Translated short fiction: Read ‘Soil’ by Maithili language writer Shivshankar Srinivas

“I feel an incessant urge to wander all alone.”

“Then why did you stop when you saw me?” I asked Kamalnath.

He replied, “Because you’re a friend. I wanted to see how your eyes look.”

“What do you mean?”

“Bhai, has a bael fruit ever fallen on your head?” Kamal asked.

“No, why?” I was curious about what Kamal was trying to say.

“So, listen. One day, a small bael fruit fell on my head. Thankfully, it wasn’t a big one and if it had been, I would have been done for! I almost fainted! Fortunately, there was a wooden cot nearby, so I sat down. Everyone burst out laughing, and I went from being furious to joining in their laughter. But Rajnath Kaka stayed silent, just staring at me without a word.”

Ram Jha finally asked, “Kaka, what are you looking at?”

“I’m just thinking how unfortunate Bhogi Bhai’s son has become,” Kaka said, shaking his head. “He’s grown so much, still he doesn’t know to not walk under a bael tree.”

“But how is that his fault?” someone asked.

“Everyone is responsible for their own actions. There’s no such thing as fate or coincidence… What do you say?”

Kaka’s eyes locked with mine, and I could hear what he hadn’t said – At least you’re still alive.

He proceeded to pour some oil on my head and asked, “What were you doing under the bael tree?”

His massage only made my pain worse. I told him so, but he said, “It’ll go away. This oil is so good that all your pain will vanish. I just bought it from the shop. Your Kaki uses it for her joint pain.”

Kaka’s words were laced with envy, still, I could detect a thin layer of sympathy. I’d heard what he had said about me, and as I glanced at his eyes, a shiver ran through me. A cold wind burned me from within while his touch scorched my skin. I couldn’t bear the discomfort any longer and said, “Please, stop. It hurts.”

“All right,” Kaka said, stepping back. “But once you apply this oil to the wound, it’ll heal for sure.”

Kaka’s gaze lingered on my forehead. I cannot tell you how strange it made me feel. When my wife was alive, those eyes seemed to hold everything inside. But after she passed away, that emotion seemed to flare up again. Kamal turned to me and said, “Mohan bhai, if you didn’t understand what I was saying before then listen again…”

Without waiting for my answer, Kamal continued, “My wife passed away six months ago, during the waxing phase of the moon in the month of Agahan. Actually, she had been living in Delhi for the past seven years with our son and daughter-in-law. We have grandchildren there, and she would have a good time with them. For me in my village, there’s no respite from work. I own seven bighas of land. Initially, I kept two pairs of oxen, but later, it was troublesome to manage them. So, I started using a tractor – they’re quite common in the village now. The land remains fallow. I pay for the work, but nothing gets done. I used to keep a buffalo, but with no herder around, where will I find someone to take her for grazing? I used to work hard, eat well, and sleep soundly, so I never thought of talking to her.

In those six or seven years, she didn’t even realise when her liver became damaged. Our son took her to AIIMS in Delhi for treatment. I sent ten lakh rupees from here and told him I could sell the land if need be. I was prepared to spend a crore. I had heard that liver transplants were possible, and I urged them to proceed with it, but she passed away before it could be done. They brought her body back to the village. My heart shattered into pieces. Yet, people whispered behind my back, accusing me of being heartless for not going to Delhi to see her. They all saw me as a lonely, pitiable man and began offering me their sympathy, which only deepened my sorrow. Their sympathy felt like the scrutinising eyes of Kaka, and talks like these unsettle me. That’s why I prefer to keep my distance from people. It was better to wander aimlessly. Look at that dry tree over there. It’s withered and ghostly, with not a single leaf left. I find solace in trees like that. And see that parched Lakhandei stream? It brings me comfort. The barren fields, the quiet farmland, and the scorching midday sun in the Chaitra month, all of these resonate with me. I feel belonged. You might say I’ve lost my sanity, but that’s not true. My mind is in my control.”

I listened to Kamal and felt that, at that moment, agreeing with him was the wisest recourse. So, I said, “Sometimes I also find comfort in them.”

“Why? Do you have a wound too? You seem to have everything,” Kamal said, his eyes fixed on me.

“Yes, but everyone carries some wound in their life, worries that burden our minds. Sometimes the wound festers, sometimes it heals,” I answered.

He burst into laughter. “Mohan bhai, have you turned into a philosopher? Although, a writer is also something of a philosopher.”

Changing the topic, I said, “So you would work on the farm all by yourself? And you had two buffaloes?”

“Yes, now I’ve given it all up. I’ve leased out the fields. Even leasing isn’t easy; no one wants to take them. Everyone’s sons and grandsons have gone to the cities. When today’s farmers grow old and die, the fields will turn barren, and the earth will smirk at us through the cracks. That’s why I sold the buffaloes. What was the point in keeping them?”

“And who were you working for before?”

“Ah! Back then… She was still around…”

“Yes, but she used to come to the village and look around. Now, who will look after the household? If I feel hungry, I cook; if not, I just wander around. Anyway, let’s not dwell on this. Where are you headed now?”

“First, tell me, how do you find my eyes?” I asked.

Kamal laughed and said, “You look uncomfortable. Tell me, where are you going?”

“I’m going to the Gaudishankar temple,” I replied.

Kamal looked somewhat sad upon hearing this. He said, “That place is surrounded with flowers and greenery. I’m not fond of such places. But if you’re going there, will you visit Mahadev Kothi? It’s a desolate place, truly a spot for Lord Shiva. With crumbling temples and real peace.”

Looking at Kamal, I composed myself and said, “Sure, I’ll go. Let’s start with Gaudishankar.”

He walked silently with me, and though he was not speaking, it seemed he was mumbling to himself.

When we reached Gaudishankar, he didn’t even glance at the temple. Instead, he sat outside and offered his prayer to the deities. I went inside, prayed, did the ritual circles around the temple, and then said, “Let’s go to Mahadev Kothi now.”

He stood up slowly and followed. Once we arrived, he washed his feet and hands and prostrated before the Shivling. I prayed and waited for him to rise. After a while, he said, “Mohan Bhai, if you don’t mind, you can go ahead. I’ll leave for home shortly.”

“All right,” I said and went my way. As I walked away, I thought about how a flood brings new things. Once, a small plant had floated in and got stuck in my kitchen garden. When the water receded, its roots took hold in the soil. With my little help, it grew well and produced incredibly beautiful, fragrant red flowers. Anyone who saw it felt tempted to give a small shake to the vine along with the flowers. However, it didn’t produce seeds, so the flowers couldn’t bloom again. I still remember them. I think Kamal’s wife’s death brought a similar kind of flood into his life. Whatever you call it, a flood of compassion or something else. Only when this life finds a reason to connect with the soil can it bloom again, otherwise…

Two years later, I visited a nearby village, Devganj, at dawn, just to see a Shisam tree. As I stood there, I remembered Kamal. After visiting the Shisam, I made my way to his house. I was astonished by what I saw. The front yard was vibrant with colourful flowers, beautifully arranged. A lush vegetable garden was nearby, and a lovely cow was tethered to a post. Kamal was watering the flowers in the garden. I wondered what had changed. The same Kamal who once found solace in barren, leafless vines was now nurturing plants with care. The Kamal who used to be absorbed by the desolation around him was now bathed in beauty. What had brought about this change?

Lost in these thoughts, Kamal noticed me. As soon as he saw me, his face lit up, and he exclaimed, “Oh, Mohan Bhai! Come in, come in. Welcome! It’s been so long; it feels like the sun has finally risen today. Someone as dear as you have come to my village. To be honest, I haven’t been out much these days.”

“Why is that?” I asked, surprised.

He began to explain, “What can I say, Mohan Bhai? I had a younger sister named Purnima, twenty years younger than me. One day, she had chest pain and passed away. She had only one son – Deepak. What a bright, beautiful child he is. He became an orphan after his father remarried and started to neglect him. I finally mustered the courage to visit him and was deeply moved by his frail, pale appearance. I forgot my own sorrows and brought him here. He lives with me now and is doing well in his studies. He’s now in second grade, attending morning school.”

“I’m completely taken with him,” Kamal continued, his eyes gleaming with emotion. “I can’t even tell you how much! When he laughs with joy, I feel like someone has scattered rice grains on the rangoli of a moonlit night. It overwhelms me.” As he spoke, tears welled up in his eyes. He recalled his sister Purnima with sorrow. “Oh, how innocent my sister was!” he said.

I, too, was moved by his words. Sometimes, such moments arise in life when words seem inadequate. After a brief pause, Kamal broke the stillness by saying, “I bought a cow to be able to give him fresh milk every day. The milk is delicious. I make sure the cow is well-fed and spend my time tending to these flowers and plants. Look at my garden and the vegetable patch over there. I invest a lot of time in maintaining them. I also teach Deepak his lessons, and other kids come here to study too. Bhai, my days are happy now.”

Kamal suddenly seemed to remember I was still there. He said, “Oh, you’ve been standing all this while? Please, take the chair. I just milked the cow; let me make you some tea. And since you’ve come after so long, take some vegetables from my garden when you leave. They’re very good.” Saying this, Kamal went to prepare the tea.

As I glanced around his garden and yard, I was enchanted by the sight of the flowers and vegetables. I remembered Kamal’s state after his wife had passed away. The loss of his sister was a great shock, but in the meantime, he had managed to find his calling. Today, the waves of love and affection he had for his nephew were evident on his face. It reminded me of the unknown plant that had floated into my kitchen garden after the flood, its roots taking hold in the soil and red flowers blossoming all around. My heart basked in Kamal’s tender affection, and I couldn’t help but think, May these red flowers of Kamal’s love always keep blooming.

I almost felt like asking Kamal, “Tell me, how do my eyes seem to you now?”

In that moment, a gentle breeze swept through, carrying the fragrance of flowers and wrapping me in its delicate embrace.

So, you tell me, what could I have asked?

Shivshankar Srinivas is a Maithili-language writer born on July 2, 1953, in Lohana, Madhubani district, Bihar. His notable works include the story collections Trikona, Adahan, Mati, Gun Katha, and Gamak Lok, each reflecting deep social insights and cultural nuances. Srinivas’s critical study, Badalait Swar, examines Maithili fiction, while his editorial work on collections like Maithili Katha Sanchayan and Katek Dinak Baad has been widely acclaimed. He has been honoured with the Kiran Sahitya Samman among others for his contributions to literature.

Translator Ashutosh Kumar Thakur is a Bangalore-based management professional, literary critic, and curator.