Kargil Widows by Kusum Choppra

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Stories
Kargil Widows
by Kusum Choppra

There was a macabre note to the festivity in the village. It was alien to Death, with the somber portrait on the flower-bedecked altar at the village chowk, the buntings, and the welcome arch, all for the dead. There had been nothing, no such welcome for the two living heroes, young jawans who came home to nurse their war wounds: one with a stump for an arm, the other with grievous wounds in the shoulder and leg. Both lived in the village over the hill. The macabre festivity was reserved only for the dead hero; the whole village was in an uproar. Today Mantriji was to bring his ashes home. He had been dead six weeks, on a faraway rocky slope, torn apart by enemy shells. How much would actually be him, in the urn of ashes? Did no-one wonder?

The story had been told and retold --- of his valor in the face of the enemy, of his lost body, found after weeks, at least portions believed to be his, after the maggots had been at work. A birthmark on his cheek and stitches on his leg identified him -- they were told. Remember, he had come home to recuperate from the accident and stitches. That was the last time he'd come home and Belliya still hugged his last secret inside her. She had not told anybody that she carried his seed in her.

Bhim, the dead hero had lived almost at the bottom of the crooked lane of Nanavas. It wound right and left and around, so that if you stood at the head of the lane, on the narrow opening from the chowk, you could not see Bhim's house at all. Only if you walked down the crooked lane and it turned, then you could not miss it.

Bhim’s house stood out from its neighbors. They were mostly kutcha hovels; some had one or two pucca walls, some even half a brick wall, but Bhim's house had all four pucca walls. As a matter of fact, the ladi for the flooring was stacked in a corner of the courtyard and an order had been given for the Mangalore tiles for the roof and for the cement. He was to do all that on his next annual leave in September. This was June. Who would do it now?

The Sarpanch's wife was railing quietly at her husband.

"Why did you have to bring them all here? To my aangan? To pollute our house like this? I'll have to wash everything, the whole house and call Maharajji for shhudi karan afterwards."
"Oh ho, karai le je. Stupid woman. You are worried about washing the house. Why don’t you understand? Mantriji will come to our house .... Our house."
"And if he brings the ashes here, won't we have to perform all the ceremonies for the dead here too? Have you consulted Maharajji on that?"

For a moment the Sarpanch was non-plussed. He had never thought of that -- death ceremonies, thirteen days of rituals and meals. He pushed aside the niggling worry

"They don't do all that. In any case, I'll take all the expenses from Madha. After all, it's for his son."
"Then send the ashes to his house."
"Why do you keep repeating that song? If the ashes come here, Mantriji comes here -- to my house -- I am Sarpanch."
"So?"
"What do you mean, so? It'll show all the villages around, I am Sarpanch and Mantriji comes to my house."
"Stupid man. He'll make you spend and take a donation for his next election. Dactarni told us that there’ll be another election soon."
"So what. Why don't you understand, woman -- that Bholaram who is Mukhia of the Bhangis wanted the ashes to go to his house. It is at the head of their lane. How could I tolerate that? We all would have had to go there or to Madha's hovel at the end of the lane -- even Mantriji. How could he? Even with the ashes."
"He goes there willingly enough when he want to collect votes. This visit is also for election purpose only. Not to see you or the village or Madha, you stupid oaf."

The argument may have carried on much longer, but for sounds of arrival. It was the bus. It bore the grief stricken father of the widowed Belliya. Atop his dhoti was a worn coat adorned with his newly burnished medals; a generous military mooch bristled snow white. The old soldier did not stop to return any greeting. Heading straight to his destination, he took in on the way the all to obvious festivity, the anticipation in the air, the welcome arch -- all far away from his widowed daughter’s home.

Prudently he curbed the sneer that almost rose to his lips. "Scavengers. Doms. Living off the dead" he thought. He covered his face with the tail of his pugri as he stepped into the lane. Onlookers tried to decide whether it was either the stink or to wipe his eyes.

His quick progress checked at the newly built doorstep of his samdhi’s house. Madha was waiting for him. The underground telegraph had informed him within seconds of the soldier alighting from the bus. They exchanged formal, unsmiling greetings and condolences. One had lost a son, the other a jamai.

Suddenly a bundle of black assaulted the old Soldier. Thin arms flailed at him, sobbing and ranting, " Baba, Baba, why me, why me? You had promised that everything would be smooth sailing and peaceful. I believed you and see what has happened."

After a brief moment’s Non-Pulse, the old Soldier took her flailing hands into his, holding her firmly close to muffle her voice along with her sobs in his shoulder. But before he could say anything, a posse of ghouls descended, surrounding his daughter, softly attempting to tear her away from him.

– Continued

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