Shobashona’s Boti

The night lay heavy over the village like a blanket of ink. The occasional howl of a jackal punctuated the stillness, carried on the breeze through the bamboo groves. But inside the large house surrounded by high walls, Shobashona sat awake. Alone in the house, she kept a lantern burning by the kitchen window.

Her life had been shaped by resilience. Widowed at twenty-four, she had lost her husband, Ombujakkho to pneumonia. It had happened so suddenly, like the summer rain that floods a field before you can gather the grain. But grief had never shattered her.

Bengal’s customs did not leave room for a second marriage, but Shobashona never looked for another life. Instead, she planted her feet firmly where fate had placed her. She moved in with her brother-in-law, Nirojakkho, took over the household, and raised both his children and her own son, Guruprasad Mukherjee. Her life was woven tightly into the routines of others, and it was the fierce love she had for her son that kept her going. Guruprasad, was her joy and the reward for all her silent sacrifices.

Yet it was not only duty that gave her strength. She carried her devotion to Krishna deep in her heart, a gift passed down through generations. Her paternal family were ardent Vaishnavas, devotees of Sri Gouranga Mahaprabhu, whose teachings shaped every part of their lives. The walls of her father’s home had echoed with the sound of kirtans, cymbals, and conch shells, as neighbors gathered for evenings of devotion. She grew up watching her elders dance barefoot under the open sky, chanting Krishna’s name until tears streamed down their faces—tears of joy, not sorrow.

Whenever doubt crept into her life, Shobashona surrendered it to Krishna, just as she had been taught since childhood. Her mornings began with prayer—soft murmurings as she lit incense before her simple altar. Her nights ended with songs to Krishna, her voice floating like incense smoke through the courtyard, wrapping the house in the peace of surrender. Even as the years weighed on her bones, her devotion gave her a lightness that neither grief nor age could dim. Krishna’s name had become the rhythm of her life, carrying her through every storm with grace.

While others flinched from hardship, Shobashona embraced it. Her days were long, beginning before dawn with the milking of twelve cows, a task that left her arms as firm as the oars of a fisherman’s boat. Her hands, weathered but sure, could lift heavy pails without pause. Even after years of hard labor, her back remained straight, her step quick, and her presence commanding. There was a glow about her—not of youth, but of quiet, unyielding vigour. Her face, lined with age, still radiated a rare beauty—a beauty born from strength, from endurance, and from the peace that only unwavering faith can offer.

Shobashona feared neither man nor spirit. She had faced loneliness, grief, and backbreaking work without complaint—and she stood now with the same quiet resolve. When the shadows grew long and strange noises stirred the air, others might have bolted their doors and whispered prayers of protection. But not Shobashona. Krishna’s name was already on her lips, and fear had no space within her heart.

Her family had gone to attend a wedding in the next village—her son, Guruprasad, his wife, Basonti, and their two children, Gita and Gora. Guruprasad had grown into a man any mother would be proud of—sharp-minded and handsome, with the quiet authority of someone born to lead. He had joined the police force, a profession that suited him well, for he carried both strength and fairness in his heart. People in the village spoke his name with admiration, and Shobashona knew that his uniform wasn’t just stitched with fabric—it was woven with the values she had raised him with: discipline, honesty, and a heart that sought justice. And Basonti was a good match: gentle in speech but strong in her ways, a woman who carried her duties gracefully, never letting the weight of them show.

Together, they had built a warm home, filled with the lively clatter of small sandals and children’s laughter. Gita, their eldest, was a gentle soul, a devoted child of Krishna, who spent her days lost in quiet, meditative games. While other children ran wild through the fields, Gita would sit cross-legged in a corner, chanting Krishna’s name under her breath or pretending to prepare small offerings for Him. Her serene presence was like a cool breeze in the house.

Gora, on the other hand, was a whirlwind—loud, boisterous, and full of mischief. No corner of the house was safe from his antics. He loved playing pranks on his sister, though he could never quite get under her skin the way he intended. Only their father, Guruprasad, seemed to understand the boy’s restless mind, giving him space to roam while gently guiding him back to the right path.

They were the beating heart of the household, and though they filled it with noise and occasional chaos, it was the kind of life Shobashona secretly cherished.

“Ma, lock up early. Don’t wait for us,” Guruprasad had told her before they left, resting his hand on her shoulder the way he always did.

And so, she had locked everything—the doors, the windows, bolting each one shut with care. She wasn’t a woman who feared being alone. Life had tested her too many times to leave room for fear. She had Krishna, after all. He was there in every corner of her house, in every breath she took. His presence had carried her through the darkest of times, and she knew He would carry her still.

But some nights pull strange winds, and tonight carried something heavier than silence.

It started with the creak of the iron gate. The sound slipped into the house like an unwelcome guest, raising the hairs on the back of her neck. Then came the footsteps—soft at first, but soon louder, bolder, as if the walker had made up his mind.

A shadow emerged along the top of the high wall that enclosed the house. A figure balanced himself on the narrow ridge. He moved awkwardly but with an air of arrogance, as if certain that nothing in this house could stand in his way.

“Oi! Old woman!” the voice rang out—sharp, impatient, and young. “Come out and open the gate, or I’ll break everything down!”

Shobashona’s lips curled slightly— from a quiet disgust. This boy, whoever he was, thought she was an easy target.

“Break, is it? Break what?” she called out. “You’re too weak to break a chicken egg, boy!”

Her words sliced through the night, catching the boy off guard. There was a brief silence as he stopped, stunned by the sharpness in her tone. Then she heard him laugh—a hollow, mocking sound—and the faint scrape of his feet as he resumed pacing along the wall, like a jackal circling its prey.

But Shobashona followed him step for step, her bare feet brushing lightly against the cool bricks of the courtyard. She walked without a sound, keeping pace with him as he made his slow journey along the ridge. Below her sari, her arms—strong from milking twelve cows every morning—remained steady, her grip on the handle of the boti firm.

“You think you scare me, do you, old witch?” the boy taunted from above. “Open the gate, or I’ll come in and shut you up for good.”

Shobashona smiled to herself. “Come in, then, if you’re so brave. Come down and find out what an old woman’s blade feels like.” Her voice was low, calm—a voice that knew no fear. The boy didn’t realize that he was not the hunter tonight. He was merely walking a path that she controlled.

The boy swore under his breath and kept pacing along the wall, waiting for her to falter, to grow tired or fearful. But Shobashona was not a woman who gave up easily.

“Still there, are you?” the boy called out, frustration lacing his words.

Shobashona laughed—a low, dry chuckle that echoed softly in the courtyard.

The boy shuffled his feet, his confidence cracking!

“You’ll regret this, old woman!” he shouted, but there was no strength in his threat—only frustration and exhaustion.

Shobashona tilted her head toward the house, a sly grin spreading across her lips. “Oi, Guruprasad!” she called out suddenly, her voice loud and sure. “Are you listening to this nonsense? Some fool thinks he can rob us tonight!”

The boy froze for a moment, the weight of her words sinking in. Then he barked back, “You’re lying! No one’s home!” But the sharp edge in his voice faltered, like a bowstring stretched too tight.

Shobashona let out a soft laugh—the laugh of someone who’s seen many storms and outlasted them all. “Lying, am I? Why don’t you jump down, and we’ll see who’s lying, eh? You’ll meet Guruprasad soon enough—he’s just waiting to crack your skull open. He’s in the police, you know. Got that uniform and everything. Makes boys like you run home crying to their mothers.”

There was a long pause. The boy began pacing again, his footsteps scraping unevenly along the wall. Shobashona followed from below, matching his movements. Step for step, breath for breath. The rhythm between them grew heavier, each step a reminder that she wasn’t going anywhere.

“You’re bluffing,” the boy muttered after a moment. “Your son’s not home. You’re alone, you crazy old bat.”

Shobashona clucked her tongue. “Oh, I’ve been alone before, boy. But I’ve also buried more men than you’ve ever known.” Her hand tightened on the handle of the boti, her fingers steady as she trailed him along the courtyard’s edge. “You think I need company to finish the likes of you? I’ve gutted bigger things than you with this blade. Fish, goats… A boy who can’t even climb down without falling? That’ll be easy.”

The boy stopped again. For a moment, the night seemed to hold its breath.

“You should’ve come last week,” she said slyly. “Ombujakkho was here—my husband, strong as a bull. The only reason he didn’t crush you tonight is because Krishna called him back before you showed up. You’re lucky, boy—if Ombujakkho were still here, he’d have thrown you into the pond like a sack of rice.”

The boy scoffed, but his voice cracked slightly. “You think I’m scared of your old stories?” he spat. “What do you know about men like me?”

Shobashona chuckled—a soft, wicked sound. “Oh, I know your kind, all right. Boys with loose tongues and empty stomachs, thinking the world owes them something.” She stopped beneath him, craning her neck up toward the wall. Her eyes gleamed in the lantern’s flicker, two sharp slivers of steel. “You’re like the stray dogs who howl outside my door—too scared to come in, but too proud to leave quietly.”

“You don’t know a damn thing,” the boy muttered, though the bite in his words was beginning to fade.

“Don’t I?” she asked softly. Her tone dripped with dangerous sweetness, like the final tug of a noose. “Guruprasad knows your type better than I do. He drags them in by their collars every week. I wonder if you’d be as brave if you were standing in front of him, hmm? Ever been locked up, boy? Ever had your bones rattled by a police baton? It’s a funny sound, you know—the way bones snap.” Shobashona smiled in the dark. “Do that, boy. Bring your whole family. We’ll see how many fools it takes to outrun one old woman.”

“Oi, Guruuuu!” she shouted again, her voice cutting through the thick night air like a blade. “This boy thinks he’s clever! Get out here, and let’s teach him a lesson!”

The boy stopped his pacing along the wall, breathing heavily. “If your son’s home, why isn’t he coming out, huh?” he jeered, but there was hesitation now—the slightest wobble in his voice. “Where’s this big, brave policeman of yours? Hiding under the bed?” He laughed harshly, but his laughter was forced, as though he was trying to convince himself that she was lying.

Shobashona’s fingers curled tighter around the boti’s handle. For a moment, her mind raced, but she kept her voice steady and playful, as if the question amused her.

“Guru! Oi, Guruprasad! What’s keeping you, boy? Shall I handle this fool myself?” she called toward the house. She made sure to add just a touch of irritation in her tone, as though scolding her son for taking his time. “Must I do everything in this house, even take care of thieves?”

The boy fidgeted uneasily on the wall, glancing toward the darkened windows. He wanted to believe the house was empty—but what if it wasn’t? What if the old woman wasn’t bluffing after all? What if the door flew open at any moment, revealing a uniformed man with a police baton in hand?

“You’re full of it, old woman!” the boy shouted, trying to reclaim his bravado. “There’s no one here! You’re alone!”

Shobashona chuckled—a low, dry sound, like leaves crunching underfoot. “Alone, am I? Then why haven’t you jumped down yet? Come on, if you’re so sure! Or are you afraid of shadows?”

The boy shifted his weight on the wall, trying to decide whether she was bluffing. Shobashona could feel his resolve slipping, like sand between clenched fingers.

“Maybe Guru is waiting for the right moment to catch you in the act,” she continued smoothly, the sweetness in her voice curdling into something sharp. “You think policemen just barge in? No, boy—they wait, they watch, and when you least expect it—bam! They’re right behind you, slapping cuffs on your wrists before you can run.”

She heard the boy’s breath catch, a faint, nervous exhale. He was teetering now, right on the edge of fear and doubt.

“What if he’s already seen you?” she whispered, her tone low and conspiratorial. “Maybe he’s watching from the roof. Or the back gate. Or maybe...” She let the thought hang in the air, heavy and unsettling. “Maybe he’s already behind you.”

The boy cursed under his breath and turned his head sharply, as if expecting to see someone emerging from the shadows. But there was no one—only the empty night stretched thin around him. Still, he hesitated. The old woman’s words wrapped around him like vines, holding him fast.

“Face it, boy,” Shobashona said, her voice rising again, light but unforgiving. “You came to the wrong house. This isn’t the place for rats like you.”

The boy shuffled his feet, his confidence fraying with every passing moment. He wanted to leave, but his pride wouldn’t let him—not yet.

“You’re bluffing!” he shouted again, though now the words carried more doubt than certainty. He sounded like a boy trying to convince himself.

“Then come down and find out,” Shobashona said softly, her grip firm on the boti. The challenge hung between them like a net—waiting, ready to ensnare.

For nearly an hour, they circled each other—him pacing along the wall, and her shadowing him below. Every step he took, she took. Every time he paused, she paused. The night stretched long and tense between them, a silent battle of will and wit.

At last, the boy broke. “Mad old bat!” he shouted. “I’ll come back with friends next time!”

Shobashona smiled—a slow, deliberate smile that never reached her eyes. “Bring them all,” she called after him. “Bring as many fools as you can find—I’ll still be here, waiting.”

With a final curse, the boy leapt from the wall, landing with a heavy thud on the ground outside. His footsteps scurried into the night, fading into the darkness like a frightened rat. Shobashona stood still for a moment longer, listening to the quiet. When she was sure he was gone, she turned back to the house, her hand relaxing on the handle of the boti.

After the boy disappeared into the night, Shobashona remained still in the courtyard, listening to the silence return. Satisfied that the house was once again hers, she turned back inside. One by one, she locked every door, bolted every window, fastening the house shut like a cocoon against the night.

Her footsteps echoed softly on the earthen floor as she moved from room to room, checking each latch twice. Though the weight of sleep pulled at her bones, her mind remained sharp, watchful. Even after all these years, the quiet was never fully silent. She had lived long enough to know that trouble, like an ember, can flare up when least expected.

At midnight, just as the moon slipped behind the clouds, there was a knock at the door. It was a sound too loud, too sudden—a heavy fist rapping firmly against the wood. Her heart quickened, and she froze in place. Could it be the boy? Or worse, had he returned with others?

The knock came again—this time followed by a voice, muffled but familiar:
“Maa! It’s me—Guruprasad! Open the door!”

But Shobashona didn’t move. She remained standing by the inner door, her breath steady but her mind racing. Her son had called, but what if it was a trick? She knew too well how the night could play games with the senses. What if they had forced him to call out?

She lit the small lantern that flickered on the windowsill and made her way up to the chhad—the flat rooftop of the house. From there, she could get a better look at who was outside. Her white hair shimmered in the lantern’s glow as she climbed the narrow wooden stairs, the boti still tucked in the folds of her sari.

The night air was cool, brushing against her skin as she reached the rooftop. Holding the lantern out at arm’s length, she squinted into the darkness below. At first, she saw only shadows shifting by the gate—four figures huddled together, their outlines blurred by the dim light.

But as the lantern’s flame steadied, the shapes became clear: a tall man, a woman with a covered head, and two small children, clutching each other sleepily. Shobashona’s heart eased at the sight. It was Guruprasad, Basonti, and the children—her family, whole and unharmed.

She exhaled, setting the lantern down on the parapet wall for a moment, letting relief wash over her like the cool breeze.

“Maa! It’s really me! Open the door!” Guruprasad called again, his voice tinged with a smile now, though there was a hint of concern in it, too.

Shobashona smiled to herself.

She climbed back down from the rooftop, unlatching the door at last. The wooden door groaned open.

“Why didn’t you answer sooner, Ma?” Guruprasad asked gently, though not without a trace of worry in his voice. He held Gita in his arms, the child’s head heavy with sleep against his shoulder, while Basonti guided a drowsy Gora through the door.

“You never know who might knock, son,” Shobashona said with a glimmer in her eyes, her tone steady but light. “Sometimes it’s the right people. Sometimes it’s not.” She reached out and touched her grandson’s head.

He didn’t press her for more details, though Basonti threw her a concerned glance, sensing that something had happened in their absence.

They gathered inside the house, the soft clink of bangles and the rustle of sarees filling the room as **Shobashona settled herself back into her place.

Later, as the children were tucked into their beds and the lanterns dimmed for the night, Guruprasad sat beside his mother, his voice low and thoughtful.

“This won’t happen again, Ma. We should rent out part of the house—bring someone in, so you won’t be alone in the dark.”

Shobashona gave a small nod, though she knew the truth. She wasn’t afraid of the dark—or of those who walked in it. But she understood her son’s concern, and for his sake, she would allow it. After all, she thought, even Krishna sends companions when He knows the journey is long.

“Alright,” she said, her voice soft but firm. “We’ll rent a part of the house. Let it be a busy place from now on.”

— Rishi Banerjee
October 2024