A Game of Ekka-Dokka in the House Opposite
by Shrutidhora P Mohor
Dham—dhum—dham—ho-ho-ho-ho—and the momentary silence that follows the collapse of one more wall.
I pull my pillow over my ears and hug it tight to smother my face. The noise! If only they would let me sleep!
The old house opposite mine is being pulled down. It is a celebration of all that it has witnessed in the last one hundred years or so. I half-open my eyes to calculate. Yes…roughly… My father, too, did not remember seeing the house being built…so yes, sometime around the… I doze off, the pillow still twisting my small nose and smaller ears.
My eyes are shut. In my sleep, I always play ekka-dokka. My cousins; the lanky Babin from the house at the end of the road with a creeper plant scaling the balcony; my old maid aunt who was some kind of a sister of my father, as my mom used to say; me and occasional random players from the neighbourhood who would join our game as they would spot us looking as serious about the game of ekka-dokka as an artist scrutinising his unfinished sunset canvas. Our ekka-dokka group was well-known in the locality. Babin was our leader, his bony bare legs downwards from his knees dusty and scratched more as a matter of habit than as one of need, the thin boy with a loud, shrill voice who would not miss any of us getting any of the steps wrong in the game. Your throw is on the line! You are out! His declaration would determine the outcome of our games. Monai, Sontu, I, and my some-kind-of-a-sister-of-my-father aunt would accept his verdicts more out of our eagerness to get on with the next round and less out of reverence for him.
It is my turn to throw the pebble into the right square and hop from one to the other. I aim well. My pebble is just inside the line. I hop in, and as I am about to pick up the pebble for my next throw, I lose balance. All I remember after that is Babin raising his finger and ruling, Out! You have lost this round! Move aside. I quietly shift to a side and make way for the next player.
Whoooop—dham—dhum-dhum-dhammmm!
Another pile has crumbled. The clanking of metal rods and wire meshes being wreaked from skeletons of balconies and windows kills my sleep. I grumble incoherent abuses and look at the phone screen. 6:43 am, it says.
I sit up with a disgruntled face. It is a whole forty minutes earlier than my scheduled wake-up time.
I have more time this morning to relish my muesli breakfast. The sunny side up is making fun of the smell of unfinished sleep hanging over my eyelids today. The hash brown gets infected by me. The face on the hash brown grins sheepishly at me, and before I can bite into it, it has fallen asleep. Oh bother, I say. Help me stay awake, breakfast pals! I have two meetings during the day, one with the horrible audit team. I snort.
I arrive at the gate of the school a good twenty minutes earlier than usual. Good morning, ma’am. The security man throws half a smile at me. I sulk and look sleepy, refusing to acknowledge his greeting as I swipe my ID card in through the gate.
In the afternoon, as I return home, I stop for a while in front of the disfigured house. I fancy seeing some of its inmates stuck like cardboard figurines on the walls of a postmodern art gallery. Shadows of its broken parts howl out their hushed-up stories. I imagine seeing those now-demolished walls which had once enclosed many a dream (One day…) and been shy observers of sweet nothings (if not you, then no one…really?), an untimely gift of a rose (Aah! What for, after all? It isn’t my birthday, honey…oh! Just like that? Aaah…so sweet of you), a meaningless kiss at the wrong time, maybe (Oh nooo! Not now! [face turned away] I need to focus on my work…mmmmuuuaah, happy?). A resident must have smiled at a familiar scent before dropping clothes off for laundry (It’s lavender on your shoulders); another might have taken too long to say goodbye to a dear one (So…finally then…). Someone’s arrival may have been delayed (How far?...); somebody else may have despaired in restless waiting (Can’t keep calm anymore!). Perhaps one had made a false allegation (…And you! You have never bothered to…) while another had cast an unforgiving look at a repentant gesture gone to waste (If only you understood how keen I am to make amends…). A sudden midnight deluge might have caused a swishing of the curtains (Are you my peeping Tom then? [a giggle] Not me, the moon, sweetie); a moth may have hibernated on someone’s favourite fabric and discoloured it (Oh no, Mumma! Look at what the butterfly has done to it! It’s a moth, honey. Oh, whatever! [an impatient stamping of the feet]).
All the secrets of the house now lie exposed, naked before the dispassionate architects of deconstruction, working day and night in groups, their energy levels dipping from time to time until a real estate dealer looks disapprovingly at them squatting on the rubble. This side should be completed by Saturday, he reminds them. Its skin is being ripped apart. Its inside is being exposed to us day by day. I can see the raw pink tissues. There are infinite blood vessels. The blood changes its colour from one floor to another.
I hurry past the half-dead giant and bolt the gate behind me at my home.
The flavours of parsley and thyme dominate my evening as I let a pan of chicken stew simmer as my main course for dinner. I lay the table with everyday care. Serving to myself the meal, I settle down. The prime-time tele-serial is a pleasant distraction for all dinners taken alone in the last fourteen years. Sighs remain unheard to myself; the forever-lost, unfocused look in my weary eyes goes unnoticed as gaudy characters mouth predictable dialogues on the screen.
Two spoonfuls of stew go down my throat when my nostrils rebel.
A stinking odour crackles its way into my dining room and touches down upon my crockeries laid out on the table. I twist my nose, I sneeze, I sniff. The smell arranges itself firmly on my spoon. I push it away. It takes me a while to comprehend, and after about five minutes or so, I march into the adjoining balcony.
The streetlight-post helps me see what I am not prepared to see. There is a dinner party out there on the other side of the street.
The self-invited guests are having a time of their lives. There is a bonfire, and the smell of raw meat being grilled is unmistakable. The party-goers know the basics of cooking, though. The meat has been marinated well with an extravagant throw of spices on it. The flames are licking it all up as the meat turns blackish. There are thick, coarse-looking chapaatis on their shine-less steel plates. The flavour of just-made flour is equally titillating. Some of them are pouncing on their plates and have begun slicing off corners from their chapaatis. Forming large triangles of torn pieces, they push these inside their hungry mouths. I see flour boats sailing down their food pipes all the way into their stomachs until they seek anchor in one distant portion of their large, dark stomachs. One of them is serving something from a glass jar to each one of them. The tangy smell of its contents tickles my nose. Lemon…chilly…tamarind…what else?
The meat is done. They begin tugging at leg pieces and rib cages. I cover my eyes but do not move away.
My small, white stomach is making strange noises inside. There seems to be an awakened womb within. I try to douse the fire inside. I am hungry.
I walk back to the dining room. The stew is cold. The loaf is hard. I force them down my throat. When a piece of loaf gets stuck, I finger it in.
This morning, they have a special task. Enough of breaking down brick by brick, the contractor has declared. At this rate, you won’t finish before winter. New construction must begin in two months. Pull these walls down! Come on, get going, fast!
They are a skilled lot. I see them hooking a thick rope into a crack up there on a wall. The rope goes all the way down to the street below, where some of them are standing. Around ten of them are positioned at gaps from each other, holding on to the rope fastened right on the top of the wall to be pulled down.
I gasp in nervousness. They exert their muscles with determination. What a tug of war! Except the player on the other side has conceded defeat even before the match has begun.
They tug. Loose bricks fall aside.
They pull again. A metal rod tumbles down. They heave and shift their feet. The wall shakes. I shriek at my balcony.
I have never seen a structure fall before. I am scared of the noise, of the dust storm to follow. I take two steps back. What if it falls on the men in the front portion of the rope?
Their collective murmur rises in volume. They seem to be like bees in action, humming away to destroy. Bees of our times…
Ek dhakka aur do! They raise their voices further. Aur thoda! Aur zyaada! Lagaao aur ek baar!
The wall is tilting back and forth.
The men pull with the might of horsepower, I whisper to myself. Their lungis are clinging to their bottoms. Their dirty legs below the lungis dig into the ground.
Hoi! Hoho! The wall is facing downwards.
Hohohoho! The wall is almost flat.
H-h-h-h-h-hohohoho—! And the bang of the fallen wall silences all other sounds in the neighbourhood.
I peep out of my hiding place behind the curtain in the balcony. The windows of the next house can now be seen with the wall of this house gone. The bees are all sitting scattered over the wall just brought down. They are exhausted. Some of them are looking into their phones mindlessly. One is playing a crass film song. I watch them for a few seconds. I recognise the one who was serving the pickle that night at dinner. He is sitting with his head between his knees.
The colour of the sky changes. There is a sudden inflow of dark clouds. I wonder if I should get ready for work and leave a little earlier than usual since the commotion they make forces me awake every day much before time.
It has begun raining. Fat drops of rain soon wet the whole street. Passers-by hasten. The jeans-clad contractor withdraws inside the covered portions of the house. The men get up lazily and pretend to move away to the one room with a floor that still stands intact. The pickle-server gets up after someone else calls out to him loudly. The force of the rain has increased. A few of them run down the stairs to the floor below. This man does not hurry. He is thinking of something. Rivulets flow down his face into his faded T-shirt. The round neckline of the tee is not in place. I can see his collarbone on one side. After some time, he turns around to respond to somebody calling him from the room behind. I cannot hear his name. He looks back, nods, then releases his folded lungi down to its full length to his ankles. A stream of water drips down his legs. He turns his back on me and walks towards the covered area where the others are.
My eyes stick to the wet, scanty, blue check lungi with a thin black border clinging to his hips. The shadow of the rainclouds falls on his backside. I see two smooth rounded plateaus receiving their first spell of rain after months of dry season walking away from me. A water hyacinth is about to blossom in the puddle atop the plateaus.
That night I play ekka-dokka again. My playmates this time are different though.
I shall speak the truth and nothing but the truth…my hand is laid over a book extended to me over the witness box.
Your hand touched the bar of the box! Out! Babin is penetrating in his observation.
You? Here?
Yes! I am everywhere!
The verdict of the jury is…
You skipped one square! Go back and begin again! Babin is a hard taskmaster.
From this day, I pronounce you man and wife. You may now kiss. The pastor is unexcited.
Alex and I are clumsy kissers. Not the first time though. Publicly, yes. Watch out! I slap him on his arm and giggle. Your feet are crossing the line!
Babin notices. You have lost the game! Here! The newly married couple—you will please step aside. You have broken rules.
We look guilty and make way for other players.
Fourteen months later, not just Babin, but others too tell us that we have lost the game.
Your union stands annulled. Please sign here.
I stand watching the ekka-dokka grid with a pen in hand. The paper has been signed. The game is over.
School is closed today. It has been raining on and off since that day. They said in the news that some low pressure has built up nearby over the sea. The wooden windows of my ancestral home are pregnant with moisture. I drag them shut as the rain becomes heavier.
In the afternoon, the sky clears. For a few minutes, it seems there is a pink sun about to set.
I have been restless the whole day. I now pick up my camera, my only surviving passion in my still life.
I walk across the road to the house being demolished. It is an ugly sight.
I focus my camera on dilapidated leftovers of the structures. A balcony has gone, leaving behind its iron cage. All windows have vanished. Their frames stand like proxy artists in a shooting party’s crew. I click a few such ugly beauties. I wonder if I should walk in through the iron gate to reach the inner courtyard. I hesitate. There is something on my mind, perhaps. I take a step or two. A loud noise of someone clearing his throat congestion and spitting out a puddle of sputum forces me to pause.
“It’s all demolished inside,” a voice says in rough Hindi, a dialect that should automatically drive me away.
The blue check lungi man, that night’s pickle-server, appears on the top of felled corrugated sheets. He is taller than I thought from across the narrow road separating this house from ours. He is rubbing something on his palm with the thumb of his other hand and, in a few seconds, empties the contents into his mouth. A sweet smell spreads around the place.
“Huh? Yes, I know. I know it’s broken in there. I wanted to take a few pictures,” I say in my kind of Hindi.
“You did take some from outside.”
His audacity repels me. He is chewing whatever he has poured in his mouth with great pleasure. His tongue is busily lashing around inside his mouth like the tailfin of a shark. I harden my chin.
“Is it possible to go inside?”
He gestures something with his head. “Houses that are being brought down are not meant for you all.”
“Who are they meant for then?” I ask slowly.
“For us.”
I look at him closely. He is probably around half my age. His eyes have a shot of life in them, which the rest of his body lacks.
Another of these men passes from behind him. A catchy tune of a film song passes along with him. His phone must be tucked inside his clothes somewhere. He does not even look at us.
I take some time to ask, “Where do you live?”
“Here only.”
“No, I mean, like…your place…your home.”
At this, he shows me his yellowish teeth. His eyes have come fully alive. “There! You know that this cannot be my real place, don’t you?”
I feel awkward and regret my question.
I seek to correct myself. “Do you have a family back there somewhere in a village?”
“Hm.” He seems cryptic.
“Who all?”
“Huh?”
“I wanted to know who all are there in your family.”
He picks up his phone from a broken cane chair lying on one side. “Wife. Parents.”
I try once more. “And your village is in?”
“Right next to a river.”
“Oh, which river?”
“You wouldn’t know.”
“I might.”
“River Kanaksena.” His pronunciation is hard and jumbled up. I scan my memory to recall names of rivers in and around the state.
There is silence in the space between us. His mouth is resting now. The shark has had its meal.
I change the topic. “How much longer will it take for you to finish demolishing this?”
“Two more weeks. Max.”
“I see.”
“There is a greater science of breaking down than building up. We have a chart showing us the way of what comes after what.” He takes pride in his work, it seems.
“This wall next?” I try to guess.
“No. That set of windows. If this wall goes first, then this entire side will crash.”
“Right!”
He keeps quiet for a few seconds.
“By the time I finish, Kanaksena might eat up my home…”
“What?”
“Nothing.” He looks absent-minded. The screen of his phone is cracked. He is looking at the crack.
“What did you say?”
“The river!”
“Yes, what will it do?”
He does not answer me but raises his head to point at the sky. The brief break in the spells of shower is over. It is about to begin pouring heavily.
“It’s going to rain,” I say to myself.
“The river will grow. Like this.” He moves his hands in the air around his flat belly to show an enlarged one. “It will have many babies!” His grin is annoying and puzzling. I try to make sense of what he is saying. “Some of its babies will wash away our home…” He hopes to explain.
His words and his expressions do not match. Is he not endangered, then? What makes him laugh about it?
I frown without realising.
He can’t control his laughter. Folding his lungi up to above his knees, he sits down on the stub of a broken pillar. “You are puzzled!”
I frown more. Two faces have appeared at a little distance. One of them is sipping tea. They are trying to follow our interactions. I feel like slapping him.
“Don’t be! It happens every year! Every year!”
“What happens?”
“The river is our regular guest. Gets in without being invited.” He chuckles loudly.
I move my head sideways in denial.
“It gets in and then it pulls us out. Pulls everything out. And then it’s all gone. It’s funny because it is so known!”
I shrink.
“And ever since I have been bringing big homes down here in cities, I have noticed how similar it is. Same kind of sound when the waves hit against the banks. Trees get uprooted. See, here, we too have felled a tree first in order to bring down the rear side of the house.” He is still laughing.
I want to object to the inaccuracy of the comparison, but I know that is not the point. His laughing belly is all crinkled from underneath the vest. The hair on his limbs is relaxed, at ease. There is a birthmark on the lower portion of his throat. It looks like a tiny water hyacinth at first. I take a step closer. It changes into a cactus.
I take my eyes away.
I need to get back. It can start raining any moment. I am about to leave.
“What’s your name?”
Now he frowns. “Name?”
“Yes.”
“What will you do with my name?”
I am hit by the truth of the question. “No, just generally,” I mumble.
“Lebar. Just say lebar if you need to speak to any of us.”
His coarsely flawed pronunciation of his occupation burns my ears, but it tastes like sweet chilli sauce on my lips as I whisper it several times when I am back home.
Good morning, children. Today, we shall begin Chapter 7 of your book. Open page 116. Our topic is ‘Surplus, Labour, Profits.’ Shhh, no talking! Now, whenever there is production…have you seen any factory producing any goods? Okay, so, whenever there is production there has to be…
I am at my balcony tonight. It is a full moon. The house opposite is almost a memory now. The air is cool and moist. The last few days have seen continuous rains, but tonight, the sky is quiet and dry.
I breathe in the cool wind. The men are all down there on the last remnants of bricks and scattered iron rods.
My eyes travel unconsciously to scrutinise all the faces there until I spot him.
The obese moon has come down on his head. It forms a big, silver thaali behind him. His head has punctured some of the black spots on its surface and gone in. I can no longer see it. Instead, there is his body, silvery tonight, elongated and slender, and a moon-head sitting on his neck. The cactus is green on his throat. It bears gallons of water inside.
I stand in fear of the moon-head. I strain my eyes to see his mouth. I run my tongue over my parched lips.
A gush of saline water juts into my half-open mouth from the cactus there. I spit it out and start coughing.
A metallic voice from inside my bedroom says, “Southern Bengal sees an intensification of the Bay low pressure. Very heavy rains are predicted for the next two days.”
I flap my hands next to my ears like the wings of an upside-down bat. The voice shuts up. He has dissolved into the silvery darkness lying like a sleeping monster on the uneven rubble of the building. I draw ekka-dokka lines with the overgrown nail of my big toe on the mosaic floor of my balcony. Your feet are touching the line! You have lost! I shift my feet. The ekka-dokka squares run away from me.
The mornings are quiet now. The eastern side has opened up fully with the house gone. I shut my windows tight, though, and sleep intensely. I have bought a new alarm clock to help me wake up on time. Snoozing the mild phone alarm is an everyday practice. I fear getting late for work.
I arrive at the school at the nick of time. There is a frown all over my puffed face when I swipe my ID card. The security guard is no longer hopeful of a reply but he continues to be dutiful, courteous, in fact. “Good morning, ma’am.”
I run my hands lightly over the oversleep marks on my cheeks and smile at him with an air of charity.
“Has the water receded from your village?” I enquire without looking at him.
“Not yet, ma’am,” he fumbles.
“It will. Soon. Don’t worry. The worst rains of the season are over.”
——
GLOSSARY
Ekka-dokka: a common game for children in Bengal (a state within India), played by drawing lines on the ground to represent boxes with numbers into which one must hop without touching the lines separating the boxes
Chapaati: Indian bread, round and soft, made of wheat
Lungi: a long piece of cloth worn by men around their waist to cover the lower portion of their body, flexible and informal, lacks any fastening mechanism except for a knot at the waist
Thaali: plate, synonymous with round shape representations
Ek dhakka aur do: one more push
Aur thoda: little more
Aur zyaada: some more
Lagaao aur ek baar: give it one more try
Image by Nikitaxnikitin for Pexels
Shrutidhora P Mohor (she/her, born 1979, India) has been listed in several competitions like Bristol Short Story Prize, Oxford Flash Fiction Prize, the Bath Flash Fiction Award, the Retreat West competitions, the Retreat West Annual Prize for short story 2022, the Winter 2022 Reflex Fiction competition, Flash 500.