The cultural significance of the buffalo and the real fate it suffers.
The buffalo is a culturally very significant animal: it is the vehicle of Death. Death, or Yama as He is known by, is believed to be dark and rides a male bull buffalo. The dream in which one is chased by a buffalo is thus believed to be a significantly bad dream heralding unknown dangers. This story, taken from "Daughter of a Watermill" thus revolves around the buffalo: its cultural significance as well as its fate... The following is an excerpt from the story titled "Nights of the Buffalo Bull".
Sabitri
noticed him paying the boy as she walked along the pavement carrying
morning meal for him. As the boy darted across the street, he turned,
noticed her, and smiled. She felt awkward: he was her husband of
years. Why should he smile at her, at this age, as if he was a young
man and she a teenager? No doubt, he’s changed again after that
eclipse over his brow. ‘(You’ve) Come smiling. What so strange
has happened today?’ He flattered her with an unbelievable smile.
Yes, unbelievable, of the man muted only yesterday.
‘You
know, I saw an insect moult today,’ she replied, ‘and saw it shed
a skin.’
‘Is
that a good enough reason to smile along? Well, perhaps it is. After
all it’s living its life, and life’s a rather precious thing.
Don’t mind.’ He sat down on the small mat, his shoes taken off at
some distance, towards his back. ‘So you’ve seen an insect moult,
aye?’
‘I
also noticed a seedling,’ she added, not answering his question of
surprise or that of curiosity if that was one. Her husband sometimes
asked too many questions like an innocent child as if he knew
nothing. And she liked him more for that. He was learned also, and
possibly wise too, but not with cunning as was natural to most men.
He was her artless husband and she sometimes loved to play with his
simplicity even if she hardly knew to read or write her own name.
‘What
seedling?’ he asked, startled. ‘I mean, in this cold of winter?’
‘Probably
an orange pip has germinated, or a lime seed, in the flower pot. It’s
so small, it’s difficult to know which one it is.’
‘It’s
orange. I know it’s orange. I’d thrown all the seeds from an
orange into that pot last time. Which pot was it?’
How
can he be so sure it’s orange. Sabitri questioned to herself. The
pots are moved from this side to that side, placed and replaced and
exchanged. It all depends upon his moods, the full moon, the no
moon... ‘It’s on this side of the doorway—’
‘Which
side?’ he quickly asked.
‘This
side, ké, this side. The one in which there was aloe before.’
‘Leave
it, leave it. Maybe it’s lime, or orange...’ his cheerfulness
vanished now that he could not be sure and certain, but it returned
once again. ‘So you saw a seedling on the pot? Hhhmmmmm!’ The
aloe had already been re-potted in another because the previous pot
had looked rather small for its size and now there were few empty
pots as well. Empty of any specific plant, that is, and anything
could germinate and grow in them. But neither orange nor lime. The
pot would be too small for either of them when they grew. Had they
germinated in open soil, they would keep growing, produce branches,
flower, and fruit. A gift of heaven... Aye, wait! Adhikari had a
flash. He hurriedly finished eating and left the empty box for his
wife to take back home. ‘Beginning to feel a bit hungry these
afternoons,’ he reminded her.
‘In
winter it’s always so; one feels more hungry because of the cold.’
She reminded him of the fact.
‘Could
you make some rotis and prepare potatoes? Something like the sort?’
he asked.
Sabitri
sensed he was up at something again, nodded in affirmation, and left
with the empty lunchbox. He couldn’t be dating a damsel at this
grey age of his, could he?
Were
it a mango... he continued thinking, a banana or a papaya seedling.
Anyway, a seed has germinated, sprouted out, pierced the earth and
emerged itself into the air, the sky, the light of the heavens. It
doesn’t matter what plant or tree it gives rise to, or has the
potential. Were it in soil—not in the pot, that is—it would grow,
spread branches, produce buds, flower, fruit. And it would cast a
shade. Adhikari quickly grabbed a sheet and scribbled lines in it.
After finishing, he went through the lines again and again in
amazement and chuckled gleefully. Some came so smooth and so easily
while others turned you into a different man altogether before they
were readable. In ten minutes, for example, this
seed-germination-life poem was finished without much effort. In
comparison, the buffalo poem had taken three days completely, and
disturbed his nights’ sleeps as well. Ah, poetry; poetry! He went
through the lines again and satisfied, folded it and shoved it into
his pocket; there were now two in it. Adhikari smiled within himself,
his gladness visible on his face that has appeared to be brighter. He
knew well that there was no end, no finis, to a composition or a
creativity of words; the revisions through time could become endless
but for the time being two had been done well and they could be filed
or trans-written onto his third poetry note-book and read from time
to time, to feast himself, to relax his eyes and mind, and for
possible improvements. The loose pages and sheets of paper that were
now in his pocket could, after they were copied over with dates, then
be burnt or shredded, disposed of one way or the other. Adhikari
brightened up and became cheerful; he was happy now, at least for the
time being.
*** *** ***
There is a love story, two rather strange stories with strange narratives, a story about cigarettes and the Burmese uprising of 1988, and among these, as well as others, also a story of abduction during the violence of the armed insurgency that started in 1966 and lasted for more than a decade. The details are in another post within this blog, if you are interested.
