As I looked around, the earth seemed to have a green canopy. The roadside walls were all painted with the words-Jungle Rahega, Tabhi toh Mangal Hoga (Good will happen only if the forest remain). The trees by the roadside stood as if they narrated tales of antiquity. Below it sat young girls with pitchers full of ‘Hadiya’(local rice beer). Besides the trees large rock inscriptions with green letters dotted the landscape. The greenery speaks of life, of living, it has a blissful present and also a bleak future.
After an arduous journey of a green world, I reached the house of Hiyating Didi(sister. Chewing a twig of the Korson tree with a large bucket full of water in her head she just arrived from the nearby well. I sat in her courtyard. Her little son pulled a truck that he had made of the unused bricks. Her daughter was getting ready for the school while her father applied mustard oil to her tiny little hands and legs. A flurry smell of the mustard oil entered my nostrils. Clutching the books between her hands she was ready for her school. At times, with an innocent curiosity she looked at me shying away once my eyes encountered hers.
Gazing into a little dirty mirror she was seen putting a tiny bindi in her forehead. At the next moment Hiyating Didi grabbed her daughter and erased her bindi with great rigour. The little could not help but cry looking helplessly to her mother. Hiyating Didi would not allow her daughter to take bindi, nor did she take any. No jewellery would adore her least she attracted the evil gaze of the Junglewala. The people in the village avoided wearing even a new saree in the fear of the unseen power of the Junglewala.
-“Junglewala utha ke le jaega, tab pata chalega” (You will know when the Junglewala picks you up)
The sleepless eyes of Hiyating Didi turned red with these words. She offered me a glass of water -“Johar Didi”(Greetings Sister).
We sat below the jackfruit it tree in her courtyard. Her brother went past us with a flock of goats to the paddy fields a little away.The gentle blowing dry summer wind gave me a burning sensation. I could see tiny little jackfruits hanging above me. Didi brought me a bunch of raw mango flower, “smell it”. The mouth watered with a desire to have it. Didi sang a lullaby to her little boy who could not sleep. There was hunger in his eyes and his little hands tried to reach out to mother’s breast below the saree. Didi remained him of what Junglewala would do to children who did not listen to their mother’s.
The story of Junglewala reminded me of the tales of ‘Burhadangoriya’ (a local deity in Assam). My mother would often make me sleep early by invoking the fear of Burhadangoriya. Here too I found that everyone in the village were indoors by seven in the evening fearing the wrath of Junglewala who roamed around with weapons. None would save you from him.
The afternoon seemed to be unending. The sun god was in all exhibition of his divine power. I would hear the sound of the twinkling bells of the goats returning home at a distance. The setting sun made the hillock below the horizon look like an ice-covered mountain. A woman like figure was seen strolling by the hillside with a kid tied to her. I hurriedly went for my camera and tried to fix the lens. Suddenly, Didi caught hold of me with all her strength. I was taken aback by her red eyes. “Maar dalega didi, mat kijiye aisa” (You will be killed, don’t do it) she screamed.A chilled fear ran across my mind. Killed, by whom, how? By shooting or lynching. Killed just for taking a photo.
I had spent a few days in Ranchi with Didi before coming here and went around the city searching for stories. One day we saw a little boy toiling around with a gun.
The words of Hiyating Didi took me back to my childhood village. Beside our little village flowed the Subansiri river- a river with gold. Two villages’ thousands of kilometres apart from each other but with similar tales of human loss and material gain. I could vividly remember the long veranda of my house in my village. The fluttering wings of the dove’s overhead would break my sleep. The mother pig, with her kids, lied with her tummy flat on the ground as if she was irritated with her little kids who continuously sucked. My village too was surrounded by jungle just like the village of Hiyating Didi. Our villagers too disappeared in the jungle. The river turned red. At night our village filled with sound of boot trumping around looking for people lost in the jungle. One of the boots would one day take away our grandfather from us. Today, the disappearing jungle can no longer hide anyone.
Here, in this village the jungle has grown thick. They say the jungle is a part of the world-famous wetland- Sundarbans. The junglewalas too have increased here. I learned that at one point of time tigers roamed freely in these jungles. Today only two legged tigers without claws were too to be found. However, a jungle can have only one tiger. The number of tigers here have increased and few of them have come out to live with humans. They are to be seen in a variety of colours- green, black as well as red. Some shouted ‘Laal Salaam’ while others remain calm. No one really knows what the Junglewala wants but they have that he exists for the safety and security of the villagers.
A large hoarding could be seen in the midst of Hiyating Didi’s tomato farm. She was a well-established farmer in the locality. She owns a piggery and a goat farm too. Didi dreams of sending her children to the city far away from the fear of the junglewala. She is afraid her son may be taken away to the jungle. The fear in her eyes is familiar to me. I had witnessed the same in the eyes of my mother.
Didi had a land dispute with her brother-in-law who later left for the jungle. He would come out of the jungle now and then giving her sleepless nights. Last year her watermelon crop was destroyed by him. She is too afraid to lose the little farmland she had. It was only livelihood in the village. Six months ago a small bangle making factory was set up in the village with the assistance of a NGO. Hiyating didi was able to find a job in the factory. Colourful bangles were crafted out of the burning oven which heated the room like a fresh erupting volcano. People like Didi worked whole day in the burning room just for a few cash. When Didi comes out of the factory at the end of the day she looked just like a roasted body ready to be consumed. The womenfolk of the factory were afraid that people might no longer in interested in their village made bangles. The imported bangles found in the bazaar were cheap and more colourful. Didi desired to have a scotty of her own. The income from the crop would go to her husband. She was contended with the fact that he refrained from any abusive behaviour towards her unlike many other men in the village. Didi seemed to be proud of him.
I would not go around much due to the fear of Naxalites. The factory too was closed today. No one dared to disobey the dictates of the Naxalites. She served me a lunch made out of boiled rice and vegetables from her garden. Just after the lunch Didi brought something for me. I recognised it, the familiar dry berry or what we call “Bogori”.
“Kya Didi? Bo-go-ri, Hum Mundari me isse Mau-Jojo Kente hai”
I was supposed to leave early today. I briefed Didi on how to face and what to say in the interview. She was afraid that Junglewala may find her on the way. He might be hiding behind the bushes. However, I assured her of all necessary arrangements. The security officials told me that the area commander was a familiar person. They studied together in the same university. However, taking no chances our driver rushed to reach the nearest army camp.
Night was the time of the tigers. They would come out of their hideouts looking for prey. They were to be feed with chicken-rice which was not always sufficient to fill their belly and they would hunt for human flesh too. At times, blood of the Junglewala’s children flowed down the hills and hit the banks. The Junglewala had many sons and daughters.
The woman who wondered in the garden of blue-white flowers came back home. She looked like an old woman-25-26 years old. Her whole body resembled the summer dried paddy field without a drop of water. Her white hair could be easily mistaken for threads of jute. The half naked baby tied to her back was half asleep after being tired of crying for food. The child was put down on the ground over a piece of dirty shawl. The child seemed to struggle to keep himself up. The smell of the flowers would not allow him to open his eyes. He dreams of tall white-blue poppy plants swinging with the breeze high above the hills.
One could turn into a tiger by entering the jungle. Yes, tiger, a man-eater. Many go to get a taste of the human flesh. The feeling of being a tiger is powerful. People with a job flee to towns and cities to have a secure life. Brothers quarrel and leave for the jungle. They come back, in the form of a tiger and feed on the flesh of brother. Heart-broken lovers enter the jungle and come back to avenge their rejection. They found satisfaction in thrashing the woman in a public place. No one is away from the claws of the tiger. The mothers feared that their sons would be taken away to be made into a tiger.
“How can you be afraid of the jungle living in its midst”- she would laugh to herself as if to remain calm and get on with her daily life.
One cannot hear the children in the village shouting at each other. They could not even dare to cry at a loud voice. Even the neighbours were not heard calling each other. The only sound that could be heard was whispers of deep fear. The day belonged to the policemen while the night belonged to the junglewala. The only thing that belonged to villagers was their breathe- which could leave them at any moment.
The darkness of the jungle was a curse to people like Hiyating Didi. Even the brightness of daylight could not reach them completely. Caught between the half-light and curse of darkness the song of life was absent from their life. Not everyone is lucky enough to choose life. Sometimes, it is life that choose us. Not everyone has the audacity to deny life. This moment is life, this time is alive.
“Kya Karenge Didi? Kaha Jaenge?”
(What to do Sister? Where to go?)
It is not just a question. Her eyes reflects the answer.
About the author --
( Srotaswinee Tamuly is pursuing MA in Assamese language. She can be reached at srotaswinitamuly@gmail.com)
About the translator
Translated from Assamese into English by Viaan Sarma. Viaan Sarma is an alumnus of the University of Hyderabad. Presently he is working on the language of memory making amongst the tea tribes of Assam. He is also actively engaged with the politics of identity reassertion among the tea tribes of Brahmaputra valley. Sarma is working to make an oral archive of the memory of possession and dispossession of marginalized communities.
