The Flying Rice, God’s Feast
After Dukhiram’s suicide, the first question that rose like smoke was whether he had failed to endure the larger society’s ridicule. Did the sharp scar of the party leader’s honor cut him so deep that he slit himself away? None of us had sensed, beforehand, that Dukhiram carried such a brittle prestige within him. Some, whispering with folded lips, hinted that the women were at fault. Why did they bathe in the lake wearing those short saris, gamchas, blouses? First, it polluted the waters. Second, from tender boys to withered elders, every rib and belly turned into an audience, feasting upon breasts, hips, and backs. And in that feasting, character itself was accused, corrupted. But the suicide theory did not hold for long. It crumbled like wet paper. The case crawled out from police burrows and scurried into the newsroom. Ah, the police—dying in spirit from their burden of morality! Meanwhile, the ghouls of reportage leapt into the field. Sexual suicide or sexual murder—b...