The Compassionate Ghost
The use of ńa (naṋ), candrabindu [the nasal sign in the Bengali alphabet] is extremely limited, not only in the Bengali language but also in other areas. Since candrabindu is not much in use amongst the common people, it is used in the nasalized articulation of a ghost to differentiate between a human and a ghost. This is just the opposite of French. The French language is dominated by nasalization.
The other day I was talking to Bankachand Baṋŕujje [Banerjee(1)] of Bansbere. He had once gone to Champdani to buy a fishing hook made of bell metal. On the way there he came to wide open space without any locality nearby. It was completely desolate. Evening was fast approaching and it gave him an eerie feeling. Then he came to Goruti (Gaurhát́i) forest. After he had gone a few steps he saw a huge mango tree, and noticed that Gauṋgá [the Ganges] was nearby. There were crocodiles in the river and tigers in the forest, so he climbed up to the topmost branches of the tree, still trembling in fear. The evening was quickly turning to night. Suddenly, he noticed that just a little below him, sitting on a thick branch, a woman was kneading some dough. The woman asked him, “Tumi keṋ gáṋ, eṋi ráṋt biṋrete maṋgd́áṋle uṋt́he baṋsecha háoyá khete, áṋámáder eṋkheṋe páṋrk-táṋrk neṋi baṋt́e kintu beṋrábár maṋta baṋŕa báṋŕa bháṋgáŕ toń áṋche, seṋkháne háṋoyá kheṋte geṋle, náṋ kena gáṋ? [Who are you that you have come for fresh air by climbing up to the topmost branches of the tree, at night? It is true that there is no park or places like that here, but there are many big wastelands for a stroll. Why didnʼt you go there for some fresh air?”
Bankachand said, “I did not go out for fresh air; I am going to Champdani.”
The woman said, “Have you then mistaken the mango tree for Champdani?”
Bankchand said, “No, itʼs not like that. I climbed up the tree in fear of a terrible tiger.”
The woman said, “Thatʼs fine, thatʼs really fine. Then you are my guest. Have you had your dinner? I can tell from your voice that you are thirsty.”
Bankachand saw that there was shining vermilion mark on the womanʼs forehead. So, instead of addressing her as “sister” he addressed her as boudi [elder brotherʼs wife].
He said, “ You are right boudi, I am thirsty.”
The woman stretched out her long arm, collected a pot of water from the Ganges flowing four miles away, and said, “Here you are, t́hákurpo [brother-in-law, husbandʼs brother], take this.”
By then Bankachand had forgotten his thirst. He wondered, “Who could this person be – a woman or a female ghost?”
Bankachand asked, “Who are you, boudi? Will you please disclose your identity?”
The woman answered, “Donʼt try to know my identity at the dead of night. It may create a problem for you, my dear t́hákurpo. In the morning, after sunrise, I shall disclose my identity and hide from you behind the tree.”
Bankachand started shivering. His whole frame began to shake and his heart started throbbing violently. He thought, “Oh God, where have I landed up?”
Bágher bhaye caŕlum gáche,
Bhut bale pelum káche.
[I climbed the tree in fear of a tiger and the ghost said “I have got you close to me”].]
The woman said, “Have a quick wash. I have not been able to cook much. I just have a few nucis [luci – a kind of small, thin saucer-shaped bread fried in ghee] and álurdam [a delicious dish made of potatoes cut into big pieces]. Do you know that the potatoes of Hooghly District are very famous? My fatherʼs line, my maternal line and my in-lawʼs line – all three belong to Hooghly district.”
After eating, Bankachanda felt more comfortable and less afraid. He said, “Baudi, I canʼt sleep, so please tell me a story.”
Baudi said, “My in-lawʼs are from the west, in Balarambati. My father is from Baidyabati, my maternal uncle is from Sibarambati, my fatherʼs sister is from Janai and my motherʼs sister is from Bhandarhati. I was married at the age of three. At the time of the marriage I was sucking the breast of my maternal grandmother. My husband was 87. He was an aristocratic Brahmin – kávya, vyákarańa, sáḿkhya, vedánta tiirtha, tarkacaiṋcu, tarkapaiṋmcánan [a great scholar of poetry, drama, the Vedas, philosophy, Vedanta and logic]. After our marriage, when the married women were blowing conch shells, my husband felt trepidation in his chest on account of the sound of the conch shells and died of cardiac arrest. While I was still lying on the lap of my grandmother, I became a widow.
Since I was a Brahminʼs daughter I could not be married twice. My grandmother slapped me on the cheek and said, “You miserable wretch [literally, ‘burnt-faced one’]! Why were you born into the house of a Brahmin? It is on account of this that you have to suffer so much. The elder brothers of my husband were ninety-two years old and above, and the younger brothers of my husband were then above sixty years old. They were talking amongst themselves, `If we allow this one to survive she will enjoy the property; it doesnʼt matter whether she can buy or sell it. So it is better to burn this horrid girl along with her husband on the same funeral pyre, and make her a sati(2) [a widow who burns herself on her husbandʼs pyre]. Let this pitiable creature go to heaven and enjoy rice and fish ad infinitum. Scorched by the fire, I cried aloud and tried to jump off the pyre and run away. But the brothers of my husband fixed me to a bamboo cane and burnt me to death, having already tied up my hands and feet. They poured a lot of vermilion on the spot where they had burnt me and marked it as a secret place of sati and said, ”Ah! What a pious girl she was; she became a sati smilingly, at the age of three. Even now the girls of the village, before putting a vermilion mark on the forehead, touch the spot with a pinch of vermilion and pray, `May I also become a sati like her.ʼ But do you know, t́hákurpo [husbandʼs younger brother]? These days, they [the widows] never become sati at the death of their husband. On the contrary, they take out the bunch of keys from their husbandʼs pocket and keep it in their own custody. Well, my t́hákurpo, in a weak, unguarded moment I talked my heart out to you. Since that time I have been living in this mango tree as a female ghost and I have decided to tell the tale of my sorrow to educated and cultured people whenever I come across them. And I shall request that the notorious scoundrels of society who have perpetrated inhuman barbarism in the name of the welfare of the society, and continue to do so, should be taken to task.”
While listening to the story of baudi, a female ghost, night gave way to dawn. Bankachand got down from the tree.
He said, “My baudi, who is a female ghost, can I know your name, please?” “Baudi”, the female ghost said, “I am your baudi, and that is my identity. I do not want to fan the scandal by telling my name.”
The female ghost asked Bankachand, “t́hákurpo, it will be very late by the time you return after buying the hook. Will you take some light refreshment with you?”
Bankachand said, “Last night I ate so much. I donʼt have any appetite so early, at dawn. Just tell me, how can I really eat anything now?”
The female ghost said, “In that case you just wait for a while. Let me prepare some refreshment and put it in a tiffin carrier so that you can take it along. Also take along a flask of milk. Take it when you feel thirsty. You know that the water of this place is not so hygienic”.
Bankachand said, “Baudi, just wait, let me touch your feet.” On trying to touch her feet, he could not find them. Moreover, he noticed that her heels were in the front. The female ghost said, “T́hákurpo, you have forgotten that I am a female ghost. Had I become a sati I could have gone to heaven, but I became a female ghost because I had an unnatural death. T́hákurpo, you are human, why should you try to touch the feet of a female ghost? Donʼt you know that the heels of ghosts are always in the front, and the toes are at the back?”
Táder sumukh dike guŕmuŕo(3) ár pechan dike pá.
[They have their heels in the front and the toes at the back].]
In order to touch the feet of the female ghost Bankachand then went behind her. But the female ghost made an earnest entreaty: “My t́hákurpo, you are an educated gentleman and I am just a female ghost living on a mango tree. Why should you touch my feet? Please, my t́hákurpo, please donʼt touch my feet to show your respect.”
But without paying any heed to her words, Bankachand went behind the female ghost, collected the dust of her feet and put it on his forehead and said,
“I feel that my touching your feet has made my birth on this earth meaningful. Please bless me so that I always remember your words.”
While telling me these things, Bankachand shed tears ceaselessly.
Footnotes
[1] The word Banerjee [byánárjii] is incorrect. One has to say either Bandyopadhyay or Báṋŕujje.
[2] In that dark age, only in three cases were women spared the sahamarańa [burning together, to burn oneself to death on the funeral pyre of oneʼs husband]: (1) if a woman was pregnant, (2) if the woman had a child to be breast fed (3) if the woman happened to be at her parentsʼ place at the time of the death of her husband and her parents, out of compassion, did not give her permission to die on the funeral pyre of her husband. According to the Mahábhárata Madri followed the death of her husband, Pandu by dying on his funeral pyre. Kunti took charge of the sons of Madri - Nakul and Sahadeb - in addition to her own sons, Yudhisthir, Bhima and Arjuna. The institution of sati was in practice only in those communities where there was no provision for widow-remarriage.
[3] Guŕ is goŕ which means leg. Muŕo means head. So guŕmuŕo is literally “head of the leg”, though in current urban Bengali it is called goŕáli, meaning “heel” or “ankle”.
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From: The Compassionate Ghost
Source: Electronic edition version 9.0.13