By Madhu shree Dwivedi

This is a transcription of the English translation of Rambriksh Benipuri's classic Hindi story "Razia" (from the collection Maati ki Moorten), read in the Modlingua video presentation on the story by literary expert Mrs Swati Das. Watch the full presentation on Modlingua's YouTube channel.

Translator's note

Now I am going to read out to you one translated version of one of Benipuri's famous stories, "Razia", but before I start reading the story I have something to say. The flavor of the soil, the charm of innocence and the detailing of the rise and fall of emotions are the hallmarks of Ram Vraksha Benipuri's writings. His love for humanity is a prominent aspect of his art. His narrative touches the heart because of its natural flow and the essence of its divine beauty. The story "Razia" is one such example. I have tried to retain the simplicity of the narrative and refrained from translating certain words which are the identities of the local way of life and culture. I hope this translation reaches out to you with its original flavor.

Razia

Silver rings in her ears, a silver chain on her neck, silver bangles on her wrists and silver anklets on her ankles. Wearing a full-sleeved shirt, the edge of her black saree rounded around her neck, tired of managing her locks falling over her face, the little girl who stood before me that day, when I reached the village all of a sudden, brought back a flood of memories of my childhood Razia.

Yes, those were my childhood days. I had just returned home from school, gambolling like a lamb broken free from its rope, and had thrown my bag and slate on the cot. I was eager to relish a thekua made by my aunt and to enjoy singing on the paddy crusher, when I heard a voice: "Be watchful! Don't touch babua's meal." As I turned towards the voice, I saw a strangely beautiful girl standing two or three yards away from me. For me such beauty was really unique. I lived in a traditional Hindu locality; there was no dearth of girls in my village, but they never wore such clothes, nor did they have such features or complexions. Where do girls in my village wear earrings? Nor had I ever seen them wearing such full-sleeved shirts. Fair-complexioned girls could be seen, but where would one find such strange blue eyes? The entire profile of her face was so attractive that I kept on staring at her.

It was Razia's mother who had called out. I had seen her often, carrying the large bamboo frames with glass bangles. That day she had spread out the bangles on display in our courtyard, and a horde of girls and women had surrounded her. She was on with her business, haggling over the price and slipping the bangles down the wrists of her customers. Earlier I had always seen her coming alone; sometimes there would be a man carrying the bamboo frame. This little girl had come for the first time, and some unknown childish curiosity had drawn her towards me. She did not even know that just by being near someone, the food could be touched. Her mother's sudden call made her stop midway; she felt stunned, her feet rooted to the spot. But this stunned look brought her very close to me, without any doubt. My aunt got up quickly, went inside and brought two thekuas and some kasar, and placed them in her hands. She would not take them, but accepted at her mother's insistence; yet she did not eat them. I said, "Why don't you eat? Don't you make these things in your home? Don't you celebrate Chhath?" So many questions, but she had a "no" for every answer, and that too not verbally, but with a twitch of her neck. And as she moved her neck, the locks would fall on her face and she would manage them with a lot of effort.

When her mother moved away from her place in search of new customers, Razia also followed her. I had finished my meal and followed them at a distance, as if I was tied to them with a string. Perhaps my emotional display brought an abundant smile to the faces of the banglers, and the mother joked, "Babua ji, will you marry Razia?" Then she turned towards her daughter and smiled, "Well Razia, do you approve of this groom?" At this I made an immediate about-turn and ran. Marry a Muslim! Razia's mother burst into a peal of laughter, and Razia clung on to her legs, embarrassed. I looked back only after a distance.

Razia the bangler lived all her life, as a child and as an adult, in this village only, as Muslims got married even within their own villages. This was good for me, as I got the chance to meet her often in the village. Time flew. I grew up and continued with my studies; I went to the city for higher studies and came to the village only during vacations. Razia could not study, but her physical growth was no less than mine. For some time she was with her mother, following her wherever she went; she did not have to carry the bamboo frame, but she had learned the art of rolling bangles down the wrists of her customers. New brides found that she had a very soft hand, and they preferred her services only. Her mother rejoiced at this, since Razia's soft touch fetched many new customers.

Razia was growing up, and there were marked changes in her. I noticed after the first meeting that she had become more talkative. As soon as she saw me she would run towards me and ask a thousand questions. "Look at these new earrings, do you like them? Do people wear such earrings in the towns? My mother brings bangles from the town; I have told her she should take me along with her this time. Where do you live there in the town? Can we meet there?" She would rattle on endlessly, and I kept on listening; probably she did not feel the need for an answer. Then, after a lapse of some time, I found her becoming furtive. She would look around before coming to me, and while speaking she would be cautious that no one should see her or hear her. One day, while she was talking like this, my sister-in-law called out and said, "See Razia, don't take away my babua ji." Razia laughed at this, but I noticed that she had gone red in the face, and the corners of her blue eyes appeared to be teary. Then I realized: whenever we met somewhere, there were many eyes watching us, piercing us like the sharp points of spikes.

Razia kept growing, from an innocent kid to an adolescent and to a youthful beauty. She had grown up; she still kept coming with her mother, but earlier she had been just a shadow of her mother, and now she had a distinct identity. There were many now whose hearts beat to be her shadow. When she rolled the bangles down the wrists of sisters, many brothers sat gazing at the event. Why? Was it their brotherly feeling for their sisters, or was it an unknown attraction towards Razia? When she pushed the bangles onto the wrists of the wives, the husbands standing at a distance watched from the corners of their eyes. Did they watch their own young wives' soft wrists, or the delicate fingers of Razia playing upon those wrists? And it appeared as if Razia enjoyed the whole experience; she did not miss a chance to tease the husbands. "Babu, these bangles are very delicate, please be watchful, they might crack." The husband would flee at this, and the wife would giggle.

Razia was getting adept at her job; yes, she was getting very adept. The trade of a bangler demanded not only the supply of colourful, cheap, durable, fashionable bangles, but also a bangler who could lure with her get-up, beauty and flirtation; she had to impress not only the wearers but also the ones whose pockets funded the bangles. Razia's mother too was no less; her worn heels were testimony that the structure had once been grand.

My meetings with Razia became rare as I started living in the city most of the time, and finally that day arrived when I met her after a long gap. There was a young man carrying the bamboo frame behind her. She felt a bit embarrassed, a bit shy, as she saw me, and I concluded this young man must be her husband. Still I asked her, feigning ignorance, "Where from have you picked up this laborer?" "Ask him only, he has been after me, what do I do?" Razia replied. The young man smiled. Razia also laughed and introduced him: "He is my husband, Malik." Husband! Suddenly I remembered those playful words of her mother, spoken on the day of our first meeting in childhood. My face must have betrayed my disturbed state, I am sure.

And that day too arrived when I became a husband myself. It was Razia only who put the bangles, the auspicious tokens of holy matrimony, on my darling's wrists. And what a rattle she created with her laughter and mischief! "I shall have this, I shall have that, and if I don't get my heart's desire I will take away such a thing that the bride will just hate," she threatened. My sister-in-law retorted, "What will happen to your Hassan if you take away Babuaji?" "He will also keep waiting." Razia burst out laughing and ran towards Hassan; putting her arms around him she said, "My darling, don't misunderstand." Hassan too started laughing. Razia then started narrating her love story: how Hassan was after her, how they faced many obstacles, how they finally married, and how he still follows her like a shadow, as if he was gripped by some unknown fear. Then she held my wife's hand and wished, "May your malik be your shadow forever." There was laughter all around in the courtyard, and I felt as if her earrings had added a beauteous glow to her laughter.

Life went on, on its rough ride, mine as well as Razia's. I was living away from home most of the time. I was at Patna city and worked as a man of all seasons in a lesser-known newspaper; people thought I was the editor. Those days there were not many newspapers, not many editors, so people gave me a lot of importance, and I had to be careful about my position. One day I was at a well-known pan shop at a market square. There were some young men with me; a few elderly men also came and stood by me. We were relishing pan and were engaged in light banter, when a kid came and said, "Babu, that woman is calling you." A woman! Calling me, at the square! I was flustered. The young men were excited; the old ones had a mysterious smile playing on their faces. "Woman? Who?" There was anger on my face. The kid ran away, frightened. After finishing off the pan my companions dispersed, and suddenly I realized my feet were dragging me in the direction the kid had pointed out. I moved ahead; after some time I turned back to see if any of my acquaintances was watching me, but on such a romantic evening at the square, who had the time to watch anyone? I kept moving ahead and reached the place where there was a banyan tree towards the east. There I saw a woman approaching me from near the tree. As she reached me she called out, "Greetings, my malik!" I was taken aback, but it did not take me much time to recognize her: as she raised her hair, the silver earrings shone brightly. "Razia! How come you are here?" I blurted out.

"I have come to purchase a few things, Malik. Now people have become modern; they hardly like my bangles. New people, new designs. I buy a few things of makeup also: powder, clips, this and that. Modern times, modern tastes of the brides." She stopped for a while and then asked, "I have heard you live somewhere here. Where do you live, Malik? I come here often." By the time I could ask her if she was alone, a middle-aged man came and greeted me: it was Hassan. Long beard, six feet tall, tall and strong both. "See Malik, he would not leave me alone even today," she said and started laughing. She was no more the old Razia, but her laughter was still the same. She kept on talking of many things. Suddenly I woke up: oh my god, where was I? If people saw me chatting like this on the road! But would she allow me free? When I talked of taking leave, she looked at Hassan and said, "Why don't you offer Malik a pan at least? Have you forgotten how you overstuffed yourself at this place?"

When Hassan went out to get a pan, Razia lamented how the times had changed. In some villages now Hindus did not buy things from Muslims; now there were Hindu banglers, Hindu tailors. That is why traditional banglers like Razia were facing tough times. But she was happy that in our village this insanity did not prevail, and that my wife would not have bangles from anyone else other than Razia. As I was about to leave, after finishing off the pan brought by Hassan, Razia asked me where I lived. I was hesitant. "Don't be scared, Malik, I won't come alone; he will be with me. Won't you, like him?" Saying this she threw herself on Hassan. "You mad girl, this is a town." Hassan released himself from her grasp and smiled. "Babu, she is a mother now, but still she cannot get over her childishness."

The next day I found her standing at my doorstep. "Malik, these bangles are for your darling wife," and she thrust a packet of bangles into my hand. I said, "Why don't you give them yourself when you meet her?" "No Malik, try these on her wrists yourself, at least once," and she started laughing. When I said, "At this age?", she looked at Hassan and said, "Ask him, does he not do it for me?" Hassan was embarrassed. She chuckled, "He is very clever, Malik; look at his face now, but when he takes my hand in his..." and she laughed so loudly that I was again startled.

Yes, so I reached the village that day all of a sudden. It was the time for elections; it could take you anywhere. The smell of petrol, the continuous drone of the engine, the face smeared with dust and soot made me miserable. But the moment my jeep entered that village, I was overwhelmed with a strange emotion. This was the village of Razia; Razia lived here. But could I even ask anyone whether there lived, or had lived, someone, a bangler by the name of Razia? I felt embarrassed to even mention Hassan, because I was a leader now, a political leader. Everywhere people raised slogans glorifying me; some had even made an enclosure around me. If I visited a house and shared a pan with anyone, that person considered himself fortunate; if I spoke a few words with someone, he became the topic himself. I had begun to carry myself accordingly. I got down from the jeep and was addressing the people, or you could say I was transporting them to the golden era about to arrive in my promises. But my mind was in a turmoil; I kept speaking as a routine exercise, but the mind was full of complex thoughts.

And then suddenly, what did I see? No... there was Razia, walking towards me. Razia, that same little sweet girl. How could Razia turn back into a little girl again? The same earrings in her ears, the same blue eyes on a lovely fair face, the same full-sleeved shirt, the same locks of hair falling upon her face. She was advancing towards me, managing her locks. A difference of forty, forty-five years in between. O god, was I dreaming? Dreaming during daytime! She reached me, making her way through the crowd, greeted me and held my hand. "Come Malik, come to our house." I was still astonished; I couldn't fathom anything. People were smiling, imagining some secret would drop out of the closet of their leader. No, no, this was just a dream, I thought to myself. Then I heard someone saying, "What a carefree girl." Another said, "Just like her grandmother." The third one almost took my breath away: "She is the granddaughter of Razia, Babu. The poor old woman is ill. She often talks about you; she praises you a lot. Babu, if you can squeeze in a little time, please look her up. Who knows if she would live any longer or..."

I was standing in the courtyard of Razia. The house was small but spick and span. She had a full-fledged household, the reward for hard work and meticulous living. Hassan was no more, but he had left behind three Hassans: the eldest worked in Calcutta, the second one had taken up the family trade, and the youngest one was still studying in the town. The girl whom I had met was the daughter of the eldest one. The grandson looks like the grandfather, and the granddaughter looks like the grandmother: an exact replica of Razia in her younger days. This young Razia was holding my fingers and called out, "Granny, o granny, come out and see, Malik dada has come."

But the original Razia did not come out. How could she? How could she come out in her unwashed clothes of illness? Razia had sent her granddaughter, but she could not believe that the leader flying in airplanes would take the trouble of visiting her. And when she heard that I was really coming, she told her daughters-in-law, "Why don't you change my clothes? I am going to meet my malik after so many years." Both her daughters-in-law gave support to her fragile body and brought her out into the courtyard.

Yes, Razia. Razia was standing before me: thin, weak, emaciated. But when she came closer and greeted me, "Malik salaam," all her wrinkles disappeared from her face for a while, the wrinkles which had spun a cobweb on her face. I saw that suddenly her face lit up like an electric bulb, and those blue eyes, which had sunk into their hollows, shone brightly, and those silver earrings too shone, as if saying: this was a divine moment. Those locks too, falling over her face, were shining, the locks which had turned silver-white with the passage of time.

Thank you.