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Wasafiri
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Nanchera Valmiki
Manohar Mouli Biswas
Published online: 19 Aug 2015.

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To cite this article: Manohar Mouli Biswas (2015) Nanchera Valmiki, Wasafiri, 30:3, 8-9, DOI: 10.1080/02690055.2015.1044773

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 Nanchera Valmiki
Translated from the Bangla by Sipra Mukherjee
It was morning. He awoke.
Manohar And came out to the
Mouli Biswas verandah. With the tip of his
finger, he checked the
Downloaded by [Sipra Mukherjee] at 08:10 19 August 2015
sharpness of the knives. The smaller knife had blunted. He
sharpened it on a whetting stone, then wrapped the knives in
a piece of leather casing.
That man’s name is Nanchera Valmiki. A thatched roof,
mud walls, a slice of backyard. He strips the hide from
carcasses of cattle, cleans the leather and sells them in the
marketplace. That is his occupation — since the time of
his ancestors. He can hardly live with it — but neither can he
let it go. His children find his job repelling. He too has had
enough of this work. But he is helpless. Hunger forces him to
return to this source of livelihood. The work is sometimes
paying, sometimes useless. At intervals, the scene appears
promising. To the vulture, disease and epidemic is good news.
To Nanchera Valmiki too, news of cattle deaths brought
tidings of joy. Society consequently viewed Nanchera with as
much love as they did a vulture.
At the break of dawn, Nanchera set out for work as usual.
He was bare-bodied except for a lungi worn short, with the
leather casing tucked at his waist and a cotton gamchha worn
on his head. He walked along the edges of the canals and
streams. When he came to the Jhora canal, Nanchera stopped.
There was a dark shape floating on the waters. Nanchera
stood at the spot with hope in his eyes. Yes, it was as he had
thought. The early morning fog made vision somewhat
difficult. His eyesight too was beginning to fail. A family with
six or seven mouths to feed, at his age the going got rather
difficult at times. The dark shape grew clearer as it drew
nearer — the carcass of a cow. Somewhat stale. The crows
were at it, pecking away at the intestines. The last few days
had passed in starvation. Today would finally see some food.
Nanchera felt a wave of delight. With rapid movements, he
stripped himself of his lungi, put on the gamchha and
bundled away the discarded piece of cloth among the leaves
of a young palm tree. Then with his knife in hand, he
jumped into the water.
Wasafiri Vol. 30, No. 3, September 2015, pp. 8–9
ISSN 0269-0055 print/ISSN 1747-1508 online # 2015 Sipra Mukherjee
http://www.tandfonline.com http://dx.doi.org/10.1080/02690055.2015.1044773
Holding on to the dead cow, Nanchera floated with the
rhythm of the waves. After drifting downstream for some
distance, he pulled the carcass ashore, laying it down
at the edge of a ploughed field. A huge carcass. Pulling it up
by the tail proved to be a very tiring job. Panting heavily,
Nanchera stopped to rest for a while. He began work at
sunrise. With an expert hand, he wielded the knife.
With the small blade, he began by severing the tail and
the four legs.
As the work progressed, the stench began to spread.
People at a distance started to notice. A few came and stood
at a distance from Nanchera. Vicious abuse involving his birth,
his ancestors, his caste were hurled towards him. The
government too came in for some attack. ‘Why can’t the
bastards do something about these low-castes and save the
villages?’
A group of youngsters took to throwing stones at
Nanchera. Nanchera’s hands moved faster at his job. He
had finished with the side of the stomach. Now it was
only the back of the animal that was left. He would
need to finish this as fast as possible and get away from
here — there was the threat of imminent danger. Once
done, Nanchera would float the corpse downstream again.
That too would cause a stench. It would also poison the
water — pollute the water. Nobody would forgive him for
this offence.
The consequent list of dangers was well known to
Nanchera. If the owner of the field came to know and arrived
here, he would receive a few blows for certain. Because it
was on his ploughed land that Nanchera had committed this
act. In the eyes of the farmer, Nanchera was guilty of a
heinous crime.
Who had given him permission to pollute the field of a
farmer with the stench of death? Nanchera usually managed
to complete these jobs in secrecy. At times in the darkness of
the fading night, before dawn broke. At other times, in the
light of a glimmering lamp, with his wife and sons and
daughters at the river bank. He had delayed too long today.
The sun was high in the sky now. The owner of the field might
arrive at any moment. Nanchera’s hands moved faster and

faster, totally immersed in his work, willing himself to
complete the job. And, at this moment, a thick and heavy stick
of bamboo came down upon his head.
Nanchera had experienced many blows. But had he
known that today’s blow would free him from the tyranny of
his body? Nanchera had not known. His wife and sons and
daughters had not known. The men standing around him
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Nanchera Valmiki 9
silently witnessed Nanchera’s death. Their faces could have
expressed sympathy, but did not. Their brutal pronouncement
was thus — one evil has been gotten rid of, it is a blessing
for the village.
In the morning sunlight, Nanchera’s body went floating
down the Jhora canal along with the carcass of the cow. That
was Nanchera Valmiki’s untimely journey towards the sea.