TRANSLATED FROM THE HINDI BY ANURADHA DOSAD

One night, the son of a poor man experienced a delightful dream that lingered in his heart long after he awoke. Brimming with joy, he eagerly shared his dream with his father, saying, “Father, in my dream last night, I savoured the pleasure of feasting on roti with jaggery to my heart’s content.”

In a world where fathers typically revel in their children’s good fortune, this father was no exception. He embraced the news of his son enjoying jaggery in the dream. However, a sudden realization tempered his joy, causing a hint of anger to surface. With a gentle slap on his son’s cheek, meant more as scolding than punishment, he exclaimed, “Oh, my unfortunate child! If dreams of indulgence were to be realized, you should have feasted on rasgullas. Opting for jaggery has turned your sweet dream into mere dung.”

In the village of Kiranpur, Puran Bhagat, a member of the impoverished community, experienced a particularly sweet dream. In this dream, he owned a modest tree with resilient branches that thwarted the attempts of dogs and jackals to breach it. The thatched roof was so impervious that raindrops dared not penetrate it, and the house’s pillars and pegs stood sturdy against the fiercest storms.

The absence of such a secure haven plagued the impoverished residents of Kiranpur, leading to unfortunate incidents and avoidable tragedies. Collapsed houses, injuries, and even fatalities had become all too common. Recently, tragedy befell Jagat Das’s granddaughter, who lost her life in a mishap, while Badri Mandal endured a four-month bedridden period due to a fractured leg. Sundar Das, consumed by sorrow, sought refuge on rainy nights, forsaking his own porch to sleep on someone else’s loft when platforms became scarce.

One fateful day, Puran Bhagat experienced the harrowing sight of his house trembling in the face of a fierce storm. Urgently, he turned to his wife and exclaimed, “Raju’s mother! Evacuate Baba from the house; it’s on the verge of collapse.”

Puran Bhagat’s dreams were woven with the threads of hope for a better future. In these sweet reveries, he envisioned having enough funds before the rainy season to mend his humble abode. The most cherished dream was one where he could secure his dwelling against the onslaught of two successive rains and shield it from the ferocity of storms. The notion of a permanent and opulent dwelling never graced Puran Bhagat’s dreams. How could he envision such a house when neither his family nor any of his relatives had ever constructed or owned a substantial, luxurious residence?

In the recurring dream of the impoverished father’s son, he found himself indulging in only jaggery. Despite the presence of tempting Rasgullas before him, he picked one up, placed it in his mouth, but the distinctive taste failed to manifest, shattering the dream. Determined to keep this dream concealed from his father, he discreetly inquired, “Babu! Can you describe the taste of Rasgulla?”

The father fixed his gaze upon his son with a scrutinizing intensity, sensing that his son had once again ventured into the realm of dreams, this time confined to consuming only jaggery. Concern etched his face, realizing that the son would persist in consuming jaggery until he could grasp the taste of Rasgulla. Anxiously, he pondered how to convey the elusive flavour of Rasgulla to his son.

It was not possible for that poor father to buy Rasgulla from the market and feed it to his son. He couldn’t resort to dishonesty by claiming that the taste of Rasgulla was a clear and distinct departure from the flavours of sweet potatoes cooked in the fireplace.

In response to his son’s eager inquiry, the father offered a glimmer of hope, saying, “Patience, my child. In a few more days, you will have the chance to savour the taste of Rasgulla. Dharamveer Singh has taken his elderly father to Kadhagola Ghat for a month-long bath, and the spectre of winter looms over him. News has it that the preparation of Bhoj rice is already underway. I vividly remember relishing Rasgulla at the feast following Shambhu Misar’s father’s demise. Rest assured, Dharamveer Singh’s upcoming feast will surpass Shambhu Misar’s, and it’s at that banquet you’ll finally taste Rasgulla. Until then, hold your anticipation.”

The son, exhaling a sigh of relief, finally experienced the delectable taste of Rasgulla after indulging in them at the anticipated feast. From that moment on, he began savouring Rasgullas even in his dreams.

One day, the school teacher, Parmanand Babu, expressed to Puran Bhagat, “Bhagatji, your son Raju shows great promise; he exhibits a keen interest in his studies. I have glimpsed into his destiny, and it foretells that through education, he will uplift your family from poverty. Ensure that his academic journey is uninterrupted.”

“My life is nearing its end, Master Saheb; I will manage with whatever little remains,” Puran Bhagat had responded. “All I desire is that my son should not endure the poverty that I have faced. I wish for him to earn enough for sustenance. I am confident he will achieve it. My only apprehension is that he should possess a home sturdy enough to withstand stormy nights, providing him with peace and security.”

Parmanand Babu chuckled, “I am referring to sugar candy, Bhagatji, while you are discussing jaggery. What I am stating is not a mere fabrication. Your son will not dwell in a modest house; he will construct a residence of significance. Invest wholeheartedly in his education, and then envision the realization of a grand and opulent home in your future, a testament to your aspirations and his achievements.”

Puran Bhagat was elated upon hearing Masterji’s encouraging words. Subsequently, in his initial dream, he envisioned a sizable house of his own a dwelling with robust walls, a sturdy roof, and solid flooring.

Devoting everything he possessed to his son’s education, Puran Bhagat became so immersed in this pursuit that the flavours of many things faded from his memory. Only the lingering taste of dreams remained on his tongue.

The dream gradually materialized into reality. The son successfully completed his studies, secured a significant government position, and celebrated his marriage in an expansive residence, and now…

The fate script that Parmanand Master had foreseen during Raju’s childhood was unfolding before Puran Bhagat’s eyes as well.

Letters of joyful tidings from the son continued to arrive, and then came a missive announcing that he had constructed a permanent residence in Patna.

“Permanent house!” The father’s emotions surged, and he began leaping with joy on the bamboo. The initial insights into the opulence of the house were shared by Jagat Singh from the village. “I visited Patna, Puranji, and had the opportunity to see Raju’s house. He has built an exceptionally lavish residence. Your Raju is indeed a prosperous son.”

“Luxurious house!” There was no end to happiness; the father jubilantly began drumming with the pestle.

Now, Puran Bhagat found himself navigating between dreams at night and the tangible reality during the day. “Raju’s mother! You have envisioned a permanent house; allow me to unveil the interior of a room for Raju and his wife; a separate space for the children; a dedicated room for prayer services; two rooms for us, one for you and one for me; two rear rooms for the servants; a welcoming front room for guests; two rooms allocated for household belongings; two additional rooms for future needs as the children grow and require separate spaces; and perhaps two or three rooms for purposes yet unknown…”

Confronted with reality, Puran Bhagat’s eyes would often shift to the roof of his dilapidated house, and he would jest with his wife, “Raju’s mother! I can no longer endure the disorder in this house. If my frustration reaches its peak, I may not even bother getting it repaired this time.” The lady of the house concurred, “Indeed, receiving a letter from Raju urging us to leave the village and join him here wouldn’t be a bad idea.”

When the daughter from Kopariya village entered the household of Kiranpur village as a daughter-in-law, she was called ‘Kopariyawali.’ Upon giving birth to a son, she was further revered as ‘Raju-Maa.’ Puran Bhagat’s wife proudly embraced this newfound identity for an extended period.

And now!… With a son flourishing in the bustling city, her son’s residence gracing the urban landscape, and grandchildren filling that urban abode!… Her feet seemed to float, detached from the solid ground below.

Recently, during her visit to Kopariya, she enthusiastically informed every uncle and brother she encountered, “Now, whenever you wish to visit Patna, there’s no need for accommodation elsewhere. Raju has constructed a magnificent house.” It was as if that house was beckoning to Raju’s mother and father. Though the son’s visits were less frequent than before, a steady stream of letters continued to arrive.

The frequency of letters had diminished, but they hadn’t ceased entirely. However, it had been quite some time since any letter had arrived.

“Why hasn’t a letter come now? Don’t the son and daughter-in-law have their share of worries?” When a grandson was born, both of them brought the child, and when a granddaughter arrived, they shared her arrival. Yet, it never crossed the minds of the grandparents to go and visit their grandchildren! There seemed to be no inclination for the parents to explore the home their son had built. Would the parents only visit when the son summoned them after sending a letter? The sadness of the son and daughter-in-law was understandable. Raju’s parents deeply sensed this sorrow.

One day, Raju’s mother expressed to Raju’s father, “I have an intense desire to go and see the children. Let’s also take a glimpse of our house.”

Puran Bhagat was convinced by his wife’s words, but a shift occurred in his tone, “You can visit and see, but listen, Raju’s mother! Even if I leave the village for two or four days, the ties of the village begin tugging at me. I have my own home in the city, so I can stay for ten to fifteen days. However, don’t insist on extending the stay beyond that. Nevertheless, if you wish, you can stay in that house.” Two days were spent in the city residence. During this period, the parents tried to find a sense of belonging in their son’s house. Puran Bhagat couldn’t help but recall an old proverb regarding a guest – “The first day one is a guest, the second day a knee, and the third day one becomes a nobody.” On the third day, the guest in their son’s house turned to his wife and remarked, “Kopariyawali! I am missing the village. Let’s return to our own home.”

After so many years, Raju’s mother gazed at her husband with eyes void of emotion upon discovering the changed address. Attempting to alleviate his wife’s sadness as they left the city, the husband remarked, “It’s not ideal to overstay at someone’s house in the city.”

“Why someone’s house?” A sudden pang gripped the mother’s heart. “If not our own home, at least it is our son’s home!” Her eyes welled up with tears. Why did Raju’s father refer to her today as ‘Kopriyawali’ instead of ‘Raju’s mother’? Was she no longer recognized as her son’s mother? As they journeyed back to the village, Puran Bhagat diverted his attention elsewhere.

Seated with a map of his house before him, he meticulously examined the areas requiring repairs before the imminent rainy season. The responsibility of a poor father now rested on the shoulders of the son after the demise of his impoverished patriarch. When the son, in a dream, narrated his delightful experience of consuming jaggery, the father refrained from reprimanding him. Curious about Rasgulla, a sweet unfamiliar to their humble household, the son inquired, “Babu! What is the taste of Rasgulla?”

In a departure from the response his own father had provided him, this father chose not to share the unvarnished truth. It no longer seemed probable that following the old tradition of hosting a grand feast upon the passing of a wealthy senior villager, there would be a feast and even if such a feast were to be arranged, Rasgullas wouldn’t necessarily be on the menu. The times had evolved, and in this changed era, he resorted to a small deception in describing the Rasgulla’s flavour, replying, “The taste of Rasgulla is somewhat akin to the sweetness of kitchen-cooked sweet potatoes, more or less the same.”

Also, read a Bengali fiction written by Ahana Biswas, translated into English by Aritrik Dutta Chowdhury, and published in The Antonym:

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