anoma'skanya:shortstory

Anoma's Kanya: A Novel

Winner of Katha Award, 2003 Author: Santanu Kumar Acharya

Translated from Oriya by Bibhas C Mohanty AND THE AUTHOR

First published in 'Kadambini', July 2002, Bhubaneswar

(Published in book form by Katha Publications, New Delhi

Vide Katha Vol 13, 2005)

Chitrotpala, the swelling river, flows right in front of Raghunath’s ancestral house. If you opened the door and you could see the wet horizon, boundless, fading away into the oblivion. In the rainy season the brimming river splashed the skyline. There in the veranda of his ancestral house is Raghumastre with his daughter Chitrotpala, and son Ramanatha, their schoolbooks lying open. Chitu, as sharp and intelligent as her brother, is ten years old. Ramu is seven. And Chitu is asking, “Bapa, tell me, is Bihari-thief an honest man? Recently the newspapers have reported that Bihari robs the thieving rajas and zamindars and distributes this among the poor.”

Raghunath laughed. This daughter of his never ceases to amaze him. Look at the way she talks, balancing opposites with ease: The thief is honest while the honest, thieves. The rich are poor and the poor, rich. Heroes are murderers and plunderers, heroes. Like Alexander and Napoleon.

Without answering Chitu’s question Raghunath asked one of his own. “Can you tell me the ancient name of this river?”

Ramu came back promptly with an answer: “Old name of Chitrotpala? I know, I know. It’s Anoma!”

Raghu looked up at him, pleased. “Now, where did you learn that from?”

“From you, Bapa!” Chitu said. “You told Deba mousa when he came in search of Bihari-thief. He was here for lunch, remember?”

Chitu went into a long account of the last visit by Deba mousa. And Ramu promptly joined in with graphic details of the rough khaki police dress Deba mousa had worn that day, the way his dun coloured horse flicked its tail, and of the red turbaned policeman Dafadar and the brisk chowkidar running behind it, hurling shouts and abuses at the village children.

Suddenly there was a loud noise from the western side of the river bank.

“Ei!” Ramu was the first to react, “It’s actually Deba mausa!” and, before anyone could stop him, he darted away to join the procession that tagged the horse of Deba Mausa.

The train came to a halt outside Raghumastre’s house, the renowned village teacher. Dafadar Raju Jena, tall as a palm tree and with a skin as black as a moonless night, held the horse’s bridle from one side. On the other side was wily-looking Jadu Mallick, perkily dressed in the green coat of chowkidar. It took both men a few minutes to calm the excited horse before it allowed their master, police inspector Dibyakishore Das, to alight with practiced ease.

Seeing Raghumastre standing in the verandah, the handsome police officer called out, “Ei Raghu, where is my bahu? I’m inviting myself to lunch at your house. I have much to discuss with you.”

Striding up the ten stone steps, he enfolded his childhood friend, Raghunath Kalama, in a huge hug that lifted him clear off the ground. He turned Mastre around as if he were a ten year old, then set him down.

Ramu asked, “Are you going to talk about the Anoma again?”

Dibyakishore laughed. “Maybe? So Raghu, tell me. How far has your research progressed? Did you learn anything about the history of the Anoma from those revenue maps I sent you? Can’t imagine how you’ve managed to stay such a student all your life. Ei baba, what do you get out of all this history-fistory, research-fesearch?”

Raghumastre grinned at Dibyakishore as he walked him into the house. Chitu of course had disappeared to hide herself behind her mother, deep inside the house, the moment she heard Dibyakishore’s holler: Where is my bahu?

Last time too, Dibyakishore had arrived quite unexpectedly. He had come on tour but when he came to know that his old friend Raghunath Kalama still lived in his ancestral village, he had stopped by and impulsively stayed for lunch. He had seen Chitu for the first time and, “Arré, Raghu!” he had exclaimed in his booming voice. “This cannot be your daughter! Now where have I seen you before? Where, where, where? Was it in the puranas? The history books? Arré, you’re none other than Janaki, the daughter of Mother Earth, right? Bhudevi’s daughter, right?” And he had set a bewildered Chitu down to dramatically turn and accuse Raghu, “You dare to claim a girl of such unparalleled beauty as your daughter? No. I protest! Won’t let it happen! This girl’s been born in your family only to be married into mine. Arre yaar, do you know the name of my son? Ramakishore, it is Ramakishore. Raghu, I am reserving your daughter for my son. Henceforth, she is my daughter in law.”

Deba mausa lifted Chitu in his arms. Patted her and asked, “Maa, what is your name?” Chitu was barely six years old then. She told him her name looking him straight in his eye. It was Dibyakishore who had done all the talking from the time his heavy booted feet had touched Keshanagar, Raghumastra’s village. Now, Chitu took over, talking non-stop with her new friend as old as the river, Deba mausa. Dibyakishore had placed five ten rupee notes in her tiny palm, which Chitu had accepted with alacrity.

It had been four years since Dibyakishore’s first visit. And, today, an older Chitu felt suddenly shy. Like a frightened fawn she had run through all the three inner courtyards of the house to take shelter behind her mother.

Padmavati had just started cooking lunch. “What is it, Maa?” she asked. “What was all that noise outside? Is it the Zamindar of Kalikapur riding along the riverbank? ”

Shyly Chitu said, “He has come again.”

“Who?” “The one who had given me money last time, Deba mausa.”

“Deba Mausa? aalo, aalo!” Padmavati felt her hands and feet turn suddenly wooden at learning the identity of the guest. She rummaged in the containers for flour, sugar and tea even as Raghumastre called, “Padma! Bandhu has come and is right here. Arrange for some tea and snacks. And yes, bandhu will have his lunch with us. He is a saheb, isn’t he. Send Ramu to Banchha fisherman’s house. Just this morning I saw him catching four big Jalangas in the river.” Padma quickly changed the menu and pushed Chitu out of the kitchen saying, “I’ll make puris. Now you run, get me some brinjals from the backyard. Tell Ramu to run to the house of Banchha fisherman, quickly, or all the fish will be sold out. And one minute, tell him to buy some tea on his way back. There is none left. Now, what do I do!”? The chairs and tables were immediately arranged in the middle courtyard so that Raghunath could seat his guest there.

Though Raghumastre is a modest English and History teacher in the village high school, anybody who happens to see the layout of his ancestral house would realize it is no ordinary schoolteacher’s house. Standing on the bank of the Chitrotpala, at first glance it looks like an ancient matha – the high veranda of an ancient monastery, with the typical stone walls, massive pillars, the wide open cobbled courtyards and the range of clustered living units, each with their own entrances under neatly thatched roofs. The Kalama house was a sprawling compound on one acre of land. The main entrance is a wooden door made from heavy sisum wood, so old, that this strongest of woods now sags and has to be lifted manually to be opened or closed. On the main panel of this door are paintings that a discerning observer would instantly recognize as Buddhist art — but in this mofussil area on the banks of the Chitrotpala where can one find such an observer?

Raghumastre compensated this lacking with his long-term research on his ancestors. And when now and then a rare guest like Dibyakishore chanced to visit, he would happily show them around the house. On his last visit, Dibyakishore had noticed the elephant like colossal walls of the house and his attention was drawn to the extensive artwork on these walls.

“These pictures seem to be very old,” he said, not taking his eyes off the murals. Their colours were now faded here and there. “Raghu, this house of yours must be of ancient times. Was it ever a matha? Who has drawn these pictures on the walls? How old would you say they are?”

Raghumastra had the air of someone about to pronounce the statement of the century. “Mark,” he said, smugly, “mark the style, colour, texture and themes – What does it remind you of? The frescoes in Ajanta? Ellora? See the richness of the colours? These paintings are probably of the sixth or seventh century AD.”

“Ei bandhu, remember what that scholar Ananda K. Coomaraswamy said,” Raghu was quizzing him. “Almost all that belongs to the common spiritual consciousness of Asia, the ambient in which its diversities are reconcilable, is of Indian origin in the Gupta period. We all know that Ajanta is important today because of the Buddhist legacy, because it fostered and supported the best creativity from the second century BC to the seventh century AD!”

Deba Babu examined one painting closely. It covered the entire wall. Despite having faded in some places, by and large, the colours were vivid. The wall was made of mud. But what kind of mud was this that could stand straight without crumbling for so long? And the paintings! It seemed like there were a hundred walls and pillars that unfolded a whole drama of human persistence and Endeavour. Princesses and saints, sadhus and kings caught in frames of a thousand kinds. The colours of the forests and the jungles, the peahen and the tiger were still vivid and through it all flowed the Anoma, sacred river of the Buddhist legends. What grace and beauty unveiled themselves before Dibyakishore’s eyes? He saw them again now and wondered why it had taken him this long to return to his friend.

“Wouldn’t you say it’s a perfect combination of power, self and passion?” Raghu was saying now, his eyes glued to the paintings, as if he were seeing them for the first time.

“Sixth or seventh century, you say?”

Raghumastre chuckled. “Bandhu, the wall is probably older.”

“ What?”

“Just push the date back by another twelve hundred years or so. Sixth century BC.”

“You must be crazy.” Dibyakishore turned away abruptly. That stupid old habit of Raghu Kalama was rearing its head again. There must be a limit to exaggeration, too.

They had studied together all those many years ago in Queen Victoria High School in Cuttack, he and Raghunatha. One day, the history teacher had talked to the class about the Barabati Fort. “What can you tell me about this remarkable example of ancient technological skill of Orissa?” he had asked. “Who can tell me about the nine storied palace on the bank of the

river Mahanadi?”

Raghu stood up and said, “If you say that there was a nine storied building in the Barabati Fort, which is just a mound of clay today, then do you mean that our Cuttack was once bigger than Kalikata?”

The teacher had gone on to wax eloquent about the history of Oriya people, even though the textbook makes no mention of Orissa …“Unfortunately, you study the history of Great Britain!” he concluded.

“There isn’t a nine storied building in Kalikata even today,” Raghu Kalama had added quietly.

The class giggled behind lowered heads and closed mouths.

The teacher had asked, “What is your name, balak?”

Standing erect like a hero the boy had replied, “My name is Raghunath Kalama, sir.”

A gale of laughter greeted this announcement. Raghu’s name never failed to amuse his classmates. This unusual surname of Raghu made everybody laugh. But the history teacher — Deba babu could not for the life of him remember his name — looked with awe at Kalama. He asked, “What did you say?”

“Raghunath Kalama.”

“Come here, Raghunath Kalama.”

From the teacher’s tone it was clear that this was serious business. Raghu would probably get caned. But to everyone’s surprise the teacher stroked the boy’s head and for the benefit of the class, said, “This surname, Kalama. Did you know that in the sixth century BC, in Kalinga there was a rishi named Alara Kalama?

Again the teacher asked,” Where is your village Kalama?”

“ Keshanagar in the district of Cuttack-on the bank of the river Chitrotpala, Sir”, by now Raghu was emboldened considerably.

“ Oh! Keshanagar?” The teacher patted the boy’s back fondly. Then he declared aloud, “ Most sacred of all places ! Know its ancient name? Keshaputta! The place where Goutama Buddha cut the hair off his noble head one fine morning and the prince of Kapilavastu declared sannyasa, on the bank of the river Anoma. Know the later name of Anoma?” He quizzed the class. When no anwer returned the teacher answered his question, “ Anoma! Anoma is the Vedic name of the river Mahanadi. Down stream it is called Chitrotpala- the picturesque river on the bank of which you get the village Keshaputta of the ancient Buddhist lore.”

By now Raghu was much elated in spirit. He sort of raved aloud, “ There is a huge picture of the same theme Sir, painted on a wall of our ancestral house, depicting a prince shearing off the beautiful locks of hair with a sword! The picture also depicts the background in which one sees a vastly wide river! On the riverbank, in the picture you can see a big bay horse standing. His master must have been the selfsame prince who had just alighted off the back of his horse moments before. The horse seems to be panting after a long journey.”

The teacher could no more restrict his emotions. He embraced the boy and quipped in choked voice, “ Singularly blessed you are my boy! ” Then he composed himself and enquired, “Such a mural- does it exist really on the wall of your ancestral house? Then that must be the treasure house of human History! Is it a pretty large building like some ancient matha where gurus taught their disciples, in old times?”

“ Yes Sir it is,” Kalama blurted out, “ A very big mansion indeed. But I have no idea about our linage. Father said- our ancestors were Buddhists, later at some stage, the family courted Vaisnavism. For a long period of time non vegetarian food was a taboo for our family. But now a days we have fallen to this temptation of eating fish and flesh!” Raghu dropped his head in shame.

A moment of silence ensued as if eternity descended into the classroom.

Then the teacher dinned the message of a lifetime for Raghu. “ Look here my child! Your home then is rooted right on the origin Indian civilization! It must be the storehouse of the history of ancient India. You are fortunate to claim yourself as the scion of the rishi Alara Kalama”

He then started delivering his regular classroom lecture, with Ragu standing near him. Repeating his message for the benefit of the boy he addressed the class, “The clues to your family’s history probably lie buried in the foundations of your house. Just as centuries of brave Kalinga’s history lies buried in the hillock below Barabati Fort. Dig it up and you might bring to light archaeological proof of a glorious history, now forgotten. Remember you all- the Bengalis take pride in showing off to the world the post-British Kalikata of hardly a hundred and fifty years vintage and they are looked up to all over the world. And we? The Oriyas have never learnt to be proud of their past. The time has come to change this mindset, especially in the light of the new archaeological discovery.”

Asking Raghunath to go back to his desk, the teacher continued. “Do you know that there is a controversy amongst the historians about the birth place of Bhagwan Buddha?”

There was a collective murmur. “No.”

“Then listen … So far, the history books have maintained that the birth place of Bhagwan Buddha is in Nepal. But this will soon be amended. About a year ago, in 1928, an ancient stone edict was found in Orissa, not far from Bhubaneswar. It was discovered buried under a house in a village called Kapileswar. Now who can tell me the name of Gautama Buddha’s birthplace?

“Lumbini,” Someone volunteered the information in a slow murmur.

“Right! And the edict has Lumbini written on it. According to some researchers this is the original one signifying the location of Lumbini. Others say that the other one found earlier in Nepal is the original document. I am not aware of the arguments in favour or against, but I know this: The place is near Bhubaneswar where the famous Shiva temple known as the Lingaraj Temple stands today. There is another Shiva temple, of equal archaeological importance, some two to three miles to the east of the Lingaraj temple, at Kapileswar where the above edict was unearthed in 1928. Now the mystery of this finding is that this village Kapileswar is located in the revenue praganna named Lumbei. That name sounds very much like Lumbini-isn’t it? This strange coincidence of two place names Kapileswar and Lumbei- isn’t it some thing that must knock on the heads of our learned historians to review the history regarding the present accepted fact that Goutam Buddha’s birth place is Nepal, not Kapileswar near the present day Bhubaneswar?”

After the class was over the students had surrounded Raghu. Pulling his long hair, they had teased him, “You are nothing, but wild Kalama shag” (a type of leafy edible foliage that grows on marshy land)

Padmavati was adjusting her sari to cover her head as she emerged from the inner premises of the house. She was carrying a very large brass thali in her hands that boasted freshly made puris, crisply fried brinjals that had been cut lengthwise. Fried fish and a variety of sweets.

Deba babu laughed. “Samaduni, do you think I am Bhimsen? All right, I will try to do justice to this spread, but tell me, where have you hidden my daughter-in-law? Do call her.”

Padmavati hurriedly went inside. She came back pulling Chitu by the hand. Dibyakishore delved into his pocket and took out a small jewellery box. He took out a gold necklace from inside

and slipped it on Chitu’s neck. The gold gleamed brightly in the sunlight.

Padmavati bade her daughter to touch his feet in respect.

Chitu did so. But who knows why she stood up crying aloud and fled from his presence.

Deba babu said, “Samuduni, do sit down. Don’t feel shy. As you know, I am a childhood friend of your patideb … Has Raghu ever told you that instead of being a schoolteacher he could have been a police officer like me? Has he ever told you about that? No? Well, I’ll tell you. Actually both of us had got job offers in the police department at the same time. We received appointment letters from the government. And we started on our jobs together. On our way to joining, this patideb of yours asked me, we’ll have to chase thieves and dacoits in a police job, don’t we? I retorted, why? You thought you’d be chasing women? You, the holier than thou, from the Kalama family of ascetics, sanyasis and mahants? He grumbled all through the journey. Do you know what he feared most?”

Raghu babu interrupted. “You know my reason well enough, Deba. We’ve all noticed how the sepoys used to thrash the satyagrahis. I used to look upon the policemen of the British Raj as if they were yamadoot. It was around the time as the ‘lavana satyagraha’. Remember how the police packed Congressmen into jail vans as if they were sheep. Then – lathi charge, firing and teargas. I couldn’t join because I had a feeling that, if ordered, I will have to do similar things to my countrymen.”

Ignoring him, Deba babu said, “Samaduni, this husband of yours is a sadhu baba … He went with me as far as the office of the SP. There he chickened out. Finally, I went ahead into the office on my own. I submitted my joining report. This silly fellow kept waiting outside the SP’s office, looking in. The SP was a white man. When his car passed through the gate the guard saluted. I was watching the whole scene … and what do I see next? The very next moment I saw Raghunath Kalama’s cycle speeding down the road. Within a twinkling of an eye our bahadur police sub inspector designate vanished from the scene. Almost like a hunting dog, going for toilet, in the middle of the hunt. Hee, hee, hee! What a coward!” Dibyakishore laughed coarsely. Raghu babu joined in to lighten the atmosphere and Deba babu asked, “Samuduni, is he less timid these days?”

Padmavati’s veil had slipped halfway revealing her face. To Dibyakishore she looked like any other village housewife – the kind of wife a man like Raghunath Kalama would have, he thought. Large eyes. The pala singers describe such women as “‘mrignayani’” while singing and explaining chhandas and chautisas. Padmavati said laconically, “He alone knows what he keeps doing. He’s digging a hole. Ask him and he’ll say he’s making a tunnel below the foundation of this house. He has been doing this for more than two years now.”

“A tunnel?” Dibyakishore stared at Raghunath. “I thought you were a policeman at heart. So you’re a thief! Thieves dig tunnels into other people’s houses. Why are you digging into the foundation of your own house?”

Padmavati replied in a complaining tone, “He says that there is treasure there.”

“Gold? The wealth of your ancestors?” Dibyakishore stood up. “Let us go and see where and what kind of tunnel you are digging. Or don’t you want to show me?”

With as much good grace as he could muster, Raghu led Dibyakishore to the back of the house. There was the large wildly dense walled courtyard with trees of baula, kadamba, mango and jackfruit – the kind of trees that were always found in the mathas of earlier times. The air was fragrant with the scent of blossoms.

“It is here,” Raghunath pointed out to a hole in the middle of the large courtyard. “This tunnel was probably an old one but it was buried under the earth. I am reopening it. The work is not yet over. Let it be completed. We’ll see what my ancestors have left for me.”

Dibyakishore bent down to peer into the dark tunnel. The inside looked a mere hole leading into the muddy earth.

Before taking leave Dibyakishore remarked humorously, “Well! Whatever hidden treasure you may retrieve, do make it a point to pass it on as your daughter’s dowry. Let it be a condition. What do you say, Samaduni?”

Raghu babu looked at his wife and said, “That’s the way Deba speaks. But the man has a good heart.”

-2-

It took the Second World War about three years to reach Keshanagar from its confines in the western horizons of India.

All of a sudden one midnight, fire rained on Pearl Harbour. It was as if the Pacific Ocean was on fire. The American warships sheltered in the vast harbour burned in high flames before sinking to a watery grave. This was followed by a gripping sense of fear from within the eastern horizons of India. Till that time it was Germany and Italy which were fighting in the Second World War as enemies against the allied forces. Now because of Japan’s entry of into the war, the Second World War seeped into the daily lives of common people in India. One midnight, the Japanese aircraft bombed the Paradip-Kujang area, a few miles away from Raghumastre’s village. The next day, a long line of army trucks was seen crawling on the morrum topped Cuttack-Kujang road. The sight of those trucks sent a wave of fear through the quiet hinterland. All sorts of rumours were doing the rounds. As if lending weight to them, Dafadar Raju Jena and Chowkidar Jadu Mallick went from house to house alerting everyone:

“A bunch of Japanese spies have landed on the beach near Paradip. They have come in a submarine. Their vessel has been seized. But no one knows where the culprits have gone. A manhunt is on. Beware. If you get any news, inform us immediately. There are instructions from above – if a foreigner is suspected to be hiding in somebody’s house, we will raid that house. The house owner will be arrested and sent to jail. Now do you see the danger? If you come across anybody, even remotely like a foreigner, moving around in your village or orchards inform the authorities immediately.”

Apart from the fear of Japanese spies hiding in the countryside there was a new rumour spreading terror in the villages that strange objects were falling out of the sky. They descended without warning on farmlands and barren fields. Some had even fallen into the river. It was said that when these objects landed on the ground they burst open releasing fantastic animals with half-human half-horse forms that ran about the countryside, abducting normal human beings. Some fifteen villagers had vanished in this way. Knowledgeable people said that the mysterious flying objects were actually giant rubber balloons. Wherever they fell, a lot of paper was scattered around. Something was printed on the paper. There were also pictures. It was not easy to decipher them. Most of the writings were either in English or Japanese.

Chitu and Ramu had heard all these rumours. They kept their eyes skinned for these strange flying objects. Ramu said, “Dei, suppose one of those things falls from the sky in the orchard behind our house. And a few of the four legged horse-human creatures come out, then what shall we do?”

Though Chitu was frightened, she concealed her fear and feigning a rational tone said with false confidence, “An animal having four legs will never be human.”

“If it is not human, it will never have the intelligence to match us. Bapa says we are the most intelligent creatures ever created. We can control those four legged animals, don’t worry.”

“But how?” Ramu persisted. He did not believe that he had enough intelligence or strength to control a freaky horseman or an elephant-man.

Chitu thought it over, and then said, “We will do satyagraha. Just like Mahatma Gandhi. Bapa says the Mahatma is on a fast – Quit India or I will starve to death is his ultimatum to the British. Bapa says the government is getting quite nervous. We’ll just follow Gandhiji. If a horseman tries to kidnap us we will immediately sit down cross-legged and say we are starting our satyagraha. Then he can do whatever he likes.” Chitu was rather taken by this idea of hers.

Ramu laughed it off. “And he will just lift you up on to his flying saucer. As if any Anasana-fanasana will help!”

Chitu said, “Let him do whatever he wants. On my part it will be non cooperation.”

Ramu knew nothing about Noncooperation but, as the man of the house, thought it best to caution his sister, “In times of great danger it is better that girls do not hang around. From now on you keep indoors. I will fetch you news from the streets.”

Chitu said, “Shut up! As if you are Alexander the great! Do you know who killed the brave conqueror Alexander? Bapa said it was a woman. What do you know about the strength of girls? You are a boy and all you know is to use your hands and legs. If you had even an iota of intelligence would you not have realized the strength in Mahatma Gandhi’s satyagraha? Wait and watch. By the time this war is over the white man will flee India. Mahatma Gandhi will conquer without a fight.”

“The Englishmen will leave? What hope? Even if they do leave out of fear of old man Gandhi, what about the Japanese? They are marching in from the East. If the white men lose the war, the Japanese will win. Do you think they also will go back to their homes, shit scared of Gandhi?” Ramu’s main worry was the bizarre stories he was hearing about the debacles faced by the Japanese. He was instantly scared if he heard anyone mention “Jap spy.”

Those days they saw quite a bit of Deba mausa. There was a reason. Dibyakishore had information that there were Japanese spies hiding in the Mahanadi-Chitrotpala delta, particularly in the vicinity of Wheeler Island where the lighthouse stood. It was believed that they were scouting for a convenient place where they could get a foothold on the eastern seaboard. On these visits Deba mausa looked preoccupied but he always made it a point to drop in at Raghumastre’s house. Chitu always felt his eye run over her, head to toe, as he gave her one small present or the other. He would say, “In two to four years, after my son Ramu passes the BA examination I’ll finalize the wedding. This daughter of yours is reserved only for my son. You understand, Raghunath? You don’t have to worry about her. Her responsibility is all mine.”

He also made it a point to ask about Raghu’s archaeological research. “How far has your tunnel progressed? Have you started hearing any resounding clank of gold?”

Raghunath would smile. “My ancestors were not rich. They were spiritually inclined – sanyasis, Vaishnavites – but with families. I don’t expect to hear any thon-thon noise. But there is definitely something below the foundation of this house.”

“Sure it’s not a skeleton?” Deba mausa laughed.

Raghunath said, “Maybe. If not a skeleton then definitely some kind of bone or hair or teeth!”

“Who are you talking about, Kalama? One of your ancestors was a dacoit maybe?” Deba mausa smiled.

“Never! It’ll anyway not be the bone, hair or teeth of just any one. It’ll be a relic. If such a thing is found it will send a ripple all over the world.” Raghumastre happily went back to his pet theory.

Dibyakishore was a practical man. He thought- this Raghunath is a born schoolteacher. Once he starts on a subject he goes on and on. On every single visit to this house he was bored with the Raghu’s gibberish thesis. The poor schoolmaster was so obsessed with his ancestral research that its roots were fast spreading, destroying Raghu’s brain just as a banyan or pipal seed, dropped into a crevice of a huge building by a passing crow.

Finally Dibyakishore could take it no more. “Raghu, have you gone mad?” he asked. “How does it matter if Gautama Buddha came south from the north or went north from south? Why are you after the Buddha?”

Dibyakishore got up to leave. Once again he called out to Chitu. Placing his hand on her head in blessing, he said, “Study well. Clear the matric exam. I will take you to Cuttack. There you will study in Ravenshaw College, as my daughter-in-law. I’m sure if you stay in this house for long you too will lose your head. Maa, do you realize how this father of yours is obsessed with Buddha? Arré! This is the twentieth century. The age of science. What did the Buddha achieve? Do you know the mantra of those times? Let us all leave our homes and turn into bhikshus and bhikshunis. Bhiksham Dehi! Bhiksham Dehi! He destroyed India and now one more Buddha has appeared. These stupid fellows call him Mahatma. He also follows the same principle. Let us all become male and female beggars, damn them. You take your studies seriously now. I am going to make you a scientist.”

Dibyakishore mounted his horse and set off along the riverbank. Dafadar Jena and several red turbaned policemen ran in his wake. Following them to some distance was the usual caravan of village children and barking dogs.

-3-

It was a Sunday. Raghumastre could barely wait for dawn to break, then, armed with spade and shovel, he started on the tunnel. The mouth had been widened considerably. As he had progressed through the days, it had become evident that this was indeed a secret passage of olden times. The question was: Where would it lead? Was his house really a matha of historical and archaeological importance or was it merely the exterior of a stupa? Raghumastre flashed the long five-cell flashlight that he always carried into the tunnel. Though the war had led to a scarcity of cells in the market he had managed to procure some from Cuttack. When cells were not to be had, he would take a lantern with him. He was aware that it involved danger. Like in deep wells, it was possible that there was a gaseous deposit inside the tunnel too.

On that day Raghumastre had barely started work when he had a strong feeling that he was not alone in the tunnel. There was something coiled and weighty, something staring at him with cold, hypnotic eyes. A python? His heart pounding, aware that he was facing death, he spun around, even then desisting from shining the flashlight in its face.

Hot breath fanned his ears. A voice in a strange yet beautiful language whispered:

Ujum Janapado Raja Hemabantassa Passato

Dhanaviriyena Sampanno Tosaleshu Niketino

Raghunath Kalama was dumbfounded. The lines were from the Sutta Nipata or the Sutta Collection, an ancient – probably the most ancient – part of the Buddhist Suttas. This is a part of the dialogue between king Bimbisara and Goutama. Hearing from his men that a young princely looking sannyasi has arrived in the capital Bimbisara met him sitting absentmindedly under a tree in the outskirts of Rajgriha. He greeted the young sannyasi and asked his identity. To this Goutama replied the facts as above quoted lines from Sutta Nipata. A current of excitement made Raghunath shiver. But there was a difference! The voice uttered very clearly for Raghunath to hear and distinguish the words: Hemavanta and Tosala. Clearly the voice intended to convey some thing to the listener. Did he mean the difference? In the original Sutta Nipata sutra the words were Himavanta and Kosala, not Hemabanta and Toshala. Himavanta and Hemabanta are entirely different in their connotative meanings. While Himavanta means the Himalayas, Hemabanta signifies the mountain of gold. Then Kosala and Tosala are different geographical regions in ancient India. The former is in the north, in the proximity of the Himalayas. The latter is a part of Kalinga, almost identical with the present Bhubaneswar of Orissa. This Bhubaneswar is also known in the religious scriptures as “ Swarnadri” as in the book: ‘Swarnadri Mohodaya’. The word swarnadri stands for the literal meaning: gold-mountain! So what does the voice from the tunnel wish to convey?

Raghunath’s heart throbbed. Suddenly a thousand lotus petals hidden inside his head bloomed, all at once! Awareness, never experienced during his long laborious earthly search for his family’s identity, dawned upon him. But was he dreaming?

Very humbly, in a voice choked with emotion, Raghunatha asked, “Mahatma, who are you? What brings you here? Are you deity or human? From which universe have you come into this dark sunless hole?”

“I am a Buddhist monk. From Japan. They are chasing me because they think I am a spy. My life is in danger. Please let me take shelter inside this tunnel for the day. I will go away as soon as it is dark.”

This sudden transformation, from the exalted to the earthly, was a rude shock to Raghunath. The lotus petals of his sahasrara chakra in the head closed all of a sudden.” What do you mean?” he demanded. “Are you a Japanese spy adopting the disguise and language of a Buddhist monk?”

“I am not a spy, Vatsa Raghunath!” the fugitive replied in a grave voice.

Raghunath was surprised. How did this man know his name? It must be a trick. Spies make it their business to find out everything. He must have collected the required information in advance. Therefore, in an effort to surpass the cunning of the visitor, he asked, “When did you manage to learn the literature and the language of this place? You must have been left here by the Japanese submarine four to six months ago, that is immediately after the bombardment at Kujang?”

“See, Raghunath!” the stranger said in a pitying voice, “I have discovered the very truth about the Buddha that you have been pursuing for so many years. I am a monk, a traveller. Do not look upon me with the suspicion of an ordinary ignorant man. The police suspect me as a spy. If they catch me, they will torture me both physically and mentally. I don’t want to end up as a prisoner of war. If you wish you can provide me shelter at least till the evening … I am terribly thirsty, Bhadra Raghunath. I seek your protection.”

Raghunath did not waste time. He came out of the tunnel and went back into the house. To Padmavati he whispered, “We have a guest. Arrange for some food quickly. And yes, please see that nobody else comes to know of it.”

-4-

Chitu whispered to her brother. “Listen Ramu. Don’t tell anybody about the guest in our house.”

Ramu has already had a good look at that man. He hides in the tunnel all day and comes out after dark. He eats in the house and talks to Bapa for hours. Sometimes he speaks in Oriya and Ramu can catch a bit of what he’s saying. But mostly he and Bapa converse in English. They laugh together. His appearance is puzzling. He has Chinese or Japanese features. He dresses like a sanyasi, in a long saffron robe that goes down well below his knees. He carries a cloth bag on his shoulder. Inside the bag is a small drum. The man holds the handle of the drum and gently beats it with a small stick. He also chants a mantra. Ramu tries to understand it. But the language is completely unintelligible.

Ramu asked Chitu, “What mantra is he chanting?”

Chitu said, “I don’t know. Father says this prayer is sung everyday in the prayer meeting held in the ashram of Mahatma Gandhi. This is a Japanese prayer to Bhagwan Buddha.”

“Is Mahatma Gandhi a Buddhist? Is he not a devotee of Rama?”

“Rama and Buddha are the same, silly. Just as Ishwar and Allah are the same.”

“Then why is this man not praying to Rama?” Ramu asked laughing.

“Don’t you dare laugh like that !” Chitu said angrily.

After a while Ramu gave it back, “Who is the Buddha? Was he not born in Nepal? Why is this person hiding at our place instead of going to Nepal? If the chowkidar or the Dafadar see him he will be arrested.”

“Ramu, Buddha was not a Nepali. How many times must Bapa tell you?” Chitu burst out. “He was an Oriya. Pure Oriya.”

“Shh! If that man hears you he might get angry,” Ramu warned her. Ramu never lost any opportunity to proclaim his superiority over Chitu. After all he was a male child. According to him, it was the duty of a male to keep watch on the females and discipline them. Thanks to the world war there were too many green fruits ripening precociously on the trees.

“I am only repeating what he has told Bapa.” Chitu said, adding, “Since when have you started understanding English? Tell me what is the meaning of Stop, Look and Listen?”

“As if you sleep and eat English! Don’t brag. Just because you are the future daughter-in-law of Deba mausa you don’t have to already feel so proud. Wait! I will go and tell everyone in the village that you’re talking to a Japanese spy and you take him for breakfast in the morning! I’m going to announce in the bazaar that you are bad, bad!” Ramu shouted.

Chitu slapped him on the cheek. Ramu cried out aloud. He raised his hand but before it could find its mark, Raghu babu came running to intervene. He was haunted by the fear that the secret would be out any time and desperately wanted to avoid attracting attention to his house.

As expected the secret didn’t remain so for long. One day Dibyakishore’s horse appeared on the riverbank. The dogs started barking. The village children raised a commotion. “Police! Police! Police!” The dafadar and the chowkidar arrived in advance at Raghu babu’s house. A drummer came – dhaon dhaon – making a loud proclamation, “Beware! Orders from the government! Raghunath Kalama’s house is to be searched. Those inside, stay where you are. The police will fire if you move an inch. There is a Japanese spy hiding in this house. Anybody providing him shelter will be arrested with all his family members. His properties will be confiscated under the wartime emergency acts of the government.”

Raghu babu was stunned. Before he could react, armed guards had already surrounded his house. Chitu and Ramu who were grasping the whole scene through a crack in the window saw Dibyakishore’s horse stop at the foot of the steps to the veranda. But this time, Deba mausa did not get down. Instead he ordered, “Start the search!” Immediately the armed sepoys forced their way into the house. Two of them held Raghumastre’s arms and dragged him before the police officer. The officer continued to sit on horseback.

Not wasting his breath on a preamble, Dibyakishore said in a harsh tone, “Raghu! Where have you hidden that Japanese spy? Tell me frankly. Or else I will be forced to arrest you.”

Raghu babu was silent.

Dibyakishore cautioned him again citing the wartime law, “Under this law, there is provision to send you to Kalapani, Raghu. Will you go to the Andaman jail rather than hand over this spy to the police?”

Raghu babu said, “There is no traitor or spy in my house, Inspector saheb. He is a Buddhist monk. His name is Kajyoyoda.”

“Where is that yoda or bedha? Tell me where have you hidden him.”

“Listen, Inspector saheb,” Raghu babu raised his voice. “My guest has done nothing wrong. I cannot hand him over to the police just like that. My conscience doesn’t allow me to do so. Give me whatever punishment you like. But I will not hand over an innocent man.”

“You won’t? Do you know what you are saying?” Dibyakishore looked at Raghumastre with bloodshot eyes. “Handcuff him!”

Chitu and Ramu were watching the whole proceedings hiding behind the window. They were trembling like the coconut branches in the face of a storm. Padmabati fainted and slumped down to the floor.

Just then Dafadar Raju Jena and chowkidar Jadu Mallick dragged the Japanese monk out. Though the man offered no resistance they were raining blows and kicks on him.

Raghu babu protested. “Do not hurt him. He is a learned saint. Several times in the prayer meetings of Mahatma Gandhi he has offered evening prayers. This wise man has collected material to write the history of India’s freedom struggle by travelling over the country. More than that this Buddhist scholar from Japan is a historian who is in possesson of astonishingly new facts regarding the real birthplace of Goutama Buddha. Do not raise your hand on him. Dibyakishore! This sin will definitely visit you. Why are you doing this? For the sake of a mere promotion or a medal? How can you go against your dharma, Dibyakishore?”

Someone slapped Raghunath with terrible force. He fell silent. Dafadar Raju Jena bent down to peer at Raghumastre’s stunned face. Baring his teeth in a spiteful smile, he asked, “Would you like another one, Mastre?”

The Buddhist monk Kajyoyoda and Raghumastre were handcuffed and tied with ropes like common criminals before being led away. Among the villagers crowding the bank and watching the spectacle, was an old man in khadi. He said loud enough for everyone to hear, “Brothers and sisters! India will become independent. That auspicious moment is not very far away. When a new government will be formed there will be vote. At that time our candidate will be Raghumastre and we will make him win in our electoral constituency. Then we will see what happens to this proud police officer. Raghumastre zindabad! Inquilab zindabad! Bharat mata ki jai!”

The dafadar sprinted to thrash the old congressman. But Dibyakishore ordered, “Hold it! We will take care of him later.”

-5-

The congressman’s prophecy came true much sooner than expected. With the bombing of Hiroshima and Nagasaki, the Second World War came to an end. Within a year, in 1946, a pre-independence interim government was formed at the centre as well as state level. By that time Raghunath Kalama’s reputation as a freedom fighter was already confirmed. He courted imprisonment as a regular Gandhian satyagrahi, time and again, as if in vengeance. After his first brief spell in the jail was over, courtesy Divyakishore, Kalama returned to public life and joined the national movement for independence, under the banner of the Indian Congress. He was jailed again and again. Kalama was already a noted public leader by the time the British asked the Congress to form a provisional government at the centre and in the erstwhile provinces of British India, as a prelude to full independence. When the provisional provincial interim government was mooted for Orissa, Raghunath Kalama’s name figured prominently in the list of ministers. The newspapers mentioned that he had been offered the Home Ministry.

Ramu had been promoted to the eighth standard. Chitu’s matriculation examination was over and Raghu babu was preparing to send her to college. But Padmavati wanted to get her daughter married at the earliest. Raghu babu would often say, “I meet Dibyakishore quite often. He is very repentant. How could anyone imagine that India would become independent so soon? He, poor Deba, did not know the power of non-violence as a weapon! His son has already passed BA. Now he is studying for his MA. Shall we proceed?”

Padmavati was aghast. “Doesn’t that man have an iota of shame?” she asked. “Or is it that jail has turned you satyagrahis into bullocks? Where is your sense of self-respect? Hai! That man had you handcuffed, got you slapped by the dafadar. He must have done much worse to you inside the jail. Tell me, do Mahatma Gandhi’s teachings encourages one to tolerate disrespect and insult? Are you not ashamed?”

Though Raghunath was hurt by Padmavati’s words, he tried to maintain his smile. “Listen Padmavati. It is certain that I will be a minister with the Police department under me, and Dibyakishore will be an officer there. However unjust and insulting his behaviour may have been, he has never tried to break his promise to accept Chitu as his daughter-in-law. As a police officer whatever he did was in the call of duty. The Second World War was on. The fear of a Japanese invasion was rife. He was given the responsibility of capturing spies. He performed his duty with sincerity. What is his fault? Now he will work under me. He will have to do his job according to the laws framed by our government. Service is one thing, getting one’s children married is another. The Deba of today is not the Deba of the British days. Now he is a free, conscientious citizen of independent India. It is his conscience that tells him to stand by the proposal of getting Chitu married to his son. I do not have any objection. But one thing is clear, Chitu is not going to marry now. First let her stand on her own feet. It is our duty to equip her with education. Other things will come later.”

“As you wish,” Padmavati said grudgingly and tried to get into the discussion of sending Chitu to Cuttack for higher education.

“Is that still a problem?” Raghunath smiled, pulling his wife closer. “Remember Padma, from now on you are no mere housewife. See how much we owe my childhood friend Deba? If he had not arrested and sent me to jail that day, then today I would have remained the same old Raghunath Mastre. Now you are the wife of Minister Raghunath Kalama! Ramu and Chitu’s education will never again be a problem. You will have a big house at Cuttack. Your house will be abuzz with servants and cooks. Consider yourself lucky. Would I have known the power of Satyagraha? Or about the moral and spiritual courage of ordinary people? Hence the saying, If you want immortality first do tapasya at Yama’s door. It would not have been possible for Nachiketa to gain immortality if he had not met the god of death himself, at his own house. The man who does not fear death is the best fighter for justice – at all times, then as well as now. ”

Padmavati was getting used to the idea of being the wife of a minister. To some extent it also had its effects on their children. Ramu often asked Chitu, “Dei! You’ll go to college everyday in father’s motor car. How will I go to the school? No bicycle for me, uh-hun! Bapa will have to buy me a motorcycle. Did you see those military motorcycles roaring down the Cuttack-Kujang road during the war times? What noise! Phat! Phat! Phat! Phat! And what speed! I need a big 7hp military motorcycle like those ones. Will Bapa buy me one?”

“Who knows? Ask Bapa!” Chitu turned her face away.

“Hmmm! Anyway, what business do you have with our house from now on? You’re to be the daughter-in-law of Deba mausa. I have heard this with my own ears from Bapa. Lady luck has smiled on you. Dei! Well, tell me what is the name of Deba mausa’s son? Do you remember?” The more Chitu scowled, the more Ramu teased her.

A special messenger arrived at Raghu babu’s house in Keshanagar. Chitu and Ramu not finding their father inside the house went to the backyard in search of him. Raghu babu was back to work. He was digging the tunnel. The metallic sound of the spade could be heard from inside.

“Bapa!” Chitu called after maneuvering quite a distance into the tunnel. “What are you doing? Somebody has come with a letter from the Governor.”

“Ask him to wait.”

The two teenagers crawled out of the hole. Soon, Raghunath emerged from the tunnel, covered from head to foot in dust. Ramu nudged his sister and whispered, “What would the governor’s messenger think if he were to see Bapa now?”

“What?”

“He would think, From now on farmers will become ministers and labourers will become governors. And as for those kings and ministers of earlier times – they will be seen only in costume dramas under the light of petromax lamps.”

Without bothering to wash or change, Raghu babu went to meet the messenger – a government officer in suit boots and ties. With him was a chaprassi in starched white uniform with a red sash embossed with the insignia of the Government House. On his head, standing upright like the comb of a cock, was a big red turban. The officer handed over a sealed letter.

It was an invitation to the oath taking ceremony.

-6-

Raghunath Kalama did not take the oath. He never did become a minister. In fact, though he and his family started out well in time for the oath-taking ceremony, Raghunath never reached the gates of the Government House.

On that day the roads of Cuttack were swarming with humanity. The crowd was particularly large in the Lal Bagh area. Motorcars, horse driven coaches, hand pulled rickshaws were trying to make it to the premises of the Government House. Outside the walls loudspeakers blared patriotic songs like Vande Mataram, Bande Utkala Janani and Tunga Shikhari Chula. These songs were being sung by school children. Every now and then the shouting of slogans would drown the music.

“Inquilab Zindabad.” “Victory to Mahatma Gandhi.” “Victory to Jawaharlal Nehru.” “Victory to Harekrishna Mahatab.” “Victory to the tricolour.”

Just then, a fresh procession was seen outside the walls. They had their pet set of slogans.

“Lies, lies! All lies!” they screamed, in one voice.

“Partition politics, Murdabad murdabad.”

“Gandhi dayee, Gandhi dayee.”

“Jawaharlal zahar piyo, zahar piyo.”

“Mahatabi-Congress tautari banda karo, band karo.”

“Jai hind, Delhi chalo.”

“Subash Bose zindabad, zindabad.”

“Aamar neta Lenin, Stalin.”

“Lal Bagh re lal pataka udiba dine re udiba dine.”

The policemen on duty were on the alert. Cuttack’s SP, Dibyakishore was insistent that the district magistrate should agree to first tear gas, then lathi charge the crowd and, if needed, allow them to open fire.

The District Magistrate patted him on the back and advised, “ Don’t get agitated so soon my dear policeman! Times have changed. The British sun is setting. Just listen to the larger crowd, Dibyakishore. The Opposition is in minority. Lions versus sheep … Let the sheep bleat”

As they watched the behaviour of the crowd together they noticed the crowd was stalling Raghunath Kalama’s carriage. The horse was jittery.

Raghunath got down. At once the crowd encircled him. Someone said, “Raghu babu. Please do not join this party of liars. Please go back! Go back!”

And then from the crowd there emerged a disheveled Buddhist monk piercing the circle of excited people around him in chibara clothes typical of the Budhhist monks. . And above the unusual din Raghumastre heard the words — “Raghunath you have now reached the most opportune moment of your life. It is here that the wise make their decisions.” And the familiar voice continued:

“O Gyani! Ichham bhavanam attano naaddasasim anositam

Osane tweba byaruddhe diswame arati aha.”

He had heard the chant earlier several times, when the monk took refuge in his house at Keshanagar. Then it is he, him alone –the reverend Kajyoyoda! As ever, he had chosen a quote from the Buddhist scripture: Oh Wise! Mark this vain uncertain world around you. It lacks essence. It trembles in all directions. I longed to find myself a place unscathed- but could not. It was the Buddha’s recollections of his own realization when he was still a boy and witnessed the ensuing family feud of his parental Sakyas with the maternal Kolas regarding the distribution of water of the Rohini River that demarcated the boundaries of their respective kingdoms; Kapilavastu and Devadaha.

This momentous utterance of the monk settled all uncertainty that was still agitating Raghunath. He looked around and saw the milling crowds, people quarrelling, and shouting futile slogans against each other. Yes, he has arrived at last at the turning point of his life!

Raghunath felt a mysterious sensation in his heart. He shivered with ecstasy. The next moment he felt an unexplained calmness descending on him. Now everything became quiet both within and without. The noise of the world outside no longer reached him. Only the monk’s whispers pierced his ears, “Raghunatha, your soul must be craving for a last word with your wife and children?”

“No Bhikshu!” Raghunatha wiped his eyes with the end of the spotless white khadi dhoti that he was wearing.

“Then why the tears?”

“These are not tears of sorrow, Bhikshu! I had given up all hope of ever seeing you again after my childhood friend Dibyakishore had separated us. I thought they would have killed you with inhuman torture. Now that we are reunited, let us start the work that we had planned to do.”

And so they walked, sneaking outside the crowd, till they reached a riverbank. The bhikshu asked, “Do you know the name of this river?”

“Kathajodi.”

“No. That is the modern name. This branch of the ancient river Anoma was not even in existence two thousand and five hundred years ago.”

Raghunath was surprised at his own ignorance, “But then, when did this river originate? When Bhagwan Tathagatha started his journey towards the north from Kapilavastu, where were the Kathajodi and Kuakhai rivers?”

Raghunatha scanned the wide Kathajodi across its enormous span. In the distant horizon he could see the other branch of the Kathajodi, called Kuakhai. There he could also spot out the place named Munda Muhana where the two rivers, Kathjodi and Kuakhai, branched off from

each other.

Kajyoyoda groped inside his sling bag and took out a piece of paper. It looked like a miniature copy of an old geographical map. After scanning it for sometime he said, “In this map there is no mention of the names of these two branches of the original river … Mahanadi … Kathajodi, Kuakhai or any other river that branched off the original Anoma. These rivers must be of recent origin. But, lower down the river there is a vast lake that you can mark in this map here. See this blue spot- the water body? It has a very old name – Debadaha meaning Debahrada or the lake divine. It is mentioned in Budhhist literature as a water body lying on the border of the kingdom Debadaha. Presently this lake has become a river named Devi. This kathajodi here assumes the name of Devi exactly from the same place where it meets the ancient lake Debadaha. Most possibly the Kathjodi and Kuakhai came to existence much later when the main river Anoma crossed its bank and new water courses were created by nature.

“ There is no mention of new rivers like this Kathjodi and Kuakhai in the maps of the Buddhist era. But, there was another river, according to this map, on the northern border of Kapilavastu- your Bhubaneswar of modern times. Its name was Rohini. Further, the map indicates to the existence of a canal in the region of Kapilavasu. That must be the one the king of Magadha, Mahapadma Nanda, dug out to appease the subjects, in a much later period when he conquered Kalinga and ruled over it temporarily. But this canal exists no more today. It must have merged with the overflowing Anoma during one of its high floods that created your Kuakhai of today. In fact the name Kuakhai literally means ‘ Krutrim khai’ that is an artificial river!”

They started walking faster for fear of being pursued by the people. But the monk was faster still on his map reading and explaining things for the benefit of his disciple Raghunatha.

Raghunatha’s eyes gleamed. It seemed as if his search could see the light of the day. He followed the monk, his Guru, wherever he led him.

And so, the two nameless persons, attired in their nondescript, mud-coloured clothes started a long journey. They were all set to trace the footprints of an old, long-forgotten past, fully conscious about space and time and their role in the present. This curiosity for the unknown was the cause of their bonding. From the moment Raghunath Kalama met the monk in the tunnel, beneath his ancestral home in Keshanagar, on the bank of the river Chitrotpala, his life had changed. He had discovered a purpose in life, far beyond his imagination. Everything else – family life, freedom struggle, and the ministerial post – paled in comparison.

Dibyakishore had always understood the power of Raghu to pursue things with single-minded passion. Many a time Dibyakishore admit to how Raghu had helped him advance in his career, while talking with close friends and family. He would say, “See! What a useful friend is Raghu to me. Both of us got appointed to the police service simultaneously. I joined. He didn’t. Had he done so, maybe he would have been in the post of DIG in my place. Who knows! Again by being a hospitable host to a Japanese spy, he helped me for a second time. I raided his house. I arrested the Japanese spy and got a promotion and a medal, eventually rising to the rank of Superintendent.

And then when Raghunath was going to get the greatest opportunity of his lifetime, Dibyakishore did it again. When it became clear that Kalama’s role as a satyagrahi was making a public hero of him, Dibyakishore conspired to keep the monk in prison till the time was ripe for his release. Dibyakishore knew very well that the monk had a strong influence on Kalama. Therefore the release was made to coincide with the oath taking ceremony. And Kalama, instead of being the Home Minister, was now untraceable. Dibyakishore had indeed played his cards very well.

-7-

It was Padmavati who was singularly hurt by that dramatic event which occurred that day in front of the Governor’s house.

After waiting for a long time for Raghunath, sitting in the horse drawn coach, she heard that her husband has gone away somewhere following a sanyasi; like a madman.

To her children, she said, “Start searching! This must be due to that Kajyoyoda. I knew this would happen. Your father has never been the same since the day he met that monk. Search for him. Search everywhere …”

But when Chitu and Ramu approached the police for help, “File an FIR at the Lal Bagh Police Station”, they said. Padmavati balked at this. How could she possibly give a written statement saying that her husband, a respected freedom fighter who was about to become a minister, had suddenly, without any reason, disappeared? What would everyone say? No, it was better to go back to the village with her children and keep quiet.

But even in the village there was no peace. Everyone wanted to know what had happened and why. Rumours and speculations abounded. Raghu babu had been lured away by a monk who had knowledge of tantra-mantra. Raghu babu had got cold feet at the last minute and therefore he had fled. Perhaps it was just as well. Even if he had become a minister what good would it have done? It requires a cunning person to run the country by turning falsehood into truth and truth into falsehood. Earlier, thieves and dacoits were terrified of white skinned officers. But the congressmen of today are nurturing thieves and dacoits. In the villages stealing, dacoity and robbery went up overnight, the moment they heard the news that India had become independent. Wait you will see. Let some five years pass. Like others who taste power Raghu Babu too would have feathered his nest and transformed his ancestral house into a palace. He was not Mahatma Gandhi, was he?

Another cause for worry was a rise in thefts in Keshanagar. One night Padmavati heard some whispers. The voice resembled that of Dafadar Raju Jena.

“This house is not an ordinary house. There is gold here. Raghumastre took some of it away. But even then a lot of wealth is still there below its foundation.”

The next morning Chitu and Ramu saw footprints all over the backyard. They were particularly obvious near the tunnel. One day, maybe because of all this digging and ferreting, the entire house would crumble down.

In a moment of great insecurity, Padmavati decided that the best course of action would be to move with her children to Cuttack.

She sold some of the farmland, keeping back the ancestral house and a few acres. A tenant farmer took care of the property in her absence. He also agreed to send her part of the produce from the fields. And, in Cuttack, they took a house on rent, a humble two-roomed place in a poor locality, all that Padmavati could afford. But the people in the neighbourhood were kind to her. Everyone had heard of Raghunath Kalama, the freedom fighter who gave up a minister’s post to become a sadhu baba. They said, “Maa! You can stay in our locality without any worry.” And Padmavati turned her full attention to Chitu and Ramu. Chitu was still at home after passing her matriculation. Ramu’s education had stopped after he’d left the village school. But soon Ramu was in school. When Chitu was filling up forms for admission into college, Padmavati said, “Maa, select your subjects carefully. I dream of seeing you as a doctor.”

“Bou, How can I become a doctor? I can’t stand the sight of blood, pus and all that gore … I will do my BA and LLB. I will become a lawyer.”

Padmavati shook her head. “Chii, chii! Your father would never have approved of it. Mahatma Gandhi has said there will be no lawyers in independent India. No lawyers, no police, no army. That is swarajya. And now you say that you want to become a lawyer? You’ll wear a black coat? Defend thieves and murderers? No, no …” However, Chitu took history, economics and logics as her subjects for a BA degree.

The first year passed uneventfully. But word did get around the college that Raghunath Kalama’s daughter was studying there. The disappearance of her father continued to be a subject of speculation in the media. Every now and then, a teacher or a student who would express concern and sympathy for her would stop her. In those days the State Legislative Assembly was housed in a vast hall in the college. And Chitu started attracting attention for another reason. Those were days when students were active politically, still under the fervour of Cuttack’s own Subhash Chandra Bose and Gandhiji. For various good reasons there was constant student protests in the college. And at a time when girls rarely participated in such student’s movement, Chitu was prominent and vocal. One morning the members found a beautiful girl dressed in khadi barring their way. She was lying across the steps, preventing the ministers from entering the building. Word went around that she was Raghunath Kalama’s daughter and the Honourable Speaker, an old congressman, came up to her and said in a kindly voice, “Arré, Maa, why are you lying down here like this? Your father Raghu babu is a respectable man. If he were a minister today, would you block his path? Please get up, Maa. Give us way.”

Chitu remained silent. The Speaker tried again. “You know the name of this house, don’t you? The Legislative Assembly. It is here that the laws are made. Is it the right place for students to go on strike? Now get up. If you have got any demand, give it in writing. We’ll consider it.”

This time, Chitrotpala spoke up. “I do not want to obstruct law makers from making laws. If you are doing so according to the law, please step over me and go in.”

A young MLA said, “Yes sir, do what she says. The times have changed. Mahatma Gandhi is dead. During Gandhi’s time there was justification for all this to be carried out against the British government! If you encourage such dharmaghata-farmaghata in independent India, then you will keep standing like this forever outside the Assembly Hall. Step over, Sir, or call the police! ”The policemen were not very far away. Hearing the commotion they rushed to the spot and physically lifted the girl and carried her off as if she were a dead body. Within minutes the college precincts became a battlefield. The other student activists started shouting slogans and brick batting the policemen. A lathi charge was ordered, then tear gas. Many students were injured and rushed to the hospital in police vans. The others were rounded up and taken to the police station. Amongst the arrested students, Chitrotpala was the only girl. When she came out of the jail after spending one day she came to be known as not merely the daughter of her father, but as one with rare qualities of leadership. Her greatest strength, however, was her fearlessness. And whosoever met her at whatsoever place, they looked at her with softened eyes; or simply lowered their eyes in admiration.

But soon after this incident, Chitu had a disturbing encounter. She had just stepped out of the girls’ common room and was heading for a lecture with a batch of friends when she noticed a tall, fair and slim man. Dressed in shirt and trousers, at first glance he looked like he came from a well-to-do family. But the way he stood, arrogantly leaning against a pillar in the corridor, ogling her, made Chitu’s blood boil. Her friends cautioned her. “He has a terrible reputation, Chitu. He will take you off your feet … and his father’s the local police chief.”

Chitu shrugged her shoulders. In the last one year she has learned to deal with young men of every ilk. In the college, the bazaar, the neighbourhood. And they had, in turn, learnt to keep out of her way.

Walking straight up to him, she said, “What makes you stare at me? Do you imagine yourself to be Lord Jagannath with big wide eyes and that you can keep staring at every passing girl?”

The young man smiled.

“So you want to stare at me? Well then, I’ll match you stare for stare. Let’s see who looks away first!”

The smile vanished. The young man’s eyes widened but there was a flicker of uncertainty in them. The young man lost the staring game. He looked away and muttered something. Chitu said, “Don’t much like being paid back in your coin, do you? Who are you? Which year are you studying in?”

“Bagdatta.”

“What?” Chitrotpala looked him up and down.

“How should I address you – apana or tume?” The question had an easy familiarity. “Do you know what bagdatta means? My name is Ramakishore … Does it strike a bell?”

After a shocking silence, Chitu said, “Thank you for your self introduction.” Then, with as much dignity as she could muster she turned and walked towards the classroom.

There was a time when her heart used to dance on hearing the sound of Deba mausa’s horse on the bank of Chitrotpala River. Her face and ears would feel warm. She would run away and hide herself in the kitchen. Yet her ears were eager to catch Deba mausa’s voice. Several times she had heard this name –Ramakishore! It would send a shiver of excitement through her. But today, on hearing that name, all that she had felt was repulsion. And a twinge of fear. As if someone had tried to claim her as his own with that word Bagdatta! Betrothed? And what did he mean by that? Did he mean to say, “ You are mine and mine alone Chitu?”

-8-

Breakfast table arguments between father and son were a regular feature and Nalini was quite used to them.

Rama’s way of talking would greatly annoy Dibyakishore but he had learned to control himself. Dibyakishore was not an ordinary policeman and he didn’t treat his wife or child that way. He was cultured, well read and well spoken. Perhaps his aura of refinement had helped create an image that was popular with the higher ups. Nobody ever complained that he had disregarded a request from senior officers and ministers. His promotions and medals bore testimony to his swelling circle of powerful well wishers.

However, Rama was not in the least bit in awe of his father. He seemed to take a certain amount of pleasure in baiting Dibyakishore. That morning as they sat at the breakfast table, a police constable doubling as a cook along with two other constable peons were busy serving the breakfast. And Dibyakishore, by way of conversation, asked, “So how are your studies going? Your college is on strike most of the time. I wonder if the classes are held at all.”

“You’ve always said that an MA has no value anyway. Finish your BA and prepare for the civil services examination. That’s exactly what I’m doing.”

“Very good. What subjects have you taken up for the IAS exam?” Dibyakishore asked, applying butter on a fresh toast.

Ramakishore cut a bit of the omelette on his plate, speared it and popped it into his mouth before replying, “History, Political Science.”

“ Good. They’ll fetch you marks. Go ahead my boy! I want to see you soon on the chair of the District Collector cum District Magistrate of Cuttack.” , Divyakishore buttered the toasts served on his plate hastily as if he was suddenly reminded of his tour programme that he forgot temporarily.

“Daddy, what do you know about these subjects- History, Pol Science as mark fetching? Did you ever face any competitive exam in your life? ” Ramakishore asked in an affectionate, teasing tone. “You’ve just been very lucky all your life, rather the luckiest of your batch of the police officers.” he quipped.

Dibyakishore smiled gratifyingly at the praises he just heard from his son about himself and returned, “Well, fortune favours the bold.”

“But it wasn’t boldness that earned you your good fortunes, Daddy!” Rama helped himself with a chunk of omelette that he just carved out of his plate.

“What do you mean?” Dibyakishore looked up from his plate. He looked at his wife suggestively through the corner of his eye.

Nalini was in her nighty still. She is a late riser. She goes to the bath after the breakfast and that is her habit. But she knew very well the etiquette and table manners that is in vogue in decent society. She sat at the table with her long and shining black hair just slightly disheveled, her fair skin shining like the image of a Devi. Her glittering ornaments as usual augmented her dignified look; especially her heavy stone studded gold chain. The chain had a long history, she always said. She had received it as a gift from her grandmother at her wedding. And her grandmother had received it from her grandmother who was the daughter of a very rich zamindar. Nalini liked to dwell on the grandmother of her grandmother. “She was the great granddaughter of a Maratha Peshwa hero. A long history of the famous historical wars of the Marathas with the Muslims was etched on it and she traced the necklace finally to the Maharani of Mukundadeva the last independent emperor of Orissa,” she always said. And how this Maharani of Orissa was coerced by the Muslim conqueror Kalapahada to part with this very same bejewelled necklace that adorned her neck was another episode that came up regularly at the parties Nalini gave in this banquet hall where they were having the informal breakfast this morning.

Nalini was eyeing her husband coquettishly and continued to finger the diamond studded locket dangling from the necklace when she gave a start and fretted at her son’s spiteful remarks at Divyakishore. In fact Nalini herself was self conscious when she heard Rama say the word fortune! It was as if the boy was hinting at some thing else. She started to worry. Was the boy aware about the true history of this necklace Nalini was wearing this morning? She seemed to ask her husband with her glance. Indeed the story of the necklace is far more sinister than the fabricated history of her grand mother and the rest of it. It was a secret that was only shared by two persons in this family- she herself and Divyakishore. That was why she was alerted and dropped her eyes when the father-son bickering seemed to wake up so unsuspectingly today at the breakfast table.

Rama growled in answering his father, “ Well, everybody knows whose fortunes you have stolen daddy!” he cleared his choking throat and blurted out, “Your fortune is courtesy Raghunath Kalama. You stole his entire fortune who doesn’t know?”

“Nonsense!”

“Daddy, yesterday I saw the daughter of that gentleman Mr. Kalama, in the corridors of the college,” Rama added just one word to sum up the encounter. “Firebrand!”

Nalini visibly started up and demanded, “What did you say?”

“Firebrand! What would you say of a girl who stopped the Assembly from functioning for as many as fifteen days?”

Dibyakishore was not unaware about the satyagraha of Chitrotpala Kalama. But he behaved as though he was hearing the news for the first time. He dabbed his mouth and the long well shaped nose with a napkin before asking, “What is your interest in that girl? Are you studying for your IAS examination or mixing with riff-raff?”

“Riff-raff?” Ramakishore asked with a thin, sarcastic smile before adding, “Through my childhood you couldn’t stop praising this riff-raff. Was it all a lie, then? Did you not say that the girl was like Sita of the Ramayana?”

“Sitas are not firebrands, they are agniparikshas! They don’t set fire to things, they put themselves to test by fire.”

“You don’t like firebrands, do you? Was that why you sent away Raghunath Kalama?”

“I? I sent him away? What do you mean?” Dibyakisore broke into a coarse neighing laugh.

“It’s no secret. Why, you’ve bragged about it yourself! How you arrested an innocent Japanese monk and passed him off as a spy. That got you promotions and medals? Again, at the last moment with the object of turning Raghunath Kalama away from his minister ship, you released that Japanese monk to suit your evil purpose. These are not your secrets Daddy; these are your achievements – your crown of glory. Listen, you can still atone for what you’ve done. In fact, I’ve decided, …” Ramakishore stopped midway. He needed another glass of water to wet his dried

up throat.

“What have you decided?” Nalini snarled at the boy. “Are you going to bring that wretched woman into this house?”

“Not I. You two will bring her into this house as your daughter-in-law. It is you who know everything about her and her parents! You take the responsibility. Why should I?” Ramakishore got up and pushed the chair on his way out.

Dibyakishore looked at Nalini. Nalini looked back at Dibyakishore. Just at that moment a constable orderly entered the dining room cautiously. He saluted, saying, “The station-in-charge of Keshanagar police station has sent information. Last night there was a big dacoity at the ancestral house of Raghunatha Kalama. It seems they have looted some big treasure buried under the foundation of that house.”

-9-

The stench from the open drain in front of the house suffocates the inmates occasionally. Ramu sat at the study table, books open, a handkerchief pressed to his nose. Padmavati was trying to get a chulha going in the inner veranda. The smoke rising from the freshly gathered kindling brought tears to her eyes.

Thinking that his mother was weeping over their misfortune, Ramu removed the handkerchief from his face and said, “Don’t worry, Bou! Are you thinking of that boy, Chitu Dei is hobnobbing with, now a days? But I have talked to him myself. Not a bad guy as I thought of him, before meeting. At least not like his father the devil! And do you know any thing about the recent developments? Dei says that Ramakishore has given a bit of his mind to his father a few days ago. The father and son had a nasty quarrel. He forced the audacious policewala, Deba mausa , to launch a search for Bapa. See! Your daughter has become quite a capable ‘Nari-Netri’ now. Isn’t she? She was able to set the police dog against his master the police officer himself…Hi Hi Hi! . Isn’t that some thing to celebrate, Ma? The search for Bapa must have started by now. Seems the police has sent wireless messages all over the country for locating Bapa. Now come on ! Wipe your tears away. Good times are coming to us for sure.”

Padmavati looked up. Ramu pressed the handkerchief to his nose again and looked down to the open page of the book he was studying.

Just then they heard a motorcycle stopping right outside. Padmavati looked out of the window. Chitu was getting off the motorcycle. Ramakishore sat on the front seat, his legs planted firmly on the ground. Padmavati was aware that a friendship had developed between her daughter and Dibyakishore’s son. The young man had been regularly giving Chitu a lift home but so far, he had never come right up to their doorstep.

Chitu’s tomboyish nature was already a cause of headache for Padmavati. The day some body told her that the girl was dragged in to a jail van by the police for offering Satyagraha in front of the State Assembly House she beat her head on the doorpost in anguish and fear for her daughter’s future. But later she understood the call of the changing times. It was now clear that the women could no more be kept confined to the corner of the house like her own life spent behind the doors. She drew parallel of her daughter with Raghunath the meek and mild schoolteacher who had to court jail time and again so defiantly, under the pressure of circumstances. Probably the daughter was cast in the same mould as her father. She was made for the jail then! Then let that be- she as pitying the girl still when she heard the call.

Standing at the front door Chitu called out. “Bou! Look who has come! This gentleman is very shy. He fears you for life. Shall I call him inside?”

Padmavati opened the door. In appearance Ramakishore was a replica of his father. Seeing him sitting astride the motorcycle reminded Padmavati of the days when Dibyakishore would come riding along the riverbank to their house. It brought back the scent of the Anoma, the sound of Raghumastre’s voice. But only for an instant. The voice was no longer in her life and neither was the river. What remained were the mossy worries and fears in her mind and the terrible miasma rising from the drain in this narrow street in Cuttack.

Chitu invited, “Rama, do come in and meet Bou.” To her mother she said, “You know, Bou! Rama has got some clue about father from the police.”

“What did you say?” Padmavati’s voice was apprehensive.

“Yes, it is true. The police knew everything all the while; but unless there was pressure from above they would not divulge anything. Bou, you know who Rama is? He is the son of Deba mausa.” Chitu introduced the visitor to her mother as if he was quite a stranger.

They entered the outer room that was used both as a sitting room as well as Ramu’s bedroom. His bed was still laying spread on the cement floor. The narrow room was further congested with his dirty shirts hanging from hooks on the wall. The rest of the wall was covered with calendar pictures of Hara-Parvati, Lakshmi-Narayan, Sita-Ram and Radha-Krishna. Chitu tidied the room. She quickly rolled up the bedding, put away the clothes and brought two rickety cane chairs from somewhere. She invited Rama to sit.

To Padmavati, she said, “There is fresh news about Bapa. He has been traced to Bihar – what is the name of that place?” Chitu looked at Ramakishore with a smile.

“Kushinara,” Ramakishore replied with down cast eyes. He had marked the cheap old sari Padmavati was wearing. The wife of the would have been minister of home! He rather blamed himself for all those painful sights of penury and impoverishment he noticed around him in that mean looking house he was visiting for the first time. However he ventured to inject an iota of hope into that bleak lackluster situation and revealed a top secret from his father’s file marked ‘Top secret’. He whispered at first, but then spoke aloud, “ The Special Branch people have gathered information’s about a man of the same description as of Raghunath Kalama. He was last seen moving around in the company of a Japanese holy man, fifteen days ago.”

“ Why the police then didn’t bring him back?” Ramu demanded of the visitor.

“How will they?” Ramakishore asked. “They are not criminals. Can the police arrest and bring sadhus and sants at will?”

“If that is so then how is it that on that day the police handcuffed my father and Kajyoyoda and dragged them to the police station?” Ramu asked, adding, “The incident happened in front of Deba mausa’s eyes. He did not utter a word. The police had beaten up that Japanese monk and my father. At that time I was small. But if it were today …”

Padmavati said, “Leave it son, it is all in the past.”

“You are right Bou,” Chitu said in a firm tone.

Chitu was saying, “Bou, you remember that a year ago I met this gentleman in the college corridors. Since then a lot of water has flown in the Mahanadi. And have you heard the latest? There is a rumor that thieves have robbed gold coins and other things from beneath our house in the village. This gentleman has heard it when the village dafadar or some body was reporting to his father just this morning, today!”

“What are you saying?” Padmavati sat down, her head slumping into her open palms.

“Please do not worry, Mausi.” Ramakishore got up from the chair. He sat on the floor in front of Padmavati. Holding her hand like an elder reassuring a child, he said, “I will find out where Chitu’s father is and bring him home. I will do whatever I can to recover the articles stolen from your house. But tell me, what do you think might have been stolen from the house? Was there a

buried treasure?”

Chitu laughed aloud as soon as he heard the word treasure. All were surprised at her sudden reaction to the question in such light manner. Padmavati started sobbing. Now all eyes turned to the lady who was distressed at the break of the shocking news.

The contrast expressed in their reactions so spontaneously to the news, between the mother and daughter compelled Ramkishore to doubt. Were they trying to hide some thing- he suspected?

At long, however, Padmavati decided to trust this young man even though he was Dibyakishore’s son. Despite his appearance and his manner there was a ring of sincerity in his words. “Listen, son,” she said. “My husband was never after gold and silver, though he spent years excavating into the foundations of his house. I never really knew what he was looking for. But I believe he was searching for some kind of proof. He had a deep knowledge of history. Throughout his life he has delved into things past. When he was a schoolboy a teacher had said something to him that had led to his obsession with the family’s history.”

“What did the school teacher say, Mausi?”

On behalf of her mother, Chitu answered, “ If you wish to know our family-history then listen with sincere respect. The ancient name of our clan is Kalama. A schoolteacher had injected it to my father’s imagination that this Kalama title was at least two thousand and five hundred years old. There was a rishi living then on the bank of the ancient river Anoma also known now as Chitrotpala. Legend has it that one day in the early hours of dawn Prince Siddhartha of Kapilavastu, arrived there on horse back and stopped on the bank of the river Anoma in front. He had left his wife and baby son back home the previous night. With him was his charioteer and valet, the faithful man Chhandak. What is the name of this river? He asked Chhandak. “Anoma,” said Chhandak. “ Anoma?” the prince wondered as he took it as a sign from his destiny that was guiding his path from the moment he left his father’s palace at Kapilavastu over night. His dreamy eyes kept on measuring the vastness of the river in front . Also Anoma he knew, literally meant , the vast. Then he muttered to himself, “One day I too will become as vast as this river Anoma.” Next, he drew the sword out of the scabbard still dangling from the belt of his royal dress he wore. Bapa used to say the name of that sword was Prabalayudha and it is believed that even now a portion of this sword is enshrined in a cave in some forest near Narsinghpurgarh, in the district of Cuttack. It is worshipped as the goddess Prabala thakurani. Every year in Dussera this sword is ceremonially worshipped with Buddhist religious rites, inside the forest. Prince Siddhartha removed his gorgeous turban and cut the beautifully done long curls of hair off his head. Then he handed over the sword, bejewelled turban and all his personal ornaments along with the reins of the horse to Chhandak. Bidding farewell to his valet he asked the old friend and servant,” Please take all these back home and report to my father that from now I renounce the world.”

“Then he searched around. Locating rishi Alara Kalama’s ashram near by he entered it and begged the rishi to take him as a disciple. The rishi took Siddhartha as a shishya and rest of the story everybody knows. He stayed in the ashram for a length of time. But he was not born to become an ordinary babaji like most of the young men of his time who temporarily got fed up with family life and take to sannyasa. One day he took leave of the rishi and crossed over to the other shore of the vast riverAnoma and then traveled towards the North. I had heard all this from my father. Now, the question is what was that priceless treasure that Bapa was looking for? Is that what bothers you, Rama?” She peered quizzically at her boy friend.

Ramakishore nodded his head and muttered beneath the breath, “Surely he must have given some hint?”

Ramu joined in. “Yes, he did … I have heard him talk about how our village got its name – Keshanagar.” Ramu held a lock of his own hair and with the other hand mimed a scissor snipping it off.

Ramakishore leaned forward. “What was that? Snipped off hair?”

“Yes!” Ramu laughed and started horsing around.

Chitu grabbed him and gave a resounding slap. Ramu dashed out of the room and Padmavati got up to go placate him.

Alone with Ramakishore, Chitu’s voice sounded sarcastic, “The thieves were not strangers … I had heard your father very often tease my father when they were pals – Samudi, don’t forget to pass on some of the treasure as your daughter’s dowry. And Bapa would smile. He would say I’d give everything excepting for one thing. I dream of it quite often. Then he would elaborate that a sage was telling him in the dream that priceless treasure is buried very deep. Then the sage would extend his hand towards me as if offering some thing solid! I could see a big stone casket in the rishi’s hand. Then he would open the casket to reveal inside it a second casket made of copper. Inside that was a third casket still! May be of gold studded with precious stones. The secret lay in that innermost casket. Father didn’t know for certain what that secret was exactly, but he said that he could make a good guess. It was possibly the most precious thing the rishi in the dream was offering to him as a gift. That thing, Bapa said, was the precious treasure he was all along searching for in that dark tunnel under our home there. It was Bhagaban Buddha’s shorn off locks which rishi Alara Kalama must have collected and saved for posterity as the sacred most relic of the great Avatar ever born. Now listen to me Rama, that relic-casket, if it was truly there, I will not let it leave my family! It is proof of more than my lineage. It would be what my father has been searching for all his life.”

Suddenly Ramakishore remarked in a harsh note, “You said in the beginning that the thieves were no strangers. Do you suspect my father?”

After a pause Chitu replied testily, “Rama, don’t take it amiss … I have wondered why your father came to our house so often so regularly. I am forced to doubt now after all that what happened since my father was thrown in to jail that day like a common criminal, to which I stand witness. It was surely not to see my father or me. Whenever he came he would

ask about the tunnel and whether Bapa had managed to discover any treasure.”

“Are you saying that the promise he made to your father – that he would make you his daughter-in-law was a mere excuse to pry?” Ramakishore sounded aggrieved and angry.

“I’m not saying that,” Chitu took a deep breath and then spoke in a firm voice. “Rama, your father does not just catch thieves. He uses them too. He knew that there was something buried in the foundations of our house. In the last few months ever since my father disappeared the thieves began visiting our house at night. We knew it too well that it was the dafadar, Raju Jena, of our village guided those thieves for those nocturnal excavations under our house when we were still living in that house, in the village. And now the report you give- our family home at Keshanagar was robbed! Think of it Rama and say am I off the mark if I suspect your father’s hand in all these nefarious activities? I would like Deba mausa to give me an answer.”

Ramakishore did not wait to listen any further. Leaving the house without a word, he started his motorcycle and drove off.

Padmavati came running. “Why did he leave like that?” she asked. “What did you say to him?”

Chitu’s reply was curt: “Nothing.”

-10-

Ramakishore was on the Paradip-Cuttack road, driving as though possessed. The fire that had been ignited by Chitrotpala’s words raged in his head. After leaving her house he had simply driven around till he hit the highway. The vehicle was a powerful 7HP motorcycle that had been used by the military in the Second world War. At the end of the war, it had been auctioned. Dibyakishore had bought it for his son as a present for graduating from school with a first class.

He crossed the town of Bidyadharpur. This area was not entirely unknown to Ramakishore. He had visited it in his childhood and remembered an orchard of the sweet kasi koli berries. As a boy he had raided that orchard with his friends. But now that orchard was gone. In its place was a building that looked like a government office. Going a bit further along the road, Ramakishore came to a culvert where a narrow canal branched off from a larger one. At this point a kutcha track led off the highway towards the north. After a while he came to a steep rise. It was the high bank of the river Mahanadi. So this is Chitu’s Anoma! Rama’s motorcycle climbed the height with ease. At the very top the bank the vista expanded so suddenly that he felt breathless.

Anoma. Anoma. Anoma. The word reverberated in his head like an incantation. Suddenly he knew why he was here and where this journey would end. Keshanagar. Though he had never been there, he was sure he would reach it eventually. Until then he had seen many a dream while listening to Chitu about her village and its location somewhere on the bank of the Chitrotpala towards the lower part of Mahanadi. Now he was being guided by those dreams alone. It was those dreams that impelled him to say, over and over again, “Anoma! Keshaputta! Alara Kalama!”

In the 1950s, to drive a motorcycle on the bank of the river Mahanadi was like proving your valour in a wrestling competition. But for Ramakishore, the only son of police officer Dibyakishore, it was a matter of life and death. He had come straight out of that thatched house, by the side of the stinking municipality drain, with the object of putting to test a strong urge derived from a sense of sincere love and admiration but his ego was hurt, too. He continued to argue with Chitu: Stop! I cannot accept your accusations so soon, Chitu, until I see with my own eyes! You cannot so easily murder the character of my father. Maybe he is cruel and opportunistic. He might have punished and misguided your father time and again. But he is a good police officer. He is not of such low taste to eye your family wealth on the pretext of making you his daughter-in-law. Daddy and Mummy are not the kind who’d get your house dug up by thieves! Note this Chitrotpala. I swear – I swear by the waters of this Mahanadi – if your accusations ever prove to be true then in the waters of the sacred Anoma of Vedic name, I will atone for the sins of my father. Chitu, I swear.”

By nightfall, Ramakishore had reached Keshanagar. He asked for directions to Raghumastre’s house. The villagers were reminded of the police officer who would ride in on his horse during the war years as they gave him directions and stood watching his motorcycle ride along the riverbank and stop in front of the dilapidated house.

The house had been pulled apart. There were huge piles of rubble all over the compound. In the middle was a deep hole that looked like the entrance to a tunnel, where the Japanese monk had lain hidden. His father had ordered that arrest. But it was wartime, Ramakishore reasoned. And his father was only doing his duty.

Suddenly Ramakishore felt that he was not alone. He turned around. A tall, dark man was looking down at him. There was something menacing about him. Ramakishore trembled but keeping his voice steady, asked, “Who are you? What are you doing here?”

The face cracked into a smile revealing two rows of betel stained teeth. And then came the counter question, “Who are you? Are you after Raghumastre’s buried treasure? Will you come along to the police station or do I have to drag you?”

Affecting boldness, Ramakishore said, “Do you know who I am? My father is DIG Dibyakishore Das. And you want to take me to the police station?”

The effect was instantaneous. The man dived for Ramakishore’s feet and begged pardon, introducing himself as Dafadar Raju Jena. Thereafter it was not at all difficult to obtain the version of Dafadar Raju Jena.

“Bada Saheb? You mean my father? When did he come here?”

Raju Jena was only too willing to answer all of Ramakishore’s questions. After listening to him, Ramakishore asked one last question. “You say there was a stone casket lying in the

open yesterday?”

“Yes, sir. The police have seized that casket. It is in the custody of our station-in-charge, sir.”

Ramakishore kickstarted his motorcycle. He switched on the headlight and by its light, saw a portion of the brick wall, the one with the painting on it. The vivid colours seemed to glow with life. There was an ancient house and part of a horse. The head was missing. A little clearer was the image of a well-built handsome young man in princely attire. He held a sword in one hand and a fistful of long hair in the other. The lower part of the picture had been destroyed.

The sight of that ruined painting depressed Ramakishore. He took a deep breath and turned the motorcycle towards the road. It was almost midnight when he reached home.

-11-

The next morning Ramakishore was up at dawn. Bathed and dressed he went out into the long veranda and paced up and down rehearsing what he would say to his father. He glanced at his watch. Breakfast was still an hour away. Feeling that he could not wait any longer he knocked on the door of his parents’ bedroom.

Nalini opened it. She was taken aback at the boy’s non-chalant looks and his restlessness. Before she could ask him anything, he said, “Mummy, please wake up Daddy. I must speak to him about that priceless archaeological discovery. What has he done with the casket? I want an answer right now.”

Dibyakishore appeared in his night suit. “What is the matter, boy?” he asked. “What are you talking about? Are you in your senses?”

Ramakishore forced past his mother and faced Dibyakishore. He said, “You went to Raghunath Kalama’s village for an inquiry. What did you do with the stone casket? What was inside it? Where is it now, Daddy? Please tell me the truth. Otherwise I can’t stay in this house for another moment.”

Dibyakishore had dealt with all sorts of men in his life. And now, back to wall, the first thing that he spitted out was a vulgar abuse. Turning to his wife, he said, “This is not my son. Who fathered him? I hope you didn’t sleep with a constable, or did you?”

His words hit Nalini like a slap on her face. And in front of her son!

She raised her head and hissed like any angry cobra. “All your life you’ve spent nights in dak bungalows with the wives and daughters of those constables. So you should know.”

“Shut up!” Dibyakishore stretched out his hand to Nalini’s throat and before Ramakishore could stop him, he’d snatched the heavy necklace around her neck and flung it on the floor. “For a wife who needs a new necklace everyday, how does it matter whether her husband is of good character or not, honest or not?”

Ramakishore noticed that the snatched away necklace was different from the one, which dazzled on his mother’s neck yesterday. His mother must have taken this out from her ornament chest last night.

Nalini picked up the necklace and said, “Beware … this is my mother’s necklace. Unlike you my father did not toady to the powerful in order to rise from a lowly SI’s rank to that of a DIG. He was a dewan bahadur, a zamindar.”

“Dewan bahadur, my foot!” Dibyakishore snatched the necklace away. He sneered, “Is this your father’s property then?”

“So it is your father’s?” Turning to his son Dibyakishore thrust the necklace at him. “Take this!” he said. “It belongs to Raghunath Kalama. I know you’ve been going around with that daughter of his.”

Ramakishore could not believe his ears. He took the necklace and turned it around. The morning sunlight fell on the stones giving them a rich beauty. It appeared to be a very old necklace. Which century did it belong to? For a few minutes there was complete silence in the room. Then Ramakishore shattered it.

“ Oh! What have you done! Why? For this mean trash junk of a thing could you stoop down so low before them? Do you know-this filth matters nothing to the scholarly saint of a man Raghunath Kalama.? Kindly hand over to me that most precious relic, the goal of monk Raghunatha’s lifelong research. What happened to that jewelled box in which the divine relics were kept? Bhagawan Buddha’s …”

“Oh! That box containing some nasty thing- some hair- may be a dead man’s hair?” Nalini snorted in utter disdain at her son’s stupidity.

Ramakishore pleaded at his mother’s feet. He asked in an imploring voice, “Mummy! Is that box with you? Have you kept it? Where is it? Give it to me quickly. Quickly … Soon … Immediately …”, the boy almost choked with the words.

Without brooking any delay Nalini took out a bunch of keys in order to open her iron treasury.

The glitter of the gold within dazzled Ramakishore’s eyes. In that instant he knew that none of it was rightfully his mother’s. That Chitu had been right. His father was hand in glove with dacoits.

Nalini did not take long to find out that jewelled box from inside her ornament chest. She pressed the box on to Ramakishore’s hands, saying, “Take it! Yesterday you’d gone to that village in search of this? That thief of a Dafadar managed to recover this box and necklace from those dacoits. That wicked fellow told your father that marauders had dropped these while escaping. God knows where the rest of the things are. Your Daddy has taken this case into his own hands. Now take it! See what is there inside it.”

Ramakishore barely listened to her. He looked at the casket carefully. It had a coppery sheen and looked very ordinary, like the sort of box married women use for keeping sindoor. He tried to open the lid. It opened easily. Who’d expect the lid of such an archaeological relic, buried under earth for thousands of years, to open so easily? Evidently many hands had already handled the casket. Thieves, dacoits, dafadar, police and, finally, his mother! Yet touching his head to the sacred thing reverentially, Ramakishore threw open the lid of the casket.

“Areré! What is this?” Ramakishore exclaimed loudly. Seeing only a copper coin inside the casket he lost his cool and shouted, “Was it this only that was in it-this casket? Who put this copper coin here? Where have all the relics gone? Where’s …”

“Careful now!” Dibyakishore said, butting in. “This is not an ordinary coin. It is worth lakhs of rupees. Look at the inscription. This coin was struck to commemorate the coronation of King Ramachandra after he returned from Sri Lanka to Ayodhya Now you may ask this lady, your mother, as to what she did to those other relics-felics or whatever you call it.”

Dibyakishore spoke calmly, trying to muster some dignity after becoming a thief in the eyes of his son. But Rama’s shrieking and shouting reached a crescendo, and Nalini finally said, “Chhi, Chhi! Does any one keep a dead person’s hair in the house? I threw it away. I kept that coin only because the chowkidar who brought all these things here insisted that it would bring us good luck. Your house will overflow with dhana, jana, gopa and lakshmi, he said. I opened the casket and looked in. Oh my mother! What did I see inside? There was a bunch of hair inside it! Black and curly! It also smelled …hell! I had nausea and felt like puking. I threw away the nasty thing immediately in to the drains. To fill up the empty casket with some thing I had to keep this copper coin in it.

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