Daughter of the Soil

[translated fiction]

‘Daughter of the Soil’ by Epitácio Pais

Moga woke with a heavy head, her eyes full of sleep and sari damp with sweat. Immediately she felt a strong urge to lie back next to her son on the mat and enjoy the drowsiness of that hot morning.

But the thought of the cashews, which had gone unpicked for two days, made her spring to her feet. With barely a moment to arrange her hair or splash a handful of water across her face, she readied to leave. When her child stirred, she offered him a full breast and sang an old lullaby before hurrying out along the path to the hill.

Mahadev had left for town to renew the licence on their still with a promise to return by midday. But as he wasn’t yet back he’d probably gone to visit his mother-in-law, to let her know their little boy was fine, as tough as the rugged terrain Moga now walked upon.

In any case, she didn’t want to hang around for her husband. She wanted him to see his wife could harvest the fruit alone, tread it all without wasting a drop of juice, do what needed to be done. She wanted him not to laugh at her frailty but rather stare in surprise at the clean basin, the bann brimming with foam and the full basket of nuts drying on the terrace of their house. Then it would be her turn to laugh, Moga, daughter of Nagu, granddaughter of Naguesh, who had been the most feared man in Santana.

At that hour the village was deserted. Behind closed doors the odd child cried for its mother. Old men slept out on stone benches, red loincloths hiding bodies shrivelled from drink. The buffalo at the sides of the road lazily chewed their cud.

Moga went on, shielding her head from the sun, still scorching though it now declined towards the horizon. The stony ground burnt her feet and the warmth radiating up enveloped her in a disagreeable swelter. The wind slumbered. The scorched foliage drooped. Over by Pramila’s the dung heaps must be seething, thought Moga, and the puddles in the banana grove without a drop of water left for the poor plants. And that bonfire-like heat, those filthy animal pens, the manure piling up, the mugginess settling in houses never to leave, what horror!

Just as well her Mahadev had knocked down their old place and moved them away from that neighbourhood, to a spot where life was healthier.

As she climbed the slope, she glanced back along the path from time to time in case she saw Mahadev returning through the palm orchard.

Munu’s buffaloes grazed on the dry stubble of the morodds as he sat out in the hot sun. Tootling on a section of bamboo cane he filled the air with a hypnotic melody. Xencor swept the hill with his favourite song, his voice blending in pleasant harmony with Munu’s tune. Pramila and her husband worked khazan land near the riverbank. She was stripped to the waist, her back shiny and wet next to the almost naked body of Rama. Their spades flashed as they rose and fell. When would that drudgery end? Three weeks had already passed since Moga saw the couple begin their work. He was a giant sucked dry by hard liquor. She was pregnant for the fifth time and close to term. They dug in silence so as not to squander their strength, turning the earth over yard by yard. Between the rocks on the other bank, a woman — perhaps it was Parvoti — hammered off oysters to sell for a few tangas. That Parvoti! Only married a year and already black and blue. A night didn’t pass without Moga hearing the poor wretch scream as the man allotted to her by fate beat her senseless.

Ah! Her Mahadev! Her good, strong Mahadev, gifted to her by Prameshwar! How different he was!

She began to imagine his chocolate-brown vigour, thews glistening with sweat and straining with effort.

She began to imagine his chocolate-brown vigour, thews glistening with sweat and straining with effort. He didn’t drink, had never touched a drop of feni. He’d even refused a sip the time he fell from that tree and broke his ribs. And he was hers, all hers and no one else’s, like Rama was Sita’s his whole life. Her Mahadev! How Moga loved him! Her love was silent, almost secret, without open affection and with little talk. But she knew, when her man took her in his arms, making her whole being throb beyond the limits of pleasure, that he loved her like no other. In his ferocious, Cyclops-like intent, she felt he didn’t spill himself anywhere else. And she thought of the depraved village, that theatre of promiscuity and rape, furious drunken sprees and brutal abuse. She heard the screeching women betrayed by the violence of their husbands and the trudging men heading to the taverna in search of a little strength.

Prabhu was a walking barrel, dozing on verandas and kicked about by all and sundry. He was unable to work and his wife couldn’t bear the sight of him. Naraina was sick, an illness from which even his family fled. No one will ever rescue him from his mangy-dog life. In Tatu’s house, his wife was dying, leaving behind a gaggle of scabby, rickety kids. Damu was off blowing his father’s fortune. Fifteen-year-old Dina played cards day and night. In the neighbourhood of Valado Grande, Nanu had set fire to his own house in order to murder his wife. Droupoda, so young, was paralysed and without hope of cure. But the nadir of the village’s misery was the succubus of Abolém, perverting men, a spirit possessed by carnal sin.

Moga thought then that these people, so strong and sober in times past, were marching along the road to perdition. There were no men left, just as there were no more women, for it was impossible to give such names to the dregs who populated the village of Santana and who, year upon year, pushed out into the world dozens of atrophied beings incapable of development. Santana was ending, drowning in vice. In days gone by men had fathered robust children. They didn’t drink, but built muscles of steel from ambil, chapattis and water. Their work was praised and was worth more than that of today’s machines. She recalled her father, for whom the bhatcar landlords vied in the digging season. He had never known the taste of wine. He was convinced those who drank became pigs in the next life. And the women! Where today could you find a woman like her mother, a strapping countrywoman, who tilled the earth beside her husband and took good care of the family? Her parents had lived contentedly together, in placid, healthy harmony, with more than enough vital force to make children as robust as buffalo!

She continued upwards. It was the second time she had gone alone to the cashew grove. In the whitish trunks there was something that unsettled her and, in the flushed agony of dusk, she felt an animistic force threatening to burst through. She took fright at the contrast between the fiery brushstrokes of light and the deep black shadows. The silence no longer broken by crows, the sudden flight of quail fleeing the morodd gave her goose pimples and her mind billowed with dread.

When she reached the top, she smelt the stinking basin. The cashews must have dried out. A thin stream of bubbly, acidic juice was trickling down into the bann, which was buried up to its neck. In the little depressions in the stone swam insects vying to sate their greed, ants drowning in the half-rotten slops.

As Moga drew near, the whole swarm took flight. She gave the area a good once-over, removed the must, and left the stone ready for that day’s treading.

But why hadn’t Mahadev returned? He knew the cashews hadn’t been collected for two days and that she alone would be unable to pick and tread them all before they went off. He knew that spoiled fruit makes bad wine and that this loss could make all the difference to paying their rent. And what did he go and do? Swan off to visit his mother-in-law, see her, wish her good health. He should have remembered his wife, Moga, who was alone on the hill, a frail woman, unable to handle by herself what was too much for a single man.

Anger flared. But it was a passing emotion, a desire to pinch Mahadev, to nip his ears that night when he embraced her, to sulk because he was acting no better than the other men of the village.

Now, however, it was growing late and she had no choice other than to pick the cashews herself. So off she went, the raw grace of her body slipping from tree to tree, beneath the branches, where the fruit practically carpeted the ground.

When, a few minutes later, she lifted her eyes towards the sea in the distance, she was shocked to find the sun touching the line of the horizon. Already the waters were losing their bright hues, and, on the other side of the river, the stripped hillsides were almost silhouettes against the white backdrop of clouds. Before long there would be no trace left of the ruddy pomp of Surya’s departure.

She paused in her work and offered homage to the all-powerful giver of life. It was Surya who made the cashew trees blossom, the rice sprout from the earth and the salty waters rise to irrigate the khazans and morodds. The sea was its restful bed, where it slept at night only to rise each morning to reign over all creation. That was what she had been taught. That’s what the puranas old Ananda sang out on the nattak field told her. The Christians worshipped a piece of wood raised up on a pedestal. They lit candles to it, prayed to it. But what did that lifeless cross represent before the splendour of Surya, a living god whose might and presence were evident, undeniable?

The sun’s last rays illuminated her completely, penetrating the folds of her sari and revealing to the astonished eyes of the crows her divine shape, glowing red like an antique statue in the firelight of its sanctuary.

The sun plunged into the ocean, and Moga went back to work with redoubled haste. She heard the church bells toll, the air vibrating to their sound, and was again shocked to find it was the homecoming hour when the Christians began their prayers.

But what did her discomfort matter if that bitter juice turned into money and that money into rice and that rice into milk for her darling child? Those born poor, without a plot of land to call their own, had to work to buy cloth, betel and sandals for feast days, as well as food, for the rest was a luxury.

Night fell upon the hill. Heavy clouds overspread the stars. The heat became intense and everything around her was sunk into impenetrable dark.

Moga finished shelling the cashew nuts.

‘That good-for-nothing still isn’t back’, she moaned. ‘I’m going home. I can’t take this anymore’, she murmured, on the brink of tears.

But no. She wouldn’t go home yet. She had to finish the work, to get even.

She rolled up her capodd and stepped resolutely into the basin. As she took a firm grip on the bamboo support, the runnel of juice beneath her feet thickened and drained away into the pot with a gurgle.

She was absolutely drenched. Sweat streamed down her legs and vanished into the swirling liquid. For a long while now her arms had ached; her legs were on the point of buckling. But through sheer force of will she kept going, urged her limbs on to one final effort.

A few moments later, the treading was complete.

She sat down on the stone edge to regain some strength. Once more she strained her ears for any sign of Mahadev’s arrival. Not that it made any difference now, but her vexation, which had reached a peak, needed an outlet. She choked on a mix of love and anger. At the same time, she wanted to be praised and petted. She desperately wished Mahadev would appear and clasp her in his arms so tightly that she couldn’t breathe, her body thrilling to his warm caress. The spent state in which she found herself was that of swooning nights of passion, when her flesh was transformed into a mass of vibrating nerves.

She leant down over the flow of juice and slurped like an animal, quenching the thirst that raged in her throat. When she lifted herself back up she saw that her sari was soaked and that she could no longer cover herself. She was naked from the waist up.

From the sea rose a slight breeze. Scattered droplets of rain fell from the clouds. But from the earth, from the dry morodd, from the rocks, a hot vapour emanated. Moga removed the last of her clothes and stood savouring the drizzle, which calmed her stormy nerves. The light air upon her skin was like the kiss of a goddess of the night, ruling inky hued and supreme over the primal darkness of creation.

The light air upon her skin was like the kiss of a goddess of the night, ruling inky hued and supreme over the primal darkness of creation.

She felt like hanging back, allowing herself to be borne away by the waves of pleasure, to forget time and space. It was only when the drawn-out cries of the jackals, which had begun their nocturnal scavenging, broke the calm that she realised how late it was. He son might have awoken; perhaps Mahadev was waiting at home.

Over the sere land drizzle tapped on the parched foliage, the liquid seeping down into the soil, hardly satisfying its urgent needs. Birds flapped their wings, stretching them wide to expose their bodies to the sky’s charity. Lizards scurried from their holes and before long termites would chew the dry twigs. Moga was aware that when the rain came early it ruined the seedbeds. It stripped the blossom from cashews and mango-trees. The rice didn’t grow with the same vigour. In the salt ponds, the brine diluted and baby coconuts were felled from their trees. In the ditches, pestilence would ferment, giving rise to a thousand illnesses. But, all the same, those rains did wash away the sweat she found so utterly unbearable.

The scent of the wet earth filtered down to the deepest recess of her lungs, giving her new life. The image of the great downpours of July, those rains that levelled river and khazan, played in her thirsty imagination. Ah! The great cloudbursts of the monsoon! Her whole being shivered with the urge to bathe in the muddy creek alongside Munu’s buffalos.

As she drew near to the village, she heard cries coming from Anandi’s hut. Perhaps her son, recently home from the mines, had died. He had been feeling debilitated, unable to work, his body reduced to a clutch of bones sheathed in ashen skin.

There was no doubt about it: Anandi was howling with grief. From the door, in the light of the high-pressure lamp, the bamboo coffin in which they would bury her boy in Moroda Grande could be seen. There he would lie, beneath the red sod and the stones with which they would fill his grave, to keep jackals from the corpse.

‘What if somebody saw me like this, without a stitch on? The shame!’

In the thick black night not a star was shining. There wasn’t a soul abroad. The drizzle had stopped and the sultry breeze was no encouragement to cover her body.

She reached home, opened the door and entered. Judging by the silence her son still slept. Moga placed the basket down in the corner and crouched by the mat, her hand stroking her little boy. She was overcome with fatigue. Hunger reared its head but her body refused to make the slightest movement, even to light a fire for the canjee. And besides, the water jugs were empty, the well far away and all the firewood out in the little backyard. A heavy weight bore down on her eyelids, her senses clouded over.

She lay down next to her child, taking him in her loving arms. A trace of warmth in the mat irked her. She rolled onto the hard floor, savouring its cool surface, the inviting smell of dry cow dung. There, like a daughter of the soil, she stretched out her arms and legs and allowed herself to slip into a deep sleep.

[original text]

Uma Filha da Terra

Quando Mogá acordou, a cabeça pesada, os olhos cheios de sono, o pano que vestia humedecido pelo suor, sentiu uma grande vontade de tornar a deitar-se ao lado do filho, sobre a esteira, e saborear a modorra dos dias quentes.

Mas a lembrança do caju, que há dois dias não fora apanhado, fez que ela se erguesse de um salto, mal tendo tempo para ajeitar o cabelo, atirar umas mancheias de água no rosto e se preparasse para sair. Depois, como a criança acordou, deu-lhe o seio farto, cantou uma velha canção para o adormecer e tomou apressada o caminho do oiteiro.

Mahadeu fora à cidade pagar a licença do alambique, prometendo voltar ao meio-dia. Mas como até essa hora não chegava, era provável que tivesse ido à casa da sogra para lhe dizer que o pequeno estava bom, rijo como as fragas que agora pisava.

Fosse como fosse, porém, Mogá não queria esperar pelo marido. Queria que ele soubesse que a mulher fosse capaz de fazer sozinha a apanha dos frutos, pisá-los sem desperdício de uma gota de sumo, e deixar o trabalho em dia e se não risse da sua fraqueza, mas antes ficasse surpreendido quando visse a pia limpa, a bann regu/o/rgitando a espuma e a cesta de castanhas a secar na eira da casa. E então quem havia de se rir era ela, a Mogá, filha de Nagu, neta de Naguexa, que fora o homem mais temido em toda a terra de Santana.

Àquela hora, a aldeia estava deserta. As portas fechadas, atrás das quais uma e outra criança chorava a falta da mãe. Os velhos dormiam nos poiais, langotim vermelho escondendo o apergaminhado das tabernas. Os búfalos descansando nas estradas e ruminando preguiçosamente.

Mogá foi cobrindo a cabeça, que o sol escaldava apesar de se encontrar a dois passos do horizonte. O fraguedo queimava-lhe os pés. O bafo morno que evanescia do chão envolvia-a de quenturas desagradáveis. O vento dormitava. As folhas pendiam crestadas. Mogá pensou que as montureiras junto da casa da Pramilá deviam ferver e as poças de água no bananal do bouço não tinham gota de água para mitigar a sede das pobres plantas. E com aquele calor de fogueira, os currais imundos, a bosta a  crescer, o mormaço avançando, visitando as casas para não mais sair, que horror!

Ainda bem que Mahadeu deitara abaixo a casa antiga para se isolar longe do bairro onde a vida era mais saudável.

Enquanto ia subindo a encosta, espreitava de quando em quando o trilho que corria pelo coqueiral a ver se Mahadeu chegava.

Munu pastoreava os búfalos no restolho seco das morodas, sentado à torreira e atirava para o ar uma melodia hipnótica arrancada a um pedaço de bambu. O Xencor varria o oiteiro com o seu canto habitual. Agora a sua voz atroava os ares numa harmonia soez com o apito de Munu. Pramilá e o marido cavavam a casana à margem do rio. As costas dela, descobertas até à cinta, ensebadas, brilhavam ao lado de Râma, quase nu, em ritmos faiscantes das enxadadas. Quando acabariam aquele trabalho duro? Havia três semanas que Mogá os via na faina áspera. Ele, um colosso chupado pelo fenim; ela ventruda pela quinta vez e já próxima da parição. Cavavam em silêncio para não desperdiçar forças na conversa. Viravam a terra palmo a palmo. Na outra margem, entre os rochedos, uma mulher talvez fosse Parvoti, martelava as ostras para ganhar umas tangas. Aquela Parvoti! Casada há um ano e já posta num farrapo. Não passava uma noite que até a casinha de Mogá não subissem os berros da desventurada ao ser macerada pelo homem que o destino lhe dera.

Ah! O seu Mahadeu! O bom e forte Mahadeu com que Prameswar a presenteou! Como é diferente!

E põe-se a imaginá-lo na pujança chocolatada, nas carnes rebrilhantes de suor e nas estriações de esforço. Ele não bebe, não provou uma gota de fenim, e não quis tomar um gole quando de certa feita caiu de uma árvore e partiu as costelas. É só dela, de mais ninguém, como Râma e foi de Sitâ durante toda a vida. O seu Mahadeu! Como Mogá o ama! É um amor silencioso, quase secreto, sem beijos nem muita falas. Mas ela sabe, quando o seu homem a toma nos braços e a fecunda, fazendo que todo o seu ser vibre de espasmos a ponto de não mais possuir capacidade de gozar, que também ele a ama como nenhum outro o faz a sua mulher. Porque nessa maneira quase feroz de amar, num esforço de cíclope sente que ele não se esbanja noutra parte. E pensa no que vai pela aldeia depravada, toda um teatro de promiscuidade, de estupros, de bebedeiras escachoantes e sevícias bárbaras. E ouve os gritos das vizinhas traídas na sua depredação física e dos homens que vão à taberna buscar um pouco de força.

O Prabhu é um pipo ambulante, dormindo nos balcões, recebendo pontapés de toda a gente. Não pode trabalhar. A mulher não olha para ele. O Naraina está doente, uma doença que faz fugir a família, e não há ninguém que o tire daquela vida de cão tinhoso. Em casa de Tatu, a mulher morre deixando um cortejo de filhos sarnentos e raquíticos. O Damu espatifando a fortuna do pai; o Dina, de quinze anos, a jogar às cartas dia e noite. No bairro do Valado Grande, o Nany incendiou a casa a fim de matar a mulher. A Droupoda, tão nova, está paralítica e não tem esperança de cura. Mas o cúmulo de toda a miséria da aldeia é o demónio da Abolém, que anda a perverter os homens com o espírito possesso de vaginismo.

Mogá pensa depois que aquela gente tão forte e sóbria nos tempos passados está marchando inevitavelmente no caminho da perdição. Já não há homens como já não há mulheres, pois que não se pode dar esse nome aos refugos que povoam a terra de Santana e atiram para o mundo, todos os anos, dezenas de atrofiados incapazes de se desenvolverem. A aldeia está a acabar. Está a afogar-se no vício, consumindo-se irremediavelmente. Dantes, os homens geravam filhos robustos. Não bebiam. Fabricavam uma musculatura de aço à custa de ambil, apas de arroz e água. Seu trabalho era gabado e valia mais que as máquinas de hoje. Recorda o pai, que o batecares disputavam no tempo das grandes cavas. Desconhecia o sabor do vinho. Convencia-se de que quem bebia se transformava em porco na vida futura. E as mulheres! Onde é que se via agora uma mulher como a mãe, abogoa de carnes hipertrofiadas, dando-se à terra a par do marido, ao trabalho doméstico, para viver depois numa harmonia plácida e saudável com o seu homem, com energias de sobra para gerar filhos fortes como búfalos!

Continuou a subir. Era pela segunda vez que ia sozinha ao cajual. Havia na troncagem esbranquiçada algo que a assustava, e nas agonias rubra do entardescer um animismo que ameaçava exteriorizar-se. As pinceladas de fogo e as sombras negras contrastavam-se assustadoramente. O silêncio que as gralhas já não quebravam, os vôos subitâneos das codornizes fugindo da coroda atiçavam-lhe o pelo e enfunavam e/o espírito de medo.

Quando chegou ao alto, viu que a pia fedia, o mosto secara e um fio ténue de sumo borbulhante e ácido corria para a bannenterrada até ao gargalo. Nas covinhas de pedra nadavam insectos arrevesando a própria gula, formigas que morriam afogadas nos restos da beberragem.

Com a aproximação de Mogá fugiu toda a companha. Ela deu em tudo uma vassourada vigorosa, removeu o mosto, e a talha ficou pronta para a pisa do dia.

Mas porque é que o Mahadeu não veio ainda? Ele sabe muito bem que há dois dias o caju não foi colhido e apodrece, e que ela sozinha não pode dar conta da apanha e da pisa. Devia lembrar-se de que os frutos podres não produzem bom vinho e isto representa um prejuízo que fará diferença no pagamento das rendas. Pelo contrário, que é que fez? Nada mais que ir à casa da sogra, vê-la, desejar-lhe saúde. Antes se lembrasse dela, de que se encontra sozinha no oiteiro e de que, mulher que é, não pode aguentar o que é pesado demais ainda para um homem.

Zangou-se. Mas foi uma zanga fugaz, um propósito de o beliscar, de lhe morder as orelhas quando logo à noite ele viesse acariciá-la, de não lhe falar, por ter procedido como os outros homens da aldeia.

Agora, porém, como estava a fazer tarde, não tinha outro remédio senão ir com a cesta apanhar o caju. E lá se foi, a graça crua do corpo, de árvore em árvore, sob as copas, onde os frutos quase atapetavam o chão.

Quando, passados minutos, desviou os olhos para os lados do mar, ficou aflita por o sol estar a tocar a linha do horizonte. As águas iam perdendo as tonalidades alegres. Os dorsos escalvados das colinas de além rio começavam a silhuetar-se contra o fundo alvadio das nuvens. Dali a nada não restaria nem sinal da pompa avermelhada da despedida de Súria.

Suspendeu o trabalho e ficou a prestar homenagem ao poderoso animador da terra. Era Súria que fazia frutificar os cajuais, o arroz do solo, erguer as águas do oceano para que com elas regar as casanas e morodas. O mar era o seu leito refrescante, onde ele descansava durante a noite para despertar todas as manhãs a fim de reinar sobre a sua criação. Era assim que lhe tinham ensinado. Era assim que cantava o velho Ananda, lendo as puranas no pátio das natocas. Os cristãos adoravam um pedaço de madeira alçado num pedestal. Acendiam-lhe velas, cantavam-lhe orações. Que representava, porém, aquela cruz sem vida perante o esplendor de Súria, deus vivo na imponência evidente, na presença inegável!

Os clarões últimos do astro iluminaram-na toda, penetraram as pregas do pano e revelaram aos olhos pasmados das gralhas as divinas florações de estátua antiga rubescida pelo fogo so santuário.

O sol mergulhou no oceano, e Mogá tornou ao trabalho com redobrada pressa. Ouviu os sinos da igreja, a charamela vibrando o ar, e assustou-se por ser a hora em que todos recolhiam à casa e os cristãos começavam as rezas.

Despejou na pia a centésima cesta. Estava fatigada. Os braços doíam-lhe. O sumo empapava-lhe o cabelo, colava o pano ao corpo.

Mas que lhe importava todo o desconforto se aquele sumo adstringente se havia de transformar em dinheiro e o dinheiro em arroz e o arroz em leite para o filhinho? Quem nasceu pobre sem nesga de terra que fosse sua, tinha de trabalhar para comprar os panos, folhas de mascar, sandálias para dias festivos, além de comida, que o mais era um luxo.

A escuridão desceu sobre a colina. Nuvens pesadas velaram as estrelas. O calor tornou-se intenso. Não se via nada em volta.

Mogá acabou de torcer as castanhas.

–  O malandro não veio ainda – gemeu. – Vou-me embora. Já não posso mais – murmurou, quase a chorar.

Mas não. Ela não iria para casa. Era preciso acabar o trabalho, levar a fim o plano de vingança.

Arregaçou o capodd e entrou decidamente na pia, as mãos seguras no suporte da latada, e imediatamente sob os pés o fiozinho de sumo engrossou, lançou-se marulhando na vasilha.

O seu corpo estava literalmente molhado. O suor descia-lhe pelas pernas aos pingos indo perder-se nos remoinhos da talha. Seus braços há muito que doíam, suas pernas fraquejavam. Mas o pensamento dominava-os, comandava-os no esforço derradeiro da pisa.

Mais uns momentos e o trabalho chegou ao fim.

Sentou-se no rebordo da pedra a refazer-se do cansaço e, mais uma vez, apurou os ouvidos para apanhar algum ruído que denunciasse a chegada de Mahadeu. Não lhe fazia agora diferença que ele viesse ou não. Mas o seu despeito, chegado ao máximo, tinha necessidade de se descarregar.

A ira amorosa sufocava-a. E, ao mesmo tempo queria ser louvada e acarinhada. Desejouo com veemência que ele, vindo de repente, a apertasse muito, a abafasse nos seus braços, fazendo sentir as carícias mornas dos seus dedos. Porque o quebranto em que caíra era como os delíquios das noites de paixão, quando toda a carne se transformava em feixes de nervos.

Debruçou-se sobre a corrente de sumo e matou, em largos sorvos de animal, a espantosa sede que a queimava. E ao endireitar-se viu que o pano se ensopara também e não podia cobrir-se. Estava nua de cinta para cima.

Do mar subia uma brisa ténue. As nuvens deixavam cair parcas gotas de água. Mas da terra, da moroda seca, das penhas, soltavam-se vapores férvidos. Então Mogá desfez-se da vestimenta e ficou a gozar a volúpia dos pingos que lhe amainavam a tempestade dos nervos, e os beijos da aragem na pele, como uma deusa da noite, pujante de carnações, reinando nas escuridões primevas da criação.

Apetecia-lhe demorar-se no refazimento das forças, deixar-se enovelar na onda do prazer que a arrastava para o esquecimento da hora e do lugar. E só quando os uivos prolongados dos chacais, que começavam a faina nocturna de rapinagem, quebrarm a calma, é que se lembrou de que a noite avançava, do filho que talvez tivesse acordado e de Mahadeu que talvez a esperasse.

Sobre a terra queimada, o chuvisco tamborilava nas folhagens sequiosas, penetrava-a iludindo-a nas sofreguidões. As aves batiam as asas, abriam-nas, expunham o corpo à esmola do céu. As lagartixas saíam das luras e a formiga branca não se demoraria em roer os galhos secos. Mogá não ignorava que a chuva caída antes do tempo deitava a perder as sementeiras. Sorvava as flores dos cajueiros e mangueiras. O arroz não cresceria com vigor. Nas salinas, faria os depósitos tornarem-se insossos. Faria os coqueiros deitarem abaixo os coquinhos. Nas valas, a água fermentaria as imundícies e acordaria mil doenças. Mas, depois de tudo, desejava-a porque ela lhe refrescava a pele, lavava-a do suor que lhe dava a suprema sensação de desconforto.

O cheiro da terra molhada penetrava-lhe o mais recôndito dos pulmões, vivificando-a. A imagem das grandes chuvadas de Julho, dessas que põem em um só nível o rio e a casana, brincava no seu desejo sedento! Ah! As grandes catadupas da monção! E toda ela estremeceu num anelo de se ir banhar na lama do riacho, como o faziam os búfalos de Munu.

Aproximando-se do povoado, ouviu uma gritaria subindo da casa de Anandi. Porventura, o filho, que voltava das minas, tivesse morrido. Sentia-se fraco, não podia nada, e o seu corpo não tinha senão um feixe de ossos, cobertos por uma pele acinzentada.

Não havia dúvida. Anandi soltava uivos de dor. À porta, à luz do candeeiro de pressão, via-se o esquife de bambu sobre o qual o rapaz iria a enterrar na Moroda Grande e lá ficaria sob a terra vermelha e pedregulhos com que lhe encheriam a cova para que os adibes não o fossem tirar dali.

– E se alguém me vê, assim como estou, sem roupa no corpo, que vergonha!

Mas no manto da noite não fulgia uma estrela. O atalho sem sinal de gente. O chuvisco cessara e a aragem aquentada não a convidava a cobrir-se.

Chegou a casa. Abriu a porta e entrou. O pequerrucho, a calcular pelo silêncio, dormia ainda. Mogá pousou a cesta no canto do compartimento e sentou-se a beira da esteira, a mão acarinhando o petiz. Estava vencida pela fadiga. A fome fazia-lhe sinais. Mas o corpo recusava-se-lhe ao mais pequeno movimento, mesmo para fazer fogo para a canja. E depois, as bilhas de água vazias, o poço longe, a lenha no quintalzinho. Um grande peso nas pálpebras, uma nebulosidade toldando-lhe os sentidos.

Deitou-se ao lado do filho, apalpando-o com amor. O pano da esteira tinha uns restos do calor que a incomodavam. Rolou até ao chão duro, sentindo-lhe o contacto fresco, o cheiro convidativo da bosta seca. Estendeu os braços e as pernas e assim, qual filha da terra, entregou-se ao mais profundo sono.

Translator’s Statement

Epitácio Pais (1924-2009) was a writer from Goa, India. Born when the territory belonged to Portugal, Pais lived through the annexation of 1961, after which Goa was absorbed by the Indian Union. While experienced by most as a liberation from colonial rule, this transition was also a disturbing, even traumatic experience for some. One major change was linguistic. The Portuguese language went from official privilege to the scrapheap almost overnight. Writers like Pais who wrote in Portuguese, and were unwilling or unable to shift to a different medium, quickly faded from public memory and literary history. My translation is part of an effort to rehabilitate this unique and almost unknown body of Indian literature. This story, which appeared in Pais’s 1972 collection, Os Javalis de Codval (The Boars of Codval), is a fine example of his writing. It is notable for its irony: it gives us a critical appraisal of the Goan countryside from within the consciousness of Moga, a self-centred figure seemingly blind to her family’s own deleterious role in society. After all, the drink she sees ruining the villagers is the source of prosperity for her and her husband (who distil and apparently retail a local cashew spirit called feni). The story also shows the ambiguity so often found in Pais’s work. After all, Moga’s family’s livelihood seems in fact to be precarious. And, more importantly still, as the plot advances the doubt grows in the reader that a crucial event has taken place offstage. What has become of her husband Mahadev? Could Moga’s rosy idea of her husband be mistaken? Might something tragic have befallen him? Or has he simply been delayed at his mother-in-law’s? We can never know, but the uncertainty casts a pall over Moga’s efforts. The grit and autonomy shown in crushing the cashew apples by herself is for nothing if, in the patriarchal Indian village, she has been reduced to widowhood or its equivalent. She could easily find herself worse off than those she looks down upon.

Pais is not an easy writer to translate. His diction is terse and lexically precise, and I have tried my best to preserve these qualities. In addition, there are various specific local terms throughout the story. Though sometimes I felt a gloss or cushion was necessary, where possible I have simply left the foreign word embedded in the English text. Given the story is an attempt to imagine life on the other side of religious and gender difference, an outsider such as myself or any other reader should be willing to do likewise and puzzle out references from context. Yet some of the irony I mentioned at the outset might well need some local coordinates.  It is worth mentioning, for those who do not know Goa, that the local population is split between Catholics and Hindus and that the further back towards the nineteenth century we go the more even the demographic balance was. Here we have a Catholic writer imagining Hindu characters (and so there is an ironic Catholic imagination behind Moga’s dismissive thought that Christians adore a piece of wood on a pedestal). Such nuances are what make world literature worth reading.