13

I was returning to my own estate after nearly three months. The survey work was at an end.

The road was eleven krosh long. It was by this same path that I had once come to the fair of Poush Sankranti—the same forest of sal and palash, the same open plains strewn with boulders, the same undulating mountain ranges. After travelling for a couple of hours, a faint grey line appeared on the horizon—the Mohanpura Reserve Forest.

I had not seen this familiar landmark for three months. In the time I had spent here, such a bond had grown with our Labtulia and Narha-baihar that it was painful to be away from them for too long; it felt as if I had left my own country for a foreign land. Today, after three long months, the sight of the Mohanpura Reserve Forest’s boundary brought me the joy of an exile returning to his homeland, even though the borders of Labtulia were still a good seven or eight miles away.

Below a small hill, a large patch of jungle had been cleared to cultivate kusum flowers. It was now time for the harvest, and the cutters were at work in the fields.

I was riding along the road beside the fields when suddenly someone called out to me from that direction—‘Babuji, oh Babuji—Babuji—’

I looked and saw her: Manchhi, from the previous year. I was surprised, and delighted. As I reined in my horse, Manchhi ran up with a smile, scythe in hand, and stood beside my mount. ‘I recognized your horse from a distance,’ she said. ‘Where had you gone, Babuji?’

Manchhi looked just the same—if anything, she was a little healthier. Her hands and the front of her sari were stained red with the fine powder from the kusum petals.

‘I had work to do below the Baharaburu hills,’ I said. ‘I was there for three months. I’m on my way back now. What are you all doing here?’

‘We’re cutting kusum flowers, Babuji. It’s late in the morning, do stop and rest here for a while. Our hut is just over there.’

None of my objections held. Leaving her work, Manchhi led me to their hut. Her husband, Nakshedi Bhakat, hearing of my arrival, came in from the fields.

Nakshedi Bhakat’s first wife was cooking inside the hut; she too was happy to see me.

But it was Manchhi who took charge of everything. She made me a thick seat by spreading out wheat straw. She brought me some mahua oil in a small bowl and told me to go and have my bath.

‘Come,’ she said, ‘I’ll take you. There’s a little pool south of the settlement. The water is lovely.’

‘I won’t bathe in that water, Manchhi,’ I said. ‘The whole hamlet washes their clothes in it, washes their faces, bathes, and scours their pots and pans as well. That water must be very bad. Is that the water you drink here? If so, I should leave. I won’t drink that water.’

Manchhi grew worried. It was clear they had no other source of water to drink. What choice did they have?

Seeing Manchhi’s crestfallen face pained me. They had been drinking this polluted water with cheerful hearts, never once thinking about what might be in it. If I were to leave now, refusing their hospitality on the pretext of the water, the simple-hearted girl would be deeply hurt.

I said to Manchhi, ‘All right, but boil the water well—then I’ll drink it. Let the bath be for now.’

‘Why, Babuji?’ Manchhi said. ‘I’ll boil a tin of water for you, and you can bathe in that. It’s not so late yet. I’ll fetch the water, you just sit here.’

Manchhi brought the water and made arrangements for cooking. ‘You won’t eat food cooked by my hands, will you Babuji?’ she said. ‘In that case, you must cook yourself!’

‘Why won’t I eat it? You cook whatever you can.’

‘No, Babuji, that won’t do. You must cook. Why should I ruin your caste for a single day? It would be a sin for me.’

‘It will be nothing of the sort. I’m telling you, there is no harm in it.’

Reluctantly, Manchhi sat down to cook. The preparations were not elaborate—a few thick, hand-rolled rotis and a curry of wild ridge-gourd. Nakshedi managed to procure an earthen pot of buffalo milk from somewhere.

As she cooked, Manchhi told me of all the places she had wandered in the intervening time. She told me how she had adopted a goat kid while harvesting horse gram in the hill country, and I had to sit and listen to the whole story of how it got lost.

She asked me, ‘Babuji, do you know about the hot springs in the domain of the Raja of Kankoara? You were nearby—didn’t you go there?’

I told her I had heard of the springs, but had not had the chance to visit.

Manchhi said, ‘Do you know, Babuji, I was beaten when I went there to bathe. They wouldn’t let me.’

Her husband said, ‘Yes, that was quite a scene, Babuji. The pandas there are terrible scoundrels.’

‘What happened?’ I asked.

Manchhi told her husband, ‘You tell Babuji. Babuji lives in Calcutta, he’ll write about it. Then those wicked ruffians will see what happens.’

Nakshedi said, ‘Babuji, the Suraj-kund there is a very sacred place. Pilgrims bathe in it. We were cutting horse gram at the foot of the Amlatoli hills, and the auspicious day of the full moon came, didn’t it? So Manchhi left her work in the fields and went to bathe. I had a fever that day, so I didn’t go. My elder wife, Tulsi, didn’t go either; she’s not so bothered about religion. As Manchhi was about to step into the Suraj-kund, the pandas said, “Hey, why are you getting in there?” She said, “To bathe in the water.” They said, “What is your caste?” She said, “Gangota.” Then they said, “We don’t allow Gangota women to bathe in the water of the kund, go away.” She, as you know, is a spirited girl. She said, “This is a mountain spring, anyone can bathe here. Look at all those people bathing. Are they all Brahmins and Chhatris?” And as she said that and tried to get in, two of them ran up, beat her, and dragged her away from there. She came back in tears.’

‘What happened then?’

‘What could happen, Babuji? We are poor Gangota labourers who harvest crops. Who will listen to our pleas! I told her, don’t cry, I will take you to bathe in the Sitakund at Munger.’

Manchhi said, ‘Babuji, you will write about this, won’t you? The pens of you Bengali babus have great power. Those villains will be taught a lesson.’

I replied with enthusiasm, ‘I most certainly will.’

After that, Manchhi fed me with the utmost care. I was deeply touched by her eagerness and her devoted service.

As I took my leave, I told her again and again that they must be sure to come to our Labtulia-baihar during the barley and wheat harvest next Baishakh.

Manchhi said, ‘We will definitely come, Babuji. Do you even need to say it!’

As I rode away after accepting Manchhi’s hospitality, it seemed to me that she was the very image of joy, health, and simplicity. She was a spirit of this forest—in the full bloom of youth, vibrant and spirited, yet also innocent, unworldly, with the nature of a young girl.

The promise I made that day to this wild girl, who placed such infinite trust in the power of a Bengali’s pen, I have fulfilled today by writing this—though I do not know what good it will do her after so long. Who knows where she is now, how she is living, or even if she is alive at all?

It was the month of Shraban. For days, the fresh clouds of the monsoon had brought swelling floods, and if you stood in Narha or Labtulia-baihar or by Grant Sahib’s banyan tree and looked around, all you could see was a sea of green, the tender new kash reeds.

One day, having received a letter from Raja Dobru Panna, I set out to attend the Jhulan festival at his home on the full moon of Shraban. Raju and Matuknath would not be left behind; they decided to come with me. Saying they would walk, they set off before I did.

At about half past one in the afternoon, I crossed the Michi river in a donga. It was half past two by the time everyone in the party had made it across. Leaving the group behind, I spurred my horse on.

Dense clouds gathered in the west. And then came the rain, lashing down.

What an exquisite vision of the monsoon I saw in that wilderness of forest and plain! The mountain ranges on the horizon were a deep blue under the layers of cloud; the sky was veiled in dark, brooding clouds, pregnant with lightning, that hung motionless; here and there, on the branch of a sal or kend tree by the path, a peacock with its tail fanned was lost in dance; village boys and girls were fishing for minnows with great excitement, setting traps of shalkathi reeds and wild bamboo in the rushing mountain streams; grey boulders, wet with rain, looked black, and seated upon one, a buffalo herder smoked a long biri rolled from a fresh sal leaf. A serene, silent land—forest after forest, plain after plain, nothing but streams, hill villages, red earth strewn with laterite, and here and there a flowering kadamba or piyal tree.

I reached the capital of Raja Dobru Panna before evening.

The thatched hut from my last visit had been beautifully plastered and polished to receive guests. The walls were painted with ochre designs of lotus plants and peacocks, and the sal-wood posts were entwined with painted creepers and flowers. My bedding had not yet arrived, as I had reached ahead on horseback—but that was no inconvenience. A new mat was already spread out in the room, and someone brought in a couple of clean pillows.

A little later, Bhanumati entered the room carrying a large brass platter of cut fruit and a bowl of boiled milk. Behind her followed another girl of her age, carrying a fresh sal leaf on which were arranged whole betel leaves, whole areca nuts, and other spices for paan.

Bhanumati was wearing a short, jamun-coloured sari that came up above her knees, a necklace of green and red hinglaj beads, and a water spider lily tucked into her hair-knot. She had become even healthier, more radiant—the surging tide of youth’s grace had deluged her flawless form, yet in the expression of her eyes she was still the same simple girl I had first met.

‘Well, Bhanumati,’ I said, ‘are you well?’

Bhanumati did not know how to perform a namaskar—in response to my words, she gave a simple smile and said, ‘And you, Babuji?’

‘I am well.’

‘Please eat something. You must be very hungry after riding all day.’

Without waiting for my reply, she knelt on the earthen floor before me and placed two slices of papaya from the brass plate into my hand.

I was charmed by this—this unhesitating friendship. How strange, how unexpected, how new and sweet it was, compared to the people of Bengal! Would an unmarried Bengali girl of sixteen, not a relative, ever behave so? Our minds, where women are concerned, seem always to be coiled, twisted, and withdrawn. We can neither think of them with an open heart, nor mix with them with an open mind.

I had also noticed this: just as the plains here are vast, just as the forests, the clouds, the mountain ranges are free and far-ranging in their rhythm—so is Bhanumati’s manner unreserved, simple, and free. It is as natural as the way one human being should behave with another. I had found the same with Manchhi, and with Bateshwar Prasad’s wife. The forests and hills have freed their minds and broadened their vision—and their love, in proportion, is just as free, strong, and generous. Because their hearts are large, their love is large, too.

But there was no comparison to Bhanumati sitting beside me, placing food in my hand. For the first time in my life, I felt the sweetness of a woman’s unreserved manner. When she bestows affection, what gates of heaven does she open upon the earth!

Within Bhanumati lived the primal woman, whose soul in civilized society lies swooning under the pressure of convention and restraint.

The reception I had received on my last visit had been kind, but this was even more intimate. Bhanumati had understood that this Bengali babu was a friend of her family, a well-wisher to be counted among their own people—and so, the treatment I received from her was like that from a loving sister.

Many years have passed—but the memory of Bhanumati’s beautiful affection and friendship is just as bright in my mind. Compared to this gift of ‘savage’ wildness, many treasures of civilized society have grown dim in my thoughts.

Raja Dobru had been busy with other arrangements for the festival; now he came and sat in my room.

‘Do you always celebrate Jhulan here?’ I asked.

Raja Dobru said, ‘This has been a festival in our family for many years. At this time, relatives come from far and wide to dance at the Jhulan. Two and a half maunds of rice will be cooked tomorrow.’

Matuknath had come in the hope of a handsome gift, as a learned man—he had imagined what a grand royal palace it would be, what a spectacle he would witness! From the look on his face, he seemed rather disappointed. His own tol was much better than this palace.

Raju, unable to contain his thoughts, said it plainly: ‘Where is the king, Huzoor? This is just a Santal chieftain! I have more buffaloes than the king, I hear, Huzoor!’

He had already made inquiries into the king’s worldly wealth—cows and buffaloes are the great measure of riches in these parts. The more buffaloes a man has, the wealthier he is.

Late that night, when the fourteenth-night moon had risen above the great trees of the forest, weaving a net of light and shadow in the courtyards of that wild village, I heard from the Raja’s house the sound of many female voices joined in a song of a strange and wonderful kind. The next day was the Jhulan full moon, and the newly arrived female relatives and the princess’s companions were rehearsing for tomorrow’s singing and dancing. Their songs and the beat of the madal drums did not cease all night.

Listening, I do not know when I fell asleep, but even in my sleep, I seemed to hear their song over and over again.

But the next day, watching the Jhulan festival, Matuknath, Raju, and even Muneshwar Singh were utterly charmed.

Waking in the morning, I saw that at least thirty unmarried girls of Bhanumati’s age had gathered for the festival from the many surrounding tolas and hill settlements. I observed a fine custom: amid all the dancing and singing, not one of them had drunk any mahua liquor. When I asked Raja Dobru about it, he smiled and said with pride, ‘That is not the custom for the women of our family. Besides, without my order, no one would dare drink alcohol in front of my children.’

At midday, Matuknath whispered to me, ‘The king seems to be poorer than I am. For cooking, he has given me coarse red rice, ripe ash gourd, and wild ridge-gourd. What am I to cook for so many people, tell me?’

I had not seen Bhanumati all morning. As I sat down to eat, she came with a bowl of milk and sat before me.

‘I enjoyed your singing last night,’ I said.

With a smile, Bhanumati said, ‘Can you understand our songs?’

‘Why shouldn’t I? I’ve been with you people for so long, why wouldn’t I understand your songs?’

‘You will go to see the Jhulan this afternoon, won’t you?’

‘That’s why I’ve come. How far do we have to go?’

Bhanumati pointed towards the Dhanjhari mountain range and said, ‘You have been to those hills. Haven’t you seen our temple there?’

Just then, a group of teenage girls of Bhanumati’s age came and stood at the door of my dining room. They watched the Bengali babu’s meal with great curiosity and whispered amongst themselves.

Bhanumati said, ‘Go on, all of you, get away from here. What is this?’

One girl, bolder than the others, stepped forward a little and said, ‘You haven’t given the babuji any salted karamcha to eat on the day of Jhulan, have you?’

At her words, all the girls behind her broke into peals of laughter, giggling and collapsing against one another.

I asked Bhanumati, ‘Why are they laughing?’

Bhanumati said with a shy face, ‘Ask them! How would I know!’

Meanwhile, one of the girls brought a large, ripe starfruit-chili, placed it on my plate, and said with a laugh, ‘Have some chili pickle, Babuji. Bhanumati is only feeding you sweets, that won’t do! Let us feed you something spicy.’

Everyone laughed again. The simple laughter on the faces of so many young women seemed to make the full moon’s light bloom even in the daytime.

Before evening, a group of young men and women set off towards the hills. We followed them—it was a great procession. To the east lay the Dhanjhari hills, on the border of Nawada and Lachhmipur, the same hills beneath which the Michi river turns north. A full moon was rising over the forested peaks of those hills. On one side lay a low valley, green with forests; on the other, the Dhanjhari range. After walking for a mile, we reached the foot of the hills. A little way up, there was a level space on the mountainside. In the very middle of this spot stood an ancient piyal tree, its trunk adorned with flowers and creepers. Raja Dobru said, ‘This tree is very old—ever since I was a boy, I have seen the girls dance at its base during Jhulan.’

We sat on one side on mats of palm-leaf, and in that moon-drenched forest clearing, nearly thirty young women and girls began to dance, circling the tree. Beside them, a group of young men playing madal drums circled with them. I saw Bhanumati at the head of this troupe. The girls wore garlands of flowers in their knotted hair and ornaments of flowers on their bodies.

The dancing and singing continued at the same tempo late into the night. Now and then the group would rest for a while, then begin again. The beat of the madal, the moonlight, the monsoon-cooled forest, the troupe of graceful, dark-skinned dancing girls—it was all as beautiful as a painting by a great artist, with the yearning appeal of a sweet melody. It brought to mind the legends from a distant history, of the Solanki princess and her companions and their Jhulan dance and song; it brought to mind the story of her garlanding the shepherd boy Bappaditya in jest.

Oh, what joy today, what joy today, The dark moon, Shyam, swings on the jhulan.

And from a time even more distant, it was as if all the events of ancient, stone-age India’s mysterious history were being enacted before me. It was as if the culture of that primal India had become incarnate in the dance of the simple mountain-girl Bhanumati and her friends. The myriad forests, the myriad mountain ranges of thousands of years ago, the countless moonlit nights such as this one, had once throbbed to the dancing feet of countless girls like Bhanumati. The laughter on their faces has not died—hidden behind these secret forests and mountain ranges, it still sends a message of joy and celebration through the blood of their present-day descendants.

It was late in the night; the moon had sunk behind the distant forest to the west. We all descended from the hill. Thankfully there were no clouds in the sky today, but the damp air had grown extremely cold in the late hours. Even at that hour, when I sat down to eat, Bhanumati brought me milk and pera.

‘I saw a wonderful dance of yours,’ I said.

She smiled shyly and said, ‘You couldn’t have really liked it, Babuji. Does anyone in your Calcutta watch such things?’

The next day, Bhanumati and her great-grandfather, Raja Dobru, would not hear of my leaving. Yet my work could not be put aside, so I was obliged to depart. As I was taking my leave, Bhanumati said, ‘Babuji, will you bring a mirror for me from Calcutta? I used to have one, but it broke a long time ago.’

A lovely girl of sixteen, a maiden in the first bloom of youth—and she without a mirror! For whom, then, were mirrors ever created? Within a week, I had a fine mirror brought from Purnia and sent to her.