By Gopinath Mohanty

A rural narrative of violence, bloodshed and hunting spirit.

FROM THE dark pit at the bottom of the hill, one by one, they rise. The hair on their heads untouched by oil; around their waists only kaupunis. Group after group, so many people! Nearby, beside the hill, barely visible, their village. Over there, the women of the village going towards the waterfront. And the herds of cattle and goats returning homeward. Supine on the backs of their buffaloes, feet dangling, the young cowherds are being carried home.

On either side of the path, the sunset lights up fields of tobacco and mustard, jowar and kandula, vegetable patches covered by dense clinging beans and melons on scaffolds. Their handiwork - a miracle. Scattered on single trees like birds nests on delicate branches are their little huts. To ascend each, only a length of bamboo for handgrip. From these, they watch their fields, spending the whole night on the machan, blowing on horn and flute; here they must have cooked last night, after cutting the pleasingly rich harvest of their land; they shall do so again.

In all certainty, bonded labourers. Even before the crop ripens, Lambodar of Sunarigad will have claimed one gadisha of the produce of this patch, thirty puti of that one. And after they have struggled through the year, they would find him waiting with agreement papers - ‘Come measure out my portion, one gadisha plus interest. Don’t you remember the provisions, the seed and cattle feed you took? One gadisha and fifteen puti. After having settled everything, you still owe me fifteen puti. Why are you staring at me like that? Shake the straw well before you take it home. Well, what am I supposed to do? Not claim my lawful share?’

No. They cannot be sharecroppers or landowners. Why else would they be shift cultivators? To provide for at least a couple of years, they take on tigers, the jungle, courts and fines! They banish fear by turning their bodies into tough wood - they swing their axes against the trees, making sparks fly; young and old, they all wrestle with the hills in rain or sunshine.

Only yesterday, the land belonged to their forebears … This mustard, this kandula, this tobacco, their village surrounded by mango trees clinging to the hillside.

Over there by the tall shady tree, their thatched huts stand facing each other. In rows! Here, all are equal in thought and deed. At the centre of the village is the home of Goddess Jhakiri. Above her is Dharma, and below there is Basumati, mother earth. All men are brothers.

***

From secret cracks between rocks, from the mud knoll by the side of the pit, from beneath the sal and mahula trees, peer. It is hard to make out the men from the trees. They puzzle over these light-skinned folk that have come riding in their machine. Who are these people, friend or foe? What are they up to?

The motor car has come to stop. The two children in it are crying. They must have some badhuli flowers! In the red light of the sunset, bunch after bunch of red badhuli flowers are being plucked. Like Kandha* children, these are also fond of flowers and their father must indulge them. What would they say if these people invited them in, if they said, ‘Let’s cook dinner together, let’s enjoy ourselves. We will share the little wine that is left, perhaps slaughter an old cow. You can then have all that we have: chickens, eggs and bananas. We will light a fire and guard you through the night. At dawn, the whole village will welcome you into our midst. After all, this is your home too … For you, too, are people like us’.
Watch out, they may come running now.

***

The sun has set long ago. In the west, between two hillocks, the blaze of fire has dimmed. All around, shadows have lengthened. There is no habitation, village, or cattle anywhere, only the jungle, the hills in the east, the burnt out hilltop that appears dark, fearsome. Like an unwashed ribbon, the path stretches and is swallowed by darkness.

Stretching a finger towards the base of the hill, Laxminarayana narrates his tale -
This is the place sir, this nullah called Jhupabai, and beyond, Jhupabai village. Breaking out from the netherworld, through layers of rock, Jhupabai joins Nagabali river, like a calf running after its mother. There is another roundabout way to the village. It is here that men with guns surprised them. The day before, men from ten neighbouring villages had been beaten, had fled for dear life! Having cooked their supper near the mango grove some were rolling tobacco leaves for a smoke; they had started from home a fortnight before that and their wanderings had given them blisters on their feet. Having heard of their presence here, the gunmen swiftly climbed the mound and began firing at them.

‘What? Gunfire?’

Sricharan was surprised. He could not relate gunfire with this peaceful forest and his vision of their primal life. Suddenly, they had entered his consciousness. No effort was required for such meditation, no rigour of asanas or pranayama to picture them as characters in an imaginary novel or to watch them on the white screen from amidst a crowd; very easily, effortlessly, this picture arose before his eyes, touching him like an invisible wind. Like a radio catching a tune from afar, Man’s imagination has given body to images of fields, and cattle, peasants and labourers. Not through bloodshed, not through gunfire.

Excited, Laxminarayana continued his narration like an eyewitness unfolding a historical account. It seemed as if he had been infected by barbarism, his ancient bones awakened by some wild bloodthirsty urge -
The firing went on, dhu dha dhu dhai dhai dhai. Not the guns to shoot birds with, but vilayati rifles. Each shot could knock out an elephant! So many fell into one pile. The survivors fled for their lives straight towards Jhupabai, which was, as it were, waiting to grab them into its hungry mouth. Breathless, one after another they fell into the nullah like a pack of disoriented wild boar, one after another, many many more than had perished in the actual firing.

Laxminarayana wiped the sweat off his face and continued -
Then the gunmen collected the dead, the crippled, those crying out in agony. They dragged and shoved all of them into the nullah. There was no telltale sign left anywhere. That quite broke the backbone of the villagers, their stubborness. How disobedient they had been! The cheek to refuse to pay tax to the great king and to pay it to the small one instead! As the government’s force arrested their leaders, the revolt spread to all the villages. Even women took part, and poured hot water on ‘suprent’ sahib, who was more feared than even the tiger. But after the firing, the same men chickened out, fell at the feet of the Paika, carried out unquestioningly all that was asked of them. The land became quiet. But not before this side of the path was laden with many corpses. O, to think of those bitter days …

The two children were listening in rapt attention as though it were a fascinating tale from a history book. After all, killing, bloodshed, gunfire - children love to listen to such tales from beyond their ken.
Kuna asked, ‘What kind of a battle was this? Our history book says that many many people died when Mohammad Ghori attacked India.’ Kuna reads in class six, and has never seen anyone die. Tell me, was it really a big battle?’

Laxminarayana replied, ‘No, it was more like a skirmish.’

‘A battle?’ asked Mini. We have read of so many such battles in our textbooks.’ She is in class seven. This is nothing! We have read of many! The Mahabharata war. The battle of Panipat. Of Plassey. The Second World War…

Kuna asked, ‘Did more people die in those battles?’

Laxminarayana, who had no notion of history, countered: Who says so? More died here, in this revolt! To think of the mayhem caused! It was we who showed the gunmen the way to this place.How else would they have found it? The Kandhas were all chased and killed like dogs. Not one escaped.

Kuna said, What happened to them after they died?

‘What do you think?’ Laxminarayana said. ‘They turned into ghosts!’

Mini exclaimed: ‘Ghosts!’ and out of fear came to sit close to her father.

Kuna said ‘All lies! Baba told me there is no such thing as ghosts, no Baba? But tell me what happened to the bodies of all those people who died and lay in the nullah? What happened to their bodies?’

‘What could happen?’ Laxminarayana said, shrugging his shoulders. ‘The nullah was crowded with jackals and vultures, but those who came could not eat all the bodies. The stench of rotting flesh spread for miles. In the end, everything but the bones turned into earth. Even the bones, I think, will turn to stone. But who will bother about that? The revolt of the Kandhas was crushed, wasn’t it?’

Mini said, ‘What about the relatives of those who died? Did they cry?’

They certainly did. Women from many villages still come to Jhupabai, they roll on the ground, pull their hair out, tear at their cheeks and faces with nails, and howl. Only in the evening do they return home. It is said that one lost her mind, killed herself by jumping into the nullah. But whether they cried or not, that does not matter, I guess. Those who died are gone. You see, for one whole year, there was no cultivation, everyone was terror-stricken. Taking advantage of this, many outsiders came and bought up land, dirt cheap! It was a free-for-all. Land was bought by moneylenders. They gave loans, engaged labourers for wages, paid taxes to the king. Everything became straightforward! Wherever you went, you saw ‘decent’ people, What you call gentlemen. And these Kandhas, they are after all of a lower order.

The gentlemen treated the Kandhas like cattle and grew over there, see what a big house Chakuli Parhi has built.’

‘Chakuli? That’s for eating! What a funny name!’ the children said, giggling.

Yes, it’s accepted in these parts. Chakuli Parhi is a big man, has fifty wives beside his lawful one. He is a tiger of a man! No one can outdo Chakuli in cunning. At any one time he has so many court cases going on…’

Laxminarayana is a veteran chaprasi of this place. He still upholds the decision to crush the revolt of the Kandhas. His ideal is a tiger-like man. Naturally, he respects Chakula Parhi. He sports a manly moustache and never shows his head without the cover of a turban. He takes good care of his clothes. Besides, he is a famous hunter of tigers, deer, peacock and fowl. He finds his meat and also earns his livelihood from hunting. His superior, Sricharan, has come here on transfer, been here for the last two months. Laxminarayana wants to impress and captivate Sricharan with his knowledge, experience, skill and resourcefulness. Both have just been to Kalyansinghpur from Raygada. Sricharan’s children had gone along to see the new countryside. They were now on their way home.

The account of the killing of the Kandhas had destroyed Sricharan’s peace, and he was unable to pay attention to Laxminarayana, Involuntarily there arose in his mind a deep sadness, anger and grief. He is an outsider. He belongs to the rural areas of Puri district. By train, one comes to this place via Khurda, Berhampur, Vijayanagaram, Parvatipur, then Raygada, a distance of 333 miles. But the difference in topography is more striking than the, actual distance covered. Huge hills, dense jungle, and more outstanding than these, the Kandhas. But he realised that even they are people like him.

Yes, the same people who love, hate, laugh, and cry, without any ill will towards others, they wish to live in peace, too; people who, like cattle, only ask for some comfort, some degree of peace and the pleasure of togetherness. They spend their days the way shed leaves, in rain or sunshine. Despite any of their boasts, they are really scared of violence and bloodshed. They sing of moksha and nirvana, but love the bondage of wordly life. Yet they invite the sharp weapons of retribution upon themselves. How often have wild hordes come riding, the Dravidas, the Anaryas, and then the Aryas, fair people after the dark. Crossing hills, streams, rivers and the ocean, close on their heels has come the colonial policy that the victor possesses the land, the vanquished becomes the serf. One cultivates, the other reaps the harvest. Man does not eat the flesh of fellow men.

He survives by the proper means of sustenance, his food, his land. And along with victorious arms have come priests of all religions, sprinkling magic waters in ablution, to win the hearts of the vanquished. ‘Life is transient,’ they explain, ‘real peace lies elsewhere. Abjure worldly life and flesh for the sake of the spirit!’
After dusk has come the night. The car is on its way towards Raygada. They who had troubled Sricharan’s imagination by beckoning him to stay back, they who had appealed to his common humanity, are no longer present. They are creatures of the imagination. Bullets had felled them long ago. Their bodies have dissolved into this red earth over which this car is moving relentlessly, with Sricharan inside.

The car’s headlights cut a narrow road out of the darkness. In the front seat are Laxminarayana and the driver. At the back, Sricharan and his children. Loaded gun in hand, Laxminarayana waits for the kill. He has awakened an excitement in the children by pointing out that the headlights will make the eyes of the animals glow in the dark.

Now and then a glowing eye was visible. It was as if someone had left a burning ember on the road. Invariably it is the eye of a bird.

Suddenly, there appeared a pair of green eyes.

‘Tiger!’ whispered the driver as he accelerated. Laxminarayana picked up the gun as a jackal crossed the path in flight. Many more eyes later, suddenly a hare stood still, caught in the light, and then it fled, hop-hopping before the pursuing car. ‘Watch out! It’s going to get run over!’ the children cried out. Sricharan touched the driver’s back, to slow him down, and the hare escaped into the bushes. And then there appeared a pair of eyes two feet above ground level.

‘It’s a tiger!’ said Laxminarayana.

The vehicle shot forward like a meteor. The creature stood erect, a striped animal … not a tiger but a hyena! Next came a big bear, its face turned downward. ‘Kill him,’ they shouted, ‘why didn’t you kill him, Baba?’ they complained. And Sricharan thought, those that are infantile not only in body but also in spirit, all those selfish irresponsible men, would naturally scream - ‘Kill, kill!’ Those who watch violence and killings on the television at home, or in the imagined pages of fiction, they would merely know the supremacy of brute force, not the horror of the tragedy. Such slaughter only feeds their egoism. They would not know how to fight and die an untimely death - the American school boy in the Asian battlefield. Even this denizen of the forest, this tiny hare might perish, thought Sricharan, How long would it be spared? Maybe a day would come when there would be no hares left in the forest.

Breaking into his thought once again, there came a pair of green eyes, moving slowly towards the left side of the road.

‘It’s a tiger,’ the driver whispered, focussing the light on the animal.

It was indeed a massive tiger. With its mouth open, its whiskers aquiver, it sniffed the air. In the darkness, Laxminarayana trained his gun of the tiger.

Then came the shot.
The tiger crashed to the ground, and raising its head, dragged itself to the other side of a rock. The gun roared again. And again. The tiger convulsed, pawed the ground wildly, then lay flat out.

Dead.

The children shouted in unison, ‘Let’s go.’

Cautioning everyone to wait, Laxminarayana loaded the gun and moving ten steps forward, pumped a bullet straight into the tiger’s head. Taking aim, he threw a stone at the creature. There was no sign of life. He said, ‘The tiger is dead! You can all come out.’

It was a time for jubilation. Even Sricharan competed with his children in rushing around, crying out their victory.

Dragging the carcass nonchalantly by the tail, Laxminarayana voiced his regret. ‘I think we have wasted four bullets. Perhaps one bullet would have done. Only the tiger have then taken one hour to die.’

‘You certainly have an excellent aim; you shot the tiger in the dark,’ Sricharan congratulated him. But Laxminarayana and the driver were busy dragging the tiger to the car. Said the driver, ‘It’s a huge tiger. Laxminarayana is sure to win a prize.’

‘It’s only a leopard,’ Laxminarayana said in appparent disappointment. ‘It’ll fetch only thirty-five rupees, perhaps less.’

‘You’ll never get less than thirty-five,’ Sricharan reassured him. ‘But I am determined to take the skin and send it for tanning.’

The children pestered them with questions about the size and the eating habits of the tiger as they felt the tiger’s whiskers, its ears, its tail. Their joy was understandable. After all, they, too, had a share in the kill. The question, Who spotted the tiger first? was hotly debated till, annoyed, Sricharan ordered them back into the car.

Everyone felt that he had killed the tiger. Ceremoniously, the carcass was lifted onto the bonnet of the car, clearly a difficult job for the three men, even with the help of ropes. Finally, the body rested on the bonnet, with its face slightly propped forward onto the windshield.

As the engine started, there was a curious meow behind them. Laxminarayana said as if to end all speculation: The tiger is already dead. But Mini was right. Unseen by Sricharan, a tigress with her cubs, smelling the spoor, the blood, had roared in futile rage. By then, of course, both vehicle and men were far away.

As the carcass jiggled on the bonnet, Sricharan thought, it’s a good thing the tiger is dead. It must have killed so many men, the world must be a somewhat safer place now. There certainly is reason for killing it. It is a hostile creature, and feasts on men! More reasoning followed. Man kills only out of necessity. After all, has not Krishna explained to Arjuna in the Bhagawadagita that slaying one’s enemy is one’s moral duty?

Perhaps there will be no end to violence. The land has been soaked in blood, the sky has been echoing cries of agony. But age after age, strife and violence seem to go on. And those who lost, the victims, have fallen into the Jhupabai nullah. Sricharan pictured the holocaust of history as if it was something captured on film. Each time he saw the tiger, he saw it as a symbol of exploitation, inequity and callousness in the world, and he rejoiced in the repeated vision of the tiger being killed. The symbol of violence is dead! He does not worry about how it perished, the fact that the tiger is dead, and his own desire has been fulfilled, is enough.
One has to fight relentlessly for peace, and then maybe there will be no more war. Sricharan pictures himself returning from the last battle on earth. Now the world is safe … before him, he sees the dead body of the tiger.

While thinking of non-violence, unwittingly Sricharan has become a votary of violence. His pride and egoism have already blinded him. For his self-satisfaction he has become a warrior, strutting about on the stage swinging his tin sword vigorously, making the floor shake with his stride.

The car moved on. Laxminarayana shifted between commentary and silence as he tried to satisfy the curiosity of the children, Sricharan now saw only a path before him, and the dark forest, on the bonnet - a dead tiger that would never consume men again.

Soon the car left hilly terrain and moved into the plain interspersed with human habitation, dim lights. In the distance, some silhouettes of people. Victory was no victory unless it was broadcast, thought Sricharan. People may not be able to see the tiger in the glare of the powerful headlights. He flashed his torch on the carcass. The children clapped together as the driver slowed down the car. As expected, the people on the road jostled each other, craning their necks to look at the dead tiger. There was surprise, fear, relief. Sricharan smiled in the dark, as if he were receiving their compliments.

By the time, they reached their house, it was ten at night. As the car came to a halt, the children leapt out excitedly to call the others.Laxminarayana got down and unloaded the car, while Sricharan stepped down. Soon there was a commotion, the family and neighbours all gathered in no time, everyone intent on the dead tiger.

- Look at its whiskers! And its tail!

- What huge teeth. He must have crunched men with those fangs.

- We must send its skin for tanning.

- We must not forget to stuff the head. Then it will look like a real tiger!

There was so much comment, such curiosity all around.

The youngest child, a one-and-a-half year old, was half-asleep.

Shaking him gently awake, Sricharan’s wife brought him near the dead tiger. ‘Don’t worry, dear. The tiger is dead.’

The little one hesitated, but seeing his brother and sister touching the tiger, he gathered courage to stroke the tiger’s skin as he said, ‘Oooo, poor thing. The tiger is dead!’

Everyone laughed.

Sricharan was shaken. After the hunt, he had forgotten about the tale of Jhupabai. But now he recalled the bloodied forms of the Kandhas. The mound of corpses … And once again their blood streamed out and soaked the earth.

Pensive and remorseful, gaze turned downward, Sricharan turned abruptly and went into his house.

Courtesy: Katha Prize Stories, Vol. 2