Leech

A few pieces of boiled sweet potato serve as Osman's "belly guarantee." That is, in the absence of rice, anything that somewhat fills the stomach earns that name. What choice is there when rice becomes unaffordable?

Osman sits with his hookah. Maju Bibi comes with a bottle of mustard oil. Pouring some into her palm, she starts massaging her husband's back.

Their six-year-old daughter Tuni asks,

—"What happens when you do this oil massage, Ma?"

—"The water won’t bite you," replies Maju Bibi.

—"Water bites? Does water have teeth?"

—"Why not?" Osman laughs. "How does it bite if it doesn’t have teeth?"

Tuni might have believed it, but Maju Bibi explains,

—"Grass, weeds, leaves, taro—when they rot, the water gets spoiled. If that water touches your body, it itches. That’s what we call ‘biting water’."

Osman sets down the hookah and calls out,

—"Where are you, Tota? Bring the tobacco box and the coal bowl. I’m heading out."

He now massages himself thoroughly, from feet to neck, and even applies mustard oil to his head and face. Then, taking the sickle and the hookah, he gets on the boat.

Tota, his ten-year-old son, paddles along the thirteen-foot dinghy. As Osman rubs the sticky oil into his legs, he looks around.

It’s the end of the monsoon month of Shravan. The monsoon is in full force. With the early rice harvested, the late-season rice plants stand tall, their fresh tips glistening in the morning sun.

The boat reaches the jute field. Looking at the jute plants, Osman feels a surge of satisfaction. They’ve grown thick and nearly as tall as two men. His hard work has paid off.

But the crop isn't his alone—he’s just a sharecropper. The land belongs to Wazed Chowdhury, who has a good job in Dhaka. He’s left a manager to collect his dues—half the harvest, to the last grain. During harvest, his son Yusuf comes from Dhaka, sells the rice and jute, collects the money, and returns. Last year, during harvest, Yusuf came and had the sharecroppers sign papers. Before that, the arrangements were made verbally.

Osman’s joy fades as these thoughts arise. He sighs—"If only no one else could claim a share of the fruit of my labor!"

He ties up his lungi tight around his waist—tight enough to keep leeches out. They say if leeches get a chance, they can enter through the rectum and tear at the intestines.

Osman steps into the water. The murky water looks like a traditional herbal decoction. There hasn’t been flooding for two years, yet the jute field still holds chest-high water. There’s no way to harvest the jute without submerging it.

He bundles some jute stalks and ties them with rope. He hangs the hookah, tobacco, and fire bowl under a makeshift umbrella-like stand above the boat.

Taking the sickle, he says,

—"Take the boat back. Come back quickly from school."

—"School lets out at four."

—"Leave early and come."

—"Master Saheb won’t allow early leave."

—"If he doesn’t, ask him—will he come harvest my jute?"

Tota rows away. Osman dives and begins cutting jute. With the newly sharpened sickle from Loharur’s shop, he cuts at the jute base. But he can only cut 4-5 stalks per dive. It takes 3-4 dives to finish a single bundle.

As the day wears on, his dives grow less efficient. Initially, he could work ten dives before needing a break. But that soon drops—eight, then six, then two. Finally, he needs rest after each dive.

When hunger tightens its grip, he becomes dizzy, weak. He considers going home—but he hasn’t even finished half his target. He planned to cut eighty bundles today.

Just then, he spots a water lily bulb. His eyes brighten. He had forgotten this easy way to fill the belly. He gathers ten or twelve. Despite the foul smell, he eats a few raw. The rest he roasts over the fire bowl.

Refreshed, Osman resumes work. The oil has long since washed off. The itchiness of the water returns. Frustrated, he curses,

—"We starve, work ourselves to death, and these bloody jute stalks grow fat! Why couldn’t they grow thin and wiry—so I could slice through in one go!"

He reaches for the hookah but finds the fire gone. It had rained a bit earlier. The jute canopy hadn’t shielded the flame.

Now truly angry, he scratches and swears at the rain and the filthy water. Then, his anger turns to the landowner:

—"That bastard sits in Dhaka as a fancy babu, and he’ll still take half. If only I could get him bitten by this rotten water!"

He decides to stop working. He calls out,

—"Tota—u—"

Twice he calls before hearing,

—"Coming—o—"

As he gathers the jute bundles, Osman grumbles,

—"I break my back, and they just sit and eat!"

Tota arrives with the boat. Though it's early, Osman snaps,

—"What took you so long? Didn't I tell you to leave school early?"

—"I came early. Ma said to wait a bit for the rice to boil, so I could bring you some broth."

—"Did you bring it? Quick, give it here."

Tota hands him a clay pot. Osman drinks the salty rice water standing in the water itself.

—"Shukr Alhamdulillah," he murmurs.

He silently thanks his wife. Without this broth, he couldn't have even climbed onto the boat. It’s been like this since the early rice harvest began. And he’s not even forty yet.

Osman lifts the jute bundles. Tota arranges them in the boat. Osman asks,

—"What’s your mother cooking?"

—"Tangra fish and water spinach."

—"Where’d she get fish?"

—"She caught it with a hook."

Osman smiles. Once they’re done, he climbs aboard, leaning heavily on the edge.

Tota shouts,

—"There’s something black on your leg, Ba’jan! What is that—leech?"

—"Where?"

—"There! Could be a leech!" He points, horrified.

—"Yes, it’s a leech! When did that get on me? Quick, pass the sickle!"

Tota hands it over, shivering in fear.

A fat, nearly foot-long leech is stuck just above Osman’s right knee, bloated with blood. Osman slides the sickle under it and, using a stick, scrapes it off.

—"Ah, saved!" he sighs.

—"So much blood!" Tota gasps.

—"Now pole the boat quickly," Osman orders.

Blood still trickles from where the leech latched on. Tota asks,

—"Didn’t you feel it bite you?"

—"No, son. These things suck blood so quietly, you never know."

—"It was huge, Ba’jan!"

—"Fool! That’s nothing. There are even bigger ones."

Even after harvesting the jute, there's more toil ahead—soaking, separating the fiber, washing, drying. Then, just as the jute is almost dry, the landlord's manager arrives.

He docks with a boat, a scale, and a measuring rod. Osman and his son stack the dry jute. The official divides it into three equal parts.

Osman wonders if the three-share law has been passed. A flicker of hope lights in his chest.

—"Where’s Osman? Stack my two parts aside," the manager says.

Osman stares.

—"Go on, why are you standing there?"

—"Aren’t I supposed to get one part?"

—"Yes."

—"Why?"

—"Because of the new law. The three-share law."

—"But if it’s the three-share law, shouldn’t I get two?"

—"Sure, go ask the young master."

—"I will, right now!"

—"Fine, go when you want. For now, move my two parts."

—"No, I won’t. I’ll ask first."

—"What good will that do? If the master turns you away, you’ll bring it back anyway."

Yusuf, Wazed Chowdhury’s son, sits on the veranda, smoking. Osman approaches, nervously, Tota in tow.

—"Master, I don’t understand what happened," Osman says.

—"What’s the matter?" Yusuf exhales smoke.

—"They gave me only one share out of three."

—"Yes, that’s correct."

Osman stares in disbelief.

—"Don’t you remember the 500 taka loan you took to buy a plow and bullocks?"

—"I took money? When?"

—"Last year. You signed on paper."

Osman is stunned.

—"I never took any money! This is injustice, only God can judge!"

—"Get lost! Make too much noise, and we’ll give no land to any of you!"

Osman staggers away, holding his son's hand.

Yusuf sneers,

—"Three-share law? We’ve been rehearsing before it even passed."

He draws on his cigarette again,

—"Laws? Can they stop us? We slip through loopholes. Let them make laws—we know how to bypass them!"

Those weren’t Yusuf’s words. He was just echoing his father, Wazed Chowdhury, who had read about the proposed law last year and smirked, saying the same.

The law stated: “If the landlord supplies bullocks and plows or funds them, he shall receive half of the crop.”

Wazed had used this clause to trick the sharecroppers into signing documents under false pretenses.

On the way back, Tota asks,

—"Ba’jan, didn’t you know what you were signing that day?"

Osman doesn’t reply. He just lets out a long sigh,

—"Ah-ha-re…"

Tota looks up, startled. He had never seen his father’s face look like that before.