16

One day I said to Jugalprasad, ‘Come, let’s go search for new plants and trees on the Mahalikharup hills.’

Jugalprasad replied with enthusiasm, ‘There’s a kind of creeper that grows in the jungle on those hills—and nowhere else. In these parts they call it the chihar fruit. Let’s go, sir, let’s see if we can find it.’

The path lay through the new settlements of Narha Baihar. Already, the hamlets had been named after their respective headmen: Jhallutola, Rupdastola, Begumtola, and so on. Barley was being pounded in mortars with a dull thud, smoke was coiling upwards from the tile-roofed mud huts, and naked, dark-skinned children played by the roadside, scattering dust and dirt.

The northern border of Narha Baihar was still dense forest. In Labtuliya Baihar, however, there was not a trace of jungle or woodland left. Of Narha Baihar’s own beautiful forest, three-quarters was gone; only about two thousand bighas of land on the northern boundary had yet to be distributed to tenants. I saw that this made Jugalprasad deeply unhappy.

‘A band of Gangotas settled here and ruined it all, Huzoor!’ he said. ‘They have no homes, the wretched lot. Here today, gone tomorrow! To ruin a forest like this!’

‘It’s not their fault, Jugalprasad,’ I said. ‘Why would the zamindar let the land lie fallow? He has to pay revenue to the government, too. Is he supposed to pay it out of his own pocket forever? The zamindar brought them here. How is it their fault?’

‘Don’t give away the Saraswati Kundi land, Huzoor! I took such pains to collect saplings and plant them there—’

‘It’s not up to me, Jugal. It’s enough that I’ve managed to preserve it this long. How much longer do you think I can keep it? The tenants are all gravitating that way, now that they see how good the land is!’

We had two or three sepoys with us. Not understanding the drift of our conversation, and meaning to encourage me, they said, ‘Don’t you worry, Huzoor. After the coming spring harvest, not a single scrap of the Saraswati Kundi land will be left vacant.’

The Mahalikharup hills were nearly nine miles away. From the window of my office, they looked hazy and smoke-like. By the time we reached the foot of the hills, it was ten o’clock in the morning.

What beautiful sunlight, and what a strange blue sky it was that day! I felt as though I had never seen such a blue in the sky—why is it that on certain days the sky becomes so deep a blue? The colour of the sunlight was exquisite, and the blue sky intoxicated the mind, clouding it like wine. The sunlight falling on the tender new leaves made them seem translucent. And the flocks of wild birds from Narha Baihar and Labtuliya, their nests having been destroyed, had taken refuge partly in the woods of the Saraswati Sarobar, and partly here and in the Mohanpura Reserve Forest—and what an incessant birdsong they made!

It was a dense forest. Such a dense, solitary woodland brings to the mind a unique feeling of peace and of free, untrammelled liberty. So many trees, so many branches, so many wild flowers, so many great stones strewn about—sit wherever you please, lie down, pass an idle moment seated in the deep shade of a blossoming pial tree—the vast, secluded wilderness will soothe your weary nerves.

We began to climb the hill. Great trees overhead blocked the sunlight. Small and large streams cascaded down through the woods with a gurgling sound. The wind, catching in the huge, teak-like leaves of the haritaki and kelikadamba trees, made a rustling murmur. From deep within the forest, we heard the call of a peacock.

‘Jugalprasad,’ I said, ‘where is that chihar fruit vine? Find it!’

The chihar fruit vine was found much higher up. Its leaves were like those of the land-lotus; a thick, woody creeper, it snaked and twisted its way up, clinging to other trees for support. The fruit was of the bean family, but its two-part pod was as large as a pair of Cuttacki slippers, and just as hard and broad—inside were round seeds. We lit a fire of dry leaves and vines and roasted the seeds to eat them—they tasted exactly like round potatoes.

We had climbed a long way. In the distance lay the Mohanpura forest; to the south, our own estate, the jungle on the banks of the Saraswati Kundi, was faintly visible. There was the remaining quarter of the Narha Baihar forest. Further away, the Kushi river flowed along the eastern edge of the Mohanpura Reserve Forest. The view of the plains below was like a picture.

‘A peacock! A peacock! Huzoor, look, a peacock!’

An enormous peacock was sitting on a branch right above our heads. One of the sepoys, who had brought a rifle, went to take a shot, but I stopped him.

Jugalprasad said, ‘Babuji, there’s a cave somewhere in the jungle on this hill—it has pictures drawn all over its walls. No one knows how old they are. That’s what I’m looking for.’

Perhaps they were pictures drawn or carved onto the hard stone of the cave by the hand of prehistoric man! The curtain of a million years of the earth’s history would be swept aside in a moment, carrying us upstream against the current of time to who knows where.

Driven by a powerful desire to see the prehistoric cave paintings, we pushed through the jungle in search of the cave. We found a cave, but it was so dark inside that we did not dare to enter. And even if we did, what would we see in that darkness? We would have to come back another day, properly equipped. For today, it was best to leave it. Did we want to give up our lives to some terrible, venomous Russell’s viper or king cobra in the dark? There was no shortage of them in these parts.

I said to Jugalprasad, ‘Plant some new kinds of trees and plants in this jungle. No one will ever cut down the forest on the hills. Labtuliya is gone—and give up hope for Saraswati Kundi—’

Jugalprasad said, ‘You’re right, Huzoor. The thought has struck a chord. But you won’t be coming, so I’ll have to do it all by myself.’

‘I’ll come from time to time to see your progress. You make a start.’

The Mahalikharup Pahar was not a single hill, but a short, low range of hills, nowhere more than fifteen hundred feet high—a lower branch of the Himalayan foothills, though the jungles of the Terai and the real Himalayas were a hundred to a hundred and fifty miles from here. Standing on the Mahalikharup hills and looking down at the plains below, one could imagine that a great ocean of a bygone age once crashed against this high, sandy shore; that the cave-dwelling men of that time were still asleep in the womb of the future; and that the Mahalikharup hills were then the sandy beach of that ancient sea.

Jugalprasad showed me at least eight or ten new kinds of plants and creepers that were not found in the forests of the plains. The nature of the forest on the hills was different; many of the trees and plants were of another kind.

The afternoon began to fade. A strong scent of some kind of wildflower filled the air; as the day waned, the fragrance seemed to grow deeper. From the branches of trees came the cooing of doves, mountain parakeets, green pigeons, and so many other birds.

My companions, afraid of tigers, became anxious to descend the hill; otherwise, I had no desire to leave behind the beauty that had blossomed in the deep shadows of this secluded mountain slope in the approaching twilight.

Muneshwar Singh said, ‘Huzoor, the danger from tigers is greater here than in the Mohanpura forest. Those who come here to cut firewood all go down after midday. And no one ever comes to this hill alone, without a group. There are tigers, there are king cobras—can’t you see, Huzoor, what a tangled jungle covers the whole hill!’

Reluctantly, we began to make our way down. In the hill-jungle, behind the large leaves of a kelikadamba tree, Venus and Jupiter were shining brightly.

One day I saw Ganoari Tewari, the schoolmaster, sitting on the veranda of just such a new homesteader’s house, eating a lump of chhatu paste from a sal-leaf plate.

‘Huzoor! Are you well?’

‘Quite well. When did you arrive? Where have you been? Are these people relatives of yours?’

‘No one at all. I was just passing this way, it had gotten late, and as I am a Brahmin, I became their guest for the day. So I’m having a bite to eat. We didn’t know each other, but we do now.’

The master of the house came forward, greeted me with a nomoshkar and said, ‘Come, Huzoor, please sit down.’

‘No, I won’t sit. I’m fine. How long have you had this land?’

‘Two months now, Huzoor. I haven’t been able to plough it yet.’

A little girl came and gave Ganoari Tewari a few green chillies. He was eating chhatu made from gram, with salt and chillies. It was hard to imagine where in the emaciated Ganoari Tewari’s stomach that enormous mound of chhatu would fit. Ganoari was a true vagabond. At one end of the veranda where he sat eating, a dirty cloth bundle and a gelap—a kind of thin quilt—made it clear that these belonged to Ganoari, and that they constituted his entire worldly estate.

‘I’m busy now,’ I told Ganoari. ‘Come to the kachari this afternoon.’

In the afternoon, Ganoari came to the kachari.

‘Where have you been, Ganoari?’ I asked.

‘Babuji, in the villages of Munger district. I’ve wandered through many a village.’

‘What were you doing?’

‘I ran a pathshala. Taught children.’

‘And none of the schools lasted?’

‘Not for more than two or three months, Huzoor. The children don’t pay their fees.’

‘Are you married? How old are you now?’

‘I can’t even fill my own stomach, Huzoor, what would I do with a wife! I must be thirty-four or thirty-five.’

Even in this region, one did not often see a man as poor as Ganoari. I remembered that Ganoari had once come to my kachari for a meal, uninvited, when I first arrived here. Now, who knows how long it had been since he had eaten a meal of rice. He was spending his days as a guest in a Gangota house, eating gram-flour paste.

‘Ganoari,’ I said, ‘you will eat here with me tonight. Kontu Mishra cooks. You have no objection to eating food from his hand, do you?’

Ganoari was overjoyed. Grinning from ear to ear, he said, ‘Kontu is a Brahmin of our own kind, I’ve eaten from his hand before—what objection could I have?’

Then he said, ‘Huzoor, since you brought up the subject of marriage, let me tell you. Last year, in the month of Srabon, I opened a pathshala in a village. There was one family of our own Brahmin caste in the village. I stayed at their house. The arrangements for my marriage to their daughter were all settled—I even bought a fine merjai jacket from Munger—but then the village people meddled. They said, “He’s a poor schoolmaster, with neither hearth nor home, don’t give your daughter to him.” And so the marriage was called off. I left that village and went away.’

‘Had you seen the girl? Was she beautiful?’

‘I had indeed! A wonderful girl, Huzoor. But why would they give her to me? It’s true, after all, what do I have? Tell me.’

I saw that Ganoari was quite saddened by the marriage falling through; he had taken a liking to the girl.

He then sat and talked for a long time. Listening to him, it seemed to me that life had given him nothing. He had wandered from village to village for two square meals a day, and even that he had failed to secure. He had spent half his life going from door to door among the Gangotas.

‘And so, after a long time, I came to Labtuliya,’ he said. ‘I had heard that many new settlements had sprung up here. That jungle estate is no more. I came to see if I could open a pathshala here. It won’t work, what do you say, Huzoor?’

It was then that I thought to myself: I will set up a pathshala here and give Ganoari a post. All these young children, new arrivals on my estate—it was my duty to arrange for their education. I would see what could be done.

It was a night of exquisite moonlight. Jugalprasad and Raju Pande came to chat. A small settlement had grown up a little distance from the kachari. A man from there came as well. It was only four days since he and his family had arrived from Chapra district to live here.

The man was telling the story of his life. He had wandered to so many places with his wife and children, cleared forests and built a home so many times on so many river-islands and in so many jungles. Somewhere he had stayed for three years, somewhere for five; in one place, by the banks of the Kushi river, he had lived for ten years. Nowhere had he been able to prosper. This time, he had come to Labtuliya Baihar to prosper.

The lives of these nomadic householders are most strange. I have spoken with them and seen that their lives are completely unfettered, outcast. They have no society, no settled domestic life, no attachment to an ancestral homestead. They build their homes under the blue sky—in forests, in valleys between mountain ranges, on the lonely sandbanks of great rivers. Here today, gone tomorrow.

Their love and loss, their life and death, all seemed new and strange to me. But strangest of all was this man’s present hope for prosperity.

It was hard to understand what kind of prosperity he hoped to achieve by cultivating a paltry five or ten bighas of land with wheat in this Labtuliya jungle.

The man was past fifty. His name was Balbhadra Sengai, and his caste was Teli-Kalu, or oil-presser. At this age, he still held out hope of prospering in life.

I asked, ‘Balbhadra, where were you before this?’

‘Huzoor, on a river-island in Munger district. I was there for two years—then the maize crop failed due to drought. I saw there was no hope of prospering in that place. Huzoor, everyone in this world tries to prosper. Let me see this time, under your protection—’

Raju Pande said, ‘I had six buffaloes when I first came here—now I have ten. Labtuliya is a place for prosperity.’

Balbhadra said, ‘You must help me buy a pair of buffaloes, Pande-ji. As soon as the harvest is in, I must buy buffaloes with that money—without them, there is no prosperity.’

Ganoari was listening to them. He too said, ‘That’s right. I also have a mind to buy a buffalo or two. If only I can settle down somewhere—’

The trees of the Mahalikharup hills, and beyond them the Dhanjhari mountain range, were faintly visible in the moonlight. As it was a little chilly, a small fire had been lit in front of us. On one side sat Raju Pande and Jugalprasad; on the other, Balbhadra and three or four newly-arrived tenants.

How strange their talk of material prosperity seemed to me. Their idea of prosperity was not of an unimaginably high order—six buffaloes becoming ten, or perhaps twelve. That even in this remote, wild country, encircled by jungle and mountains, the hopes and aspirations of the human mind were such—the chance to know this made this moonlit night seem uniquely mysterious to me. And not just the moonlit night, but the Mahalikharup hills, the distant Dhanjhari range, the dense forest on those hills.

Only Jugalprasad took no part in these worldly conversations. He has come into this world with another kind of outsider’s soul; he neither enjoys discussing land, cattle, and buffaloes, nor does he join in.

He said, ‘Have you seen, Babuji, how lush all the hangsalata vines I planted on the eastern bank of the Saraswati Kundi have become? And the spider lilies by the water’s edge are also a fine sight this year. Come, shall we go for a walk in the moonlight?’

It pains me to think of Jugalprasad’s beloved woodlands of the Saraswati Kundi. How much longer will I be able to protect them? The hangsalata and the wild shephali bushes will vanish somewhere far away. In their place will appear fields of tasselled maize and sorghum, and rows of tile-roofed huts, their eaves touching, with string-cots set out in front. … In muddy, cluttered courtyards, cattle and buffaloes will be eating fodder from their troughs.

Just then, Matuknath Pandit arrived. Nowadays, nearly fifteen students studied the Kalap and Mugdhabodh grammars at Matuknath’s tol. His circumstances had turned around. At the last harvest, he had received so much wheat and maize from the homes of his patrons that he had to build a small granary in the courtyard of his school.

That a man of perseverance will inevitably prosper—Matuknath Pandit was irrefutable proof of it.

Prosperity! Again, the talk had come around to prosperity.

But there was no escaping the talk of prosperity. I could see with my own eyes that because Matuknath had prospered, he now enjoyed great respect and honour. The same sepoys and clerks of my kachari who used to dismiss Matuknath as a madman—I had noticed that ever since he built his granary, they treated him with deference and respect. And along with that, the number of students in his tol also seemed to be growing. Yet no one paid any heed to Jugalprasad or Ganoari Tewari. Raju Pande, too, had managed to gain great favour among the new tenants; one often saw him, a bundle of medicinal herbs in hand, going about feeling the pulses of the householders’ children. Raju Pande, however, did not have much of a head for money; he was content with being held in esteem and having a good chat.

Within three or four months, the land from the foot of the Mahalikharup hills to the northern border of Labtuliya and Narha Baihar was settled with tenants. The land had been distributed and cultivation had begun earlier, but there had not been so many people living here. This year, people came in droves, setting up villages overnight.

So many kinds of families! One family was seen arriving with their bedding, utensils, brass water pots, firewood, household deity, and portable stove piled on the back of a scrawny pony. Another family came with their small children, pots and pans, broken lanterns, and even a string-cot loaded on the backs of buffaloes. In some families, a husband and wife were walking from a great distance, carrying their belongings and their children balanced on either end of a pole borne on their shoulders.

Among them were people from every level of society, from virtuous and proud Maithil Brahmins to Gangotas and Dosaads. I asked Jugalprasad the muhuri, ‘Were these people homeless all this time? Where are so many people coming from?’

Jugalprasad was in low spirits. ‘That’s how the people of this country are,’ he said. ‘They’ve heard that land is being distributed cheaply here, so they are coming in droves. If they find it convenient, they’ll stay; otherwise, they’ll pack up their camps and flee to some other place.’

‘Does their ancestral home hold no attachment for them?’

‘None, Babuji. Their very livelihood is to take settlement of newly-formed river-islands or jungle tracts and cultivate them. Living there is incidental. They will stay as long as the crops are good and the rent is low.’

‘And after that?’

‘After that, they will look for another place where a new river-island or jungle is being distributed, and they will go there. This is their business.’

That day, I had gone to supervise the measurement of land under Grant Sahib’s banyan tree. Asrafi Tindel was measuring the land; I was watching from horseback when I saw Kunta walking along the path to the tola.

I had not seen Kunta in a long time. I said to Asrafi, ‘Where does Kunta live these days? I don’t see her around.’

Asrafi said, ‘Haven’t you heard her story, Babuji? She wasn’t here for a long time in between—’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Rasbihari Singh took her to his house. He said, “You are the wife of a man of our caste—come and live at my place”—’

‘I see.’

‘After she had stayed there for some time—you have seen what she looks like, Babuji, even after all her sorrow and hardship, she still—well, Rasbihari Singh said all sorts of things to her. He even tried to force himself on her. So about a month ago, she ran away from there and came back here. I hear Rasbihari threatened her with a dagger. She said, “Kill me, Babuji. I will give my life—I will not give my honour.”’

‘Where does she live?’

‘She has taken refuge in some Gangota’s house in Jhallutola. They have a small lean-to next to their cowshed, that’s where she stays.’

‘How does she manage? Doesn’t she have two or three children?’

—She begs—gleans crops from the fields. She harvests kalai and wheat. She’s a good girl, Babu, Kunta is. She may have been a baiji’s daughter, true, but she has the heart and mind of a girl from a good family—you’d never get her to do anything dishonest.

The survey came to an end. A tenant from the district of Ballia has taken a lease on this land—tomorrow he will begin building his house here. And so, the glory of Grant Sahib’s banyan tree was also destroyed.

The sun turned a ruddy colour on the tops of the great trees over Mohalikharup. A flock of silli birds flew in formation toward Saraswati Kund. Evening was not far off.

I had a thought.

Soon, not a speck of land would remain in these vast tracts of Lobtulia and Narha Baihar, as far as I could see. Swarms of strangers came and took up the land—but what of those who had always been the children of this forest land, who were destitute and ill-fated? Would they be deprived simply because they lacked the money to take out a lease? Those whom I love—I must do at least this small good for them.

I said to Asrafi, “Asrafi, can you have Kunta report to the kachari tomorrow morning? I have some business with her.”

—Yes, Huzur, whenever you say.

The next morning, at about nine o’clock, Asrafi brought Kunta before my office-room.

I said, “Kunta, how are you?”

Kunta joined her palms in a pranam and said, “I am well, Huzur.”

“And your children?”

“They are well, by your grace.”

“How old is your eldest boy now?”

“He’s just turned eight, Huzur.”

“Can’t he herd buffaloes?”

“Who would let such a little boy herd their buffaloes, Huzur?”

Kunta was, in truth, still quite handsome to look at. Just as the sorrow and hardship of her helpless life had left their stamp on her face, so too had courage and purity inscribed their own rare emblems of victory.

This was that same girl, the baiji’s daughter from Kashi, Kunta, overwhelmed by love. The shining lamp of love was still burning proudly in this poor woman’s hands; that was the source of all her sorrow, her degradation, her humiliation. Kunta had kept faith with love.

I said, “Kunta, will you take some land?”

It was as if Kunta had not quite heard the words. With a look of astonishment, she said, “Land, Huzur?”

“Yes, land. Newly distributed land.”

Kunta thought for a moment. Then she said, “Once, we had so much of our own land and property. I saw it when we first came. Then it was all lost, bit by bit. With what shall I take land now, Huzur?”

“Why, can’t you pay the selami?”

“Where would I get it from? I glean crops from the fields at night, for fear someone might insult me in the daytime. I get half a basket, one basket of kalai—I grind it into sattu to feed the children. On many days, there isn’t enough for me to eat—”

Kunta stopped speaking and lowered her eyes. Tears rolled, drop by drop, from her two eyes.

Asrafi moved away. The boy’s heart was tender; he could not yet bear to witness the sorrow of others.

I said, “Kunta, all right—but what if there were no selami?”

Kunta raised her eyes and looked at my face, her own eyes filled with tears and astonishment.

Asrafi hurried back to her side and, waving his hands in front of Kunta, said, “Huzur will give you the land for free, just like that—don’t you understand, Didi?”

I said to Asrafi, “If she is given land, how will she cultivate it, Asrafi?”

Asrafi said, “That is not so difficult, Huzur. Everyone will be kind enough to lend her a plough for a day or two. Among so many Gahlot tenants, if each household offers a day with their plough, her land will be tilled. I will take charge of that, Huzur.”

“Alright, how many bighas would she need, Asrafi?”

“Since you are being so gracious, Huzur, give her ten bighas.”

I asked Kunta, “Well, Kunta, if you are given ten bighas of land without any selami—will you be able to cultivate it properly, harvest the crops, and pay the kachari’s rent? Of course, your rent will be waived for the first two years. You will have to pay rent from the third year onwards.”

Kunta seemed completely dumbfounded. It was as if she still could not comprehend whether we were teasing her or telling her the truth.

In a somewhat dazed manner, she said, “Land! Ten bighas of land!”

Asrafi spoke on my behalf. “Yes, Huzur is giving it to you. The rent is waived for two years. From the third year, you can pay the rent. So, are you agreed?”

With a shamefaced look, Kunta looked towards me and said, “Ji, Huzur, you are gracious.” Then, suddenly, as if overwhelmed, she burst into tears.

At a gesture from me, Asrafi led her away.