14

The village’s Prasanna Gurumahashay ran a grocer’s shop in his house, and right beside the shop was his pathshala. Besides a cane, there was no great wealth of educational materials in the school. The guardians of the students, however, had no less faith in this cane than the Gurumahashay himself. For this reason, they had told him that, keeping an eye only that the boys’ legs were not lamed and their eyes not blinded, he was free to wield the cane as much as he wished. And the Gurumahashay, in his attempt to make up for the lack of suitable pedagogical skills and resources solely with the help of the cane, brandished it with such abandon that his students only just managed to escape with their lives from the accidents of laming and blinding.

It was a day in the month of Poush. Apu was lying in bed, wrapped in a quilt, waiting for the sun to rise, when his mother came and called to him. ‘Apu, get up, quick now, you’re going to the pathshala to study today. Just think of all the books they’ll get for you, a slate. Yes, get up, wash your face, your father will take you and drop you at the school.’

Hearing the word pathshala, Apu, freshly roused from sleep, lifted his eyes and stared at his mother’s face in disbelief. He was under the impression that only naughty boys, who didn’t listen to their mothers and fought with their siblings, were sent to school. But he never did things like that, so why should he have to go?

A little while later, Sarbajaya came back and said, ‘Get up, Apu, wash your face. I’ll wrap up a nice big helping of puffed rice for you, you can sit and eat it at the pathshala, my precious darling!’

In response to his mother’s words, he said in a tone of disbelief, ‘Yeah, right!’ Then, looking at her, he stuck out his tongue, squeezed his eyes shut and made a face, showing no sign of getting up.

But in the end, when his father appeared, Apu’s little tantrums were of no avail. He had to go. His eyes welled up with resentment towards his mother. As she was tying up his food, he said, ‘I’m never coming home again, you’ll see!’

‘Hush, hush, what do you mean you won’t come home! You shouldn’t say such things, fie!’ Then, taking his chin in her hand and kissing it, she said, ‘May you become very learned, study hard, and then you’ll see what a big job you’ll get, how much money you’ll have, there’s nothing to be afraid of. —Listen, will you tell the Gurumashay not to say anything to him?’

After dropping him at the pathshala, Harihar said, ‘When it’s time for school to be over, I’ll come back to take you home, Apu. Sit and write, listen to the Gurumashay, and don’t be naughty!’ A little later, turning to look back, Apu saw his father gradually disappear around a bend in the road. A boundless ocean!

He sat for a long time with his head bowed. Then, fearfully, he raised his face and saw the Gurumahashay sitting on the shop’s platform, weighing out rock salt on a scale for someone. A few older boys were sitting on their own little reed mats, reading something aloud in various dissonant tones and rocking back and forth violently. A boy, a little younger than himself, was leaning against a post, absent-mindedly chewing on a palm leaf from his book. Another older boy, with a mole on his cheek, was peering under the shop’s platform, watching something intently. In front of him, two boys were sitting and drawing a box on a slate, doing something. One was whispering, ‘I’ve put my mark here,’ and the other boy was saying, ‘This is my circle,’ while at the same time marks were being made on his slate and he kept glancing out of the corner of his eye at the Gurumahashay, who was busy with a customer. Apu began writing out his spellings in large letters on his own slate. It’s hard to say how much time had passed when the Gurumahashay suddenly said, ‘Hey, Phoney, what’s all that on your slate?’ At once, the two boys in front covered the slate, but it was very difficult to escape the Gurumahashay’s hawk-like gaze. He said, ‘Hey, Sotey, bring Phoney’s slate over here!’ Before the words were even out of his mouth, the big boy with the mole snatched the slate and presented it on the shop’s platform.

‘Hmm, what’s all this being written on the slate? —Sotey, bring them both here, bring them by the ear!’

The way the big boy had snatched the slate, and the way the two boys in front, with distressed faces, were slowly approaching the Gurumahashay, suddenly struck Apu as very funny. He let out a little giggle. Then, after suppressing his laughter for a moment, he giggled again.

The Gurumahashay said, ‘Who’s laughing? Why are you laughing, little one? Is this a playhouse? Eh? Is this a playhouse, I ask you?’

Apu didn’t understand what a ‘playhouse’ was, but his face went pale with fear.

‘Sotey, bring a piece of brick from under the tamarind tree, a good big one, will you?’

Apu stiffened with fear, his throat went dry as wood, but when the brick was brought, he saw that it was not intended for him, but for those two other boys. Whether because he was young or because he was a new student, the Gurumahashay let him off that time.

The pathshala was held in the afternoon. All told, eight to ten boys and girls came to study. Everyone brought small mats from home to sit on; Apu had no mat, so he brought a worn-out piece of carpet from home. The room where the pathshala was held had no fences or walls on any side; it was open all around. The students sat in rows inside the room. The pathshala was surrounded by woods, and behind it was the Gurumahashay’s ancestral garden. The fresh, warm afternoon sunlight fell through the gaps between the pomelo, gab, and peyara-fuli mango trees, landing at the foot of the pathshala room’s bamboo posts. There were no other houses nearby in any direction, only woods and gardens, and on one side, a narrow path for people to pass.

Among the eight or ten boys and girls, all rocked back and forth with great gusto, memorizing their lessons in various tunes. From time to time, the Gurumahashay’s voice could be heard: ‘Hey, Kyabla, what are you looking at on his slate for? I’ll twist your ear off! Nutu, how many times do you need to wet your cloth? If I see you get up to wet it one more time…’

The Gurumahashay would sit leaning against a post on a palm-leaf mat. The part of the bamboo post he leaned against had turned dark and smooth from the oil in his hair. In the afternoons, Dinu Palit or Raju Ray from the village would often come to chat with him.

Apu enjoyed listening to these stories much more than his studies. Raju Ray Mashai would tell the story of how, in his early youth, mindful that ‘commerce is the abode of Lakshmi,’ he had opened a tobacco shop in Asarur Haat. Apu would listen, amazed. How wonderful it must have been to lift the little shop’s shutter and sit, cutting tobacco with a da, then going to the river at night, cooking fish curry and rice in a little pot, perhaps sometimes opening up their copy of the Mahabharata or his father’s Dashurayer Panchali by the light of an earthen lamp and reading! Outside, in the darkness of a rainy night, a soft drizzle falling, no one else around, the frogs croaking in the pond behind—how beautiful. When he grew up, he would open a tobacco shop.

On some days, these chats would ascend to the highest planes of imagination and fancy, on the days when Rajkrishna Sanyal Mashai from the other side of the village would come. Whatever the story, however trivial, his ability to embellish and narrate it was extraordinary.

Sanyal Mashai was afflicted with a mania for travel. Where was Dwarka, where was Savitri Pahar, where was Chandranath—and he was not content to see these places alone; each time he would take his wife and children and return, having spent every last pice. You might see him sitting comfortably in his own chandimandap, pulling on his humble hookah, and you would think there could be no one more utterly domestic, old-fashioned, a country squire with abundant leisure than Sanyal Mashai, that he had put down roots in his ancestral chandimandap. Then suddenly one day, you would see a lock on the main door, not a soul to be heard in the house. What happened? Sanyal Mashai had gone off with his family on a trip to Vindhyachal or Chandranath.

He would be gone for a long time, then suddenly one afternoon, to the sound of thuds and bangs, people would look on in astonishment as Sanyal Mashai and his family returned from their travels, loaded into two bullock carts, and calling for people to help, would enter their house, cutting through a jungle of knee-high water-nettles and Arjun trees.

A stout stick in hand, he would stride into the pathshala with long steps. ‘Ah, Prasanna, how are you? You’ve cast your net wide, I see! How many flies have you caught?’

At once, the face of Apu, engrossed in memorizing his multiplication tables, would light up with boundless delight. He would eagerly edge a foot closer to where Sanyal Mashai had pulled up a palm-leaf mat to sit. He would close his slate and book and put them aside, as if school were over for the day and there was no more need for studying; at the same time, his large, eager eyes would devour every word of the story with the hunger of a famine.

On the path across Kuthi’s Field, at the place they now call Naltakuri’s Jheel, long ago—a very long time ago—Moti Hajra’s brother, Chandi Hajra, had gone to cut trees in the forest. It was the monsoon season—here and there the earth had eroded from the force of the rain. Suddenly, Chandi Hajra saw what looked like the rim of a brass pot sticking out a little from the ground. He immediately dug it out. When he got home, he saw it was a pot full of old-time money. Having found this, Chandi Hajra went about playing the grand gentleman for a few days—all this Sanyal Mashai had seen with his own eyes.

Some days, the talk would turn to train journeys. Where Savitri Pahar was, how difficult it had been for his wife to climb it, how he had almost come to blows with a panda while offering pinda at Nabhigaya. In one place, there was a very good sweet to be had; Sanyal Mashai mentioned its name—pyanra. Hearing the name had made Apu laugh heartily—when he grew up, he would buy and eat pyanra.

Another day, Sanyal Mashai was telling a story about some place. Apparently, many people used to live there. They had gone there in the evening, through a jungle of tamarind trees—Sanyal Mashai kept repeating the name of the thing he went to see: ‘Chikamasjid’. At first, he hadn’t understood what it was, but from the conversation, he gathered it was a broken-down old building. It had grown almost dark—as soon as they entered, a flock of bats flew out with a whir.

Apu could picture it perfectly—a dark tamarind jungle all around, no one anywhere, a broken old door, and just as he entered, whir, a flock of bats flew away—like the dark storeroom on the west side of Ranu’s house.

In some country, Sanyal Mashai had seen a fakir who lived under an ashwattha tree. If you gave him a single pipeful of ganja, he would be pleased and say, ‘Alright, tell me what fruit you want to eat.’ Then, when you named the desired fruit, he would point to any tree in front of him and say, ‘Go, get it from there.’ And people would go and see that perhaps pomegranates were growing on a mango tree, or a bunch of bananas was hanging from a guava tree.

Raju Ray would say, ‘Oh, that’s all the work of mantras and spells! Once, an uncle of mine—’

Dinu Palit would cut him off, saying, ‘Since you’ve brought up mantras, let me tell you a story. It’s not a story, I saw it with my own eyes. Have any of you seen Budho the cart-driver from Beledanga? Raju, you may not have, but Rajkrishna Bhaya, you must have seen him. He wore a kind of wooden clog tied with rope. The old man always used to come to the blacksmith’s shop to have his ploughshares tempered. He died at the age of one hundred, and it’s been over twenty-five years since he passed. In his youth, we couldn’t match his wrist strength.’

‘Once—a long time ago—I was just nineteen or twenty, returning from a dip in the Ganga at Chakdaha in a bullock cart. It was Budho the cart-driver’s cart—in the cart were me, my aunt, and Ananta Mukhujje’s nephew Ram, the one who’s now moved to Khulna.’

‘We were near the field of Kansonar when the day was almost gone. You know, Rajkrishna Bhaya, how dangerous those parts were back then. It was a country road, we had women with us, and some cash too—I was very worried. Where the new village has sprung up now—just around there, you know what happened? Four burly, pitch-black men came and grabbed the bamboo poles at the back of the cart, two on each side. Two on this side, two on that.’

‘Seeing them, sir, I was speechless, just sitting inside the cart somehow, and they were coming along with us, holding onto the cart’s poles, coming along, coming along. I saw Budho the cart-driver glancing back furtively. He motioned for us not to speak. Fine!’

‘Meanwhile, the cart came very close to the Nababganj police station.’

‘The market was visible, and then those men said, “Master, we’ve made a mistake, we didn’t realize, let us go.” Budho the cart-driver said, “Not a chance, you scoundrels. Today I’ll take you all to the station and have you tied up.” After much pleading, Budho said, “Alright, go on, I’m letting you go this time, but don’t you ever do anything like this again.” Then they took the dust of Budho the cart-driver’s feet and left. I saw it with my own eyes. By the power of the mantra, you see, once they grabbed the poles, they were stuck—they had no power to let go—and they had to follow along with the cart! It was as if they were nailed to it. Do you understand, my friend? The power of mantras and spells—’

The day would pass as the stories were told. The afternoon’s red sunlight would fall slantwise on the woods and jungles surrounding the pathshala. On the branches of the jackfruit and fig trees, on the hanging gulancha vines, tailorbirds would sit with their heads held high, rocking back and forth. In the pathshala room, the smell of the forest mingled with the scent of palm-leaf mats, torn books and papers, the earthen floor of the school, and the smoke of strong, da-cut tobacco, creating a complex aroma.

There is a picture of an enchanted village boy on the shady, earthen paths of that village.

With his books and papers tucked under his arm, he is returning from the pathshala, following his older sister, wearing a freshly washed and mended garment cleaned with fuller’s earth. His mother has carefully combed his little head of hair, so soft and silky, so pleasant to the touch. His large, beautiful eyes have a look of wonder—as if they have opened for the first time in some strange world and are looking around, bewildered.

This little patch, surrounded by trees, is the only country he knows—here, his mother feeds him with her own hands every day, combs his hair, his sister helps him dress. Beyond this small circle lies an endless ocean of the unfamiliar, enclosing him on all sides! His child’s mind cannot fathom it.

That bamboo grove over there, in the garden—the narrow path that cuts past it and disappears somewhere—if you were to walk straight along that path, you would come to a land of unknown hidden treasures by the banks of Shankharipukur—where the earth has eroded from the rain under a big tree, and the rims of many pots and jars full of gold coins are peeking out, buried beneath dark forest thickets, hidden behind the shiny green leaves of taro, elephant-foot yam, and water spinach—no one knows where.

One day at the pathshala, an event occurred that was a new experience in his life.

That afternoon, as no one else was present at the school, there were no stories or chats; lessons were underway. He had just sat down and was reading Shishubodhak when the Gurumahashay said, ‘Take your slates, write from dictation—’

Even though the Gurumahashay was speaking, Apu understood that he was not speaking his own words but reciting from memory, just as Apu himself would recite rhymes from Dashurayer Panchali.

As he listened, it seemed to him that he had never heard so many beautiful words strung together, one after another. He did not understand the meaning of ‘all’ these words, but the sound of the unknown words and elegant phrases, an unfamiliar music entwined with resonance, struck his unaccustomed child’s ear as extraordinary. And precisely because he did not understand the meaning of all the words, a picture of a wondrous land kept peeking out from behind the mist-shrouded, indistinct collection of sounds.

When he was older and in school, he found out where this dictation he had memorized in his childhood came from:

‘This is that Prasravana Giri, in the midst of Janasthana. Its peak, ever adorned with an intense blue by the congress of water-bearing clouds constantly moving in the sky’s path—the plateau, being densely covered with forest trees, is cool, soothing, and lovely… At its foot, the Godavari with its clear waters spreads its waves…’

He can’t quite say it, can’t quite explain it, but he knows—he feels, he often feels—that day two years ago, when he had gone to see the blue-throated jay on Saraswati Puja day at Kuthi’s Field, he had seen a path running along the edge of the field, going off somewhere in the distance. On both sides of the path were so many unfamiliar birds, unfamiliar trees and plants, unfamiliar forest thickets—that day, he had stared at the path for a long time. He could not imagine where the path went beyond the field.

His father had said, ‘That’s the road to Sonadanga field; it goes through Madhabpur and Dashghara and joins the ferry crossing at Dhalchitra.’

Not to the ferry crossing at Dhalchitra, he knew, that path went much, much further; to the land of the Ramayana and the Mahabharata.

The land of that far-off country, whose memory rises when one looks at the highest branch of that ashwattha tree.

Listening to the dictation, the memory of that path he had seen two years ago came back to him. Far away, on the other side of that path, lay that Prasravana mountain in the midst of Janasthana! In the cool scent of the forest thickets, in the glimmering twilight where the shadows of the unknown descended, the image of that dreamland left him amazed. How far away was the lofty peak of Prasravana Giri, whose serene, blue beauty was perpetually veiled by the clouds ever-moving in the sky’s path?

When he grew up, he would go and see it.

But that shore, bristling with the thorns of cane, that Godavari of the wondrous sandbanks, that verdant Janasthan, that exquisite mountain plateau wreathed in garlands of blue cloud—they existed in no country described in the Ramayana. Neither Valmiki nor Bhavabhuti was their creator. It was only in the land of an enchanted village boy’s unformed, childish imagination, on some village evening of a bygone day filled with the calls of birds, that they were real, utterly authentic, intimately familiar.

Whose geographical existence on the face of the earth was never possible—only in the unseasoned mind of a child did the spring-fed mountain of that imagined world, with its dream of blue peaks veiled in an ever-shifting web of clouds, establish its eternal throne