The elephant and the old woman

KC Verma

MANY areas of Bihar are prone to annual inundation, with the floods bringing misery to hundreds of thousands of people. When the river waters recede in October, they leave behind diseases and collapsing houses. They also leave behind a rich layer of topsoil that is ready to be sown for a bountiful rabi crop. Madhepura, where I was posted as sub-divisional police chief in the early 1970s, was a typical area of the Kosi river belt. Large parts of the subdivision were flooded each year and pools of stagnant water stayed till the next summer; so, not all places were accessible by jeep. My work required extensive touring and I frequently travelled by boat or bicycle or on foot. Occasionally, it was possible to hire or borrow a rich landlord’s elephant, which was the best all-purpose vehicle for that terrain.

Once on a visit to Alamnagar, a chronically waterlogged area, I was able to hire an elephant. Riding the majestic animal, the SHO of Alamnagar and I visited several villages in flooded areas, although there were no paths and little dry ground. While returning, we came across a solitary thatched hut, precariously surrounded by water. Besides the damp and rotting vegetation, snails with dirty black shells clung to the sides of the hut and to mouldy jute plants poking out of the water. And near the hut sat an emaciated woman, bent with old age, holding a rusted knife and a misshapen aluminium pan. She had a pile of snails by her side and, as I watched, she scraped out the flesh of a snail into the pan and threw the shell away. She then picked up another snail and started scraping, all the while staring at me defiantly. From my lofty seat on the elephant, I stared back, disgusted by the slimy mess of snail flesh in her pan.

After we had gone almost 50 yards, and I thought we were out of earshot, I asked the SHO incredulously whether it was common for people in that area to eat snails. I cannot imagine how, but the old woman heard my question and started shouting. I barely understood the torrent of words, but I could still make out that she was cursing me and condemning me to eternal damnation. She screamed that no misbegotten rich scoundrels should begrudge her a meal of a few snails. As our elephant plodded on and her voice receded, I heard her taunt: ‘How can you ride an elephant so arrogantly while I am starving?’ Feeling chastened, the SHO and I returned to Alamnagar in complete silence.

That was almost 50 years ago, and I should have long forgotten the incident. But even today, I avoid driving past a temple in my neighbourhood where a frail old woman sits, begging for alms from passersby. Each time I see her, the mocking words of the Alamnagar woman ring in my ears.

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