Triveni Journal

1927 | 11,233,916 words

Triveni is a journal dedicated to ancient Indian culture, history, philosophy, art, spirituality, music and all sorts of literature. Triveni was founded at Madras in 1927 and since that time various authors have donated their creativity in the form of articles, covering many aspects of public life....

West of My Village

B. Seetharama Sastry (Translated from Kannada by V. M. Inamdar)

(A STORY)

BY B. SEETHARAMA SASTRY

(Lecturer, The Mysore University)

Translated from KANNADA by V. M. INAMDAR

"Linga!"

"Sir."

"We have lost our way though we are not far from our destination, our village!"

"There is a white streak here–perhaps the way. No; it is only flowing water–a small streamlet murmuring."

"We shall be able to understand our bearings if we just go up this ridge. Come this way."

We began climbing the ridge. The dusk had already fallen. Linga was wading through the mud with difficulty. I was on the horse, and it was following him while on our heads above it was steadily drizzling. I was going to my village, now that it was the summer vacation. Reaching the Taluka place by bus from Bangalore, I got Linga to accompany me with the horse which I borrowed from the Shekdar, an acquaintance of mine. Linga did not know the way thoroughly, and though I had passed that wilderness many a time, I could not understand how it turned out thus that evening.

"Linga!"

"Sir."

"Do you feel the bag very heavy?"

"No, sir. It is very light indeed. It is big but in size. What may it contain, sir?"

"Four books, two pieces of cloth, a laced cap for my brother, a pair of boots, and two dolls for my sister. That’s all."

"How long since, sir, is it that you are at Bangalore?"

"I returned to that place last summer and it is only now that I am coming. Look, there has been so much of change here. The embankments, the fencing hedge, are all changed. I cannot even understand what direction we are moving in."

We all three, Linga, myself, and the horse, were feeling exhausted. We travelled a little farther in silence. I was feeling anxious to reach home and see my people–my brother and my mother in particular. My brother Shama might be waiting for his cap. I had the dolls for my sister. My father must know how I fared at the examination. And besides, my head was full of so many things which were to be narrated to the rest of the folk. We went up the ridge and looked around, but to no purpose. There seemed to be no hope of finding our way out. I tried to light a cigarette on the horsebut the drizzle and the wind baffled my attempts. With great difficulty I lighted it at last. The horse was looking around. The wind whistled in the silence.

"Linga!"

"Sir."

I think we shall have to spend the night in the wilderness–"

At this (as if it understood me) the horse straightened its ears and Linga said:

"There, Sir–"

I listened. From our right came the barking of a mastiff–. "Let’s go in the direction the mastiff barks," said I, "We shall perhaps find some village. But please be looking out for the trees etc., which may give us the clue."

We turned a little to the right and began to go down the ridge. We did not hear the barking again. Linga stopped suddenly and said:

"What is it that we see there?"

I looked to where he pointed.

"Oh! That’s a tree. What a milksop you! Will you come this way by the side of the horse? Don’t you be afraid, my boy. I shall tell you a story. Do you read and write?"

"Yes, sir. But will you tell me the story?"

We sat there on a small mound, I narrated to him of the English armies crossing the Cauvery–the Sultan fortifying the city-gates–and how in the afternoon the English climbed the fort and hoisted their flag–how Tippu who was just then at his dinner-table leaped up, though he had eaten only a morsel or two, and rode on horseto the walls–how he fought till dusk and fell–how he concealed himself among the dead bodies to escape the enemies’ notice–how a certain soldier laid hold of his gold waist-band, how thereupon Tippu whipped his sword–how the English captured the Sultan’s sons and searched in lantern-light for his body–how in the darkness of the night the soldiers pillaged the whole town of Seringpatam–how the afflicted women and children spent the night in the open streets, how next morning Tippu’s body was taken in procession and buried, and all the rest.

"It is such a fine story, sir. Really it is so fine."

"Get up now. Let us go."

We started. Looking again at the same tree he whispered to me, coming by the side of the horse:

"Trees never appear like that, sir!"

The fact was that it did appear so fantastic by night. I got down from my horse fearing he might be frightened.

"I know that tree well, my boy. Our village is quite near from here. My brother Shama was so much frightened last year at seeing this tree–"

"How did he happen to come this way, sir?"

"Last summer when I had been here, one evening Shama and myself went out for a walk. He was only eight years of age then, and was coming along narrating to me the tale that I told you just now. He is really an intelligent chap and narrates stories very well. The story of Seringpatam is his speciality. He loves it so much and narrates it with such an enthusiasm that he is almost lost in it. ‘Will you not take me to Seringpatam?’ he often bothers me; and in the flood of his story we lost the way in the dark just near this tree. Shama was frightened to see the tree. He had fever after we reached home and was laid up for three days."

"Then, sir, you might know the way home from here! How far is the village yet!"

There is no regular path from here. We must somehow grope through the dark. This is just the burning ghat of our village,–a little more than half a mile from our village."

"What, sir"

Inadvertently I had said it was the burning ghat. He was only a young lad of fourteen; and if he were to be frightened–?

"We should go a little to the right. Look here. This tree is to the west of our villagee."

The rain had stopped but it was pitch darkness. The frogs croaked monotonously after the rain. Linga looked wards and forwards as he walked. I could see he was afraid and I thought it prudent to keep on talking with him.

" Linga!" I said.

"Look there, sir." He pointed out to a place behind.

"Don’t be afraid of ghosts. Are you a milksop, my boy?"

"But look there, sir," he persisted.

I looked behind. Near the little mound on which I had narrated the story could be seen a light, and there were two figures sitting on either side of it with eyes turned towards the ground. I was anxious in the extreme–why–I felt nervous.

"Linga, what do you see there?"

 "Look there, sir. A light and on either side of it–"

"Don’t you fear. Let us go nearer and see."

"Look, sir. This side, look."

There was a light moving. Taking Linga by the one hand and leading the horse by the other, I began to move towards the ridge. What we saw was no hallucination. We heard sounds–human talk. We waited under a tree and listened in the silence.

"Oh my child–my darling–you longed for milk–you longed for milk and died–I have brought the milk–you grew thin, oh, you waned day by day and at last left us. Oh–! you wanted to say something but approaching Death had sealed your lips and you only looked at me–why, my child–what did you want to say? Your eyes showed torture–My child, –oh, to think of my child sleeping alone in this wilderness

–Oh…..

It was a woman; she poured a glass of milk on the mound as she wept with a piercing cry. Yes. We could see in the dim light by their side that they were both women. I whispered in Linga’s ears. "Somebody is weeping. Don’t you be afraid." The other was a young girl who also moaned:

"We could not write to brother even. How like a thunderbolt has all this come to pass in a day or two–Oh–"

I stepped a few paces further. In the meantime the moving light on our left reached the mound and spoke, stern with emotion:

"What? Have you turned mad that you go here at this hour of the night? Will your wailings wake him up now? Get along homeward."

I could recognise the voice. It was my father.

"You feared darkness, my child, and you are now stretched here all alone. It was here that you were once frightened–Oh–and you got fever. Oh, my darling, how will you stay now in the very spot, all alone? How will I return home now?–Oh!"

It was my mother crying.

"Brother will bring cap and boots. Who will tell him now the tale of Seringpatam, and to whom is he to show that town now? Oh, how very agonising. Shama, my dear–"

It was my sister weeping.

I cannot fully describe my acute feeling at that moment. I felt I was all alone in the boundless universe. Linga held me fast and would not allow me to go further; but I freed myself from his hands and leaped towards the mound. It was my father who enquired: "Who is that?" as he lifted up the lantern.

"Father–" I cried.

There was an outburst of emotion when they saw me. All of us wept profusely. For a long time I sat there shedding tears over my dear brother Shama. Linga also was crying, and when the first tide of emotion had passed, I took out the laced cap and the boots and placed them by the side of his grave–an act which sent us all into depths of emotion again. Shama had once asked me: "How is it, brother, that all these plants and trees live day and night in the forest, alone as it were?" When I remembered that, I could not make up my mind to go home. We all stayed there for a long time and talked over many things–his last illness. He was the gem of our home–a loving chap, clever, intelligent and loved by all the people of the village. There was no life without him. At last my father sighed and said:

"We are all to come here one day or the other–"

The wind moaned and the oppressive silence seemed to whisper in answer:

"Yes..."

The boy was laid in eternal sleep in the very spot which he once dreaded. We all went home...Home? But which is our home’?

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