The Rakshushi by Kazi Nazrul Islam

'It's been two years today, a full two years, and it continues to amaze me that people run for their lives the moment they see me. I keep on wondering why they avoid me like the plague. Even men, who as you know make such a show of strength when they enter the andar mahal, frightening away the small children with their commands and overbearing manners inside the women's quarters, these very men slink away when they see me. They quickly abandon their hookahs and feel an urgent need to go into the inner quarters. And women! Why, when they spy me, they drop their water pots and flee. Children are terrified. They scamper away till they are at least a thousand yards from me. Then they start yelling, "O God, the mad rakshushi is here! Run, run for your lives! She will eat us up, eat us up!"

'Why do they act in this way? Whose rice paddy have I destroyed? Whose mouth have I filled with fire? On whose daughter's bosom have I broken a burning pot? Which innocent children have I devoured? Tell me, Sister, what right do they have to say all sorts of things about me? Whom have I attacked? Killed?

Why do they act in this way? Whose rice paddy have I destroyed? Whose mouth have I filled with fire?

'Yes, it is true that I killed my husband. And did I just kill him? I chopped him up with a dao. Why should this upset them so much? It's not as if I snatched away their husbands from their bosoms or killed their husbands. Why are they so bothered then? Are they my kith and kin? If they behave like this, I tell you, I will really turn into an ogre. With one blow of my machete, I will separate their husbands' heads from their bodies. I will cut open the women and take out their hearts and livers and chop them into fine pieces. Then I will really turn into an ogre.

'Who drove me mad? These very people have driven me mad. I wanted things to be normal. I tried to set up my home and lead a regular life. But these people kept on continuously whispering in every nook and alley, muttering at every gathering, talking about me at the bazaar and at the mosque, constantly saying I was a witch. They gave me dirty looks, frowned and scowled at me, spat at me. They drove me insane. It is these people who have increased the pain that I had buried deep inside my heart and held it up in front of me. Tell me, whose fault is it that I am mad? Crazy? If you constantly torture someone and the person goes mad, who is to blame–the person who has gone mad or the sane people who pushed her off the edge?

'I had a husband once, a very simple man, straight as an arrow. He was an honest-to-goodness person with no knowledge of ruses or tricks. He used to work in the fields, and I spent my days catching fish, husking paddy and winnowing rice. If I had not helped out, how would we have managed, Didi? I had three children to take care of. My eldest, a son, was grown up and ready for marriage. The girl too had shot up and the little one, the baby of the family, had just started to talk. I am happy to say, Sister, that even though we were very ordinary, humble folks at the bottom of society, thanks to all your blessings, we didn't suffer from poverty. Your Bindi  used to be able to get hold of some fish or snails or oysters to go with the vegetables for our everyday meals. My son helped out by earning a little every day. My eldest daughter would go out with the village women and bring back fish and greens. We managed to buy some salt and oil with what we didn't need. My husband too earned enough so that we never ran out of rice the whole year. Ah, what a happy life I had! The goddess Lakshmi seemed to be smiling at us.

'And for whom was all this? For my family, wasn't it? I never cooked more than a seer of rice every day. I didn't want to spend everything at once lest my children suffered later. I gave my husband and children the rice, while I made do with the water of the boiled rice, the starch that remained. After all, in what does a woman's happiness lie? We are happy when our children are happy. What more does a woman want? It didn't matter that we didn't own land; we never had to beg or steal or starve. I was even able to save some money. I was happy that I could feed my family and on occasions a number of guests and a few beggars as well. Ah, Didi, these things filled my heart! But the village folk used to call me miserly because I never wasted any money. What did I care? I didn't give a fig about what they thought. I was a thrifty housewife, and I had to ensure my children's future. They did not know the responsibilities I had. I had to arrange the weddings of two daughters and a son. This mud hut of mine would become an abode of happiness, a little bit of Heaven if you wish, where I would invite my future sons-in-law and my daughter-in-law. Wouldn't you say this would cost me a considerable amount? I had to save for the future. If I needed money would anyone have lent me any? I knew that if the serpent of penury had coiled itself around Bindi's neck, not one of my neighbours would have offered me any help. I understood that the people around us could not stand me. They envied this small happiness I had. They were jealous of my family.

'We were happy. I looked forward to old age when I would care for my husband, see my children settled and hold my grandchildren in my arms. I had hoped to die with the metal bangle of the married woman on my wrist. But Fate did not allow me this bit of joy. It had other plans for me. My happy home turned into a burning pyre of my aspirations. My dreams and hopes turned into ashes! Hear my story, Sister, and decide for yourself if I was responsible for my ruin. If I am to blame, then give me poison and throw the ashes of seven cooking fires on me. The tale of my sorrow will melt hard stones like soft wax but these soulless village folks have no sympathy or interest in my story. Instead, they keep on abusing me day and night. And they are driving me up the wall. I often feel like unburdening my troubles and lightening my load. But whenever I approach someone to tell them my side of the story, they flee from me, imagining I will devour them. They act as if I am a heinous witch with diabolical designs on them. Seeing this, my blood boils in anger. That is when I grow even crazier. Is it any wonder that I have a foul mouth and constantly curse everyone? Hear my story, Sister, and then, if you think I am lying, put an end to all my talk. 

'As you know very well, our Panchu's father was a good man. He was a simple man who would never think of twisting the truth or being underhand. He had no idea that you could point to the nose on your face by putting your hand across the back of your head and around your ear. So many people had him work for them and never paid him, and others took money from him like one steals candy from a child. How I scolded him for his simplicity! I tried so hard to advise him to be more practical, but all in vain. He had another weakness and that was alcohol. He used to drink a lot. I told him many times, 'Drink but make sure that drink does not devour you.' Did he heed my advice? Of course not. Whenever he got some money, he would splurge it on alcohol. Anyway, all men have some weaknesses and bad habits . . . that was not such a big deal. But this husband of mine, who was like the god Shiva, finally did something which you won't believe, Sister. Even I still can't believe it. How could such a good man do such a terrible thing? They must have given him something that changed him! I still don't understand how it could have happened! 

'Do you know that in the Bagdi neighbourhood of those low-caste Hindus, on the other side of the village, there is a girl who got married thrice? Now she spends her time ruining the young men of her neighbourhood. She has destroyed so many tender hearts. And what can I say about her parents? If I were in their shoes, I would have taken poison and not lived to see this! It is enough, Sister, to turn one against the whole Bagdi caste! 

'As you know, Makhon Di, everyone in our village, as well as in the Bagdi neighbourhood, believed that we were very rich. And those slutty Bagdi women went around telling everyone that we had found buried treasure. Doesn't this make you laugh, Sister? 

'Yes, it was for this imaginary treasure that that man-eating slut decided to trap my simpleton husband. And truth be told, he also had a pleasing appearance which I must say was another reason. When he wore his dhuti and chador, you would think he was a fine gentleman! 

'When I first heard rumours of the affair, I can't describe how I felt, Sister. Perhaps even people struck by lightning do not hurt so much. That night when he came home, I thrashed him with a broom! And, Sister, the man, who had never lifted his finger or raised his voice, pulled me by my hair and hit me repeatedly with a piece of firewood. Yet I could not feel the pain because my insides hurt so much. My heart ached so badly that I was immune to the onslaught on my physical body. In spite of the terrible pain, I could tell that I had lost my husband. He was no longer mine. I could see that my life was over. I felt as if someone had taken a red-hot iron rod and pierced my heart with it. I broke down and I cried. 

'At the same time, a terrible anger blazed in me against the bitch who had done this to me. I wanted to get hold of her and tear her to bits with my nails. Alas, I was not able to catch her. She would go into hiding as soon as she saw me. 

'Soon my husband's shenanigans became worse. He often did not return home! He started to stay back at his employer's house after his work was done. He had his meals there and slept there at night. All of us – I, my son and the good people of the village – tried to talk him out of this madness. We did not succeed. That woman had cast a spell on him! She had turned him into a sheep. It was then I realized the man had midsummer madness. He had lost his head. It was his midlife crisis. Otherwise, why should he lose his senses totally? One day I threw myself at his feet and begged him to give up this madness. He kicked me in the face and left. My blood boiled in rage. I realized that he had proceeded so far on the road to Hell, that there was no way to bring him back. 

'On top of it all, the scandal being whispered everywhere pained and hurt me. Like a mad woman, I vowed that I would take revenge. I would be avenged, otherwise my name was not Bindi. 

'Then one day when I returned home from working in the field, I found out that that husband of mine had come and broken into my trunk and taken away what little money I had saved. He didn't even leave behind a paltry coin! To make things worse, I learnt that in a couple of days he was going to marry that woman. Everything had been fixed. He had placed all the cash at his new father-in-law's feet. Alas, all my money, dearer to me than life itself! How could he stoop so low? How could someone change so much? I had no time to think things through. I just knew that I had to do something within the next two days. I only had two days to take care of things. There would be no time after that. I wondered what to do. The godlike man was slowly descending to Hell. He was just steps away from perdition, and there was no turning back. Would it be a sin to kill him? In such a case, killing him would not be murder. After all, I was still his wife, and I had a moral responsibility to save my husband. If my husband had gone astray, who else but I could bring him back to the right path? I would be answerable to the gods if I failed to save him. So let's say if I were to finish him off, he would be in no position to commit any sin. All the sin would then just be mine. Well, who else will carry the burden of a man's sins if not his wife? The ghost in the sheora tree? 

'I made up my mind. Yes, I would kill him, no matter what the consequences. "Bhagwan, you are my witness that, to prevent my godlike husband from going to Hell, I will lay down his life at your feet like the hibiscus offerings we leave at your altar. It will be a sacrifice fit for the gods! Wipe away my sin and give me pain and suffering. In that will be my happiness!"

'One evening it had been drizzling, but the clouds had cleared up. I could see my husband sitting by himself under a tamarind tree, sanding a plank of wood. He was at the back of that horrid woman's house. I realized suddenly what to do. I looked around and saw that there was no one. I rushed like a mad woman to fetch a machete. When the red light of the setting sun fell on it, the blade glimmered brightly. Although the sun was still shining, a soft rain started again. I could hear a group of naked boys near my house dancing in the rain and singing: 

"If the rain falls when the sun is out, 

 Jackals marry and tie the knot."

'I hid the machete in the folds of my sari and, like a tigress, I pounced on him. I held him down so strongly, that, though he tried to throw me off with all his might, he could not. After I struck his neck a blow, my hands froze. This gave him the chance to get away from me, and he scurried, screaming, to the nearby jute field. His screams roused me. I darted towards him and struck two more blows to his neck, decapitating him! There was blood everywhere. Blood danced all around me. I don't remember what happened after that. 

'When I regained my senses after a few days, I found myself in a totally unknown place. I was surrounded by strangers. To my astonishment, I was turning a huge grindstone. After so many days, the light of the sun . . . . Oh, how clear and bright it was. Earlier I only saw red everywhere around me. I came to know I was in Shiuri Prison. I had been sentenced to seven years of hard labour. I had been in prison for only three months. Apparently, I had confessed everything to the magistrate. They told me I would have been given a lesser punishment if I hadn't gone to the village constable and threatened him not to terrorize the village. He had told the sahib to throw the book at me.

'Oh, my dear, they made us work so hard at the jail! Yet, Sister, as long as I didn't remember anything, I was fine. When I recovered my memories, the pain returned. Whether I was busy or not, from time to time, I would see his blood gushing out. How strongly the blood gushed out! My goodness! Even thinking about the sight still makes me faint. When the head was chopped off, the body floundered like a katla fish on dry land. I never imagined there could be so much blood in such a small human body! I was too scared to be alone in the dark, for then I would clearly see before me the headless body and the disembodied head! 

'Then, Sister, some judge came from far away, having crossed seven seas and thirteen rivers, to sit on the emperor's throne in Delhi, and the prisoners were freed! Along with them, I too was released from jail. 

'So you see, Sister, there is a God in Heaven! He knows I did nothing wrong. In fact, I had done a good deed. I had saved my godlike husband from Hell. No matter what men say, my God and I know that this is the truth. Men will scream because, since ancient times, it has been only women who have been punished. I do not know if women had, at the beginning, protested at this injustice. If I had done what my husband had, and if he had murdered me, men would have said nothing. The women would have agreed with them. Yes, this is what evil women deserve. Women see that men can get away with anything. 

'However, the harshest punishment was not imposed by others, but by my own conscience. I cannot put into words the misery I feel. No one understands what I go through. Though I killed him myself, he was my husband! I have heard that a judge once sentenced his own son to be hanged, but didn't such a strong man also feel a tremor in his heart when he passed this judgment? When I bore down on my husband like a rakshushi and held the machete to his throat, such a pitiful groan came out of his mouth. His frightened eyes pleaded for mercy. Ah! Ah! 

'When I was doing hard labour in the jail, I had no time to reminisce like this. I did not allow myself to feel anything. There was so much to do and it was so tiring, that as soon as I lay down, sleep would overtake me and nothing touched me. The day I was released, I cried my heart out. I was better off when I was in prison. My mind was calm. What would I do with this freedom? I had nowhere to go. How bitter and torturous was this liberty!

'Alas, I had to return home. I saw that my son had got married. He had a
sweet little wife. As soon as they heard I had returned, the villagers came running frantically. "A calamity will fall on the village! An actual rakshushi is here. We will all suffer . . . . The place will turn into a land of death!"

'At first I paid no heed to what they said. I told myself, "In with one ear, out with the other." But, for how long could I turn a deaf ear? They never stopped talking about me. I tried to ignore them and start afresh with my son and daughter-in-law. But these people wrecked my home and my plans. When I tried to get my daughters married, nobody would marry them. Folks said, "A rakshushi's daughter will be a rakshushi. This is inevitable." The pain I tried so hard to suppress could no longer stay down. These villagers poked and dug out what I had buried deep inside. My darling son never listened to the horrible people around us; he never questioned me about what I had done. He happily welcomed me back home and gave me the reins of the household. Perhaps he realized he had already lost one parent and he must, therefore, hang on to the only parent he had left. But those people, with whom I have no blood ties or connections, why did they spend all their free time criticizing me and questioning me? Like a plague from the gods, they fell on us and destroyed our lives. They ostracized my son, but were still not satisfied. For the past two years they have made our lives miserable. Sister, even pariah dogs are not treated as badly as we were. Don't they realize that this will make even a normal person crazy? So imagine how this affects a demon, a witch, a rakshushi like me. Despite all this, Sister, I don't yell or shout at these people unless they openly provoke me. It is only when my suffering is unbearable that I curse them. 

'Now that you have heard it all, Sister, tell me, whose fault was it? Here take this bowl from my hand and bash my brains out. Punish me for all my sins! 

'Oh, Bhagwan!!'

"Rakshushi" was first published in "Kazi Nazrul Islam: Selections" volume 2 (writers.ink). It was first published internationally by Aleph in the anthology The Demoness: The Best Bangladeshi Stories (1971-2021), edited by Niaz Zaman. 

Zerin Alam is a professor and current chairperson of the Department of English, University of Dhaka.