Kiron Pishi

Here is an excerpt from a forthcoming novel, Porridge and I: A Post-Colonial Story, with reference to the fearsome Goddess Kali by Dr Roopali. An exclusive for Different Truths.

Haru Mama sold off grandfather’s fishpond and coconut groves because of “very bad labour shortage”. The truth was Haru Mama slit their throats with a sickle at sunset. He’d choose the ones who greeted with Salaamaleikum. The others who shouted Joi Kali Ma had to cut up legs and hands to throw into the fish pukur (pond). The heads they covered with straw and roasted. Nobody ate the fish which now tasted of dead people. Haru Mama would laugh, “Aarey baba! Can we mix infidel blood with the blood of the faithful?” Like others who were killing and maiming, Mother’s brother Haru Mama wanted to be a hero.

That was a long time ago when the country was divided.

Then one day in the low glow of a lantern Mother told us about Daddy’s sister Kiron Pishi… a true heroine. When the blood-thirsty mobs at her door shouted, “Kafiro ko halal karo,” she jumped from the terrace. A garbage truck dumped her with her broken legs in a refugee camp near Anarkali bazaar from where she was stuffed with hundred others into army trucks and driven far away. Everywhere trains full of chopped-up dead bodies whistled in and out.

Bihari Lal who knew all the abandoned houses in the narrow lanes of Howrah found her a house whose owners had fled clutching the precious Holy Koran. Murder and madness had erased the neighbourhood. Defiantly gods appeared under trees and rocks.

Elephant head Ganesha, Monkey God Hanuman. The now silent green-domed mosque held its breath. Kiron Pishi lovingly cleaned the utensils and curtains, dusted the furniture and books. A framed picture of four women, two men, and six children hung on the southwest wall.

“Who are they?” Her sad angry neighbours asked. They had left their homes with a head full of frightening memories. Softly she replied, “They are the real owners of this house. I am sure one day they will return. I am only a caretaker.”
“This is ours”.
“they snatched our homes?”
“If they return, we will kill them!

They feared losing these walls and roofs which now sheltered them from the scorching sun, the pouring rain, and endless pain. The knife of hatred had sliced their land and their heart. They felt only half of what they had felt before.
“ Are you mad waiting here for these beef eaters?” They stepped forward.

“STOP!” She shouted. “They are poor, and innocent like us. Did we know our lives would change like this?” But the shrieks of the dying and the sound of gunfire had made them deaf.
“they halved this country”.
“they deserve to die!”
“Keep your filthy feet out of this house,” Kiron Pishi screamed waving a meat chopper.

Cunningly she stuck her beetle juice-stained red tongue out. The sudden sight of this figure in white with long dark hair falling till her knees, a blood dripping tongue, fiery eyes, and blood-stained chopper mesmerised them. The awestruck group moved back. This indeed was the awful face of the Goddess Kali. Destroyer of Evil. With folded hands they chanted, “Jai ho! Ma Kali, jai ho.” Breathing heavily, Kiron Pishi stretched her clever arms out in blessing. Some wept ecstatically, touching her feet begging forgiveness. She turned around returning to her haven left behind by her unknown benefactors, where she laughed till the tears rolled down her cheeks.

The next morning, she heard Bihari Lal sweeping the steps of the green-domed mosque as the muezzin called the faithful from the minarets …God is Great. He is all Merciful.


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