straight to his room. He was visibly drunk and speaking the words that I had no idea what they meant. I turned back to go back to our own quarter, feeling confused about what had happened. As I walked back home, the only scene that reamined clear in my mind was of Shyam dai waving a bundle of money in his hands with a wide grin and a bidi in his mouth. He seemed to be mumbling: “Laxmi…Laxmi…” None but two idols remained in the backyard.

Next day was the puja. After all the morning prayers were over and sweets were distributed, we returned home from the chowk where the two remaining idols were kept. We were to attend a party at Sharma-uncle’s place that evening. After a small snack, I went to my backyard to check on my ill friend – the duck. I had been trying to feed it earthworms and milk since I knew ducks like both. Despite all my efforts, it never ate or drank. I was keeping it warm in a used jute-sack in the storage area where firewood were usually kept. I tried hard to listen to its quack-like grunts as I walked towards it. I had a few spoons of milk with me, just in case the duck decided to drink that day. It was sleeping. I tried to wake it up but it wouldn’t. I called Narayan dai, our cook, to help me wake the duck up. He came running to see what was wrong – with me, not the duck. After I told him what was wrong; he simply turned to walk away. “It’s dead,” he declared without even bothering to look.

Since I had lost my duck, I decided I could ask Shyam dai to make me one of clay, just like the swans that he had made for all those Saraswati idols. I looked for him in Sharma-uncle’s quarter and the backyard. He was nowhere to be found. Surely, he must not have left already. After all, there was to be a feast of sort in that place that night. I made up my mind to ask Didi about his whereabouts. She was sure to be there preparing for the party. For some reason unknown, I didn’t holler for her that day. I went towards the room where she usually seemed to answer from. I pushed the door ajar and couldn’t believe what I saw. Sharma-uncle must have been in a trance of some sort for he was reciting “Saraswati! Saraswati!” from under his blanket.

I had a duck to replace and no interest in other matters. I surely didn't want to be practicing my English skill with Sharma-uncle. I decided it best to stick to my plan and find Didi first. I looked for her everywhere, but strangely she was nowhere. She was sure to be there on a party day. I must have skipped some place. So, I tried my usual method. “Didi,” I hollered. Silence. I went to the kitchen. “Didi,” I tried again. “Babu, wait there. I’ll be there right away,” came the usual answer at last, from the usual room. I was relieved. I was even happier when I saw her face – she looked even more jubilant and radiant than I had seen her before. I made nothing of her unkempt hair. I explained her my woes and she seems to care. She did care, I am sure, for she even asked me if I had given the duck any name. I laughed at her stupidity. I said, “Not everyone has names. Umm, like you. You don’t have a name too. You are Didi.” To that she simply smiled warmly and said, “No silly, I have a name too. My name is Saraswati.”