11

A most singular experience now befell me.

Word came that a vast forest of shal trees and bidi leaves, some fifteen or twenty miles south of the Mohanpura Reserve Forest, was to be put up for auction by the Collectorate. I received orders by telegram from our head office to bid for the bidi-leaf jungle without delay.

But first, it was essential that I see the forest with my own eyes. I was not prepared to bid on it without knowing what it held. Meanwhile, the day of the auction was drawing near; I set out on the morning after the telegram arrived.

My men had departed very early with the trunks, bedding, and other supplies on their heads. I caught up with them at the crossing of the Karo River, on the border of the Mohanpura Forest. With them was our patwari, Banowarilal.

The Karo was a slender mountain stream, the knee-deep water murmuring as it flowed over a bed of pebbles. The two of us dismounted, lest our horses slip and fall on the slick stones. On both sides were banks of brownish sand. One could not ride a horse there either; our feet sank up to our knees in the sand just from walking. By the time we reached the firm ground on the opposite bank, it was eleven in the morning. Banowari Patwari said, ‘Huzoor, we should probably cook and eat here. There’s no telling if we’ll find water farther on.’

On both sides of the river was uninhabited forest land, though it was not a great jungle, but rather a wood of small kend, palash, and shal trees—very dense and rock-strewn, with no sign of human life anywhere.

Though we made short work of our meal, it was one o’clock by the time we set out from there.

As the day was drawing to a close, there was still no end to the forest in sight. It occurred to me that it would be better to take shelter under a large tree than to press on much farther. We had, to be sure, passed two forest villages earlier in the day—one named Kulpala, the other Burudi—but that had been around three in the afternoon. Had I known then that the jungle would not end even by evening, I would have arranged to spend the night there.

The forest grew particularly dense just before dusk. Before, the woods had been sparse; now it was as if great forest trees were crowding in from all sides, pressing in on the narrow, winding track. Where we stood now, we were so surrounded by large trees that the sky was not visible, and the darkness of night had already begun to gather.

In certain places where the forest opened up, what an incomparable beauty it revealed! Some kind of white flower, blooming in clusters, lit up the canopy of the entire forest beneath the blue afternoon sky, deep with shadow. So much beauty, hidden from human eyes, so far from the bounds of the civilised world. For whom was this display intended! Banowari told me, ‘Those are wild teuri flowers, Huzoor. They bloom in the jungle at this time of year. It’s a type of creeper.’

Wherever I looked, the treetops and the tops of the bushes were illuminated by faintly bluish-white wild teuri blossoms—exactly as if someone had scattered heaps of carded, bluish cotton-wool everywhere over the forest canopy. I stopped my horse now and then to stand and gaze for a long time—the beauty of certain spots was so strange that looking at them induced a kind of unmoored state of mind. It was as if I were somewhere far, far away, in a world unknown and uninhabited, far from civilisation, amidst a stark and wondrous sylvan beauty—a world that had no connection with humankind, nor any right of entry, a world only of wild creatures, of trees and vines.

My progress was probably delayed even further as a result of my repeatedly stopping, transfixed, to gaze at the forest scenes. Poor Banowari Patwari worked under me; though he could not say anything to me directly, he must certainly have been thinking to himself, ‘This Bengali babu is surely not right in the head! How much longer will the estate’s work get done with him in charge?’ We all took shelter together under a large asan tree. In all, there were eight or ten of us.

Banowari said, ‘Build a large fire, and everyone stay close together. Don’t spread out; the jungle holds all kinds of dangers at night.’

I sat on a camp chair set up beneath the tree. Above my head, the sky stretched vast and open; darkness had not yet fallen. In the distance and nearby, masses of white wild teuri flowers bloomed profusely on the forest canopy. Beside my camp chair grew long, half-dry, golden-coloured grasses. There was the earthy scent of sun-baked soil, the smell of dry grass, the fragrance of some wild flower, like the scent of the tinsel-and-pith decorations on a Durga idol. This unfettered, wild existence had brought into my mind a feeling of liberation and joy that never comes anywhere else, save for such vast, lonely plains and uninhabited regions. The elation of that free existence is a thing most difficult to convey in words to one who has not known it.

Just then, one of our coolies came to the patwari and said that while gathering dry branches a little way off, he had seen something. The place was not good, a haunt of ghosts or fairies; we ought not to have pitched our tents here.

The patwari said, ‘Come, Huzoor, let’s go and see what it is!’

Pointing to a spot a short distance into the woods, the coolie said, ‘Go and look close to that spot, Huzoor. I won’t go any nearer.’

From a thicket of thorny creepers in the woods, a pillar rose up, and at its top, a grotesque face was carved. To see it in the evening was indeed a frightening thing.

There was no mistaking that it was the work of human hands, but I could not understand how this pillar had come to be in the middle of this deserted jungle. Nor could I tell how ancient the object was.

The night passed. In the morning, we rose and reached our destination by nine o’clock.

Upon arriving, I met one of the employees of the forest’s current owner. He was showing me around the jungle when suddenly, on the other side of a dry stream-bed deep in the woods, I saw the top of a stone pillar—just like the one from yesterday evening. It had the same kind of grotesque face carved on it.

Banowari Patwari was with me, and I showed it to him as well. The owner’s employee was a local man. He said, ‘There are three or four more of those scattered about the jungle in this region. This country was once the kingdom of a wild, aboriginal tribe. These were made by them. They are boundary pillars.’

I asked, ‘How did you know they were pillars?’

He said, ‘I’ve heard it all my life, Babuji. Besides, the descendants of that king are still alive today.’

My curiosity was greatly piqued.

‘Where?’

The man pointed with his finger and said, ‘There’s a small settlement on the northern edge of this forest—that’s where he lives. He is held in great esteem in this region. We’ve heard that his ancestors were the kings of all the hills and forests within the boundary of the Himalaya mountains in the north and the Chota Nagpur plateau in the south, the Kosi River in the east and Munger in the west.’

I recalled that once before at my estate office, the schoolmaster Ganori Tewari had told me a story about the aboriginal kings of this region, and that their descendants still existed. All the hill tribes around here still acknowledged him as their king. I remembered it now. The name of the forest owner’s employee was Budhu Singh. He was quite intelligent and had worked here for a long time; I could see that he knew a great deal about the history of this region of forests and hills.

Budhu Singh said, ‘In the time of the Mughal badshahs, they fought the Mughal soldiers. When the soldiers passed through this jungle on their way to Bengal, these people would harass them with bows and arrows. Their kingdom was finally lost when the Mughal subadars were based in Rajmahal. They are a line of great warriors, but now there is nothing left. Whatever little remained was lost after the Santal Rebellion of 1862. The leader of the Santal Rebellion is still alive. He is the present king. His name is Dobru Panna Birbardi. He is very old and very poor. But all the aboriginal tribes of this land still give him the honour of a king. Though he has no kingdom, they still revere him as a king.’

I felt a great desire to meet the king.

To go for a royal audience, one ought to take some nazar, an offering. To fail to give a man the respect that is his due is a lapse in one’s own duty.

By one o’clock, I had bought some fruit and two large chickens from a nearby settlement. Having finished my work in the area, I said to Budhu Singh after two in the afternoon, ‘Come, let’s go and see the king.’

Budhu Singh did not show much enthusiasm. He said, ‘Why would you go there, sir! He is not fit to meet the likes of you. He’s a king of wild hill tribes, Babuji, but does that make him worthy of speaking to you as an equal? He’s nothing much.’

Ignoring his words, Banowarilal and I set off towards the capital. I took him along with us as well.

The ‘capital’ was very small, home to some twenty or twenty-five families.

The small houses were of mud with tiled roofs, plastered smooth and clean, with snakes, lotuses, and vines moulded from clay on the walls. Little children were playing about; women were busy with household chores. The adolescent and young women had well-formed figures and a firm, glowing health; a lovely grace shone from each of their faces. They all stared at us in astonishment.

Budhu Singh asked one of the women, ‘Is the king in?’

The woman said she hadn’t seen him. But where else would he go? He must be at home.

From Budhu Singh’s manner, I gathered that the spot where we had come to a halt in the village was before the royal palace. The only difference I could discern between the royal palace and the other houses was that it was enclosed by a stone wall—the stones had been brought from the low hill just behind the settlement. There were many children at the royal residence, some of them very young. They wore necklaces of beads and the seeds of some blue fruit. One or two of the children were quite handsome. A girl of sixteen or seventeen, summoned by Budhu Singh’s call, came running outside and was taken aback to see us; from the look in her eyes, I felt she was also a little afraid.

Budhu Singh asked, ‘Where is the king?’

‘Who is the girl?’ I asked Budhu Singh.

Budhu Singh said, ‘The king’s great-granddaughter.’

By living so long, the king had certainly deprived many a young and middle-aged man of the good fortune of sitting on the throne.

The girl said, ‘Come with me. My grand-uncle is sitting on a rock at the foot of the hill.’

Whether I accepted it or not, I thought to myself that the girl leading us was truly a princess—her ancestors had ruled this forest territory for ages, and she was a daughter of that line.

I said, ‘Ask her what her name is.’

Budhu Singh said, ‘Her name is Bhanumati.’

Ah, very beautiful—Bhanumati! Princess Bhanumati!

Bhanumati was a girl of firm health and fine form, her face imbued with grace—though her clothing was not of a size sufficient to maintain the decorum of civilised society. Her hair was coarse, and she wore a necklace of cowries and beads. Pointing to a large bakain tree in the distance, Bhanumumati said, ‘You go on. Grand-uncle is sitting under that tree, grazing the cattle.’

Grazing cattle? What was this! I must have started in surprise. The king of this entire region, the leader of the Santal Rebellion, Dobru Panna Birbardi, was grazing cattle!

Before I could ask anything, the girl had gone. We walked a little farther and saw an old man under the bakain tree, smoking tobacco rolled in a fresh shal leaf.

Budhu Singh said, ‘Salaam, Raja-saheb.’

King Dobru Panna could hear, but it did not seem that he could see very well.

He said, ‘Who is it? Budhu Singh? Who is with you?’

Budhu said, ‘A Bengali babu has come to see you. He has brought some offerings—you must accept them.’

I went forward myself and placed the chickens and other items before the old man.

I said, ‘You are the king of this land. I have come from very far away to see you.’

Looking at the old man’s tall frame, it struck me that in his youth, King Dobru Panna must have been a very handsome man. The mark of intelligence on his face was clear. The old man was very pleased. He looked at me closely and said, ‘Where is your home?’

I said, ‘Calcutta.’

‘Ooh, that is very far. I have heard Calcutta is a great, teeming place.’

‘Have you never been?’

‘No, how can we go to the city? We are better off here in this jungle. Sit down. Where did Bhanumati go? Oh, Bhanumati!’

The girl came running and said, ‘What is it, Grand-uncle?’

‘This Bengali babu and his men will stay here today and have their meal with me.’

I protested, saying, ‘No, no, what is this! We must leave at once, right after seeing you—as for our staying—’

But Dobru Panna said, ‘No, that will not do. Bhanumati, take these things from here.’

At a sign from me, Banowarilal Patwari himself carried the items to the king’s house nearby, following Bhanumati. I could not disobey the old man; just looking at him had filled my heart with reverence. The leader of the Santal Rebellion, the hero from an ancient and noble line, Dobru Panna (even if of a wild, aboriginal tribe), was requesting me to stay—this request was tantamount to a command.

King Dobru Panna was extremely poor; I had understood that at a glance. I was at first astonished to see him grazing cattle, but on later reflection, I realised that in the history of India, many kings far greater than Dobru Panna had, through a turn of fortune, taken up vocations even lowlier than herding cattle.

The king rolled a cigar of shal leaf with his own hands and gave it to me. He had no matches—a fire was already lit under the tree. He lit a leaf from it and held it out to me.

I said, ‘You are from the ancient royal line of this country. There is merit in having your audience.’

Dobru Panna said, ‘What is left now! Our lineage is the Suryavansha, the Solar Dynasty. These hills and forests, the whole earth was our kingdom. In my youth, I fought against the Company. Now I am very old. We lost the war. After that, there was nothing.’

It did not seem that Dobru Panna knew of any world outside this forested land. I was about to say something in reply to his words when a young man came and stood there.

King Dobru said, ‘My youngest grandson, Jagru Panna. His father is not here; he has gone to see the Rani-saheb of Lakshmipur. Jagru, arrange for the babuji’s meal.’

The young man was like a young shal tree, his body muscular, strong, and sleek. He said, ‘Babuji, do you eat porcupine meat?’

Then, looking at his grandfather, he said, ‘I set traps in the forest on the other side of the hill. Two porcupines were caught last night.’

I learned that the king had three sons, who in turn had eight or ten children. This large royal family all lived together in this village. Hunting and grazing cattle were their main livelihoods. Apart from that, when the hill tribes of the forest came to the king seeking judgment in their disputes, they would offer him some gifts and offerings—milk, chickens, goats, game birds, or fruit.

I asked, ‘Do you have any farmlands?’

Dobru Panna said in a proud tone, ‘That is not the custom in our family. The honour of the hunt is the greatest of all. And once, the hunt with a spear was the most glorious. A hunt with bow and arrow is not fit for offering to the gods; it is not the work of a hero. But now, anything goes. My eldest son has bought a gun from Munger. I have never touched it. A real hunt is a hunt with a spear.’

Bhanumati came again and placed a stone vessel before us.

The king said, ‘Rub on this oil. There is a wonderful spring nearby—go and bathe, all of you.’

When we returned from our baths, the king asked for us to be taken to a room in the royal house.

Bhanumati brought rice and yams in a bamboo tray. Jagru brought the porcupine, skinned and laid out in a container of fresh shal leaves.

Bhanumati went once more and brought milk and honey. I had no cook with me. Banowari sat down to peel the yams, and I went to light the clay stove in an attempt to cook. But lighting a stove with only large pieces of wood is a difficult task. I tried once or twice and failed. Then Bhanumati quickly brought a dry bird’s nest and pushed it into the stove, and the fire blazed up nicely. As soon as she had, she stepped back and stood at a distance. Bhanumati was a princess, certainly, but a princess of a very gracious nature. And yet, she possessed a wonderfully simple and natural sense of dignity.

King Dobru Panna sat by the door of the kitchen the entire time, ensuring there was not the slightest lapse in hospitality. After we had eaten, he said, ‘I do not have very many rooms. You have been put to great trouble. Up on the hill in this forest, the ruins of a vast house belonging to my ancestors can still be seen. I have heard from my father and grandfathers that in very ancient times, my forefathers lived there. Those days are no more! The deity established by our ancestors is still there.’

My curiosity was greatly aroused. I said, ‘Would there be any objection, Raja-saheb, if we were to go and see it?’

‘What objection could there be! But there is not much to see now. Very well, let us go. I will come. Jagru, come with us.’

I objected—my heart was not in it to make a ninety-two-year-old man climb a hill. But my objection did not stand. The Raja-saheb smiled and said, ‘I have to climb that hill often enough anyway. My family’s burial ground is on its slope. I must go there on every full moon. Come, I will show you that place as well.’

From the north-east, a range of low hills (known locally as the Dhanjhari) seemed to suddenly turn eastwards at one point, creating a cleft. Below this cleft lay a valley, and the forest on the mountain slope seemed to have come down like a wave of green, covering the entire valley, just as a waterfall descends down the face of a mountain. The forest here was not dense, but sparse. Beyond the forest canopy, on the distant horizon, was a range of blue mountains, perhaps those towards Gaya or Ramgarh. As far as the eye could see, there was nothing but the crests of the forest—here high, dense with giant trees, there low, with sapling shal and palash. Following a narrow path through the jungle, we climbed up the hill.

In one place, a great slab of rock was embedded sideways in the earth, just like a stone beam. Below it was the mouth of a vast hole, like the pit of a potter’s kiln for firing pots and jars, or the kind of burrow a jackal digs in a field. The mouth of the cavern was surrounded by a thicket of young sal trees.

‘We must go inside this hole,’ said Raja Dobru. ‘Come with me. There is nothing to fear. Jagru, you go first.’

Taking my life in my hands, I entered the hole. There might well be tigers or bears inside, and if not them, then surely snakes!

Inside the cavern, one had to crawl on all fours for some distance before it was possible to stand up straight. It seemed terribly dark at first, but once one’s eyes had grown accustomed to the gloom, it was no longer so difficult. The place was a massive cave, twenty to twenty-two cubits long and about fifteen wide. In the northern wall, another burrow, like a jackal’s, led away; apparently, after some distance, it opened into a similar cave on the other side—but we showed no eagerness to enter that one. The cave’s ceiling was not very high; a person standing upright could touch it by raising a hand. There was a rank, leathery smell in the air—the haunt of bats. We were told that civets, jackals, and wildcats also lived here. Banowari Patwari whispered, ‘Huzoor, let’s go outside. We shouldn’t stay here any longer.’

This, apparently, was the fortress-palace of Dobru Panna’s ancestors.

In reality, it was a large natural cave. With its entrance high up on the mountainside, it would have been an easy place from which to defend oneself against enemy attacks in ancient times.

The Raja said, ‘It has another, secret entrance—but it is forbidden to speak of it. No one knows of it, save for the men of my lineage. Though no one lives here anymore, the rule has been passed down in our family.’

Emerging from the cave, I felt as if life had returned to my body.

After climbing a little further, we came to a place where a vast banyan tree, covering nearly a bigha of land, spread over a large part of the mountain’s summit, its great aerial roots, thick and thin, hanging down all around.

‘Pray, remove your shoes,’ said Raja Dobru Panna.

Beneath the banyan tree, stones the size of large grinding-slabs lay scattered everywhere.

‘This is my family’s burial ground,’ the Raja said. ‘Beneath each of these stones is the tomb of a royal. The entire area under the great banyan was strewn with such slabs of rock—some of the tombs were extremely ancient, with aerial roots descending from two sides to grip them like a pair of pincers; those roots had in turn grown as thick as tree trunks. Some slabs had disappeared entirely beneath the roots, from which one could gauge their great age.’

‘This banyan tree wasn’t always here,’ said Raja Dobru. ‘There used to be a forest of other trees. A small banyan sapling grew and gradually choked them all out. This banyan is so ancient that its original trunk is gone. The trunks you see now were all formed from its descending roots. If you were to cut them down and pull them up, you’d see how many stone slabs are buried underneath. Now you see how ancient this burial ground truly is!’

Truly, standing there beneath the banyan tree, a feeling awoke in my heart that I had not experienced anywhere else until that moment. Not upon seeing the Raja (who had seemed to me like some old Santal coolie), nor upon seeing the princess (in whom I had perceived no difference from any healthy young Ho or Munda woman), and certainly not upon seeing the royal palace (which had struck me as a den for snakes and ghosts). But this burial ground, beneath this ancient, colossal banyan tree high on the mountain, awakened in me an unknown and exquisite emotion.

The place possessed an indescribable air of solemnity, mystery, and antiquity. The afternoon was waning; a yellow sunlight fell upon the canopy of leaves, upon the forest of branches and aerial roots, upon the other peaks of the Dhanjhari range, and upon the tops of the distant woods. The deepening shadows of late afternoon lent this ancient royal burial ground a beauty that was more profound and mysterious still.

The Valley of the Kings, near the city of Thebes, burial place of the ancient emperors of Egypt, is today a playground for the world’s tourists; thanks to publicity and fanfare, its grand hotels teem with people during the season. The Valley of the Kings was never as obscured by the mists of the past as it is now by the smoke of expensive cigarettes and cigars. Yet in no way is it lesser in mystery and self-possessed grandeur than this burial place of non-Aryan kings of the distant past, which has lain concealed for all time, and will forever remain so, in the shade of dense forests, behind a curtain of mountain ranges. There is no ostentation in their burial ground, no polish, no opulence, like the monuments of the wealthy Egyptian pharaohs—for they were poor, their civilization and culture that of an untutored yet skillful primitive age. It was with the minds of mere children of mankind that they created their cave-dwelling royal palace, their royal tombs, their boundary-markers. In the shadows of that late afternoon, standing on the mountain beneath that immense tree, I seemed to glimpse another world of experience, far back behind all-encompassing, eternal Time—a world compared to which even the Puranic and Vedic ages seem modern.

I saw the nomadic Aryans crossing the northwestern mountain passes, pouring like a flood into an ancient India ruled by non-Aryan, aboriginal peoples… All the subsequent history of India is the history of this Aryan civilization. The history of the vanquished non-Aryan peoples is written nowhere—or rather, it is written in these secret mountain caves, in the darkness of the forest wilderness, in the lines of crumbling skeletons. The victorious Aryan race has never troubled itself to decipher that script. To this day, the conquered, luckless aboriginal peoples remain just as neglected, humiliated, and ignored. The Aryans, proud of their civilization, never once looked back at them, never tried to understand their culture, and do not do so even now. I, and Banowari, we were representatives of that victorious race; the old Dobru Panna, the young Jagru, the young princess Bhanumati, were representatives of that conquered, downtrodden race. Both our peoples stood face to face in the darkness of that evening. Swollen with the pride of civilization, the pride of my high-nosed Aryan features, I was thinking of the aristocratic old Dobru Panna as an old Santal, of Princess Bhanumati as a Munda coolie-woman. The royal palace they had shown me with such eagerness and pride, I was thinking of as a non-Aryan, airless, lightless cave-dwelling, a den of snakes and ghosts. It was as if this great tragedy of history were being enacted before my very eyes that evening. The actors in that drama were, on one side, the vanquished, ignored, impoverished non-Aryan king Dobru Panna, the young non-Aryan princess Bhanumati, and the young prince Jagru Panna—and on the other, myself, my patwari Banowarilal, and my guide, Buddh Singh.

Before the encroaching darkness of evening could shroud the royal tombs and the great banyan, we made our way down from the mountain that day.

On the way down, in a clearing in the jungle, we saw an upright stone smeared with vermilion. Around it grew marigold and four-o’clock flower plants, placed there by human hands. In front of it was another large stone, also smeared with vermilion. This shrine had apparently been established here since time immemorial; he was the titular deity of the royal family. In former times, human sacrifices were made here—the large stone in front was used as the sacrificial altar. Now, pigeons and chickens were offered.

‘What deity is this?’ I asked.

‘Tandbaro,’ said Raja Dobru. ‘The god of the wild buffalo.’

I remembered the story Ganu Mahato had told me last winter.

‘Tandbaro is a very powerful, a very wakeful god,’ said Raja Dobru. ‘If it weren’t for him, hunters, greedy for skins and horns, would have driven the wild buffalo to extinction. He protects them. When a herd is about to walk into a trap, he appears before them and raises his hand to stop them—many people have seen it.’

No one in the civilized world knows or worships this god of a primitive, forest-dwelling people—and yet, sitting there amidst the profound beauty and mystery of that secluded, beast-haunted region of forests and mountains, the thought arose in my mind, quite of its own accord, that this was no mere flight of fancy, that this god truly did exist.

Many days later, back in Calcutta, on a terribly hot day in the month of Jyeshtha, I saw a cart-driver from the west mercilessly beating the two buffaloes of his heavily laden cart with all his might, using a leather whip. On that day, I thought: Alas, O god Tandbaro, this is not the wild land of Chota Nagpur or Madhya Pradesh. How can your merciful hand protect this tortured animal here? This is twentieth-century Calcutta, proud of its Aryan civilization. Here, you are as helpless as the vanquished aboriginal king, Dobru Panna.

I set out from Nawada that evening to catch the motor-bus to Gaya. Banowari returned to our tent with the horses. As I was leaving, I met Princess Bhanumati one last time. She was waiting for us at the gate of the royal residence with a bowl of buffalo milk.