I’d first heard of Gauranga when I came back home from school late one evening. My grandmother told me that a new servant had replaced the girl that usually worked for her. “Ooph,” she retorted, angrily. “These people, you know, can’t be trusted at all. Why, only yesterday, she asked me for money for her sister’s wedding....you know me, I’m a generous soul...I paid her a whole one thousand rupees and today morning she was off before the cock crowed!!!!”

 “Oh, Thammu, do be kind,” I said, sympathising with the girl. After all, she was barely older than me, full of hopes and vibrant dreams. When I told my grandmother this, she said, “Oh please, don’t compare yourself with her. These people, they are different. They are not like us. They have been brought up differently. You and I, we are different. We have the benefits of education, we can think for ourselves. These people, we have to tell them what to do...and how to do them. We are the ones that teach them how to think. They can’t think for themselves, you see. Chee Chee, never compare us to them.”

I felt outraged but before I could react, my grandmother hollered for Gauranga. “This is your memsahib, Gauranga. Her name is Rhea,” she said, pointing towards me. “Do be respectful of her.”

The man that stood in front of me couldn’t have been older than twenty. He was pale and undernourished and had marks on his skin-marks, which I later found out-were because his stepmother had abused him. At first he looked me straight in the eye. Then, realising that it was inappropriate to have done that, he looked downwards, as if his eyes had gotten fixated to the floor and murmured, in an almost inaudible whisper, “Salaam Memsahib”. I nodded briefly, an indication of the fact that I had acknowledged his presence and my grandmother beckoned him to go back to his work.

The servants had separate “quarters” in the house. The quarters were more like shacks. They were built with thatched roofs and straw and, in my opinion, were hardly fit for human habitation. But as they say, “when you need to fill your belly, there is nothing that you will stop at. You need two square meals a day, and you’ll do anything to get that.”

I saw Gauranga later that evening. He was quietly humming a tune. I loved the tune. It had a rustic, melancholic quality to it. “You sing with feeling,” I said. Gauranga didn’t say anything, but looked pleased about the compliment that he had received. As I was walking back to my room, Gauranga said, “Memsahib, this is known as Bhatiyali.” “Bhatiyali?”I said. “Yes, we are taught these songs from when we are in our mother’s womb-the rhythm of the song is set according to the ebb and flow of the tide. “You really have talent, Gauranga,” I said. “You should keep at it.” “Yes memsahib, if you say so,” said Gauranga before getting back to his work.

The next morning, I woke up to an incredible sight. Gauranga was trying to climb the Neem tree. “Get down, Gouranga!”I said, in an admonishing tone “But ...but memsahib, amma loves to eat fried Neem leaves. I absolutely MUST get some for her.” “But isn’t it easier to just buy them from the market?”I said. “After all, if you fall from the Neem tree, do you know the kind of injuries that you may sustain? Gouranga looked defiant and said, “NO market has fresh Neem leaves. And it is my duty to get the best Neem Leaves that I can for amma. I gave up. There was no point arguing with this stubborn fellow. “Do what you want, Gouranga. But if you fall off that tree, don’t crib about it,” I said, before going indoors.

As the days went by, I realised what a meticulous worker Gauranga was. When he swept the floors, they became spotlessly clean and sparkled like a maharaja’s mansion and when he cooked food, it tasted as if he had infused with it some magic potion. And he was quite the busybody. With his nimble fingers, he would sew every button that had come off and even when he’d finish work, he would not pause to take a moment’s break. He would always find something else to do.

One day, as he was busy ironing, I went up to him. After greeting me with his characteristic, “Salaam Membahib,” he carried on with his work. Suddenly, curiosity got the better off me and I asked, “Gouranga, tell me about your life” Gouranga smiled shyly and said, “Memsahib, no one has ever asked me that question before.”

And then, he began to tell me his story.

Gauranga had been the last of five children and his mother had died when he was born. His father, unable to bear his loneliness, had married again. His stepmother couldn’t stand him, and would beat him up continually. One day, she beat him up so badly that he fainted. The next day, he gathered his belongings, and asked his uncle to give him some money. With that money, he got on a train and came to Kolkata. As he said this, I could see his eyes welling up with tears.

Thammu thought that “these people “were different from us? How were they any different? They thought the same thoughts as we did, and they also missed their parents like we would have missed them. I could feel a lump in my throat appearing and I disappeared quickly, lest I break down in front of Gauranga and appear undignified.

The next day, it rained so hard that I couldn’t go to school. I pottered around for a while and was thinking of what to do when Gauranga came up to me and said, “Memsahib, do you believe in ghosts?”I laughed. “What rubbish, Gauranga. Ghosts don’t exist. Don’t you know that?”

He looked at me indignantly. “Why, of course they do, “he said. “I’ve seen one myself!”

“You have?”I said, flabbergasted. “Where?”

“Why,” he said “Where I come from, there are ghosts everywhere. There are shankchunnis and brahmadaityas...”Gouranga shuddered.

This time I laughed loudly. “Oh come on, Gouranga,” I said. “That’s only an old wives tale.”

“No memsahib,” he protested. “I have seen those ghosts myself. One day, as I was going from my own village to another one, I could see a ghost following me. I ran as fast as my legs good carry me. I thank lord Vishnu for making me a fast runner. Otherwise, god knows what would’ve happened to me.I kept clutching my maduli and chanting the lord’s name”

After hearing his tale, I was forced to, against my better judgement, believe in ghosts. Gouranga seemed so sure that it seemed criminal not to believe what he was saying.

In my world, he would have been a master storyteller. But by now, I had come to accept the bitter truth-my world and his world, were different. And the two would never meet.

The pujas were coming up and it was the festive season. It was colourful all around and the sound of trumpets filled the air. Gouranga however, had no durga puja. For him, it was work as usual. His only bonus was a shirt that Thammu had given him-it was a heap synthetic shirt, and when I had pointed this out, Thammu had said, “The fact that I’m giving Gouranga a shirt is good enough.”

Gouranga hadn’t complained either. I had seen the beam on his face when Thammu handed the shirt to him. I saw him the next day, wearing the shirt, and he looked pleased as punch.

There was a huge gathering in our family that day and tons of people had been invited. Everyone in the family had been extremely busy, but Gauranga was the busiest of all. As he whipped up one fine dish after another, I could see sweat accumulating on his brow. This man, who worked harder than anyone else in the household, got paid the least. And he didn’t complain. Why didn’t he? Did he not know that he had a right to complain? Did he never feel like he was being burdened with too much work? As these thoughts floated through my head, Gouranga turned to look at me. “Anything wrong, memsahib?”He asked, turning to look at me. Yes, I wanted to scream out. Yes Gauranga, everything’s wrong. I want to lash out at the world that treats you like it does. My own flesh and blood treats you like the scum of the earth. And what do I do? I sit and watch everything. I don’t even do anything about it. And yet, aloud, I said nothing of the sort.”No nothing wrong, Gauranga,” I said, before going to my room.

I woke up next morning to find Thammu in a foul mood. “What did I tell you Rhea?”She said “These servants, I tell you. They’re not to be trusted. Gauranga left yesterday, saying that if I didn’t increase his pay, he wouldn’t work for me anymore. Can you believe the nerve and the audacity of the man?”

 Unknown to my grandmother, I smiled to myself. Thank you, Gouranga. You have done for yourself what I could never have done for you. For the first time in your life you have had the courage to stand up for yourself. Tonight, I shall go to bed a contented person, because now I know, that there is still hope left in the world.

 

Reeti Roy