Bhailo
by
Shinjini Dey
Every year we thought, now they are too old, now they shall no longer come. When they walked past from down below, far from the villages, we sized them up—enough toes and hair, a little sindoor, one payal, one death in the family. The old did not threaten, only the young were brash and bold enough to ask for us. But we wouldn’t wait for them to grace the threshold; this year, we wouldn’t even open the door.
But it was loud outside, the dogs couldn’t bear the sizzle, and crashed against our doors. Closer outside, they sang of demons, of realms too small for our span of time. We huddled inside, refusing blessings of gods too large. Our gods fit in cupboards, demanded in the cover of night; we had other names for all the raining light.
‘Mhanegangma Tiharma bhailo kheli’
Three this year. Three for the three of us. Three unmarried women with a golden plate held out in front.
‘Damaiko samuha’
It is such a simple song. Our gods once danced on the heads of the demons, on the heads of their gods. It was a blessing. It was cruel.
‘Ma, please—’ I say.
I want to cut myself open like a telegraph and let the words inside wiggle out. Ten little words, three of which say stop.
Her eyes pinned beyond me to something unwound from a claustrophobic prayer. Mother was chanting in Sanskrit, something recorded as ancient. ‘It is tradition.’
‘Ma—'
They will taste like iron.
Ma says, ‘If the food were any prettier, we wouldn’t be able to eat it.’
But we begin: cracking bones, scooping flesh, washing blood. It is a feast of small proportions. It is what they send to keep the peace between their village and our wide, our developing, country of light.
But it was loud outside, the dogs couldn’t bear the sizzle, and crashed against our doors. Closer outside, they sang of demons, of realms too small for our span of time. We huddled inside, refusing blessings of gods too large. Our gods fit in cupboards, demanded in the cover of night; we had other names for all the raining light.
‘Mhanegangma Tiharma bhailo kheli’
Three this year. Three for the three of us. Three unmarried women with a golden plate held out in front.
‘Damaiko samuha’
It is such a simple song. Our gods once danced on the heads of the demons, on the heads of their gods. It was a blessing. It was cruel.
‘Ma, please—’ I say.
I want to cut myself open like a telegraph and let the words inside wiggle out. Ten little words, three of which say stop.
Her eyes pinned beyond me to something unwound from a claustrophobic prayer. Mother was chanting in Sanskrit, something recorded as ancient. ‘It is tradition.’
‘Ma—'
They will taste like iron.
Ma says, ‘If the food were any prettier, we wouldn’t be able to eat it.’
But we begin: cracking bones, scooping flesh, washing blood. It is a feast of small proportions. It is what they send to keep the peace between their village and our wide, our developing, country of light.
NUNUM
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