~Rupnarayan Sinha~
That day, in order to attend to an urgent work, I had to reach Rameychap at any cost. It was the month of Shrawan and the rivers and rivulets were in spate. However, I had no alternative to reaching Rameychap. Therefore, early morning I evoked the name of goddess Durga and set on the journey from Okhaldhunga.
Rameychap was still about ten miles away and the next village ahead was at a distance of one mile. The drizzle gradually turned into a torrential rain. There was a storm with violent wind. The lightning and thunder resonated in all directions. The mountain jungle turned dark even before the dusk. Trapped in the situation I started looking around in the hope of finding a shelter.
Lightening struck nearby and a huge tree fell with a loud thud. I closed my eyes, plugged my ears with fingers, and instantaneously crouched on a flat boulder. It started to rain more heavily. After a while, I got up and in the hope of finding a shelter hardly had I advanced twenty/twenty-five paces, I was relieved to see a man slowly advancing towards me.
Seeing the way he was, my surprise knew no bounds. His dress was completely drenched. The rainwater freely ran over his face and body. Indifferent to the situation he was walking leisurely as if he was out of a stroll. From his attitude, it appeared as though he was unaware of the torrent. In my case, the rain water ran down my neck and washed my back.
As we closed distance, he looked at me once and without a word as he proceeded to pass, I cought him by the arm and asked, “Brother! Do you know if there is any shelter around here?”
He gave me a surprised look and asked, “Shelter! Why do you need a shelter?”
“To protect myself from the rain and wind“, I replied immediately.
“Oh! To protect from the rain and wind? Yes, yes one must take shelter. Come with me. My house is nearby.”
Taking me along, he returned towards the direction he had come from.
A little impressed, I asked him, “Were you going someplace on some urgent business?”
He said, “No, I had come out of the home just like that. I cannot stay home in the rain and wind of Shrawan month. As soon as there is a storm I cannot help myself but run to the bank of the river.”
I was astonished to hear his mystery. My confused mind could not compose any reply to such enigmatic statement. In abject silence, I followed my escort. Soon we reached a country house.
He stood by the door and asked me, “What is your caste? – Chettri?”
I nodded affirmation.
He said, “I am a Bahun – anyhow I was a Bahun once. Today everybody calls me Wayward Bahun. Neighbours and my family members banished me from my caste.”
“Will you stay in the house of a wayward Bahun like me? He opened the door and entered. I stood outside in the veranda. The storm turned into a hurricane. Nature’s fury enhanced by hundred folds. Inside, logs were burning in gusto in a fireplace.
Having changed into a white dhoti from the wet cloths and covering his back with a shawl he appeared at the door. He again asked me, “Will you enter my home? If you do, you will find a dhoti, a shawl and a towel at the fireplace. If you like to dry your wet cloth the fire is burning in zest.
Having said this, he entered the adjacent room.
I washed my muddy feet in the rainwater falling from the roof and entered the home. The moment I had changed into a dhoti from the wet cloth, the man made a quiet entry from the next room and sat silently at the fireplace. I covered myself with a shawl and sat by the fire. In the light of the fire, I closely examined the owner of the home.
He was a tall youth of twenty-four/twenty-five with ruddy face. He had healthy body and bright eyes beneath a broad forehead. With a book in his right hand, his head turned sideways; he was steadily steering outside.
After a while I quietly asked, “Will I be able to reach Rameychap today?”
He turned his head and replied indifferently, “Rameychap? Why not – after all how many more miles are left from here?”
I asked, “Will the storm stop?”
He slowly turned towards me and said, “Storm? Storm should certainly stop. Nevertheless, due to the storm the river must be in spate. Have you seen a river go mad? It is not like an ordinary madness nor is it like shamming turbulence in fun. It is really intoxicated – gone mad as if it will engulf the whole world.”
I did not reply.
The house owner said, “I have seen. I was scared when a river went mad.”
Hearing such rhetoric, I was nonplused. I could not make out what he meant to say. For a brief second he intensely looked at my face and said, “I was banished from my caste – boycotted. My brother expelled me from the house. Now I am a gypsy. Everybody calls me Wayward Bahun.”
I asked, “But why should they outcaste you just because the river turned mad? How unbelievable!”
“Do you not believe me? – Listen, I will tell you.” That day, amidst lightening, thunder and storm he related his life-story to me.
“Our father Umaprasad Timisinha Acharyya was a renowned priest in the village. All respected him for his simplicity and virtue. Beside our village, his area of operation as a priest extended far and wide. Timisinha Acharyya was invited to conduct marriage ceremonies, thread bearing ceremonies, death rites and all other religious ceremonies.”
“We are two brothers – my brother is elder to me by eleven months. We grew up together – we had ‘thread bearing ceremony’ together. The day the thread bearing ceremony was performed our father’s happiness knew no bounds. Father offered dinner to sixteen Brahmins and the whole world around. The courtyard reverberated with musical instruments. About three-four hundred people including sons of ten Timisinha priests gathered to watch the thread bearing ceremony.”
After all the guests had left and the Brahmin priests were seen off, father blessed my brother and me say, “Boys, today you have taken a second birth, This day onwards, I lay in your hands the responsibility of upholding the family pride and religious tradition. There was a time when Timisinha family claimed respect even in the Palace. With the change of time, today your father’s area of religious practice extends only to four-five villages. However, people still respects your father, because I never abandoned my faith and religion. The goodwill should continue so that the Timisinha family-name is protected. In the face of any adversity, let life itself end but never compromise your faith and religion. You must always guard the sanctity of the sacred thread that you are wearing.”
I held the newly worn thread with my right hand and mentally took a vow to honour the words of my father.
After two years father sent my brother and me to study at Kashi in India. In a big city like Varanasi, one cannot avoid mixing and living with the foreigners and people of other castes. The risk of abuse of character and religion is always lurking at the threshold. Sometimes my brother used to say, “Hey! Unlike at home, it is not possible to remain pure in a foreign country. A mistake committed unknowingly is not a sin.” Nevertheless, during my three years stay in Varanasi I protected my character, etiquette and religion like a miser protects his property.
Mother died the year we returned from Kashi. In his old age father did not have enough strength to bear the colossal loss. He relinquished all his priestly responsibilities to my brother and me and retired in silence to a corner of the house. It has been four years since father left his mortal body.
In order to make some wealth, even before father expired, we had an arrangement that my brother will profess the practice of a priest and I do business.
Business fetched ten times more money than the profession of a priest. Now there was a considerable wealth in the family. Eighteen months after the demise of our father, my brother agreed to marry. My sister-in-law came from a wealthy family. She was amiable to all, and loved me like her own son. She greatly boosted the name and fame of Timisinha family.
In the affairs of business, I often had to visit new places, meet new people and travel as far as Nawakot in the West and Ilam in the East. While visiting far off places at odd hour of the day and the night and at any time of the year, I often faced difficulties about availability of vegetarian food and proper board. Nevertheless, I never abused my religion, character and faith.
Outside the thunderstorm mellowed – the rain subsided. That man, indifferently turning the pages of the book he held in his right hand and his eyes focused on the half burnt logs, fell in a deep thought for a while. He slowly got up and went to the next room. He left the book behind at the fireplace. I picked up the book. It was an old Ramayan of Bhanu Bhakta.
In no time, the house owner returned with hands full of logs, added some to the fire and said, “It takes considerable time to reach Rameychap – there is no sign of the rain stopping. For today you could make a halt in the next village ahead.”
Finding an opportunity to speak, I instantly replied, “Please do not worry. I have many acquaintances in the next village.”
He said, “Your dress is almost dry. Until they are completely dry, shall I tell you the event that led to my ouster from caste? Or shall I let it be?”
I insisted and he began –
That day, just like today, was a day in the month of Shrawan. There was a torrential rain throughout the night. All Mountain Rivers and rivulets were overflowing and were roaring down the hills in great haste to meet the ocean. The sky was pitch-dark with black clouds. I was returning home with my servant who was in my service for many years. When we reached the river situated near our village, a strong hurricane suddenly caught us. We took shelter under a tree.
At the bank of the river three-four well-built labourers (daily wage earners), four-five businesspersons and an old Damaini woman from our village were also taking shelter separately.
After about two hours the hurricane stopped. We were in dilemma as to how we should cross the river. As soon as the rain stopped, the first question that arose in mind was how to reach the other bank of the gushing river with legs firmly entrenched in riverbed and body properly balanced.
A businessperson saluted me and said, “Kancha Bajey (young priest) is also caught in the quandary. Now what is the way out?’
I said, “What other solution is there? Let one young man stand in the front and one at the back holding two long poles and we all stand in the middle of the poles holding each other’s hand and cross the river.”
The businesspersons, the labourers and my servant, all agreed with my idea. As we were holding each other’s hands, suddenly the old Damaini woman’s miserable voice fell on my ears, “Salute Kancha Bajey! This old woman is also in distress. How am I to cross the river?”
I looked at her.
The old Damaini woman was from our village. In their old age, all sons and daughters fell victim to the plague and only the unfortunate husband and wife survived. Their last breath is somehow anchored to the age-old deep love for each other. If one dies, the other will instantly succumb to the pain. All villagers felt pity for them. In all festivals and ceremonies, my sister-in-law gave them alms.
“Salute oh gentlemen! Please take me across with you. Leaving behind my dying husband at, I had gone to fetch medicine. Now how am I to reach home?”
Old Damaini’s lean feeble body composed of only skin and bones were shaking violently. A drop of tear was hanging in balance on the edge of her wrinkled cheek. The old woman’s supplication tore my heart with pity.
I said, “Come Thuley’s mother, you also hold our hands.”
Moment the words left my mouth, the businesspersons, the labourers and my servant shouted in unison, “Ram! Ram! Kancha Baje, what are you saying?”
I asked, “Why! What happened?”
One of the labourers from our village said, “Hold hands with the untouchable Damaini! Who will commit such a sin? Being a Bahun are you not scared of unholy, unclean contact?” Everybody including my servant agreed with the statement of the labourer.
I instantly remembered the words my father had uttered at my Thread Bearing Ceremony, “even at the risk of life you must not abandon your religion and right conduct.”
Now my duty was to reach the helpless woman to the place where her husband lay in dying bed. To do that I had to touch the untouchable – it was a fact. However, in helping her reach her dying husband if I had to touch a married woman, however low her caste may be, how did I lose my caste and offend my family religion? How was my family honour disgraced?
With hatred and loathe I once looked at the animals in the so-called males; with due respect I once looked at the old married woman and once I looked in the sky to my Family-god with reverence. Thereafter I snatched a pole from the hand of a labourer and carrying the old Damaini woman on my back I reached the other bank of the river with the help of the pole.
Having said this, the house owner took a long sign and looked skywards. My head automatically bowed in respect and reverence.
With profound elation I said, “Bajey! May God continuously multiply the number of Wayward Bahuns like you by thousand folds?
FRIDAY, 12 FEBRUARY 2010
(Source : Darjeeling Times)
