17

After sundown, the new settlements in Labtulia are a lovely sight. A mist has risen, softening the moonlight; across the vast expanse of farmland, a few lights twinkle here and there in the different hamlets. How many people, how many families have come to our estate in search of a livelihood—clearing the forest, founding villages, beginning to cultivate the land. I do not even know the names of all the settlements, nor am I acquainted with all the people. The hamlets, scattered far and near, look mysterious in the mist-veiled moonlight. The lives of the people who dwell in these settlements are, to me, as shrouded in mystery as this misty, moonlit night. I have spoken with some of them, and I find their outlook on life, their way of living, most strange.

Let us first consider their food. On our estate, the land yields three food crops a year: maize in the month of Bhadra, pulses in Poush, and wheat in Baishakh. The maize harvest is not very large, as there is not much suitable land for it. Pulses and wheat, however, are produced in abundance—pulses in greater quantity, wheat about half as much. And so, the people’s staple food is flour made from ground pulses.

Rice is not grown here at all—there is no low-lying land suitable for paddy. Nowhere in this region, not even on the leased lands or the government Khasmahal, is rice cultivated. Consequently, the people here get to eat rice only on rare occasions—eating rice is considered a treat, a luxury. It is true that a few epicures sell their wheat or pulses to buy rice, but their number can be counted on one’s fingers.

Then let us consider their dwellings. Countless villages have sprung up across the ten thousand bighas of our estate—and in every house, the roof is thatched with the wild kash grass that grows in the jungle, the walls are made of kash stalks. Some have plastered the walls with mud; others have not. There are no bamboo groves in this land at all, and so the posts and beams of their homes are made from the wood of forest trees, especially the branches and leaves of the kend and piyal.

There is little to say about their religion. Though they are Hindus, I do not know how they have managed to single out Hanumanji from among the thirty-three crore gods and goddesses—every settlement must have a tall standard dedicated to Hanumanji, and this standard is worshipped in earnest, its staff smeared with vermilion. The names of Ram and Sita are seldom heard; the glory of their servant has cast their divinity rather too deep into the shade. The worship of deities such as Vishnu, Shiva, Durga, and Kali is not widespread—it is doubtful if it exists at all; at least, I have seen no sign of it on our estate.

I had forgotten, I have indeed seen one devotee of Shiva. His name is Dron Mahato, and he is of the Gangota caste. Someone, from somewhere, had brought a piece of rock and placed it at the foot of the Hanumanji standard in the kachari grounds some ten or twelve years ago. The sepoys occasionally smear the stone with vermilion; some even offer a pot of water. But for the most part, the stone lies neglected.

About a month or two ago, a new settlement sprang up a short distance from the kachari—Dron Mahato came and built his home there. Dron is over seventy years old, by no means younger—it is because he is an old-timer that his name is Dron; a boy born in these modern times would have been named Domen, or Lodhai, or Maharaj. In those days, parents would have been ashamed to give such high-flown names.

Be that as it may, old Dron came to the kachari one day and noticed the stone at the foot of the Hanumanji standard. From that day on, the old man would perform his morning ablutions in the Kalbalia river, bring back a pot of water, and regularly pour it over the stone. Then, he would circle it seven times with great devotion and perform a full prostration before returning home.

I had said to Dron, “The Kalbalia is a kosh away. You go there every day, but wouldn’t it be easier to bring water from the small kundi?”

Dron replied, “Mahadeoji is pleased by the water of a flowing stream, Babuji. My life is blessed that I am able to bathe him with water every day.”

The devotee also makes the god. Once the tale of Dron Mahato’s worship of Shiva had spread by word of mouth through the various settlements, I began to see, from time to time, a few men and women, worshippers of Shiva, coming and going. A type of fragrant grass grows in the jungle in this region; if you take a leaf or a stalk in your hand and smell it, you find a wonderful scent. The drier the grass, the stronger the fragrance. Someone brought this grass and planted it all around the Shiva Thakur. One day, Matuknath Pandit came and said, “Babuji, a Gangota is pouring water on the head of the kachari’s Shiva. Is this a good thing?”

I said, “Panditji, from what I can see, it is that very Gangota who has brought this thakur to the notice of the people. You were here too, weren’t you? I never once saw you offer even a pot of water!”

Losing his temper, Matuknath blurted out, “It’s not a Shiva at all, Babuji. An idol is not worthy of worship unless it has been consecrated. That’s just a stone pebble.”

“Then why do you say anything? What objection do you have to water being poured on a stone pebble?”

From that day on, Dron Mahato became the chartered priest of the kachari’s Shiva-linga.

In the month of Kartik, the Chhath festival is a great celebration in this land. From the various tolas, women in turmeric-dyed saris walk in groups, singing, on their way to float offerings for Chhath in the Kalbalia river. The festivities are in full swing all day long. In the evening, as one walks past the settlements, one can smell the rich aroma of the pitha cakes being fried for the Chhath festival. Laughter and chatter of children, women’s songs, continue late into the night—where once, deep in the night, herds of nilgai would run, the laugh of the hyena and the cough of the tiger (the experienced know that a tiger makes a sound exactly like a man’s cough) were heard, there is now a vast settlement, resounding with joyous laughter, filled with the melody of songs, radiant with celebration.

On the evening of the Chhath festival, I went to Jhollutola to attend an invitation. And not just to this one tola—the entire kachari staff had received invitations for the Chhath festival from fifteen different tolas.

First, I went to the house of Jhollu Mahato, the headman of Jhollutola.

I noticed that on one side of Jhollu Mahato’s house, there was still a bit of jungle. Jhollu had strung up a tattered shamiana in his courtyard—it was under this that he welcomed us and offered us seats. All the men of the tola, dressed in clean dhotis and merjais, were seated there on mats of a certain kind, woven from grass. I said, “I cannot accept your kind offer of food, as I have many places to visit.”

Jhollu said, “You must have a little something sweet. The women will be very disappointed otherwise; they have prepared the pitha with great enthusiasm, knowing you would grace us with your presence.”

There was no way out. Goshtha Babu the muhuri, Raju Pande, and I sat down. A few pitha made of flour and jaggery arrived on sal leaves—each pitha was an inch thick and as hard as a brick; if you threw one, it might not kill a man, but it would certainly injure him. And yet, each pitha was beautifully shaped in a mould like a chandrapuli, with intricate patterns of leaves and vines. Only after being moulded were they fried in ghee.

I could not do justice to the pitha cakes made with such care by the women’s hands. I managed to eat half of one with great difficulty. It was neither sweet nor had any particular taste. I realised that the Gangota women do not know how to cook. Raju Pande, however, ate four or five of those large pitha in no time at all, and perhaps out of shyness in front of us, could not bring himself to ask for more.

From Jhollutola, we went to Lodhaitola. Then to Parbattola, Bhimdastola, Asrafitola, Lachhmaniyatola. In every tola, there was a great stir of dancing, singing, laughter, and music. They would not sleep at all tonight. They would spend the night eating and drinking from house to house, dancing and singing.

One thing I saw brought me joy: in every tola, the women had apparently taken great care to prepare food for us. Hearing that the Manager Babu would be coming to the celebration, they had displayed their utmost culinary skill with great enthusiasm and care, crafting the pitha. Though I was inwardly very grateful for the women’s kindness, I could not bring myself to praise their culinary art, which was a matter of great regret for me. In some places, I was introduced to pitha even more inferior than those of Jhollutola.

Everywhere I looked, I saw women in colourful saris peeking from behind screens, their eyes full of curiosity, at the Bengali Babus partaking of their meal. Raju Pande did not disappoint anyone—seeing him transcend the limits of pitha consumption and journey towards the infinite, I gave up trying to count. And so, I cannot say how many pitha he ate.

And not just Raju—among the invited Gangotas, each man ate a score, twenty at a time, of those brick-hard pitha. Had I not seen it with my own eyes, it would be hard to believe that a human being could eat so much of that thing.

I also went to see Chhania and Suratiya at their place in Narha Baihar.

Seeing me, Suratiya came running.

“Babuji, you’re so late! Mother and I have been sitting here, we made pitha especially for you—we’ve been waiting anxiously, wondering why you were so delayed. Come, sit down.”

Nakchhedi welcomed everyone and offered them seats.

Seeing Tulsi so carefully preparing a place for me to eat, I smiled to myself. Was I in any state to eat here?

I said to Suratiya, “Tell your mother to put the pitha away. Who will eat so much?”

Suratiya looked at me with a surprised expression and said, “What is this, Babuji, you won’t eat even these few? Chhania and I have each eaten fifteen or sixteen. Go on—mother has put raisins and milk inside for you, knowing you would eat them. Father brought good flour from Bhimdastola—”

I had done wrong by saying I would not eat. All year round, these children do not get to taste such delicacies. This food, made with so much effort, so much hope! Desperate to please the young ones, I forced myself to eat two pitha.

To please Suratiya, I said, “Wonderful pitha. But I’ve eaten a little everywhere, so I couldn’t eat more, Suratiya. Another day, perhaps.”

Raju Pande had a small bundle in his hand. He had received a chhaanda, a portion of food to take home, from every house. Considering the weight of each pitha, Raju’s bundle could not have weighed less than ten or twelve seers.

Raju was very happy. He said, “These pitha don’t spoil quickly, Huzoor. I won’t have to cook for two or three days. I’ll just live on pitha.”

The next morning at the kachari, Kunta came and placed a brass plate before me with some hesitation. The plate was covered with a piece of clean cloth.

I said, “What’s in that, Kunta?”

Kunta said in a shy voice, “Pitha from the Chhath festival, Babuji. I came twice last night with it and had to go back.”

I said, “I returned very late last night; I had gone out to attend the Chhath invitations. Alright, leave it there, I’ll eat it later.”

Lifting the cover, I saw a few pitha on the plate, some sugar, two bananas, a piece of dry coconut, and an orange.

I said, “Ah, these pitha look very nice!”

Kunta, in the same soft, hesitant voice as before, said, “Babuji, please be so kind as to eat all of them. I made them separately for you. Still, I am very sad that I could not serve them to you warm.”

“That doesn’t matter at all, Kunta. I will eat all of them. They look wonderful.”

Kunta bowed in respect and left.

One day, Muneshwar Singh, the sepoy, came and said, “Huzoor, there’s a man lying under a tree in the forest on a torn cloth. The people won’t let him into the settlement—they throw stones at him. If you give the order, I can bring him here.”

I was surprised to hear this. It was late afternoon, not long before evening. Though it wasn’t very cold, it was the month of Kartik; a heavy dew falls at night, and it gets quite chilly towards dawn. I couldn’t understand why a man would take shelter under a tree in the forest in such conditions, or why people would throw stones at him.

I went and saw, beyond Grant Sahib’s banyan tree (some thirty years ago, Grant Sahib, the surveyor, had pitched his tent under this banyan while surveying the wild mahal of Labtulia, and the tree has been known by this name ever since), in a thicket of bushes, under an arjun tree, a man lay on a bed he had made by spreading out a tattered, dirty piece of cloth. Unable to see the man clearly in the darkness of the thicket, I called out, “Who’s there? Where is your home? Come out.”

The man came out—almost crawling, very slowly. He was over fifty, with a gaunt and wasted frame, and wore a dirty, torn cloth and merjai. As he emerged from the thicket, he looked at me with a strange, helpless, hunted expression, like an animal pursued by a hunter.

When he came out of the darkness of the thicket into the daylight, I saw that he had terrible sores on his left hand and left leg. Perhaps that was why, once he sat or lay down, he could not suddenly stand up straight again.

Muneshwar Singh said, “Huzoor, it’s because of those sores that they don’t let him into the settlement. They won’t even give him water when he asks for it. They throw stones, shoo him away.”

It became clear then why this man, like a creature of the forest, had taken refuge in a jungle thicket on this dew-drenched Hemanta night.

I said, “What is your name? Where is your home?”

The man was petrified at the sight of me. His eyes held a look of pained, frightened helplessness. Moreover, behind me stood Muneshwar Singh, the sepoy, with a lathi in his hand. He probably thought that we objected even to his taking shelter in the forest, that I had come with a sepoy to drive him away.

He said, “My name?… My name is Giridharilal, Huzoor. My home is in Tintanga.” The next moment, in a strange tone—a mixture of entreaty, prayer, and the incongruous pleading of a delirious patient—he said, “I want a little water—water…”

By then I had recognised the man. That time at the Poush mela, I had seen him in the tent of the leaseholder Brahma Mahato—that was him, Giridharilal. The same frightened eyes, the same gentle expression.

Is it the poor, the gentle, the timid, whom God afflicts most in this world? I said to Muneshwar Singh, “Go to the kachari. Bring four or five men and a charpoy.”

He left.

I asked, “What happened, Giridharilal? I know you. Don’t you recognise me? We met that time during the mela, in Brahma Mahato’s tent. Don’t you remember? There’s nothing to fear. What has happened to you?”

Giridharilal burst into tears. Showing me his hand and leg, he said, “Huzoor, I got a cut and it became a sore. Nothing would heal it. I did whatever anyone suggested, but the sore only got worse. Gradually, everyone started saying, ‘You have leprosy.’ That’s why I’ve been suffering like this for the last four or five months. They don’t let me into the settlement. I get by somehow by begging. At night, no one gives me a place to stay, so I thought I would come into the forest and sleep…”

“Where were you going, in this direction? How did you end up here?”

Giridharilal was already out of breath. Taking a moment to recover, he said, “I was going to the hospital in Purnia, Huzoor. Otherwise the sore won’t heal.”

I could not help but be amazed. What a will to live man has! Purnia is no less than forty miles from where Giridharilal lives. Ahead lay the Mohanpura Reserve Forest, a wilderness teeming with dangerous animals. And with his hand and leg numbed by the sores, he was walking this difficult path of hills and jungle to the hospital in Purnia!

The charpoy arrived. I had him taken to an empty room near the sepoys’ quarters and laid him down. The sepoys had raised some objection, calling it leprosy, but when I explained, they understood.

Giridharilal seemed very hungry. It was as if he had not had a full meal in many days. After I gave him some warm milk, he felt somewhat better.

When I went to his room in the evening, I found him sleeping soundly.

The next day, I summoned the local eminent physician, Raju Pande. Raju, with a grave face, checked the patient’s pulse for a long time, and examined the sores. I said to Raju, “Look, can you handle this, or should I send him to Purnia?”

Raju said in a hurt, offended tone, “By the blessings of your father and mother, Huzoor, I have been doing this work for many years. The sores will be healed within fifteen days.”

I later realized I would have done better to send Giridhari to the hospital. Not because of the sores—thanks to Raju Pande’s herbal remedies, the appearance of the sores changed within five or six days—but the problem arose with his nursing care. No one wanted to touch him, or apply medicine to his sores; they even objected to washing the pot from which he drank water.

On top of that, the poor fellow developed a fever. A very high fever.

Helpless, I called for Kunta. I said to her, “Find me a Gangota woman from the settlement. I will pay her. He needs to be looked after.”

Without a moment’s thought, Kunta immediately said, “I will do it, Babuji. You don’t have to pay me.”

Kunta was a Rajput’s wife; how could she nurse a Gangota patient? I thought she had not understood what I was saying.

I said, “You’ll have to wash his used utensils, you’ll have to feed him—he can’t get up. How can you be expected to do all that?”

Kunta said, “If you command it, I will come and do everything. Where am I a Rajput, Babuji? Have any of my caste-brethren looked after me all this time? I will do whatever you say. What caste do I have anymore?”

Thanks to Raju Pande’s herbal remedies and Kunta’s nursing, Giridharilal was back on his feet within a month. When I tried to pay Kunta for her trouble, she would not take anything. I saw that she had, in the meantime, started calling Giridharilal ‘Baba’. She said, “Ah, Baba is so unfortunate. Should I take money for serving him? Is Dharmaraj not watching from above?”

Among the few good deeds I have done in my life, one of the foremost was to settle the gentle and destitute Giridharilal in Labtulia, giving him some land without demanding any salami.

I went to his hut one day.

He had cleared his five bighas of land with his own hands and sown wheat. Around his hut, he had planted a number of gondalebu saplings.

“What will you do with so many gondalebu trees, Giridharilal?”

“Huzoor, those are sharbati lemons. I love to eat them. We don’t get sugar or mishri; I make a sharbat with bhura gur and the juice of these lemons, and it’s wonderful!”

I saw that Giridharilal’s gentle eyes were shining with the joy of hope.

—Fine grafted lemons. Each one will weigh a good quarter-seer. For a long time, I have cherished this wish: if I can ever acquire a plot of land for myself, I will plant good shorboti lemon trees. I have been humiliated so many times, Huzur, just for going to another man’s door to ask for a lemon. I will not bear that sorrow any longer.