In the rushing darkness of the dusk over the mound at Dighardihi, a light was whirling—bhanban, bhanban—round and round. Not light, but fire. Circling slowly, the flame lost its intensity, and finally almost died down. Now, it burned quietly on the ground. In that wavering glow, from a distance, a face could be seen—dark, youthful, and beautiful. Binti Shabari’s face.
From above, Lakhai was coming down the hilly path. His eyes fixed on the fire. He wore half-pants and a torn red shirt. Bare footed. The biting cold wind made him shiver. In his right hand dangling a dead field mouse, held by its tail. Swaying a little, he was hastily walking toward the dying fire.
Lakhai at once made a low sound—hmm. Binti, however, took no notice. She wasn’t scared.
Lakhai lovingly asked, “Burning shells, are you?”
“Yes,” Binti replied. “There’s no lime left at home. How’ll I take tamak? You have a little, don’t you?” She eyed him closely in the dying light.
Lakhai happily sat down close to her by the fire and said, “Wait. Let me roast the mouse first.”
He put the mouse in the fire and began to blow hard on the flames. Inside, in a saal-leaf pouch, a handful of shells were burning. On them the mouse crackled and began popping as it roasted.
“My shells aren’t burning at all,” Binti groused. “And you’ve put your mouse right there. The fire is going out.”
Still blowing hard, Lakhai pacified her, “It’s not going out. Fetch two bundles of wood. I’ll take care of your shells. And this mouse—this is only for you. I roasted two at home and ate them at noon.”
“Eh! For me?” Binti’s mouth watered at the thought of tasting meat. She hurriedly brought some twigs from the pile outside and put them before Lakhai.
Feeding the fire, Lakhai pleaded, “Sit, sit. You’re shivering like a leaf. Warm yourself. Then you can lazily eat this roasted mouse.”
Binti sat closer, and soon Lakhai placed his warm hands on her cheeks, “Here—your shiver’s gone now. I’ve warmed you.”
Binti blushed and set his hands away, “Leave me! I’m not cold. You warm yourself first.”
Some minutes passed in silence.
And when the mouse was done roasting, Lakhai peeled off its skin, bones, and tail. Handing her bits of meat, he said, “Here, eat.”
“You eat first,” Binti demurred. “Then I’ll eat.”
“I already ate at home.”
“Just take a piece. Girls shouldn’t eat first—you know that.”
After Lakhai took a piece, Binti slowly began eating. She looked worried. Between bites she asked, “Why do you bring me things—this and that—every evening?”
“Don’t you know?”Lakhai beamed, and took her hand in his. “Your father said it himself many days ago. Have you forgotten all? Ah! He’ll marry you to me. Our great days are coming soon.”
“It’s only his word. Has he given my hands to you?” Binti looked cross, and quickly pulled her hand away.
“He will, of course, he will. As soon as my ma and pa return from the East, we’ll be married.”
“Saying so don’t make it happen. Weddings cost money. You have to feed the whole village. Buy many things.”
“They’ll bring lots of money from the East. Once they return, it’ll all happen. Why are you worrying so much?”
They sat in silence. The fire, meanwhile, slowly began to die down.
“Your shells are done burning,” Lakhai broke the silence. “Let them cool. Grind them into lime tomorrow. For tonight, take a bit of tamak from me.”
From his torn shirt pocket he took a bit of tamak and lime, slowly rubbed them together in his palm for a long while, then gently tucked a bit into Binti’s mouth. Keeping the rest for himself, he said, “I’m going. You stay in the house. Go to sleep. Don’t stay alone outside. The spirits’ll come.”
The moon was up in the sky. Lakhai took the narrow path upward toward his hut on the hill.
Close to the dead fire Binti was sitting like a stone looking after the receding shadow.
(Trans. by the editor)
