A Tale of Sorangpur

 

It was a night full of shocks and horrors.

Fear gripped little Hari’s heart as he saw his mother fretfully pounding her fists on the door of their house. Darkness swallowed everything in their small courtyard and the cold wind began to tickle his skin. But in the pale light of the hanging lantern, Hari could make out glistening tears rolling over his mother’s cheeks.

“Hari ke Bapu! Open the door! For God’s sake, please open the door!”

It’s been an hour they had been standing outside, and his mother kept on pleading. But there was no response from inside. Scared and worried, Hari inched near his mother. “Maa, why Bapu is not opening the door?”

His mother looked dejectedly at him. He could swore, in his life of ten years he had never seen his Maa so miserable, so frightened. Something terrible was at work.

Suhani pulled her son near, trying hard to subdue her horror. “Listen,” she muttered through her sobs, “Go to the village and fetch some people. Tell them, your father has locked himself and…” Her lips quivered ceasing her saying further.

“But Maa, Bapu told me never to go into the village. He don’t like it,” said innocent Hari. “He says the village is not meant for us.”

“Just go!” Suhani yelled. Her voice carried such command and sternness that Hari had to follow her order. Bare footed, attired in a few buttoned shirt and a khaki short, the boy raced toward the village, Sorangpur.

Guided by the sheer moonlight, Hari crossed the fields, running like a terrified gazelle. Stones and thrones prickled his feet, but he continued to dash. He knew there was no time to see those wounds. Pain had to wait or else…he shook off that grim thought. Weariness almost shook his hope when he reached the bridge. Across the bridge, under which Neytri flowed swiftly, he could see the flickering lights from the windows of the houses. For him, they looked like a cluster of immobile fireflies.

With few moments of respite and after gathering some energy, Hari entered the village with no clue whom to approach. Continuing the stone-paved path, he found himself in the open area amidst the village. Fortunately, few men crowded around a bonfire under the canopy of a wide banyan tree.

“Help! Someone help!” Hari cried, his voice loud enough to draw everyone’s attention.

“What’s the matter, boy?” asked one of the man anxiously.

“My Bapu, he has locked himself in the home. He is not opening and not even responding. Please help!”

Murmurs spread across the crowd as if they were discussing something serious. Hari risked to step ahead to catch their words.

“We must hurry, Sarpanchji,” urged someone. From the voice Hari could say that the man did not belong to Sorangpur. While most of the villagers had hoarse and loutish speech, this man sounded polite and helpful.

“Masterji, you are new to the town. Let the folks of this village handle this matter.” The curled-moustached Sarpanch then spun toward Hari. “Lead us to your home, boy.”

Nodding, Hari started hastening back to his house, followed by the group of dozen men. He was at the mid of the bridge when he realised he was not being trailed anymore. Turning back, he saw the group huddled at the end of the bridge, flames of their torches burning the cold mist.

“We are almost there,” he said. “My home, just across the few farms. Let’s go.”

“Who is your father, boy?” grumbled Sarpanch. There was a hint of scepticism in his voice, though his face was impassive.

“My father’s name is Gopal,” answered Hari. “Now can we move?”

“Gopal? Is he not the one who toils your field, Sarpanchji?” asked someone from the crowd. Hari understood the question was indirectly targeted towards him. He nodded.

A troubling silence stretched for moments save for the bustling sound of the Neytri.  

“How dare you to enter our village!” Sarpanchji thundered. “You scum! You have spoiled the sanctity of our place. Now run back to your home and don’t ever show your disgusting face.”

Aghast and abashed by the sudden hatred of Sarpanch, Hari could not comprehend the reason behind it. “But, my Bapu…” was all he could manage to speak.

“We cannot go to our home now like this,” said man with distaste. “His presence had tainted our purity. Damn! Now we need to bathe in the cold currents to cleanse ourselves.”

The group started descending the slope for the river bank when Hari asked, “What’s the matter? Why are you all not helping me?”

“You are the reason. Your father is the reason. Your whole bloody caste is the reason, you low-lives,” loathed Sarpanch. “I don’t know why I am talking to you? Come on everyone, let’s cleanse ourselves.”  He spat in detestation.

Frozen with fear, Hari watched his hope of help moving towards the river. Tears started welling his eyes. The reason behind such hatred was still a mystery to him. Low-lives? What does that even mean? He mused.

“Hey, kid!” A shadowy man emerged from the darkness. Masterji. “We cannot risk to waste more time. Every second counts now. Come on.”

When they arrived at their destination, Hari found his mother hunched near the door. But she rose on her feet at the instance she noticed his son with the stranger. “Please, help us.”

The young Masterji plunged himself on the door, but no avail. He again tried and this time the sturdy hinges gave away. He tumbled inside as the door burst opened.

Suhani, with a lantern in her hand, feverously inspected her one roomed home. “He is not here,” she revealed. “Where did he go?”

“The window is open,” pointed Masterji. “And I don’t deem it as wise to go in search for him at this time.”

“But…”

“I admit, I can’t empathize how you are feeling right now,” consoled Masterji, “We need to wait for the dawn.”

Suhani nodded, though her decision was against her will. She desperately wanted to be with her husband. “Hari, come here, son.”

There was no response from Hari.

“Son, what happened?”

Still there came no reply.

Fearing the worst, Suhani stormed out from her house, shoving aside Masterji who followed her out. Her body turned solid as she noticed a small shadowy figure rapidly dashing towards the jungle. “Hari!” she cried. But her son was too far to hear. “What is he doing?”

“A desperate son is in search of his lost father,” said Masterji. “We must hurry or else…” His incomplete phrase completely shook Suhani from inside. She knew the rapacious wolves lurks under those woods.

*******

“Bapu!” Hari shouted as he reached near the forest. The air was heavy with mist and coldness. “Bapu!”

Suddenly, a horrible thought settled in his mind as his gaze fell on the ruined well. He peeked inside. Darkness, grim and foreboding, obscured its true depth. At distant somewhere deep within the woods, a wolf howled. With terrified feet, he was about to retreat to his home when a sight caught his attention. A sight so terrible that it instantly etched deeply in his mind. A sight that would haunt him forever in his nightmare. A sight of his father numbly hanging by the neck to the branch of a banyan tree.

A plethora of emotions exploded inside him and he burst into tears. “Bapu!” His grief had numbed his senses for he could not hear the approaching feet of his mother and Masterji.

*******

“Impossible!” grunted Sarpanch. He leaned to one side and spat, then brought a cotton cloth to his wrinkled lips. Stroking his white thick moustache which almost hid his upper lip, he said, “Do you realise the reaction of people if I permit it? They’ll be outraged. No, I cannot allow this.”

“But it’s their right. The body of Gopal needs to be cremated. It’s our tradition! I still don’t understand why you are denying this?” asked Masterji.

“Listen,” said Sarpanch, pointing a finger. “Tradition? Ah, I am submissively following my tradition. Allowing them to the cremated area of Sorangpur, well, that’s against the tradition. And what on earth were you doing with those low-lives, Vimal?”

Vimal looked abashed. Very few folks of Sorangpur knew his real name and Sarpanch was definitely not on that list. He was used to being called Masterji, not with his first name. “You are a Sarpanch! And that’s your duty to see that everyone in your village should get their right.”

“Do not teach me what I can and what I cannot do, Vimal. I am well aware about my duties,” Sarpanch grumbled. “Enough! I am done with this. My decision is final. That filthy body will not desecrate our sacred cremated area.”

“But they follow the same religion!”

“Agreed. Our gods are same, but our caste are not. And, that makes a difference.”

“But…”

“I hope I have made my point clear. Namaste Masterji.  Hope your day goes well.”

*******

A month had passed, but still time had not healed the scars of grief. For Suhani, with every passing moments her longings for her husband grew deeper. The sun had barely touched the horizon, leaving orange smear over the trees when she noticed a man in her courtyard.

“Masterji,” she said, “You should not to here. What if someone had noticed you?”

“You know the reason why I am here,” snapped Vimal, “and I am not going to leave this place till I get my answers.”

Suhani pursed her lips. No matter whatever excuse she would formulate she knew it would not be going to work, but she tried. “Leave us with our miseries. No one is concerned about us whether we live or die. Why bother yourself, Masterji?”

“That’s not the answer of my question.”

A silence lingered between them save for the chirpings of birds that were returning back to their nests.

“You don’t understand,” soothed Vimal, “Your husband was a farmer. He used to toil a land. Across our nation, farmers are killing themselves. Either because of drought or debt or poor agricultural income. I want to know his reason. What compelled him to end his life?”

Suhani didn’t respond. Why should she say? What good this man would do if she reveal the reason? “It’s good to know that there are people in Sorangpur who believes us as human not some filthy creatures. But there are reasons better remain inside a family.” With these words she turned towards her home.

Vimal got agitated with her reply. “A suicide is an act of cowardice!” Barely the phrase had come out from his mouth, he cursed himself for saying this. It was indecent to speak such things, especially to a widow about his late husband.

Suhani stopped and turned, her eyes flared with anger and tears. “What do you know about us?” she defended. “My husband was not a coward!”

“I…”

“He once owned a patch of land here. Small but it was enough to feed ourselves. We were happy until...” She sniffed to control the flood of tears that was welling in her eyes.

“Until what?” Vimal urged calmly.

“Until my daughter got married. And her husband’s family started demanding things. Just to see her happy, my Gopal sold our ornaments, our land and everything that suffices their demands. The one who used to plough his own land became the labour in someone’s farm,” she ejaculated.

Vimal stood astounded to see tears over crest-fallen Suhani’s face. “Then what happened?”

“Greed, Masterji, only intensifies with time,” she said, her voice growing grave. “We were hapless when they demanded more. My husband asked Sarpanch for some money. He refused cursing us, saying us low-lives. My husband could not bear this. He could not see her daughter suffer. And so he ended his life. If you think, Masterji, a hapless father killed himself all because he could not see his own blood in distress, then I don’t think you have good judgement ability. What would you do if you were in place of my husband?”

The question stunned Vimal. He opened his mouth but no words came out. What could he possibly say? Instead of answering, he asked, “How old is your daughter?”

“Sixteen.”

Vimal blinked in surprise. “Sixteen? But that’s against law! You cannot make her marry!”

“Laws,” Suhani gave a momentarily smile as if he had cracked a silly joke. “Laws tells us that all should be equally treated. Is it being followed?”

Again, Vimal found himself speechless.

“Believe me, Masterji, even I didn’t want to part away from my daughter. But in our caste, if a girl don’t get marry at early age, people spreads ill rumours about her. And, I don’t want any mouths saying foul thing about my dear daughter,” she replied. “Laws don’t stop these rumours.”

Vimal nodded, comprehending Suhani’s situation. For them, the society was no more like a hell, but still they fight, still they survive. Somehow they found a little heaven in midst of hell. A new profound respect grew in his heart for Gopal’s family. “How is Hari? He was devastated when we found him in the forest.”

“His father’s death had almost numbed him. I was scared for few days. He just sat in a corner whole day without speaking any word. And whenever I tried to interact with him, he just replied in nods,” she said. “By God’s grace, now, he had surfaced the grief. I am happy to see him talking to me, but his eyes had lost the sparkle of mischievousness. After that night, he became more matured and voluntarily took his father’s place in the farm. Ah, he must be returning by this time from the field.”

“An obedient son,” remarked Vimal.

“Yes, he is. I am worried about him. My husband never wanted Hari to live the same life he suffered.” Suhani wiped away the tears with the edge of her saree. “Instead he wanted him to get education.”

Vimal didn’t ask for reasons. It was obvious Gopal’s family’s financial condition was weak and folks of Sorangpur would not allow Hari to enter the school. Something clicked in his mind. “Can I teach him?”

“What?”

“If you allow me to teach Hari, I’ll consider it as your forgiveness,” requested Vimal. “I should not have use those harsh words for your husband.”

“Is that possible?” asked hopeful Suhani.

“Yes. Tell Hari to meet me near the bank of Neytri.” Suddenly something made him worried. “Will he able to come little early before sun set?”

“Don’t worry about that, Masterji,” smiled Suhani. “I’ll work harder in the field so that my son can be free early.”

With that noble intention, Vimal took permission to depart. All the way, he started planning for the next day, smiling excitedly. A teacher had just got a new pupil.

*******

“It doesn’t make sense,” said Hari.

Three weeks had passed and Hari had shown remarkable progress. Vimal had to admit, the boy was blessed with a brilliant brain. In this span of time, Hari had learnt to recognize the alphabets and even by-hearted few poems Radhik had taught. That day, he was scribbling the last alphabet on the slate – a big Z.

“What?” asked Radhik, anxious to know the curious query of his new student.

“You told that sun rises in west and sets in east.”

“No, Hari. Sun rises in east and sets in west,” corrected Vimal. “You should remember that. Was that 

your doubt?”

“No, Masterji. I want to know why west is called west and east is called east?”

“They are just names. Everything needs a name to identify. That’s why west is called west and…” He raised his brow towards Hari.

“East is called is east,” completed Hari. “Masterji, it’s still not clear. I mean, who decided which way is east and which is west?”

Vimal took few moments to think. He stared blankly at the gurgling water of Neytri. He could not just ignore the question. He was a teacher and his students expect genuine answers from him. But some questions put him in conundrum, and this was one of that.

“Masterji?”

“Yes. Your question, I mean, your answer is our ancestors. They decided these basic knowledge which we still learn,” replied Vimal. He whistled lightly. That was a narrow escape, he thought.

“You mean, they decided everything, right?”

“Yes, mostly.”

“So they are the one who decided others are normal and we are low-lives,” said Hari. “Yes, Masterji, you are correct. Everything needs name to identity,”

Vimal wanted to interrupt but restrained from doing so. He knew Hari had not shared his grief, his hatred, his views to anyone. Not to even his mother. And now he was bursting out everything. Atleast, Vimal thought, it would lessen the weight Hari was carrying in his heart. That’s what sharing always do. It amplifies happiness while abate sadness.

 “That night, they were ready to help until they knew my father’s name. His identity. Low-lives he called us. Unworthy as if we are like worms to them. Is name and caste so important? Important than a life?” Hari asked, his eyes solemn, yearning for answers.

Vimal kept his hand on Hari shoulder. With a weak smile and calm voice, he asked, “What do you think about it?”

Hari shook his head. “I don’t think so. I believe, a man’s fate do not depend on his birth or where he belongs. It depends on his outlook to the world.”

Vimal was flabbergasted at the words of wisdom. He remembered what worried Suhani had told about his son. After that night, he became more matured… Not only matured, he thought, but wise also. “So don’t you feel vengeance towards them?” He asked, pointing towards Sorangur across the river.

Hari looked at the nestled houses. “Bapu used to say, the feeling of revenge clouds one’s reasoning, destroys one’s goodness.” He then smiled. “At that time I didn’t understand what it meant. But now, I realise how true he was. I hope, I could end this all so no more like me suffers more. I wish, I could bring harmony in the village. When I’ll be a man, Masterji, I’ll bring a change.”

“Why to wait when you can bring a change right now? Are you ready to take this risk?”

“Apologies, Masterji, but I didn’t understand.”

Vimal gave him an assuring smile. “Navratri is approaching, and so is Dashera. It’s time to eradicate the evil from our village. Come near, I’ll tell you what my plan is.” He whispered his idea in his pupil’s ears.

A grin crossed Hari’s face, his eyes sparkled with hope. “Let’s do this!”

*******

Dashera had arrived. Whole Sorangpur was excitedly waiting for the dusk to fall. In gathering gloom of the evening, villagers including men, women and children assembled at the bank of Neytri near Shiva Temple. A twelve-foot giant, stuffed with hays and fireworks, wrapped in a vibrant cloth, was rose. Ravana, the demon king with his ten heads, stood in his full glory.

“Make way,” someone said in the crowd, “Lord Ram along with his wife Sita and obedient brother Lakshman are approaching!”

People parted away, leaving the space for three little children who costumed as three deities. The one as Lord Ram was completely dyed in blue. Their faces were heavily painted with powder and colour and their dresses glittered in the dancing flames of the torches.

Pujariji, along with a puja-thali approached the godly kids and performed the rituals. Soon the air vibrated with Jai Shri Ram! slogans. Firstly, Sarpanch and his wife came and prostrated, touching kid’s feet and yearned blessings. Then after, everyone neared the little divine trios to seek their blessings.

Amidst this spiritual merriment, Sarpanch’s gaze fell on Vimal who was standing away from the crowd. He noticed a bowl of water in the teacher’s hands. “Namaste Masterji, you need to bring a puja-thali, not a bowl filled with water. I thought you knew more about our traditions.”

“Times are changing, Sarpanchji,” Vimal replied evenly. “And with that, traditions too are changing. You’ll soon know this new change. Have patience.”

Sarpanch wanted to urge more but Pujariji’s voice stopped him. “Everyone, listen! The pious moment has arrived. The moment when good will again vanquish the evil!”

Cheers boomed across the crowd. Jai Shri Ram! Jai Shri Ram! Women began to sing the folk songs depicting the victory of the king of Ayodhya. With all respect, three little deities were brought near the giant Ravan.

Pujariji brought an arrow, its tip blazed with fire. He offered it to Sarpanch. “Please do the honour. Offer it to Lord Ram so that he can once again establish righteousness.”                  

Considering himself blessed and fortunate, Sarpanch accepted the burning arrow.

“Well, there’s one more ritual left to do,” interrupted Vimal, shoving his way through the throng.

Sarpanch’s eyes narrowed, but he didn’t speak. He wanted to know what Masterji was up to.

“Can I proceed with this ritual, Sarpanchji?”

“Go on.”

Vimal offered the bowl to little Lord Ram. The kid cupped water with his hand and splashed on his blue face. Water did its trick. The blue colour drained out and the whole village gasped in shock as Hari’s face revealed.

“What’s the meaning of all this?” thundered the furious Sarpanch. He grabbed Vimal by his collar. “What have you done?”

“I did what I felt right,” yelled Vimal, jerking off the grip of Sarpanch from his collar. Everyone watched them silently. They had not witnessed someone raising voice against their Sarpanch. Even Hari was dumbfounded too see his teacher so furious.

Vimal continued. “What happened, Sarpanchji? Why you look so worried? Moments before, you were touching his feet, yes, feet of the one who you people consider as low-lives. Just because his identity was changed, your views also changed. For you, this kid was a like a god and now you sneer as if he is a filth! Why? I demand answer, Sarpanchji. The boy who had lost his father demands answer. Speak Sarpanchji!”

Eyes widened, Sarpanchji opened his mouth and closed again.

“No answer Sarapanchji?” Vimal grumbled. He then faced the villagers, his hands stretched. “Anyone of you?”

The folks of Sorangur remained stunned with silence. None even attempted to move.

“Worshipping a god or performing rituals won’t make you pious. Your behaviour reflects your thoughts. Before becoming a theist, atleast become a human being! This boy’s father did not kill himself. He was compelled by the circumstances created by people like you! You call them low-lives, but the truth is, you people are sick-minded!”

“Masterji,”urged scared Hari.

Vimal’s face softened. “I am sorry to drag you into this mess, Hari. Let’s go, it’s meaningless to shout here.”

“No one is going anywhere until I permit,” said Sarpanch, his hand still holding the flaming arrow. He moved towards Vimal while Hari hid behind his teacher, scared.

“Never thought I will say this, but I am your culprit, Hari. If possible, forgive me.” Sarpanch apologized, his head slumped in shame.

Vimal could not believe his ears. He stared at Sarpanch. The arrogant look was now replaced with guilt. He had no idea when did Hari move ahead of him.

“Bapu used to say, elders never apologise to young ones,” Hari told him. “I have no right to judge you, Sarpanchji.”

That uplifted the spirits of mortified Sarpanch. With his one hand, he cuddled the little Lord Ram and proclaimed, “I, Sarpanch of Sorangpur, declare that everyone who lives in the farms will reside in the village. No child will toil the land. And everyone will get the education at the school.”

For few moments, the silence prevailed in the crowd, and then cheers and claps burst out.

“We still have a Ravan to burn,” suggested Pujariji.

Hari nocked the flaming arrow in his bow. It whistled through the air and set Ravan ablaze. That Dashera, indeed, goodness became victorious. 

THE END