Mr. Sunday Nana, his wife and four small children live in Koko Village, Nigeria . The village is like any other African village-picturesque, colourful and noisy. The Nana family's house, too, is the same as all the other houses in the village, with mud walls and a rusting corrugated iron roof, and with children and chickens sharing the compound.
There is one difference, however. Outside Mr. Nana's front are three large empty metal drums, the bright red paint now flaking away, but the skull and crossbones symbol clearly visible on each. And in a clearing 200m away from the village, next to a stream that the villagers get their drinking water from, is an enormous pyramid of identical drums, reaching to the sky. Some of them are badly corroded, their slimy contents of various colours - grey, dark green, bright orange, etc. - leaking out, down, on to the baked African earth and into the stream. Some have fallen down and rolled - or been rolled by playful children - into the bush. Some are smoking in the midday heat. Some are swelling, as if their contents are bursting to get out. Some have already burst.
“They came on a Wednesday,” said Sunday, “Many, many big lorries. They took all day unloading them. No-one told us what was in them. They gave the Chief a brown paper bag-I saw him smiling as the lorries drove away. This was five years ago. Then three months ago, one of the brightest boys in the village - Thomas Agonyo - started university in Lagos. He came home one weekend with a new Chemistry book, and spent all day looking at the drums and writing things down and talking to himself and shaking his head. We all thought he had gone mad. Then he called a meeting of the village and told us that the drums contained poisonous chemicals. He said they had come from Italy. But I don't know where that is. Is it in Europe?”
Mr. Sunday Nana stopped, frowning, a troubled look on his face, "In the last five years, 13 people have died in this village, my own elder brother one of them. They have been in pain, terrible pain. We have never seen deaths like that before. Lots of our children are sick. We have asked the Government to take the drums away, but they do nothing. We have written to Italy, but they do nothing. The Chief says we should move our houses to another place. But we have no money to buy land. We have no choice. We have to stay here. “And they” ------ pointing to the mountain of death in the clearing - "are our neighbours."
2. PONNIMANTHURI VILLAGE, INDIA
"I can remember the time," she said wistfully, "when all the fields around this village were green and the harvests good". Her outstretched arm described a complete circle as she stood in the morning sun. "Then they built those monsters, those……." Her voice spluttered in anger as she shook her fist at a collection of ominous looking black buildings on the horizon, covered in a low-lying shroud of thick smoke. "They said that factories need leather to make shoes, handbags and clothes. They said our men folk would get jobs. They said we would all become rich."
We stood silent, each thinking our own thoughts. Yes, they told you all that. But there is so much they didn't tell you. They didn't tell you that to change animal skins into leather - which they call tanning - uses as many as 250 different chemicals, including heavy metals such as cadmium , arsenic and chromium. They didn't tell you that these chemicals are discharged into the environment from those chimney stacks and fall to earth for miles around, polluting the earth below. They didn't tell you that this would poison your fields, so that nothing will grow.
“They didn't tell us that the chemicals would be dumped in open fields and into our rivers,” sighed Vijayasama. We had been thinking the same thoughts. “They didn't tell us that our women would have to walk ten kilometers every day. They didn't tell us that we would get ulcer and sores on our bodies. They didn't tell us…” Her voice trailed off. There is so much they didn't tell you, I thought. “We don't buy leather shoes or leather handbags or leather clothes,” she said.
3. VOROBYOV VILLAGE, UKARINE (FORMERLY USSR)
"It happened on April the 26th 1986. I remember the date because it was my mother's birthday. We heard the explosion early in the morning. We didn't worry, because there had been explosions before from Chernobyl. But this one was bigger. Everyone stopped what they were doing and listened. Then we ran out into the garden. We could see a cloud of white smoke coming from the nuclear reactor." Natasha Revenko wiped her hands nervously on her apron. Tears came to the corners of her eyes, and slid slowly down her pinched, pale cheeks.
"It was a Saturday," she went on, still wiping her hands on her apron. "It was a lovely warm day, and the children played outside all weekend. Even when the dust began to fall, they still played outside. They picked up handfuls of it and threw it at each other, laughing. It was Wednesday before the loudspeaker van came to the village, telling us to keep our children indoors and not to touch the radioactive dust. They also told us to wash down our houses and roads with water. A week later the children began to vomit. Their hair fell out. They couldn't eat. They grew so thin, and sores appeared all over their little bodies. Two weeks after that, all three died - all three on the same day." She broke down now and cried quietly, as she had done so many times before. "They're buried over there." She pointed to the church graveyard. "Lots of village children are. And adults."
I touched her gently on the shoulder, leaving her to her bitter-sweet memories, and walked on through the silence. It was a ghost town. No one lived there anymore. They had either died or been forcibly evacuated. The fields were barren. Nothing grew. Nothing ever would again. There was no bird-song. No rabbit peered at me. No cow endlessly chewed. No horse neighed. Natasha caught me up as we boarded the bus marked MOSCOW. "Thank you for coming with me," She said. "I wanted to see the graves and the house again, before I die."
OR WILL THE DREAMER WAKE? (POEM) BY MEDIRA CHEVALIER
Medora Chevalier is the 21st century poet. She is a well-known writer of present day. She writes about all contemporary themes. In this poem - Or will the Dreamer Wake? She writes about how the animals would become extinct if they are not protected.
(Interview with Wangari Maathai, Environmental Activist and Nobel Prize winner)
Wangari Maathai started the Green Belt Movement and also fought for equal rights for women in Africa. She is the first African woman to win the Nobel Peace Prize. Read the excerpts from her interview with NHK Radio (Japan).
NHK Radio: How did you become aware of the environment?
W M: From the time we started, we were trying to respond to the basic needs of people in the rural areas; and people were asking for clean drinking water, for food, for energy (which is mostly firewood), for building material, for fodder for the animals. And all these come from the land. So we knew that what the people in the rural areas were asking for had to do with the environment. They did not have those things because the environment was degraded. So, from the very beginning we understood that we have to rehabilitate the environment.
The forested mountains were the source of water and the source of rain, so when you deforest you cause a shortage of water and a change of rainfall patterns and therefore people are not able to get food and water. Therefore, in order for them to have good environment that can sustain their livelihoods, it is important to have a government that accounts to them, that protects them, that protects their interests, that is concerned about their lives.
NHK Radio : How is peace connected to a good environment?
W M : Many wars that are fought in the world are fought over natural resources. Some wars are fought because the environment is so degraded that it is not able to support communities and so they fight over the little that is left. Others are fought because some people want to take a lot of the resources, to control them, and to keep many other people out.
Now whether this happens at the national level or at the regional level, or even at the global level, sooner or later there is discontent; and when that discontent is strong enough, there is conflict. So good management of the natural resources, equitable distribution of these resources, is important for peace. At the same time, good management of the natural resources is not possible if you do not have democratic space, respect for human beings, respect for human rights, giving other people dignity.
That is why the three themes are related, like the African stool, with three legs and the basin on which you sit. The three legs: one leg is peace, the other leg is good governance, the third leg is sustainable management of resources. When you have those three legs, now you can put the basin, which is development. And if you try to balance that stool without those three, it won't happen.
We have not shared our resources equitably. We have allowed some people, especially those in power, to acquire a lot at the expense of the majority. And we have also engaged in conflict.
NHK Radio : What was the environment like when you were young, and how did you go about saving it?
W M. : When I was a child, which is almost more than fifty years ago, the environment was very pristine, very beautiful, and very green. We were a British colony, and the British government at that time started to clear cut the indigenous forests in our forested mountains because they wanted to establish commercial plantations of exotic species of trees such as the pines from the northern hemisphere and the eucalyptus from Australia. These trees are very nice, they grow tall, and they grow very fast, but as they grow they destroy all the local biological diversity. All the flora and fauna disappeared. So although we were getting commercial timber for the growing timber industry, we also destroyed our local flora and fauna.
As a result, these forests, which were the water towers, were no longer able to contain the water, so when the rains fell the water ran downstream and ended up in the lakes and ocean instead of going down into the underground reservoir so that it could come back to us in the form of rivers. One thing we noted is that not only did the rain patterns change, became less, but also the rivers started drying up. We lost our local biological diversity. So that's a lot of damage to our environment.
That is why in 1975, at the very first United Nations Conference for Women in Mexico, many of the women were saying, "We need food, we need water, we need clean drinking water, we need fodder for our animals." And I was wondering, what has happened? These are things that were there twenty years ago when I was a child. The environment had changed; and that's when I started this campaign to restore the vegetation and to restore the land and to rehabilitate the forests.
NHK Radio : What happened when you started working with the women?
W M.: Well, the first time when I told them, "Let us plant trees", the women said they did not know how to plant trees. So I asked the foresters to come and teach them, but they were very complicated-they are professionals. It became very complicated for ordinary illiterate women so I told the women, "We shall use our common sense, and just do what we do with other seeds." Women work on the farms. They're the ones who plant. They're the ones who cultivate. They're the ones who produce food, so I told them that seeds of trees are like any other seeds. So if they were to treat these tree seeds the same way they treat other seeds of food crops, there is no difference. I told them to look for old broken pots even and put seeds there. They will germinate and they will know these are the seedlings from the seeds they planted and we gave them plastic bags to be able to put those seedlings and to nurture them and when they were about half a meter long then they could go and transplant them on their farms.
In the beginning it was difficult, but they soon gained confidence and they became very competent foresters. So I called them "Foresters without Diplomas".
NHK Radio: Why do you think they responded so well to your message?
W M: It was a need. When the women said they needed firewood and building material, we responded to that need. Plant trees; then you will have trees for firewood. In the tropics, trees grow very fast. In five to ten years these trees serve as firewood, as building materials.
Once we had planted those trees, we saw the need for them to understand why we have to have good governance; so it became important to give them civic education so that they could understand how we govern ourselves, why we govern ourselves the way we govern ourselves, why we are managing our environment the way we are managing it. Because we were dealing with the environment, we gave them education both in civics and also in environment. That made them understand clearly why they should take up the responsibility of protecting their environment-that it was not the responsibility of the government or the responsibility of somebody else to come and rehabilitate their environment on their own land. It's them; it's their responsibility.
NHK Radio : What transformations did you see?
W M: One of the bigger transformations that I saw was that ability of an ordinary, illiterate woman to get to understand and to be able to plant trees that in five or ten years became big trees and she was able to cut them and be able to give herself energy; to be able to sell those trees and give herself an income; to be able to feel confident that she had done something for herself. That sense of pride, sense of dignity that they are not begging, that they are doing things for themselves was very empowering. That transformation was very powerful.
The other is the transformation of the landscape. Places where there was dust, there are no more dust. There are trees, even birds and rabbits. They come back and they make the environment very beautiful. There is a shade and sometimes even dry springs come back because the water is not running, the water is going into the ground. Very profound transformation.
And the other transformation that I saw was the willingness of the people to fight for their rights; to decide that they have a right to a good clean environment; to decide that they will fight for their forests, they will protect their forests, and they will not allow corrupt leaders to take their public land.
NHK Radio : How do you think you can influence the rest of Africa?
W M: Our efforts will inspire other people to stop wasting their resources and their youth in wars and instead engage in creating a peaceful environment, more peaceful states.
I'm very happy about the fact that now in Africa you see new efforts of ensuring that Africans engage in dialogue, that they invest in peaceful negotiations for conflicts, that we manage our environment. We must restore our environment and try to ensure that we do not fight, because we are allowing the environment, especially the land, to be degraded; and then we fight over agricultural land and grazing land. I see a lot of hope in what is happening in Somalia, what is happening in the Sudan, what is happening in West Africa. I see a lot of African leaders encouraging each other to engage in dialogue.
NHK Radio: What is the one thing we can do ?
W M : For me, my greatest activity is to plant a tree. I think that a tree is a wonderful symbol for the environment and when we plant a tree we plant hope. We plant the future for ourselves, for our children, for the birds. We plant something that will last, long after we are gone.
The poetry Dr. Suraya Nasim writes is straight from the heart. It has no fixed pattern. It doesn’t follow any particular rule. The poems come as a flow. His poems are simple and easy to read and hopefully easier to understand. English was one of his favorite subjects in school along with science. The prescriptions he writes are from the brain but the poems he writes are definitely from his heart. He was nominated for the Booker Award in 2013.
THE STOREYD HOUSE (PART-I)
THE STOREYD HOUSE (PART-II)
THE STOREYD HOUSE (PART – I and II)
WAMAN GOVIND HOVAL (Translated by M.D.Hatknagalekar)
Waman Govind Hoval (born in 1938) is a well known Marathi writer for his concern for Dalits, who are the victims of social justice. He is known for his rustic style, crisp dialogues and the tongue-in-cheek humour that often startles the readers. Yelkot (1982) and Varasdar (1986) are his collections of short stories.
THE STOREYED HOUSE-I
There was something really wrong with the State Transport bus. It had come up the winding road in the mountain as if with a life-time effort. The road was now down-hill and yet the bus moved as slowly as a sick man walking with the help of another. It reached the plain where the dispensary building was situated, and stood still, like an obstinate bull. Now, the destination was hardly a mile or two away. But the driver was sore and the conductor had no option but to be silent. When they realized that the bus wouldn't move any faster, a couple of passengers exclaimed: "Goddammit for a bloody nuisance!"
The conductor asked the passengers to get down and they all put their strength together to push the bus. Having gained this initial momentum, the bus started. Passengers clambered up, jostling one another. The conductor rang the bell and the bus gradually took on speed. It entered the village reluctantly like a truant child being dragged to school. As it wound its way through the curves on the outskirts, it groaned and croaked like a hen about to lay eggs, and stopped with a bang in front of Bhujaba Patil's residence. As it halted, it gave a big lurch, sending the passengers helter-skelter, churned like water in a pitcher when the carrier stumbles.
All the passengers got down.
The coolie put his hand on a huge wooden box and shouted, 'Whose box is this?'
Bayaji, who was brushing away the dust from his body, answered, 'Oh, it's mine , please lower it down.'
The coolie heaved and grunted as he lowered the box which Bayaji caught with ease.
Bayaji had packed his entire household goods in this box. There was no longer any reason to hang around in Bombay. He had worked honestly for the past thirty-five years in the dockyard and had retired from service two months before. Not that he had held an important position. He had merely got an extension for two years; during that period he had become a supervisor. Otherwise his entire life had been spent lifting heavy loads. He had worked very hard whenever he could, day and night.
Bayaji had crossed sixty but was in sound health. He had a sturdy frame right from birth, and hard work had given a well formed shape to his strong body. He paid fifteen paise to the coolie, put the box, in which he had thrown pots and pans and sundry other things, on his own head and began to walk in the direction of his house.
As he reached Kadam's house, he saw Bhujaba coming towards him. Bhujaba was a known rascal of the village. Bayaji balanced the burden on his head. Straightening his neck, he said, 'Greetings to you, sir, how are things with you?'
Bayaji was a Mahar by caste and according to age-old custom should have greeted Bhujaba with 'My humble salutations to you, sir, who are my father and mother.' So, when Bayaji merely said 'Greetings'. Bhujaba became furious and said, 'Do you think you can become a Brahmin merely by saying "Greetings"? Can you forget your position simply because you've turned Buddhist?'
Bayaji was nonplussed. For a moment, he was tempted to knock him down with his box but realised that he couldn't afford to do so. Besides, now he had come back to his village for good. He was to spend the rest of his days on this soil and would be interred in the same soil. He would not be able to return to Pune or Bombay hereafter. It was not a good policy to incur the hostility of anyone in the village, least so of the Patil, the village headman.
So he said in a meek tone, 'Sir, why spring this on me even before I set foot on the soil of my forefathers? I have to stay here till the end of my life.'
'Why? Aren't you going back to your job?' asked Bhujaba. 'No sir, my service is over, I've turned sixty.' With this Bayaji lifted the load from his head a little to place it in position.
'Then you've collected your fund amount?' Bhujaba was taking his measure. 'Yes, sir', Bayaji replied with pride. 'How much?' Bhujaba asked greedily. 'Not much, what can a daily worker earn?' Bayaji answered. 'Why won't you mention the figure, man?' Bhujaba persisted artfully.
'Some two and a half thousand rupees.' Bayaji gave the correct figure.
'Bayaji, you have a heavy load on your head. Go to your house first. We'll talk at leisure later.' Bhujaba said in mock sympathy.
'Yes, yes' Bayaji mumbled and walked in the direction of his house. At the moment, Bayaji was the proud owner of two and a half thousand rupees in cash, so it made no difference whether he was an untouchable or a Buddhist. If only one could swindle out of the untouchable Bayaji- or rather Buddhist. If only one could swindle out of the untouchable Bayaji -or rather Buddhist Bayaji- four or five hundred rupees, that was enough. With the thought in his mind, Bhujaba entered his wada, the big house.
Exchanging pleasantries with people he met on the way, Bayaji reached the public building called Takkya in the untouchables' settlement. The building was named Buddha Vihar by those who had embraced Buddhism. As Bayaji neared Buddha Vihar, the children, who were playing with a ball made of rags, finished their game and cried out, 'Baiju Nana is here, Baiju Nana is here!' and scampered in the direction of Bayaji's house. Bayaji's eightyfive-year-old mother quickly scrambled to her feet. She had aged much but her old-worn frame was still sturdy, and her teeth were strong enough to break grams. She could thread a needle without help. When she heard of Bayaji's arrival her heart swelled.
As Bayaji came in, his wife concealed her joy with the end of her sari and took down the box from his head. His grandchildren clung to him and began to twist the folds of his dhoti. The neighbouring children watched the scene in idle curiosity
'Come, get into the house, children!' said Bayaji. His mother walked out with a bent back and told Bayaji to wait outside the door. Bayaji obeyed.
The old woman came forward, poured some water over the piece of bread in her hand, moved it around Bayaji's face and flung it away as an offering. She ran her palms over his cheeks and pressed her fingers on her temples. All eight fingers gave out a cracking sound.
Bayaji's family was doing well .He had eight children in all, six sons and two daughters. The daughters had been married off and had given birth to children. The elder son looked after the fields, the next two sons were in government service, the one after them was a school- teacher and the sixth one was still studying. Since they knew that Bayaji was coming home for good, the elder son in service and the two daughters were already home to greet him. All of them wondered what their father had got for them from his lifetime's earnings.
The next day when Bayaji opened the box, it revealed only some pots and pans, nails and photographs.
Looking at these, the elder daughter asked, 'Nana, how is it that you haven't brought anything for us?'
Bayaji was amused that his daughters thought in this childish manner even after they had children of their own. He ran his eyes over all his children and said, 'Look here, children,
if I had brought new clothes for you, they'd tear, if I had brought an ornament it would soon wear out. Out of my earnings I wish you to have something that'll last longer.
Bayaji paused after these words. His eldest son was godly. He said, 'Neither we nor our wives want anything. Tell us what you'd like us to do.' 'Look children, ours is such a large family. Even at mealtime, we've to eat by turns or sit crowded, knocking our knees together. I wish to build a house out of my earnings, and it has to be a storeyed house; the usual three-portioned house won't be adequate for us.' All were happy with this plan. The plan was finalised and the foundation of the storeyed house was laid on the auspicious New Year Day.
THE STOREYED HOUSE – II
The news that Bayaji was building a storeyed house spread like a cry from the rooftops. There was only one storeyed house in the village and that belonged to Kondiba Patil. That Bayaji, an untouchable creature, should think of a rival storeyed house was too much for Kondiba to bear. Others also murmured that the untouchables were forgetting their position.
Work on the foundation had started. Dattaram Vadar was given the contract of construction. The foundation trenches were filled with mud, bits of stone and other fillings. Work progressed with speed. One day Bayaji saw Kondiba coming towards him and greeted him. 'It's with your blessings that I have ventured on this storeyed house.'
'Baiju, you shouldn't lose your head simply because you've set aside some money. Do you aspire to an equal status with us by building this house? The poor should remain content with their cottage, understand?' Kondiba remarked rather sharply.
'No Patil, please don't misunderstand me.' Bayaji was a little dizzy with nervousness.
'How do you say that? One should keep to one's position. You shouldn't let a little money turn your head.'
'I only wish to build a shelter for my family. Then I shall be free to breathe my last.' Bayaji answered.
'Who says you shouldn't have a house? You can have a small house with three convenient portions, a veranda in the front and at the back and the living section in the middle. Why spend unnecessarily on a storeyed house?' Patil gave his counsel.
'No, but……' Bayaji faltered.
'You may go in for a storeyed house only if you don't wish to stay in this village. I hope you know what I mean.' Kondiba shot out as a warning and walked away. Other ruffians in the village threatened Bayaji in a similar manner.
Out of fear Bayaji had to abandon plans for the storeyed house. The conventional three-portioned house was taken up. Work was resumed and the walls rose rapidly. The middle portion was a little elevated and a small first storey fixed up there with a wooden flooring. This part could be reached by stairs rising from the kitchen. No one could guess from the outside that there was a first storey to the house. Bayaji had to make the best of things.
The house was complete and the traditional housewarming ceremony was planned. Invitations were sent to relatives in different villages. The village elders, by convention, could not be invited to a meal or refreshments, so they were invited to the ceremonial paan-supari. Bayaji put up a fine pandal in front of the house. His sons worked hard for two full days on the decorations. Relatives started arriving. Well-known devotional singers, Kadegaonkar Buwa, Parasu Buwa, Kalekar Bapu Master,Jija Buwa and Vithoba of Wadgaon came with their troupes. People looked forward with delight to the forthcoming contest among the various troupes.
In the evening four petromax lights were hung in the four corners of the pandal. It lent a unique golden yellow light to the surroundings. Guests were engrossed in conversation.
Kondiba Patil was soon there. With him was the thug Bhujaba and four or five seasoned rascals like Vithoba Ghayakute and Parasu Martanda. These people felt uneasy at the sight of the brand new house, the impressive pandal and the crowd of smiling faces.
Their eyes roved all over the place. Bayaji led them up the stairs in the kitchen. The first floor looked like a drawing room. The walls were radiant with blue oil-paint. The fresh colour gave out a pleasant smell. Framed pictures of great men like Lord Buddha, Dr. Babasaheb Amebedkar, Karmaveer Bhaurao Patil, Mahatma Jyotiba Phule and others hung on the walls. The loft-like first floor was filled with a pious and holy ambience.
Bayaji spread a rough woollen carpet for Patil and the other high-caste people. Patil sat quietly on that. His companions rather uncomfortable took their positions around him; Bayaji offered them the customary betel leaves. Patil accepted the leaves but immediately gave it back to Bayaji with the remark, 'Yes, it's all very nice!'
'But why don't you accept the betel leaves?' Bayaji asked nervously. Bhujaba smiled artificially and said, 'It's enough that your offering is honoured; is it also necessary to eat it? We'll make a move now.' With this Kondiba Patil, Bhujaba and his companions rose to leave. As they came down, Bhujaba felt as if he were tumbling down the stairs.
They eyed one another as if to say, 'This untouchable worm has got a swollen head. He needs proper handling.'
Bayaji fed all his guests with meal of shira and puris. Along with betel nuts items of gossip rolled over their tongues and then the session of social devotional songs began.
Among the Bhajan singers, Kalekar Bapu Master has a superior voice. Kadegaonkar Buwa was better at classical singing. Devotional songs were sung in praise of Dr.Babasaheb Ambedkar and Lord Buddha. People swayed their heads in appreciation as the programme gathered momentum. It was two o' clock in the morning. Bayaji was strutting about in the pandal. He sat down by a guest now and then, to inquire after his welfare. Small children, unable to resist sleep, had dropped off like bundles of rags. Women sat in the front verandah. Bayaji's children were busy preparing tea for a second round. They had put tea powder and sugar into a pot on a trenched stove and waited for the water to boil. The bhajan was in full swing. 'I had a dream at night and my breast was full of feeling,' went the line.
The group advanced from baseless devotionals - like 'From the east came a horde of ghosts, each one with seven heads' - to social devotionals.
Kalekar Bapu Master's powerful voice rose up, `Take to heart the sweet advice of Bhimaraya and bow down to Buddha for the emancipation of the whole world. I fly to the refuge of Lord Buddha, I fly to the refuge of the Faith; I fly to the refuge of the Faithful.' The song rent the air, filling it with joy. And then the undreamt-of incident took place.
Bayaji's new house had caught fire from all sides. It had suddenly flared up. The womenfolk in the front verandah screamed in confusion. The guests stood up swiftly and began to pull out of the women like a herd of cattle.
Bayaji was frantic. He ran around crying, 'My house, my storeyed house! It's on fire. My enemy has taken revenge on me.' He entered the roaring flames, crying 'My House, my house.' He climbed up, pulled the pictures of Buddha and Babasaheb from the walls and hurled them down. As he was about to come down the stairs, it crumbled down in flames. People pulled up water from a nearby well to put out the dreadful fire but it could not be easily contained. 'Bayaji, jump down, quick, jump,' people shouted. Women and children were crying and screaming. Now that the staircase had collapsed, no one could go up. Scorched in the flames, Bayaji ran around like a trapped creature, howling all the time, 'My house, my house!'
And then the upper storey itself came down with a crash and along with it Bayaji, with a resounding thud. People pulled him out.
Bayaji was burnt all over. He was still wailing, My house, my house! Bayaji's children encircled him and cried their hearts out.
The guests were busy putting out the fire. All Bayaji's hopes had been reduced to ashes. What was the use of putting out the fire now?
Bayaji was badly burnt and he was in great agony. He asked for water all the time. As his eyes began to roll in his head, his eldest son moved closer, gulped down the sorrow that was surging in his throat and asked, 'Nana, what's your last wish?'
'Sons, I want you to build a storeyed house, I've no other wish.' With these words, his head collapsed like the storeyed house. Bayaji was quiet and the fire too had calmed down.
Bayaji's mother wept bitterly. 'Your father passed away without giving me a burial. At least your hands should have pushed the dust over my dead body. Bayaji, speak to me.' She was mad with grief.
Bayaji's wife was sobbing her heart out, crying repeatedly, 'Who's done this evil to us? Let the house burn to cinders. Save my husband first!'
The entire family was shattered by the calamity. The spirits of all the men were dampened like a cooking fire on which water has been poured.
In the morning the village officers and witnesses visited the place to record the facts of the accident. 'Bayaji's death was the result of an accident due to a petromax flare-up,' was their conclusion.
The house was burning before the house-warming ceremony was over and Bayaji was in ashes in the cemetery instead of enjoying the comforts of a retired life.
After the funeral, people returned hanging their heads. All of them were pained at heart to think that having come to celebrate the housewarming, they had the misfortune to attend the funeral of the host.
All were sitting in a sullen mood in the pandal when Bayaji's eldest son came out with three or four baskets, a spade a pickaxe and a hoe. He outlined a square with the pickaxe and began to dig.
The eldest son was digging, the second was gathering the earth with his spade and the others were lifting it away in baskets.
The guests asked in amazement, 'Children, you are in mourning! What's this you're doing?'
'Our father's soul cannot rest in peace unless we do this.'
'But what is it that you're doing?'
'We're starting on a house, not one with a concealed first floor but a regular two-storeyed house,' replied the eldest son of Bayaji. And the six brothers resumed with determination the work of digging the foundation of a two-storeyed house.'
