A lie that saved two lives

A lie that saved two lives
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After being transferred to Koraput College, I joined there despite my reluctance. The reason for my unwillingness was my wife, Shwetapadma. Our marriage had not even completed a year. Soon after the wedding, we had come to Cuttack, but before we could properly settle down, this transfer order arrived.

The biggest difficulty was that Shwetapadma had just joined a public school in Cuttack as a teacher. It was impossible for me to take her along to Koraput.

I tried at the Director’s office to delay my transfer for a few days, but it was of no use. The Director advised me, “First join there. Later we shall see if we can transfer you somewhere nearer.”

Left with no choice, I joined my new post. My body was in Koraput, but my mind and heart remained in Cuttack. Fortunately, Shwetapadma’s widowed aunt agreed to stay with her. That relieved some of my worries, and I moved to Koraput.

The house I rented in Koraput was slightly outside the town. Right next to my house stood a small mud hut. From the terrace of my house I could see the courtyard of that hut. In the courtyard there was a well, and around it grew patches of leafy vegetables.
Three people lived in that hut—a husband, a wife, and a girl of about fifteen or sixteen.

The man belonged to a farming caste but worked as a mason. Their house was small, but there was an Adivasi settlement not far away from the hut .

On the very first night I heard loud quarrels and abusive shouting from that hut. After the shouting came the sound of blows and the heart-rending cries of a woman. The girl’s voice could also be heard pleading,
“Father, don’t beat Mother… she will die… please stop… I beg you!”

I felt like going there to see what was happening. But then I thought—why should I interfere in someone else’s family matters?
The shouting and violence continued almost till midnight. From that day onwards, it became a nightly routine.

One Sunday morning I was sitting in the drawing room with a cup of tea and the newspaper when the calling bell rang. When I opened the door, the woman from the neighbouring hut was standing there. She ws around thirty-five years of age.

I asked, “Yes, what is it? Do you need something?”
With great hesitation she said,
“Babu, do you need someone to wash your utensils and do housework?”
I replied, “Yes. Will you do it?”
She said, “Yes, babu. My hut is just next to your house. I will work, and if I cannot come someday, my daughter will come and do the work.”

I agreed. “All right, start from today. I cook for myself. You can clean the house and wash the utensils. I will pay you whatever others usually pay.”

She replied humbly, “No babu, give me whatever you feel is right. I have no demands.”

Once I agreed, she immediately began working. During our initial conversation I learned about her background—what one might call her “CV.”

Her name was Sulei, her daughter’s name Gelei, and her husband’s name was Bagula. Bagula was a mason. Interestingly, Sulei was five years older than him. Gelei was the daughter from her previous marriage. Her first husband had died in a road accident. Later, while working as a labourer with Bagula in construction work, they developed a relationship and eventually got married.
After hearing all this, I asked Sulei,
“Why do we hear shouting from your house every night? Does Bagula beat you?”
Sulei replied calmly,
“Yes babu. After drinking a bottle of Aska Forty(a type of wine)beating me is his daily routine. In front of my grown-up daughter he even pulls at my clothes. If my daughter tries to stop him, he beats her too. He behaves like a beast.”

After hearing this my heart was filled with deep sadness.
Every night the same activities repeated itself—Sulei being beaten and her desperate cries rendering the surrounding. In all the occasions I stood on my terrace watching helplessly, my heart heavy with sorrow.
One morning when Sulei came to work, I noticed a deep wound above her left eye. When I asked about it, she said,
“He hit me with a grinding stone.”
I asked, “Did you take a tetanus injection?”
She replied,
“For people like us, babu, the juice of wild leaves is our tetanus medicine. The pain will heal. But what medicine is there for the pain in the heart?”

Then she added quietly,
“What can I say? It is a wound that cannot be shown. My husband’s eyes have now fallen on my daughter. Yesterday when he tried to drag her, I bit his hand. For that he smashed my head with a stone.”

I was stunned into silence.
“Why didn’t you report this to the police?” I asked.
She answered bitterly,
“What is the use of complaining to those useless fellows? They will do nothing. Only my daughter’s reputation will be ruined. Am I so helpless that I must run to the police? I am a tigress. Let me see how Bagula dares to snatch my child from my arms.”

That day, for the first time, I saw flames of fierce determination burning in Sulei’s eyes.
For me, the evening drama in Sulei’s house had become a daily occurrence. But one day it reached its climax.

That night, after the usual shouting and crying, there was suddenly an eerie silence—as if calm had followed a storm. Curious, I went up to the terrace. I saw Sulei and her daughter standing beside the well, clinging to each other and trembling.
I went to their hut to find out what had happened.
Seeing me, Sulei said,
“Today again Bagula came drunk and tried to drag my daughter. I struck him on the head with a stone… and pushed him into the well.”

I immediately told her to remain silent.
“No, Sulei,” I said firmly. “You did nothing. Bagula fell into the well in his drunken state. I saw it. Now cry loudly and call people from the nearby settlement. I will handle the rest.”

Within a short time people gathered, and Bagula’s lifeless body was pulled out of the well.
The police inspector arrived for investigation. I testified that I had seen Bagula fall into the well in a drunken state . The injury on his head, the inspector concluded in his report, might have been caused by hitting the stone lining of the well.
The post-mortem report mentioned death due to intoxication and drowning.
During the inquiry, the inspector asked me,
“Sir, as a neighbour, what can you say about Bagula?”

I replied,
“Except for drinking, Bagula had no bad habits. He loved his wife deeply and was very fond of his daughter.”
The police registered the case as an accidental death and closed the matter.

Later, once while discussing regarding truth and falsehood with my wife Swetapadma, I told her,
“If telling a lie can save the life of an innocent person, there is no harm in telling such a lie again and again.”
And to explain my point, I narrated to her the story of Sulei-----

(Kulamani Sarangi )