Mischievous, witty and humorous, 10-year-old Barsau grows up in a Bodo village in Kokrajhar, Assam. His world, located on the banks of the Jwima river, isn’t filled with magic wands, fancy schools or chocolate-filled houses. But it is not a banal world: far from it, in fact. As the central character in Rashmi Narzary’s His Share of Sky (a collection of interconnected short stories), Barsau reminds us that children have a near-magical ability to defy social barriers.

His Share of Sky transports one back to the rural milieu, and not just in the superficial, romantic sense. In stories like ‘In the Well’, we see how children outwit their parents: grown-ups whose minds — driven by cold reason — have lost the capacity to value the little joys of life. No wonder then, in the story ‘Ghost’, Barsau runs to his grandfather, who retells the legend of bawnaswr, or the dwarf thief, by the evening fire. One can almost smell the old man meticulously roasting small fish and chillies in the warm ashes.

Narzary recently won the Sahitya Akademi Bal Puraskar. Her style is a fusion of oral storytelling and children’s adventure stories, reminiscent of the works of Assamese-language writers such as Bhabendra Nath Saikia and Nabakanta Barua. BLink spoke to the author recently about His Share of Sky. The following are excerpts from the conversation:

How would you describe the children’s literature scene in the Bodo language?

Most children’s stories in the Bodo language are oral narratives, which have been passed down through generations. It’s heartening that there have been quite a few translations of Bodo folk tales into English. Of late, more of our folk and oral narratives are beginning to get documented. But on the whole, children’s literature in the Bodo language is yet to make its presence felt.

This should not give the impression that children’s stories in Bodo are scarce. We do have a rich storehouse, just that these are oral and undocumented or partly documented.

What are your reasons for using a rural backdrop for His Share of Sky?

I arrived at Gossaigaon, Kokrajhar, as a bride: to be precise, at the village of Bhaulaguri. I chose it as a backdrop for the stories because the serene rural surroundings started growing on me. It gave me that unadulterated joy and peace which I miss in Guwahati.

During our visits to Bhaulaguri and Gossaigaon, Hemant, my husband, would show us the jackfruit tree that he used to climb with his friends, for instance. Then, there was the river they used to swim and fish in and the fields they criss-crossed. This locale was so different, warm and idyllic, that I preferred rural Kokrajhar as the backdrop for this collection.

What have been your inspirations in writing for children?

Listening to my husband’s childhood encouraged me to write this book. But more than that, I found inspiration in every little child in the countryside, frolicking by the fields along highways, living his childhood to the fullest. Barsau, for instance, does not care for what tomorrow might hold for him, he is joyously unmindful of the need for wealth.

He tries to make the best of every little situation that Providence doles out to him and even has great adventures out of it.

Your portrait of Barsau’s childhood isn’t exactly bleak on the whole, but you made sure to include a certain amount of pain and suffering. How much of this was planned before you started writing the book?

I think the book shows how children manage to find little utopias of their own, even in the worst of situations. This was not really pre-planned, but I’m so glad that it happened. I actually intended to tell kids that village life holds so much adventure and can be so much fun! When I think of my own childhood, it is often the unfenced and pine-cone-strewn backyards in Shillong’s Kench’s Trace that come to mind. I spent a part of my childhood there, went to Pine Mount School and remember vividly the smell of lantana and forget-me-nots growing wild on my way to school. These memories are reflected in other stories, featured in my upcoming book, Mosaic.

Barsau’s Kokrajhar breaks the stereotype of a terror-ridden place. Was this a very deliberate choice on your part?

Back in the time in which Barsau’s stories are set, ethnic disturbances were unheard of in Kokrajhar. That’s why conflict doesn’t find mention in the stories. And even if there were ethnic disturbances, I wouldn’t write about them. Today there is conflict in Kokrajhar, but there are good times as well. There are picnics, festivities, developmental projects and celebrations, which are a part of the people’s lives — even through the disturbances. And it’s for us, for me, to tell the outside world that there is positivity here as well, not just riots and conflict. Let’s not take away childhood from children by telling them disturbing things prematurely. They will anyway come to know that sooner or later. So, well, keeping disturbances away was not really a conscious act.

There is a debate over whether words retained in the native language alienate English-speaking readers. Your book retains quite a few Bodo words. What are your thoughts on this?

Well, I think retaining a spattering of Bodo words only gives the reader an inside feel of the Bodo rural set-up. Since my purpose was to bring rural Kokrajhar alive through the stories (and not just project Barsau as any other kid in any other city), the retaining of certain Bodo words was crucial. In literature, the typical Bodo tone of conversation could not be effectively portrayed in any other way.

Why did you choose to synchronise your stories with seasonal changes?

Because whatever the season, there was no holding back Barsau and his exploits. For him, every season brought with it a unique share of charm and fun, and in which he indulged with happy abandon; hence this synchronisation.

Rini Barman is a freelance writer living in Delhi

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