(Tales From Paharpur : Story 2, Part 1.  BlogchatterA2Z challenge Day 5) 

Prakash was my childhood friend. He was afflicted with polio and his limp grew worse with age. We grew up together in Paharpur. The name Paharpur might have come from the fact that the village was surrounded by a number of hillocks.  My house was in the middle of the village, just opposite his.

We were in High School and he was our undisputed leader. Besides Prakash and I, our gang of four consisted of Tirky and Ranka. The school was in another village called Kantakpur, three kilometers  away. The three of us took turns to carry Prakash in our bicycles.  Being village boys, we had all started our education late and we were quite over aged for high school.

The dusty road to Kantakpur started after we crossed the river near thick bushes of kewda  flowers. One day, when we had just crossed the river, Prakash told us to stop. Calling out to Tirky he said, “Do you see the black bird sitting there on the tallest kewda plant?”

We craned our necks and narrowed our eyes to locate the blackbird. “Yes… yes. I see it,” Ranka shouted.

“Tirky, today is your lucky day. We have found what we were searching for.”

While Tirky nodded to show his understanding, Ranka and I demanded an explanation.

Tirky wanted to say something, but, Prakash stopped him. “Let me explain, he said, our friend Tricky has a crush on Jaya, that idiot Vikram’s sister. But he does not know how to approach her. I consulted the ancient manuscript that one of our great great grand fathers has left for us. It is written there that to seduce someone and make him or her do whatever you want you need to get the twig of a black bird’s  nest found in the kewda flower bushes. First, all of you go, search for the nest and get the twig. Then I will tell you what to do.”

The kewda plants were part of thick bushes consisting of various thorny plants and creepers. The possibility of snakes hiding in the thick undergrowth made the prospect of reaching that particular plant scary.

When Prakash saw that we were hesitating he came limping. He shouted and taunted calling us names. “Useless fellows, wait I will show you how to go inside.”  He used his stick to beat the undergrowth to make sure there was no snake. Then he crawled inside. In no time he was near the trunk of the plant that housed the nest. We followed him and were about to reach him when he signaled us to stop and be still.

I could see the tail end of a black snake dangling from the tree. The other portion seemed to be hidden in the nest.

He said, “Don’t be afraid. But be still. I know the snake mantra. It will not do us any harm.”

 He mumbled something and slowly touched the snake. We could see its head  emerging out of the nest. It went up the branch and slowly slid into another tree.

“Now your chances are double, Tirky. The scripture says if the nest is guarded by a snake you will enter her heart without any difficulty.”

When we came out with the twig, Prakash said, “Now we have to crush the twig to make powder out of it. Once the powder is ready I will empower it with a special mantra. You must find a way to mix it with the perfumed powder that she uses. Once she begins applying the powder, you will see the miracle happen.”

 Tirky bribed his sister to do it. His sister and Jaya were close friends.

But even after a week no miracle happened. Jaya continued to ignore Tirky. Rather the whole thing backfired. Someone leaked this conspiracy to Jaya’s elder brother.  One day when we had gone to the village pond for our morning ablutions, Tirky was badly thrashed by him and we, the co-conspirators, were let off after a stern warning to maintain respectable distance from Jaya.

Prakash was adamant. According to him the prescriptions of that rare ancient manuscript never failed. There must have been something wrong with our execution. Did Tirky’s sister really mix the twig powder with the powder that Jaya used?

We ourselves developed doubts about our execution. That prevented us from estimating Prakash no better than one of those village charlatans.

(to be continued)

( #TalesFromPaharpur : 2nd and concluding part of story 1. Day 4 of #BlogchatterA2Z challenge) 

Continued from the previous post..

“What more can I say. If  I had time I would have told you the details about our training and our meeting with Subhash Chandra Bose. We were somewhere in Manipur. One day we were told to get ready for a great battle that  would be decisive.

But, before we were ready the British surrounded us. Damodar told us that our first task was to save Netaji. The battle lasted for five hours. We were able to repel the British. However, in  the process half of our troupe perished . Damodar was one of them. We did not have time to mourn or do the last rites properly as news arrived that British reinforcement could come at any time. Along with Netaji we escaped and were soon joined by a large number of our supporters.  Then we conducted a prayer meeting for the departed.

I have seen the dead body of Damodar with my own eyes. After coming back we did not know how to break the news to Chandra bhabi. But to our surprise, when the news of her husband’s death reached her, she laughed and said, ‘He cannot die before my death. He promised that he would never allow me to a live a widow’s life. My heart knows he is alive.’

She refused to follow the dictates ordained for a widow like going bangle-less,  wearing only white, or  going for a strict vegetarian diet. Initially we tried to convince her, but seeing her resistance we stopped. We also never brought up the issue of the death after that till this widow pension issue came up.”

Sahib asked my grandfather, “Do you believe that Netaji is dead?”

“No. It is a conspiracy. We got the news that he was killed in a plane crash. But we knew that it was a conspiracy by the British to demoralise us.”

Rain had stopped. Still grandpa ordered us to take our umbrellas and go with sahib till the fair road three miles away after the river. His office jeep waited for him there.

Next day we went to Chandra Dadi’s house. She was as usual at her cheerful best. We asked her if she still had some stock of Adisha. It is a sweet cake specialty which only a few can make properly. She was the best in our village.

She brought three pieces but we were six. We shared it.

We never got bored of teasing her for her patience in waiting for the useless old man or hearing her story about the short period she spent with her husband.

Budhia would be the first to start. “Dadi, once again I am telling you to forget your old man and marry me. He did not do anything to you then. Now also if he comes back, at this old age what pleasure will he give you?”

This much liberty was allowed with our grandparents.

She would respond, “You boys will not understand. When you see a young girl, you immediately think of raping her. But he was not like that.

I got married at ten. He was twenty. At thirteen or fourteen my parents brought me here. I had heard so many stories of first nights. How the men almost raped the young girls who had barely matured.

He used to fight with her mother who used to be adamant that I slept with him.

 ‘She is only a kid mother,’  he would say, ‘let her sleep in your room for some days.’

He would ask me again and again if I was comfortable. Everyday evening he brought sweets and other savories from Bhallapur or from Bittinagar. He said that he was arranging to go to Burma along with others after a month. With the money he earned in Burma, he hoped to get back the land that their family had sold to marry off three of his sisters. His father had died when he was twelve and since then he had been the sole bread earner of the family.

He asked his mother again and again to take care of me properly during his absence. Before going he asked me to tell him what I wanted him to bring when he returned from Burma.

I had heard that many people who went to Burma did not return. Some settled there while some died either during the strenuous journey. Some even got killed by the locals there. I myself had grown up with a lot of widows in my joint family.

I had heard that only the pious and the luckiest ones depart for the other world before their husbands. So it came out from my mouth, ‘I don’t want to die as a widow.’

He shouted, ‘who taught you such things? Don’t believe in such stupid stuff. Anyway, one of the other reasons for my not consummating our marriage is that it will keep me motivated to come back. I also don’t want my children to grow up without seeing their father. This is a common thing in all our villages here. Children see their father for the first time only when they are eight or ten. I don’t want to happen this to our children.  I have asked mother to take care of you. Still, if there is any problem, tell Loka’s mother or go back to your village. You take care of yourself and get all those stupid ideas out of your head.’

He urged her mother with folded hands to take care of me till he returned.

After he lef, his mother took care of me like her own daughter. This was something rare. Even now you see how young brides are treated as slaves. I was lucky.”

She enjoyed telling this story again and again. We also loved hearing it. Her missing husband had become a hero in our minds.

The sahib’s next visit to our village was in December. The water level in Kalindi was below knee deep and his jeep could now come right inside our village.

“A jeep in our village. Bhroom… bhroom,” shouted the children as they came and gathered around the jeep. Men too came out of their houses to find out and celebrate the unique event of the presence of a mechanical vehicle in our village. Women peered out of their houses from behind the half open doors.

The Sahib got down from the jeep and asked us to call Chandra Dadi as he was walking to her house. Budhia ran and knocked on the door.

When she opened the door sahib said, “Dadi ji, we have corrected the birth date in your voter Id card. Now you don’t need to be declared a widow to get your pension immediately.”

He asked us to go through the papers and assure her that the papers were in line with what he said. Now she was sixty three and was eligible for the old age pension. She was also eligible to get the arrears for the past three years in one lump sum.

There was jubilation all around. Then and there Dadi announced that when the first pension came there would be grand puja at the temple of our village deity.

The jeep driver took us till the river so that in case the vehicle got stuck in the sand we could be of help. We got down before the jeep entered the river and followed it.  The sahib too got down and walked along with us.

“I enjoy so much walking bare foot on the river sand.” he said. The jeep crossed the river without getting stuck.

When we were turning back, the sahib called us to come close. “I forgot to tell you one thing. I have taken up the matter to construct a bridge across this river and extend the fair road till your village. It may take some time, maybe years. Let us see”

We wanted to jump with joy. Being village boys we did not know how to say thanks formally. Maybe he got it from our looks.

Budhia said, “Sahib. We will name the bridge as Damodar Bridge and put his statue here. He is perhaps the only reckonable hero that our village has produced.”

“No. Don’t do it. Not as long as Dadi is alive. I wish that she live a very very long life. From the way you villagers are taking care of her, I know she will. But after she dies erect statues for both of them. Her heroics too need to be preserved for the posterity.”

We were a little confused and remained silent.

Sahib broke the silence, “I forgot to tell you one more thing. My name too is Damodar.”

(Concluded)

( #TalesFromPaharpur: Story 1 Part 1. #BlogchatterA2Z series will include a number of stories set in a fictional Indian village of Paharpur. Here is the 1st part of story 1)

We were waiting near Kalindi river to receive the government official. Budhia was the first to sight him on the other side of the river.

“Look, sahib has arrived,” he exclaimed and stepped into the river to go to the other side and guide him to cross the river. He was not at all concerned that the only garment he was wearing, a half pant, would get wet. Of course he was carrying two towels – a dirty one for his own use and a new one for the sahib. It was July and the river had waist deep water.

We could see that the sahib refused to use our towel. He had got his own. He removed his shoes and changed over to the towel. Budhia offered to carry all his items, but he handed over only his small bag. Carrying his shoes and the  neatly folded pant and shirt in his own hands he stepped into the river following Budhia.

Our village Paharpur was half a kilometer from the river. All our villages in this southern part of Odisha had the same pattern.  The street road was from east to west flanked by row houses. Paharpur was no different.

We let the sahib lead us. He was already familiar with the village and the house of Chandra  dadi.

She was already waiting for us on the verandah of her thatched house. It was a small verandah barely three feet by six. The walls as well as the floor had a coating of cow dung mixed with mud. She had put a mattress on the floor.

Chandra dadi offered a lota of water to sahib to wash his feet. The sahib removed his shoes and washed his feet on the stone steps of the verandah.

He got himself seated on the mattress made of dried date palm leaves. Bhola, another of our companions, volunteered to go to his own house and get tea for sahib.

Budhia said, “Chandra Ma, what is the problem with you? See, how much pain sahib is taking to get you the pension.  It is after such a long time that we have got a kind hearted sahib. Or else, who would come to our village just to see that an old lady like you, whom all relatives have abandoned, gets her widow pension? The thought of walking three miles from the main road and crossing a half flooded river is itself so daunting for the town people.”

‘”God will bless you to sahib ji. All your children will flourish. You will live to be hundred,” she said.

‘”You are like my own mother, Dadi ji. Why are you reluctant to put your finger print? You deserve to get the pension. Nobody has seen your husband for five decades.  I have made all the papers ready. Just allow us to put your finger print and you will start getting your pension soon. It is not much. But you are old. The pension will take care of at least your medicines.”

“I know sahib. You are so kind hearted. But I also know that he is alive. My heart and my soul tell me that he is alive. How will I answer Chitragupta in the other world for receiving something what is not truthfully mine?”

My Grandfather Loknath Misra arrived on the scene. He could not stand straight and used a walking stick. We helped him climb the verandah and sit on the mattress.

He urged, “Chandra bhabi, I have seen with my own eyes what happened to Damodar. Do not hope against hope. Let us for the time being accept that he is alive. Then also, what is the harm in accepting the pension?  Anyway, you would have got it, had the voter card  not shown your age as fifty five instead of your actual age which is now well past sixty. You married fifty years back. What was your age then? Twelve, thirteen, or fourteen? Bhabi, I pray that you consent. Don’t think that after you start getting the pension our village will forsake you. Sixty rupees a month is a big amount, bhabiji, it is a big amount.”

‘It is not about  money, Loka. Who does not need money? Especially, a poor old lady like me who doesn’t have any support from her own relatives. This village has been very good to me. That is why I did not go back to my own village even after all of you told he would never come. But my heart says he is alive. My soul says he is alive.”

Everyone was silent, maybe trying to work out a response to her insistence. She continued, “After five years, anyway my voter card will say I am sixty. I will wait. I am so sorry for the sahib. How kind he is. You are all so kind. But please……”

She begged and started to weep, tears rolling down her wrinkled face to compete with the July rain that had started falling on the muddy village road. She could not talk further and covering her face with the end of her sari she ran inside.

We all fell silent for some time. The rain started to pound. Bhola had come with tea. My grandpa and the sahib were seated on the mattress while we were standing  huddled in one corner of the verandah.

Chandra Dadi’s confidence and belief that her husband was alive had infected us so much so that we also started believing he was alive. We pestered Grandpa to tell a different story.

“Boys, there is no different story. Like a parrot I have been telling this story again and again, maybe for a million times.”

Sahib said, “You tell us the story again, Grandpa. Anyway, it is raining so heavily. I have to wait till the skies clear.”

Grandpa spat the tambakhu out, cleared his throat, and started, “When the tax imposed by the British became too much, most of us  sold the little land that we had and with that money we left for Burma. Damodar  and I stayed in the same camp initially and worked in the rice fields of the same owner.  Then one day I discovered that he had left. I did not know where he had gone. There was no way to confirm. Those day.. no letters…. no phones. Only when someone cam form our village we got the village news. Same way only when one of us went home we could send some gold or news through him.

After one month Damodar reappeared. He had a few friends with him. It was evening and we were going back to our camp after the day’s work. My surprise made me to shout when I saw him, but, he gestured me to keep quiet. I was sharing my camp with two others from our nearby village Kantakpur. He pulled the three of us and said in a low voice, ‘I have joined the Army of Subhash Chandra Bose. We are fighting to free India from the British. It is the same Britsh whose heavy tax made you sell your land and come here to this foreign land to work as labourers. They have made you labourers from owners. If we don’t fight, our children will continue to be slaves.’

We had heard that many of the Indian labourers were joining the Army of a person called Subhash Chandra Bose. His words aroused anger in us against  the British. But it was evening and we were too tired to make a drastic decision that would change our lives. We told him to come and spend the night with us.

He said that he and his companions had put their lives at risk to come there. The British spies were everywhere and if they came to know, the life of all of us would be in danger. If we wanted to join them we had to make a decision then and there and leave immediately.

One of his companions said that Damodar had become very close to Subhash Bose and he was one of those privileged few who travelled with Bose. If we joined we too would be admitted to the close circle of Subhas Chandra Bose.

We wanted to join them. But we were not so sure. We needed time to make a decision. But they did not have time. Finally, we too decided to join them.”

By that time the rain had begun to slow down. Grandpa realised that he did not have time to lengthen his story.

(To be continued)