A shadow in the kitchen

The room that I occupied was made of wood, bamboo and a thatched roof. The windows were wooden, plain planks with no engraving which bore bolts to lock it. The floor was polished wood, the only luxury I could notice. I sat on the bed, trying to focus on writing the report I had to do on the Self Help Group campaign here in Tikrikilla. The job was well done and we could move to base early morning tomorrow. The lantern was flickering, was there enough kerosene for the night? The house belonged to Mrs. Florence Sangma, a cultivator by profession and a beneficiary of our rural development project. She played host to us as and when I came visiting her village on a job, that happened to be one of the most far flung project villages, some 42 km from my own office and 172 kms from Shillong.

It was really really quiet in there, one of those moments when you fear you could hear even a pin dropping. I wondered if it was going to rain tonight. I opened the two windows, one facing the hillock where the cottage was built, the other facing the long house corridor that ran from the lone door of my room all along the length of the house, every room in the household facing it. Eradina, my companion in this field visit to Tikrikilla, was in the house kitchen cooking a big meal along with Florence, to celebrate the success of our two –day long workshop for poor women in the village. The sky was clear. I went back to finishing my report and thought to myself, “I will come back after two weeks. By then the women who showed interest in starting a Self Help Group would have thought about what enterprise they would like to take up.”

Just then I thought I saw a shadow cross my room door, I looked up and caught the sides of Eradina’s face at the window, she was pacing the corridor. Her posture was slouched. “For a person as jovial as her, worry and anxiety wasn’t expected,” I thought. I finished writing my report, it was just 7 pm but pitch dark outside and from the day’s exhaustion I don’t know when I dozed off. Dinner would be around 9 pm so I had some time for myself. I woke up to a gentle thud on the wooden floor, I had just about one eye partially open to see a shadow again in the corridor. I peered at my wrist watch it was 8 pm! ‘What was eating her up,” I thought, “…for her to be pacing up and down the corridor for this long?” I padded bare foot to my door and looked at the long corridor which lay ahead of me and called out in the dark to my friend, “Eradina!!!!!!” I got no answer. I called again, “Eradina, na.a nameng ama?” (Are you okay, in the local dialect). I got no answer.

The house kitchen was a huge structure made away from the main house, as in most tribal villages in the north-eastern part of India. It was large enough to host feast for a dozen people, host visiting guests, store vegetables and meat from the farm, smoke meat in the 2-3 hearths and hang them in cane bamboo baskets for use during the year. Eradina, 45, was a mother of a small boy, lived in a village near my office and was a leader for SHGs in her village. Uneducated herself, she was a role model for other women in villages. I would take her along with me on field trips like this one in Tikrikilla. While I would play my role of a formal trainer, she played her part to informally motivate women and talk of her own personal experience. We were not only a good team at work, but in time, we became good friends too.

I couldn’t get past the few lines of the book I picked up. I decided I would have to find out what was eating her up and see if I could help. I wrapped myself in a light cardigan and went to the kitchen across the courtyard. There was a big fire there, many people were laughing and talking at the same time. I recognized half a dozen faces of men and women from the village. The feast was ready. The long wooden table carved out of one single log was cramped with dishes. There was boiled meat stew (my favourite), boiled spinach and other vegetables (another favourite), fried potato, rice and smoked meat. I found my friend chopping salad crouched on the floor, with a tea cup next to her. She was smiling, talking to others and enjoying the evening. Florence announced dinner was ready and that the village pastor would say a short prayer for us before we could begin to eat. I got caught up with all the traditions of this small wonderful community among which I worked till dinner was over.

I waited for her to come to the room we shared. She took long. I was young and naïve, (this was my first job) it was particularly difficult for me to understand what my work mates could be going through in their personal lifes. But she was a friend too so I wanted to help. “Eradina, I saw you pacing the corridor the entire evening. What is bothering you?” She told me she had no idea what I was talking about. That confused me even further. If she wanted to conceal what was going on, would it be right on my part to pursue asking her. “I saw you pacing up and down that corridor from 7 to 8 today and maybe even beyond. I called you from our room but you walked ahead without looking back at me. I know something is eating you up from inside. I have never seen you like this.” I asked her to tell me, I would try and help her, if I could.

She smiled broadly and said, “Mamang ba ongjana. Nungkho maina aganjawa. Anga dey kitchen o busy onga. Echi ebaja (Nothing is wrong. Do you think if it was, I would have not told you? I was busy cooking in the kitchen the entire evening for you. I never came to the main house).”

I felt eerie. I felt uncomfortable, to the hilt. I left her to rest for the night and went to see Florence, our host. Florence affirmed Eradina’s words. “Eradina told me you must have not eaten the local delicacies. She was cooking the entire evening and didn’t leave the kitchen even once.” I walked back to my room, a lot worried by now. Another dimension of life and our existence unfolded just then. I thought there were so many unexplained things that happened around us, which we cannot understand, try as we might. In these remote villages beyond the development eye of the government and civilization, secrets would forever remain secrets. I tossed and turned. I looked at my friend sleeping across me in the same bed I lay. Her face was peaceful devoid of any anxiety and stress just the way I was accustomed to seeing her.

The following morning we began from Tikrikilla and reached our base and were exempted from work for the day. I went home, bathed, cooked lunch, washed clothes and watched some TV. Eradina went to hers. On the following day in the office, I met the receptionist looking glum. I settled in on my desk, when my boss broke the news to me “Eradina’s son died of malaria two days ago, in the night. We came to know just yesterday morning and by that time you both were already heading back. I know you are close to her.”

I headed for Eradina’s house the next moment. In the rundown bus that ran between villages on the national highway, I realised who I had seen that night. It was a shadow of my friend who would soon lose her only son to malaria. In her house I saw Eradina inconsolable. She had lost everything.

** This story is set in Meghalaya where there is a matrilineal system of inheritance and the backdrop is that of a rural development project.
The writer is a humanitarian, campaigner and journalist with World Pulse & Voices for Human Rights and she can be reached at - urmila.chanam@gmail.com

5-Aug-2012 / 02:36 AM / Urmila Chanam / 1 Comments