Supen Hembrom was dreaming of the tiger.
The tide had gone down in the creek. The beast was rolling around in the silt,
coating himself to form a protective armor. He went prowling into the mangroves
and stood in front of the low-lying branches of the Goran, supported by its prop
roots. His amber eyes had seen the hive of the forest bees. He respected them,
because they were as wild in nature as him. They refused to be boxed. It was
impossible to do so. They wandered through the mangroves as and when they
desired. They collected nectar from the Sundari, Keora, Kankra and Khalsi
flowers. The tiger ran backwards, then sprang up to break the hive with one
thrust of its massive paw, sprinting away again at full speed to hide in the
dense undergrowth as thousands of bees buzzed out and swarmed through space! He
waited patiently till the tumult died down and the bees had dispersed. He then
squatted smugly on the forest floor licking the honey with his paws.
Lipsa was pummeling his back with her
fists. His back as dark as the foliage of the trees at midnight. Wake up! Wake
up! You have to go and meet the khoti malik today. I have fixed up the date for
you.
Who told you to? Did I? I don’t remember
making such a thick-headed request.
You are the one who is thick headed!
Mooning around with that monkey of yours.
The monkey has a name, Ruby.
From the moment he saw her, her face
peering out at him uncannily through the leaves, he thought of her as Ruby. Her
pink smooth face. Her pouting cheeks. She stepped out in front of him. She was
not scared. She bared her teeth at him silently. She was showing him the respect
of a superior. He gave her the mango he was eating. She looked at him and her
eyes were melting.
Supen sat up on bed, his hair tousled,
his memory full of the dream of the tiger. Dakshin Rai. The protector of the
jungles. He had heard it whispered that Rai became ferocious against man after
the outrage at Marichjhapi.
His grandfather had told him the tale,
where police and party cadre had massacred the refugees living in and through
the forests. This was an insult to the swamps, marshes and tidal creeks, an
insult to the mangroves, to the river, to the birds flying above the river, and
to the fish and animals swimming strongly underwater. He had gone with his
grandfather to Kumirmari, seen the blank marble stone commemorating the deaths.
How many deaths? Official records said three to eight. Word of mouth said
thousands. And thousands disappeared. Relocated somewhere or the other,
Singbonga knew where. His grandfather further said that the tigers had of
late, become like the forest guards – mean, crooked and evil. The rivers will
soon flood our soil, he said. The trees will no longer hold the soil. But if the
forest guards think they can save the Sundarbans by evicting us, they will never
be successful. Supen agreed. Not even Dakshin Rai could drag him away from his
home, where the land was always soaked in water; where the land disappeared
during jowar and reappeared during bhata; where his dangerous adventures on the
river and deep into the forest felt like a swirling whirlpool. If and when the
island eroded, he would go down with it, into the swallowing sea.
Supen left without listening to Lipsa’s
repeated request that he should meet the khoti malik. He was gone in an instant.
He was swifter than a leopard. Lipsa went back to sit in her little porch
morosely. Should she become like her husband? Should she give up wanting to have
a child? Even if she should, could she? She felt drained and tired though
the morning had just begun. She would go out to the river after a while to catch
fish, and then prepare it spicy and rich. But for who? Half the days he would
have dinner with his stupid friend Asghar Sheikh. A taciturn fellow. At least in
her presence. What did he and Supen talk about? Perhaps they didn’t need to
talk. They would just go wandering in the forests together, collecting honey or
catching crabs or just simply wandering around, doing nothing in the wide world
at all. Supen could never settle into anything and that suspicious friend of his
encouraged him in that. He could have become a professional crab collector; he
could have joined the band of moulis, such an expert as he was with the chak
bees; He could have collected prawn seed for the farms; he could have become
a member of the bee co-operative; he could have become this and he could have
become that. But he did everything on a whim, as and when he chose, earning
money sometimes in heaps, sometimes nothing at all. And for everything that she
had to say, he had a pat answer, tripping off the edge of his tongue glibly.
Don’t you want to continue your lineage? Lineage can go down the alleys of the
forefathers for all I care. Would you really not like to feed a tiny child of
yours, flesh of your flesh, blood of your blood? I can’t even feed myself, let
alone a tiny crab. But haven’t you thought about me at all? I want to be a
mother? At the time you proposed to me, you simply said you wanted to be my
wife. What a stupendously, unimaginably selfish man.
Supen and Asghar had decided to enter
deep into the forests. It was a hot day in April and the giant Himalayan bees
had swarmed to the mangroves in droves. They would try to collect honey from the
hive on a Khalsi tree. Supen had crafted a wooden boat and oars with his own
hands. It gave him immense pleasure to do so. He and Asghar put this boat onto
the river, and he started to row downstream, with the clouds beginning to form a
slightly ominous canopy above their heads. The skies seemed to portend a
kaalbaisakhi. Asghar said with a smile, the gusts will come soon, to bring down
the mangoes and jackfruits today. But the question of turning back did not arise
to either of them. Catch a strain, said Asghar. Supen hummed to himself for a
few seconds, then released a resonant note in his baritone voice which went
tripping upon the surface of the waters. The high tides had peaked and the
gradual movement now was towards bhata. There was a strong undercurrent. Majhi,
keep rowing on and on, in rivers without banks, my broken boat … No, I don’t
want this song. Catch another one. I’ll raise a paean to Kanai then. They began
to laugh. Yes, do that! I’ll go into a devotional frenzy. Your abba will kill
you. You know he won’t. He doesn’t force me to do the Namaaz. Nacho re mon
pathe pathe. Let me keep my mind dancing on paths and ways. Krishna love
will flood my soul. All aches and pains a hasty retreat. Just repeat the name,
and raise your arms, and dance to your heart’s content.
The two friends have anchored their boat.
They are now wading through the marshes, and placing their feet in knee height
mud. They can feel the soft loam on their legs. They clamber up onto firmer
soil, and start making their way into the forests, splattered with seasonal wild
flowers.
Asghar, what? Afraid?
Don’t mock me every time.
Take the name of Bonbibi Asghar. All fear
will rush away with the winds.
Oooh
Bonbibi goh! Protect us Maaa! Don’t let Dakshin Rai devour us. Ma goh! Ma!
Stop making this racket Asghar.
Both
are startled by a chuckling sound that seems to come from very near them.
Then
Supen says, you got what you deserved.
But what was that? It startled the wits
out of me.
It
was probably a baghrol. Hiding in the undergrowth.
Supen is a courageous man. But he feels
something cold on his back, and in his guts, every time he plunges in so very
profoundly into the mangroves. His blood starts to rush. His ears begin to
tingle. He feels alert, awake, alive. He cannot express what he feels.
Sounds come in and merge from all around.
The sounds of animals, of monkeys chattering, of birds tweeting and chirping,
sometimes half audible grunts and growls in the distance. The friends try to
identify each source. It is a game for them. They imagine themselves as intrepid
warriors. They are arrogant and stubborn. They make fun of those moulis
who walk slowly in a single file, beating drums, and carrying lighted torches as
they go, some even carrying tangi, bows and arrows. They are foolish
enough to think that Maharaj will be deceived by their masks. Supen sometimes
imagines himself face to face with Maharaj. He is intoxicated with excitement
and fear. He sees the great big face of the tiger right in front of his eyes.
Though that is unlikely to happen. The tiger will slink in so silently that even
the leaves will fail to rustle, and he will then pounce upon you from behind.
Supen’s father had once encountered a tiger while sitting on the forest floor.
The first thing he did was to rise up slowly to his full height so that Dakshin
Rai could discern clearly that this was a human being. This was not his natural
prey. The tiger rolled back his ears, and took up a crouching position wondering
whether or not to attack. Father started backing away very slowly and by
Bonbibi’s grace, Rai decided not to attack. This was Supen’s most loved story.
Without Dakshin Rai, these mangroves would become a barren wasteland. Only man’s
greed would be visible then.
The friends are silent now, walking
through the throbbing forests with throbbing hearts. It is almost as they have
entered another realm altogether, far away from village politics, the taunts of
elders. Far away from aggressive slogans. A great comfort seizes their souls,
even while they keep a constant lookout for drag marks or pug marks. The trees
are in full bloom. The Sundari flowers clustering pale pink, dangling like
earrings on a delicate woman. The bombastic leaves and vibrant orange of the
Kankra. The small snowy bunches of the Khalsi. Sometimes, Supen gets so
fascinated with these flowers even though he has seen them a thousand times,
that he gets his feet cut on spiked roots. He leaves tiny droplets of blood on
the soil.
Now, finally, they have spotted a file of
bhari poka, loaded and heavy with honey, flying in a straight line towards their
destination. All they have to do is follow these bees who have flown in during
the winter migration from the distant Himalayas. When the monsoon clouds smear
the skies, it will be time for them to depart. The bees lead them to a huge
hive, which Supen can tell at a glance, is overflowing with its secret treasure.
It is time for them to get to work. Asghar lights the sheaf of dried leaves they
have brought with them to smoke away the bees. The smoke calms the bees like a
drink of warm milk. It prevents them from panicking. It prevents them from
feeling that they are being forcibly evicted! Supen likes to think that they are
gently persuading the bees to leave temporarily.
Supen climbs up the tree and approaches
the hive even as the bees fly away. He never covers his face with the gamcha.
He has been stung a few times, but mostly he manages to avoid it. He takes out
his tool and carefully identifies the combs which are filled with honey. He cuts
them tenderly one by one. Easy does it. As the smoke twirls around him. He will
never cut the combs with the tiny larvae, the brood, nor will he touch the comb
of the queen bee, a working woman. He will leave sufficient honey behind in the
hive, he will not drain it dry.
Later on, he and Asghar sit in their
boats examining the honey combs, pristine white like the full moon. They will
mash the comb and squeeze the honey out, filter it, store it in a sealed pot,
and consume it when they want! Or if they make one or two more expeditions, they
may sell the honey cheap to a man on the market.
Many days Supen works as labourer on the
farming land of others. In some seasons, specially in the winter, he
concentrates on trapping mud crabs. He gets by. He is a strange man. He has no
desire for wealth. He has no envy for those who have wealth. His parents died
when he was young leaving him to fend for himself. Whenever he prowls around the
forest, he feels at peace with himself. The other men of the village look upon
him with contempt for his complete lack of ambition. He does not even own a
mobile phone.
Supen felt restless in his life with his
wife Lipsa. He admitted to himself as he sat on the mud porch of his house that
he had made a mistake in agreeing to marry her. She had seduced him one night
appearing suddenly like a traditional Munda woman, dressed in two pieces of
cloth, a hansuli, a waist band, a nose ring…. Her skin like polished ebony. They
were like two sides of a turbulent river; they could not cross it to reach each
other. If she had desired a familiar man, a comfortable nest, why had she chosen
him? Had he ever hidden himself from her? He sat up straight. He could see his
father-in- law making his way down the winding path by the pond. It was too late
for him to escape. They would be locked again in that eternal conversation.
Supen, why did you not go to see the
khoti malik that day? I had a job fixed for you.
I will never catch prawn fry.
Why? Because you are against the culture
of prawns? Because you think that the future of the world is resting on your
shoulders?
The same old, same old! How many times
would the wheel be stuck in the rut? This blunt profit seeking man would sit on
the string bed of his house cross legged, potbellied, making a slurping noise as
he drank his tea.
Who do you think you are? Some hero of a
Jatra pala? Why don’t you join the theatre?
That would be better than destroying
prawn eggs, better than letting salt water seep through the soil and spoil
whatever is left of it to breed and grow.
Should that be your main concern? Leave
it to the wise heads to determine that. When are you planning to start a family?
Oh! The same old, same old. Sometimes he
felt so murderous, he could barely restrain himself from landing a punch. His
entire morning lay in shreds.
Take your daughter away if you want. I
have no plans to start a family.
That led to the normal collapse of the
tower.
You scoundrel. Are you thinking of
absolving yourself of your responsibility towards your wife? Not while I am
alive. I will make it difficult for you to stay in these parts, if not
impossible.
At such moments, Supen would feel himself
to be like a trapped animal. Helpless. In a panic. Unable to breathe. Then he
would see Lipsa standing morosely at the doorway and his heart would soften
towards her. She too was another animal like him, snared into believing
something, expecting something. That which he could not give her.
Whenever he felt disturbed, he would take
out his boat and go to the river. Once he and Asghar were nearly drowning in the
waters. The monsoon clouds were thundering across the sky, and the river was in
revolt. He had managed, finally, to tame the boat. He remembered a moubaj flying
high above their heads, straining with its long body and long neck through the
darkness. It fed on the larvae of bees extracted from the honey combs. There was
a man named Pranabesh, who roamed about these parts. He had been talking about
the worms and the ants and the insects. How they all should not be destroyed by
pesticides. He then started on the topic of Supen’s beloved chak bees. Care had
to be taken to ensure that the boxed bees did not endanger the wild bees in
competition. Care had to be taken about the beetle bugs which came in with the
imported Italian bees. The man made sense. Supen felt drawn towards him, his
thin frame, his earnest face. He was not like those NGO s which descended from
time to time, made a huge fuss and cry, made a lot of promises, and then
disappeared like a predator that had completed its catch, and was leaving with
its victim. No, the thin man was different. He did not live in the city. He
stayed here among them. He was known as The Mangrove Man. He planted seedlings
with the help of a band of children. Supen wanted to talk to him about the crazy
ideas he often had. What if there were no towers put in the water? What if there
were less dams and barrages? What if there were underwater turbines to work
naturally with the currents of streams and oceans? Would that not help to stop
this eating away of the embankments, this deposition of silt, this roaring of
the oceans? Supen would muse about all of these things. About the green pigeons,
the seagulls and the cormorants. About the wild geese and the pied starling with
its yellow beak. About the Matla River and the Datta river and the Rai Mangal
river. About the typhoons, the Amphan and the Aila. About the displaced people
of Ghoramara and other islands that were disappearing into the sea. About the
Farakka Barrage and the Haldia Port. About the huge boulders that had been
thrown to deepen the waters of the port. The ships he saw sailing through inland
waterways on their journey to Bangladesh spilling oil as they went. He could sit
for hours on end in his boat musing about all of these things. He decided that
he would help the Mangrove Man in his activities.
And
yes. Most of all he thought about the riverine dolphin. Every object and every
sight in the Sundarbans were familiar to him. The Hetal, Keora, Goran and
Dhundhul trees. Every variety of aerial root. The hard, tough and elastic timber
of the Sundari, which he had used for his boat. He had seen the water monitors,
the water buffaloes, the hog deer, the chuckling fishing cat. He had avoided
stepping on the rock pythons and the king cobras. But he had never spotted the
rare riverine dolphin frolicking in the waters. He had only heard of it, seen
its pictures.
The domestic disturbance was gradually
turning bitter and distasteful. Half the days there was nothing substantial to
eat at home. They would just eat panta with some onions and chillis. Some
afternoons they ate curried small fish. One afternoon matters came to a head.
His father-in law and brother-in-law were furious with him. Alright, so he had a
problem joining the prawn farm. Why did he not join the moulis for organized
honey collection? Why did he not join the professional crab catchers? Supen had
no relevant answer to give. It was some bohemian spirit within him that
prevented him perhaps. Some resistance against joining the race. But this is a
matter of your survival, you good for nothing fellow. Do you plan to spend your
entire wasted life just drifting along. You don’t even deserve to be a father.
Your son would have despised you, had he been born. You will die without an
heir. Wastrel. Bastard. Son of a pig. Lipsa will come away with us. Enough is
enough haraamjada.
Normally, Supen never paid any heed to
such garbage. But this latest attack had gone beyond the pale. There was so much
venom in it that it penetrated him, spread into his intestines, made him doubt
himself. A smothering blanket doused the fires of passion that always burnt in
him without need of fuel. He went to sit at a tea stall. A gang of sadhus
in saffron coloured robes were sitting on the bench opposite him. They lowered
their clay pots and looked at him with accusatory eyes. The radio was blaring
out news of the dastardly attack on tourists in Kashmir. The Government held
Pakistan responsible for it.
Hey, you wastrel, said one of the sadhus.
Why are you here alone today? Where is that bosom friend of yours? That bastard
mussalman?
Be careful of your words.
How dare you teach us how to speak. What
is your worth? Do you know what the Muslims have done in Kashmir? Killed
innocent civilians? Bunch of fanatics. All traces of them should be removed from
this country. All mosques should be burnt down. All biryani joints should be
demolished. They should be taught their proper place.
Supen decided to keep quiet. He could
sense danger all around him.
Some goons belonging to the ruling party
were loitering around. Normally they would have come to his rescue, but they
were hostile towards him. In the past, they had sent out several feelers to him,
inviting him to join the Party. They wanted him for his body, his muscles, his
bravery, his skill in using the tangi. He would have been useful. But he kept
refusing stubbornly. Like a mule. Let him and his Muslim friend be lynched. They
would do nothing to prevent it.
The sadhus were continuing their
aggressive conversation. The tea stall owner and other hangers on were
participating in the conversation with increasing urgency.
We
have tolerated a lot, we Hindus. We have had to remain subdued in our own land
for centuries. They are dictating to us, what we should do. Last Basanti Puja,
they asked us to switch off our mikes. They go berserk at any opportunity. Did
you not hear what they did in Murshidabad over Waqf property? They looted
and vandalized. And now, they have butchered tourists in Pehelgam.
Supen got up abruptly to leave. But the
tea stall owner came forward and said viciously, why so fast? Look who’s coming
down the road.
It was Asghar. He had no idea about the
attack in Kashmir. The news had just broken. Supen tried to signal him away, but
it was too late. A mob mentality was already in place. Blind. Unknowing.
Uncaring. It was the nondescript tea stall owner who took the first step. He
picked up a stone from the road, took aim, and threw it directly at Asghar who
was quite near, by this time. It hit him on the forehead and made him reel back
in bewilderment. He was not able to comprehend what was happening to him and
why. People suddenly appeared from various corners, and they were all running
towards him, converging upon him and flinging abuses at him!
Saala! Son of a pig! Motherfucker! You
think you can make our women cry and get away with it? Looters! Butchers!
They started to rain blows upon him. He
was down on the ground and they were taking turns to kick him.
Supen sat paralyzed for a few moments.
Then he sprang up, ran into the shop, seized a knife, and rushed full speed at
the rampaging crowd.
Sabdhan! Disperse! Or I will
plunge this knife into you, you bastards. I’ll make you blind.
They fell back at his fury. Then one
among them leapt forward and tried to wrest the knife from his hand. They were
wrestling with each other on the ground.
Meanwhile the sadhus had been watching
the spectacle with tense enjoyment. The Party goons who had been turning a blind
eye to the proceedings realised that boundaries were being crossed. Anyone could
die in the melee, and this could ignite full scale riots. The Party boss would
not approve of that. She was known for protecting the Muslims who formed a large
percentage of her vote bank. The leader came forward, and snatched the knife
away from Supen’s hand. Just get away from here! He hissed at them. Asghar and
Supen, taking advantage of the respite, fled from the scene, panting hard and
gasping for breath as they ran.
The drama was over. The violence had
receded. Night was beginning to fall gradually. Asghar and Supen were walking in
silence. Tears were streaming down Asghar’s cheeks, and he kept wiping them away
with the back of his hands. They were making their way to a nearby chemist’s
shop. The doctor was just about to shut his chamber. He tended to the cut on
Asghar’s forehead without a word. Neither was he hostile. Nor was he comforting.
He was a man of experience. He could guess exactly what had taken place.
Receiving no comfort from anywhere, Supen
takes Asghar to his boat. They set sail on the somber waters. The atmosphere is
calm and the river is ebbing. But Supen’s mind is wild and full of restlessness,
like a typhoon. Everything seems unclear and blurred to him. All the contours of
his life are slipping away and dissolving. Asghar is still in shock. The tears
have dried, but tremors run through his body from time to time. His forehead is
bandaged and his eyes are glazed. Supen keeps rowing for a long while, even
though his arms are aching almost unbearably. Night has now fallen. A sickle
shaped moon can be seen in the sky, silvery but pale, as though hidden behind a
veil of water droplets. Supen has come a long long way away from home. He has
not strayed this far before. The boat comes to a spot where a riverine from
within the forest is meeting the larger stream. At the junction, Supen can see
the mud whirling and bubbles on the surface. The boat is bobbing on the river.
And then, both Supen and Asghar sight it
together. The rarest of the rare riverine dolphin. It will make its way down the
entire length of the Ganges to the Himalayan foothills. It comes close to their
boat. It is neither brown nor dark grey. It is a shade of pale blue. Its
elongated, slender snout is gleaming faintly in the half-light. It frolics in
and out of the water. They know that it cannot see. It is blind. But it makes
sounds in bursts, the sounds bounce off the boat, off the wondering humans in
the boat. The dolphin keeps circling the boat as though fascinated by the images
it can glimpse in its mind’s eye. Suddenly it leaps high into the air and then
dives back into the water. Circling the boat once more, it now starts to swim
away, and as it recedes it emits a strange eerie whistle that lingers for a
moment in the air, before gradually fading away.
When Supen finally returned home, dawn
was about to break. The small hut was still in shadows. His room was empty.
Lipsa had gone, taking away with her a small bundle of clothes, a tin box of
trinkets, and a few utensils. The bed lay in one corner, bereft. Supen sat on
the floor of the porch, as the sky turned pale. He thought of the first year of
his marriage with Lipsa. How she fell upon him with desire. How she fed him
curry and rice with her own hands. How he had carried her on his shoulders one
day. How he had splashed water on her. But he could not be what she wanted him
to be. He could not fulfil his responsibility towards her. He could not earn
what any other man could earn. He had not learnt to discipline himself. He was a
wastrel. A burden on society. He sat on sunk in thoughts till the sun had risen
high and golden light streaked the mud.
When he reached the tea stall for a cup
of tea and some food, the news had already spread in the village that Lipsa had
left Supen. It was what he deserved. Not only was he a good for nothing, but he
was a scoundrel as well. He had dared to raise a knife against a Hindu for that
vagabond friend of his, Asghar. Tempers were still running high, but Supen knew
that if he lay low for a few days, things would return to normal. At least, so
it would appear. He took care to go to a stall the owner of which, Pintu, was
sympathetic and affectionate towards him.
The whole day, Supen worked on another’s
land, helping to harvest Boro paddy. He sweated in the burning heat. When he sat
down to have his meagre lunch, he suddenly felt immensely lonely, and kept
remembering his grandfather.
It is evening now which will soon densen
into night. Supen is sitting at his favorite spot on the banks of the river.
After an entire day of blistering heat, there’s a cool breeze blowing through
his hair. The river is in spate now, and will soon come flooding into the land.
There’s an ache in his heart. He keeps thinking of Lipsa’s drooping figure by
the doorway. He has let her down. Yet, as he keeps sitting there, cross-legged
and alone under the sky, the heavy burden on his heart starts to lift. In his
mind’s eye, he can see the solitary dolphin on its long journey to the Himalayan
foothills during the monsoons. He can hear the rare whistle it emitted that
night for Asghar and him. He knows that he will miss Lipsa. But he also knows
that he is now free.