Fiction: In a remote village in Bengal, the tribal Sahish community lives in neglect with its pigs

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4 days ago

Guhiram Sahish has a streak of eccentricity, with hints of madness evident in his everyday actions and demeanour. There isn't another quite like him in the Sahish community. He is as whimsical as he is obstinate. But no one pokes fun at the guy. Why should they? He, too, after all, is a part of this colony. A colony of pigs and humans – all mixed and jumbled up to such an extent that neither species can be well distinguished. Nevertheless, Guhiram Sahish stands out, even when these pig-keepers are lined up alongside their herds.
Guhiram spends entire days chasing after pigs. With a tattered lungi tucked at the waist and his limbs bare knee down, the man spares no care either for his clothes or for the blazing sun. Perpetual cohabitation with and constant nurturing of pigs has turned him a little wild. The scalding sun has left his skin irrevocably tanned. Equally remarkable is his build. Tall and broad, with an emaciated physique. Like a pig, his ribs jut out awkwardly, unsightly, and overly pronounced – straining to mask his belly. Even with such a frame, he can tirelessly chase after pigs. He can shout out loud. And leap in wild joy, cane in hand, screaming –'Harrrrrr-hatt! Tug tug tug-urrrrah!'
After hearing his shouts, the pigs can no longer graze with bowed heads. Within moments, their hollowed-in, sunken, bead-like eyes startle into awareness. Tripping and stumbling, they start to flee. Being constantly pursued, they trip and roll from one pond bank to another.
Many laugh at Guhiram's mindless acts. If Bhima, Satish, or someone else is around, they shout and say, 'Hei Guiha-da! Do you plan on bumping off the swine? Why rage after them so? Let them graze, would you?'
Guhiram pants. His saliva trickles down like sap. He grunts, 'Yeah, okay, graze away then.'
Guhiram enjoys this game of chasing pigs across fields. All's well if he goes away to Manbazaar to take up waged domestic labour. But, such work can rarely be obtained. Therefore, on some days, even on going to the 'bazaar,' one has to come back all wry-faced, after spending an hour or two standing staunch in expectation. He stays home on such days – as do Bhakru, Chitta, or Sadhucharan. Being at home requires one to be somewhat attentive toward the pigs, even if one doesn't have to groom and rear the creatures.
Grooming and looking after pigs involve directing them into the sty at a specified time and guiding them out carefully. An oblong container, made by symmetrically hollowing out the trunks of Donga and Jha trees, lies by the pigsty. This container serves watery rice starch – maad and pounded or ground bran. A regulated supply of such food makes their bodies grow and gain mass. And therein lies profit, which seldom comes their way. The goblet of rice starch they should serve to the pigs is hardly enough to satisfy their hunger. The naked Sahish children, clenching bowls in their hands, wait by the stove for a serving of maad. Rice boils in the handi mounted atop the wooden stove. The children frolic as they inhale the aroma of boiling rice, much like the quipping hunger in their stomachs. Or, at times, prompted by fierce excitement for oncoming food, one of them picks up a stick to doodle on the soot of the handi creating a commemoration of his artistry – a spontaneous expression profoundly personal yet historically universal in its innocence. When a meagre bowl of rice starch sparks a confrontation between humans and animals, and the human, depriving the animal, claims it to stave off hunger, he embodies a raw desperation that blurs the boundary between human and beast. The child's humble drawings remain as silent markers of this profound reality.
The pigs rove about. Keeping away from the huts, they graze upon grounds, fields, and pond banks. They feed on dirty, rotten junk. And, sometimes, to escape this torrid heat, they dunk in cool pond slush and climb back on land.
Guhiram pants by the pond, in the shade of the droopy Banyan. The freshly sprouted leaves tremble, and the air's filled with the stench of rotten mire. He leans back and gently caresses his chest, trying to feel the graze of his greying hair strands. If only there were a bidi – even a half-burnt one tucked into the folds of his loincloth, Guhiram would have gone for a puff while relaxedly savoring each slow, miserly drag.
With such longing in his heart, he falls asleep. Unbeknownst to him, his slumber is quietly observed by the silent village on the hilltop, where rows of mud huts stand side by side in serene stillness.
Only twelve huts constitute the Sahish neighbourhood, which houses about fifty people. Thirty-two of them are voters. They occupy such a tiny and negligible part of the entire area under the Manbazaar police depot's jurisdiction that this locality of the Sahishes is not considered a distinct village at all. Instead, they call it Hadipara.
The Sahishes are the Hadis of Hadipara. Referring to them as 'Sahishes' implies showing respect – respect that is rarely accorded to them. In reality, they are marginalised and viewed with disdain by other communities. To avoid the sight and influence of these 'undesirables,' society has relegated the Hadis to the fringes, where human habitation is barely possible. This peripheral land is a patchwork of grazing pastures, fields, marshes, and murky ponds, alongside landfills for cattle carcasses, garbage dumps, and sporadic bamboo clusters that transition into lowlands framed by rows of palm trees. At dawn, across those very palmtops and cradled by the blue skies, there flies forth, a flock of pied starlings. An Indian weaver swings away in its nest amidst palm fronds. Yet, here, habitable space is scarce – but still, the Hadis live on.
On the slightly raised ground, reminiscent of a tortoiseshell, the Hadis make their home, building distinct mud huts with thatched roofs. The homes are unique in their construction or, rather, in the lack of it – they follow an ancient architectural form, mirroring the Hadis' lifestyle. Most rooms lack walls; instead, they have low thatched roofs descending close to the ground. Each hut floor consists mainly of a clay dais, which is knee-high in elevation. Therefore, there is no distinct door to enter the room. Neither is there any need for one. One can quickly get in by crouching, diving headfirst, or crawling in on all fours.
The Sahishes enter in this very manner – at an effortless and quick pace. One realises that they had mastered this snake-like briskness from their forefathers. Back in the day, when dense forests covered the entire region, they might have had the urge to protect themselves from wild animals. Today, the geography of the terrain hints at that very past decadence. Even now, certain areas lie deserted while other regions have retained abundant vegetation. Yet, those wild survival instincts have hardly disappeared. Now, the Sahishes' need for self-protection is not from wild animals in the forests but rather from the harshness of their surroundings. Now, they struggle against poverty and the constant threat of starvation.